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diff --git a/19771-0.txt b/19771-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..45819fe --- /dev/null +++ b/19771-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,16660 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Henrietta Temple, by Benjamin Disraeli + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Henrietta Temple + A Love Story + +Author: Benjamin Disraeli + +Release Date: November 12, 2006 [EBook #19771] +Last Updated: September 6, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HENRIETTA TEMPLE *** + + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + +HENRIETTA TEMPLE + +By Benjamin Disraeli + + +[Illustration: spines.jpg] + +[Illustration: cover.jpg] + +[Illustration: coverplates.jpg] + +[Illustration: frontplate.jpg] + + +TO THE COUNT ALFRED D’ORSAY + +THESE VOLUMES ARE INSCRIBED + +BY + +HIS AFFECTIONATE FRIEND. + +[Illustration: frontis-p146.jpg] + +[Illustration: frontislable.jpg] + +[Illustration: titlepage] + + + + +HENRIETTA TEMPLE + +[Illustration: pageimage1.jpg] + + + + +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 +feeling of gloom and exhaustion which attends an arrival at a strange +place at a late hour, and Henrietta looked around her, and almost +fancied she was once more at Ducie. Lord Montfort introduced his +fellow-travellers to their apartments, presented to them the servant +who was to assume the management of their little household, and then +reminding them of their mutual promises that they were to be entirely +their own masters, and not trouble themselves about him any more than +if they were at Pisa, he shook them both by the hand, and bade them +good-night. + +It must be confessed that the acquaintance of Lord Montfort had afforded +consolation to Henrietta Temple. It was impossible to be insensible to +the sympathy and solicitude of one so highly gifted and so very amiable. +Nor should it be denied that this homage, from one of his distinguished +rank, was entirely without its charm. To find ourselves, when deceived +and deserted, unexpectedly an object of regard and consideration, +will bring balm to most bosoms; but to attract in such a situation +the friendship of an individual whose deferential notice under any +circumstances must be flattering, and to be admired by one whom all +admire, these are accidents of fortune which few could venture to +despise. And Henrietta had now few opportunities to brood over the past; +a stream of beautiful and sublime objects passed unceasingly before +her vision. Her lively and refined taste, and her highly cultured mind, +could not refrain from responding to these glorious spectacles. She saw +before her all that she had long read of, all that she had long mused +over. Her mind became each day more serene and harmonious as she gazed +on these ideal creations, and dwelt on their beautiful repose. Her +companion, too, exerted every art to prevent these amusements from +degenerating into fatiguing expeditions. The Vatican was open to Lord +Montfort when it was open to none others. Short visits, but numerous +ones, was his system. Sometimes they entered merely to see a statue or +a picture they were reading or conversing about the preceding eve; and +then they repaired to some modern studio, where their entrance always +made the sculptor’s eyes sparkle. At dinner there was always some +distinguished guest whom Henrietta wished to see; and as she thoroughly +understood the language, and spoke it with fluency and grace, she was +tempted to enter into conversations, where all seemed delighted that she +played her part. Sometimes, indeed, Henrietta would fly to her chamber +to sigh, but suddenly the palace resounded with tones of the finest +harmony, or the human voice, with its most felicitous skill, stole upon +her from the distant galleries. Although Lord Montfort was not himself a +musician, and his voice could not pour forth those fatal sounds that +had ravished her soul from the lips of Ferdinand Armine, he was well +acquainted with the magic of music; and while he hated a formal concert, +the most eminent performers were often at hand in his palace, to +contribute at the fitting moment to the delight of his guests. Who could +withstand the soft influence of a life so elegant and serene, or +refuse to yield up the spirit to its gentle excitement and its mild +distraction? The colour returned to Henrietta’s cheek and the lustre +to her languid eye: her form regained its airy spring of health; the +sunshine of her smile burst forth once more. + +It would have been impossible for an indifferent person not to perceive +that Lord Montfort witnessed these changes with feelings of no slight +emotion. Perhaps he prided himself upon his skill as a physician, but +he certainly watched the apparent convalescence of his friend’s daughter +with zealous interest. And yet Henrietta herself was not aware that Lord +Montfort’s demeanour to her differed in any degree from what it was at +Pisa. She had never been alone with him in her life; she certainly spoke +more to him than she used, but then, she spoke more to everybody; and +Lord Montfort certainly seemed to think of nothing but her pleasure and +convenience and comfort; but he did and said everything so quietly, that +all this kindness and solicitude appeared to be the habitual impulse of +his generous nature. He certainly was more intimate, much more intimate, +than during the first week of their acquaintance, but scarcely more +kind; for she remembered he had arranged her sofa the very first day +they met, though he did not even remain to receive her thanks. + +One day a discussion rose about Italian society between Mr. Temple and +his host. His lordship was a great admirer of the domestic character and +private life of the Italians. He maintained that there was no existing +people who more completely fulfilled the social duties than this +much scandalised nation, respecting whom so many silly prejudices +are entertained by the English, whose travelling fellow-countrymen, +by-the-bye, seldom enter into any society but that tainted circle that +must exist in all capitals. + +‘You have no idea,’ he said, turning to Henrietta, ‘what amiable and +accomplished people are the better order of Italians. I wish you would +let me light up this dark house some night, and give you an Italian +party.’ + +‘I should like it very much,’ said Mr. Temple. + +Whenever Henrietta did not enter her negative Lord Montfort always +implied her assent, and it was resolved that the Italian party should be +given. + +All the best families in Rome were present, and not a single English +person. There were some perhaps, whom Lord Montfort might have wished +to invite, but Miss Temple had chanced to express a wish that no English +might be there, and he instantly acted upon her suggestion. + +The palace was magnificently illuminated. Henrietta had scarcely seen +before its splendid treasures of art. Lord Montfort, in answer to her +curiosity, had always playfully depreciated them, and said that they +must be left for rainy days. The most splendid pictures and long rows +of graceful or solemn statues were suddenly revealed to her; rooms and +galleries were opened that had never been observed before; on all sides +cabinets of vases, groups of imperial busts, rare bronzes, and vivid +masses of tesselated pavement. Over all these choice and beautiful +objects a clear yet soft light was diffused, and Henrietta never +recollected a spectacle more complete and effective. + +These rooms and galleries were soon filled with guests, and Henrietta +could not be insensible to the graceful and engaging dignity with which +Lord Montfort received the Roman world of fashion. That constraint +which at first she had attributed to reserve, but which of late she +had ascribed to modesty, now entirely quitted him. Frank, yet always +dignified, smiling, apt, and ever felicitous, it seemed that he had a +pleasing word for every ear, and a particular smile for every face. She +stood at some distance leaning on her father’s arm, and watching him. +Suddenly he turned and looked around. It was they whom he wished to +catch. He came up to Henrietta and said, ‘I wish to introduce you to the +Princess------. + +She is an old lady, but of the first distinction here. I would not ask +this favour of you unless I thought you would be pleased.’ + +Henrietta could not refuse his request. Lord Montfort presented her and +her father to the princess, the most agreeable and important person in +Rome; and having now provided for their immediate amusement, he had time +to attend to his guests in general. An admirable concert now, in +some degree, hushed the general conversation. The voices of the most +beautiful women in Rome echoed in those apartments. When the music +ceased, the guests wandered about the galleries, and at length the +principal saloons were filled with dancers. Lord Montfort approached +Miss Temple. ‘There is one room in the palace you have never yet +visited,’ he said, ‘my tribune; ‘tis open to-night for the first time.’ + +Henrietta accepted his proffered arm. ‘And how do you like the +princess?’ he said, as they walked along. ‘It is agreeable to live in a +country where your guests amuse themselves.’ + +At the end of the principal gallery, Henrietta perceived an open door +which admitted them into a small octagon chamber, of Ionic architecture. +The walls were not hung with pictures, and one work of art alone +solicited their attention. Elevated on a pedestal of porphyry, +surrounded by a rail of bronze arrows of the lightest workmanship, was +that statue of Diana which they had so much admired at Pisa. The cheek, +by an ancient process, the secret of which has been recently regained at +Rome, was tinted with a delicate glow. + +‘Do you approve of it?’ said Lord Montfort to the admiring Henrietta. +‘Ah, dearest Miss Temple,’ he continued, ‘it is my happiness that the +rose has also returned to a fairer cheek than this.’ + + + + +CHAPTER V. + + _Which Contains Some Rather Painful Explanations_. + +THE reader will not perhaps be much surprised that the Marquis of +Montfort soon became the declared admirer of Miss Temple. He made the +important declaration after a very different fashion from the unhappy +Ferdinand Armine: he made it to the lady’s father. Long persuaded that +Miss Temple’s illness had its origin in the mind, and believing that in +that case the indisposition of the young lady had probably arisen, from +one cause or another, in the disappointment of her affections, Lord +Montfort resolved to spare her feelings, unprepared, the pain of a +personal appeal. The beauty, the talent, the engaging disposition, and +the languid melancholy of Miss Temple, had excited his admiration and +pity, and had finally won a heart capable of deep affections, but +gifted with great self-control. He did not conceal from Mr. Temple the +conviction that impelled him to the course which he had thought proper +to pursue, and this delicate conduct relieved Mr. Temple greatly from +the unavoidable embarrassment of his position. Mr. Temple contented +himself with communicating to Lord Montfort that his daughter had +indeed entered into an engagement with one who was not worthy of her +affections, and that the moment her father had been convinced of the +character of the individual, he had quitted England with his daughter. +He expressed his unqualified approbation of the overture of Lord +Montfort, to whom he was indeed sincerely attached, and which gratified +all those worldly feelings from which Mr. Temple was naturally not +exempt. In such an alliance Mr. Temple recognised the only mode by which +his daughter’s complete recovery could be secured. Lord Montfort in +himself offered everything which it would seem that the reasonable fancy +of woman could desire. He was young, handsome, amiable, accomplished, +sincere, and exceedingly clever; while, at the same time, as Mr. +Temple was well aware, his great position would insure that reasonable +gratification of vanity from which none are free, which is a fertile +source of happiness, and which would, at all times, subdue any bitter +recollections which might occasionally arise to cloud the retrospect of +his daughter. + +It was Mr. Temple, who, exerting all the arts of his abandoned +profession, now indulging in intimations and now in panegyric, +conveying to his daughter, with admirable skill, how much the intimate +acquaintance with Lord Montfort contributed to his happiness, gradually +fanning the feeling of gratitude to so kind a friend, which already had +been excited in his daughter’s heart, into one of zealous regard, and +finally seizing his opportunity with practised felicity, it was Mr. +Temple who had at length ventured to communicate to his daughter the +overture which had been confided to him. + +Henrietta shook her head. + +‘I have too great a regard for Lord Montfort to accede to his wishes,’ +said Miss Temple. ‘He deserves something better than a bruised spirit, +if not a broken heart.’ + +‘But, my dearest Henrietta, you really take a wrong, an impracticable +view of affairs. Lord Montfort must be the best judge of what will +contribute to his own happiness.’ + +‘Lord Montfort is acting under a delusion,’ replied Miss Temple. ‘If he +knew all that had occurred he would shrink from blending his life with +mine.’ + +‘Lord Montfort knows everything,’ said the father, ‘that is, everything +he should know.’ + +‘Indeed!’ said Miss Temple. ‘I wonder he does not look upon me with +contempt; at the least, with pity.’ + +‘He loves you, Henrietta,’ said her father. + +‘Ah! love, love, love! name not love to me. No, Lord Montfort cannot +love me. It is not love that he feels.’ + +‘You have gained his heart, and he offers you his hand. Are not these +proofs of love?’ + +‘Generous, good young man!’ exclaimed Henrietta; ‘I respect, I admire +him; I might have loved him. But it is too late.’ + +‘My beloved daughter, oh! do not say so! For my sake, do not say so,’ +exclaimed Mr. Temple. ‘I have no wish, I have had no wish, my child, but +for your happiness. Lean upon your father, listen to him, be guided by +his advice. Lord Montfort possesses every quality which can contribute +to the happiness of woman. A man so rarely gifted I never met. There is +not a woman in the world, however exalted her rank, however admirable +her beauty, however gifted her being, who might not feel happy and +honoured in the homage of such a man. Believe me, my dearest daughter, +that this is an union which must lead to happiness. Indeed, were it to +occur, I could die content. I should have no more cares, no more hopes. +All would then have happened that the most sanguine parent, even with +such a child as you, could wish or imagine. We should be so happy! For +his sake, for my sake, for all our sakes, dearest Henrietta, grant his +wish. Believe me, believe me, he is indeed worthy of you.’ + +‘I am not worthy of him,’ said Henrietta, in a melancholy voice. + +‘Ah, Henrietta, who is like you!’ exclaimed the fond and excited father. + +At this moment a servant announced that Lord Montfort would, with +their permission, wait upon them. Henrietta seemed plunged in thought. +Suddenly she said, ‘I cannot rest until this is settled. Papa, leave me +with him a few moments alone.’ Mr. Temple retired. + +A faint blush rose to the cheek of her visitor when he perceived +that Miss Temple was alone. He seated himself at her side, but he was +unusually constrained. + +‘My dear Lord Montfort,’ said Miss Temple,’ calmly, ‘I have to speak +upon a painful subject, but I have undergone so much suffering, that I +shall not shrink from this. Papa has informed me this morning that you +have been pleased to pay me the highest compliment that a man can pay a +woman. I wish to thank you for it. I wish to acknowledge it in terms the +strongest and the warmest I can use. I am sensible of the honour, the +high honour that you have intended me. It is indeed an honour of which +any woman might be proud. You have offered me a heart of which I know +the worth. No one can appreciate the value of your character better +than myself. I do justice, full justice, to your virtues, your +accomplishments, your commanding talents, and your generous soul. Except +my father, there is no one who holds so high a place in my affection +as yourself. You have been my kind and true friend; and a kind and true +friendship, faithful and sincere, I return you. More than friends we +never can be, for I have no heart to give.’ + +‘Ah, dearest Miss Temple,’ said Lord Montfort, agitated, ‘I ask nothing +but that friendship; but let me enjoy it in your constant society; let +the world recognise my right to be your consoler.’ + +‘You deserve a better and a brighter fate. I should not be your friend +if I could enter into such an engagement.’ + +‘The only aim of my life is to make you happy,’ said Lord Montfort. + +‘I am sure that I ought to be happy with such a friend,’ said Henrietta +Temple, ‘and I _am_ happy. How different is the world to me from what +it was before I knew you! Ah, why will you disturb this life of +consolation? Why will you call me back to recollections that I would +fain banish? Why------’ + +‘Dearest Miss Temple,’ said Lord Montfort, ‘do not reproach me! You +make me wretched. Remember, dear lady, that I have not sought this +conversation; that if I were presumptuous in my plans and hopes, I +at least took precautions that I should be the only sufferer by their +nonfulfilment.’ + +‘Best and most generous of men! I would not for the world be unkind to +you. Pardon my distracted words. But you know all? Has papa told you +all? It is my wish.’ + +‘It is not mine,’ replied Lord Montfort; ‘I wish not to penetrate your +sorrows, but only to soothe them.’ + +‘Oh, if we had but met earlier,’ said Henrietta Temple; ‘if we had but +known each other a year ago! when I was, not worthy of you, but more +worthy of you. But now, with health shattered, the lightness of my +spirit vanished, the freshness of my feelings gone, no, my kind friend, +my dear and gentle friend! my affection for you is too sincere to accede +to your request; and a year hence Lord Montfort will thank me for my +denial.’ + +‘I scarcely dare to speak,’ said Lord Montfort, in a low tone, as if +suppressing his emotion, ‘if I were to express my feelings, I might +agitate you. I will not then venture to reply to what you have urged; +to tell you I think you the most beautiful and engaging being that ever +breathed; or how I dote upon your pensive spirit, and can sit for hours +together gazing on the language of those dark eyes. O Miss Temple, to me +you never could have been more beautiful, more fascinating. Alas! I may +not even breathe my love; I am unfortunate. And yet, sweet lady, pardon +this agitation I have occasioned you; try to love me yet; endure at +least my presence; and let me continue to cherish that intimacy that +has thrown over my existence a charm so inexpressible.’ So saying, he +ventured to take her hand, and pressed it with devotion to his lips. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + + _Which Contains an Event Not Less Important Than the One + Which Concluded Our Second Book_. + +LORD MONTFORT was scarcely disheartened by this interview with Miss +Temple. His lordship was a devout believer in the influence of time. It +was unnatural to suppose that one so young and so gifted as Henrietta +could ultimately maintain that her career was terminated because her +affections had been disappointed by an intimacy which was confessedly of +so recent an origin as the fatal one in question. Lord Montfort differed +from most men in this respect, that the consciousness of this intimacy +did not cost him even a pang. He preferred indeed to gain the heart of +a woman like Miss Temple, who, without having in the least degree +forfeited the innate purity of her nature and the native freshness of +her feelings, had yet learnt in some degree to penetrate the mystery of +the passions, to one so untutored in the world’s ways, that she might +have bestowed upon him a heart less experienced indeed, but not more +innocent. He was convinced that the affection of Henrietta, if once +obtained, might be relied on, and that the painful past would only make +her more finely appreciate his high-minded devotion, and amid all the +dazzling characters and seducing spectacles of the world, cling to +him with a firmer gratitude and a more faithful fondness. And yet Lord +Montfort was a man of deep emotions, and of a very fastidious taste. +He was a man of as romantic a temperament as Ferdinand Armine; but +with Lord Montfort, life was the romance of reason; with Ferdinand, +the romance of imagination. The first was keenly alive to all the +imperfections of our nature, but he also gave that nature credit for +all its excellencies. He observed finely, he calculated nicely, and +his result was generally happiness. Ferdinand, on the contrary, neither +observed nor calculated. His imagination created fantasies, and his +impetuous passions struggled to realise them. + +Although Lord Montfort carefully abstained from pursuing the subject +which nevertheless engrossed his thoughts, he had a vigilant and skilful +ally in Mr. Temple. That gentleman lost no opportunity of pleading his +lordship’s cause, while he appeared only to advocate his own; and this +was the most skilful mode of controlling the judgment of his daughter. + +Henrietta Temple, the most affectionate and dutiful of children, left to +reflect, sometimes asked herself whether she were justified, from +what she endeavoured to believe was a mere morbid feeling, in not +accomplishing the happiness of that parent who loved her so well? There +had been no concealment of her situation, or of her sentiments. There +had been no deception as to the past. Lord Montfort knew all. She told +him that she could bestow only a broken spirit. Lord Montfort aspired +only to console it. She was young. It was not probable that the death +which she had once sighed for would be accorded to her. Was she always +to lead this life? Was her father to pass the still long career which +probably awaited him in ministering to the wearisome caprices of a +querulous invalid? This was a sad return for all his goodness: a gloomy +catastrophe to all his bright hopes. And if she could ever consent to +blend her life with another’s, what individual could offer pretensions +which might ensure her tranquillity, or even happiness, equal to those +proffered by Lord Montfort? Ah! who was equal to him? so amiable, so +generous, so interesting! It was in such a mood of mind that Henrietta +would sometimes turn with a glance of tenderness and gratitude to that +being who seemed to breathe only for her solace and gratification. If +it be agonising to be deserted, there is at least consolation in being +cherished. And who cherished her? One whom all admired; one to gain +whose admiration, or even attention, every woman sighed. What was she +before she knew Montfort? If she had not known Montfort, what would she +have been even at this present? She recalled the hours of anguish, +the long days of bitter mortification, the dull, the wearisome, the +cheerless, hopeless, uneventful hours that were her lot when lying on +her solitary sofa at Pisa, brooding over the romance of Armine and all +its passion; the catastrophe of Ducie, and all its baseness. And now +there was not a moment without kindness, without sympathy, without +considerate attention and innocent amusement. If she were querulous, no +one murmured; if she were capricious, everyone yielded to her fancies; +but if she smiled, everyone was happy. Dear, noble Montfort, thine +was the magic that had worked this change! And for whom were all these +choice exertions made? For one whom another had trifled with, deserted, +betrayed! And Montfort knew it. He dedicated his life to the consolation +of a despised woman. Leaning on the arm of Lord Montfort, Henrietta +Temple might meet the eye of Ferdinand Armine and his rich bride, at +least without feeling herself an object of pity! + +Time had flown. The Italian spring, with all its splendour, illumined +the glittering palaces and purple shores of Naples. Lord Montfort and +his friends were returning from Capua in his galley. Miss Temple was +seated between her father and their host. The Ausonian clime, the +beautiful scene, the sweet society, had all combined to produce a day of +exquisite enjoyment. Henrietta Temple could not refrain from expressing +her delight. Her eye sparkled like the star of eve that glittered over +the glowing mountains; her cheek was as radiant as the sunset. + +‘Ah! what a happy day this has been!’ she exclaimed. + +The gentle pressure of her hand reminded her of the delight her +exclamation had afforded one of her companions. With a trembling heart +Lord Montfort leant back in the galley; and yet, ere the morning sun +had flung its flaming beams over the city, Henrietta Temple was his +betrothed. + + + + +BOOK VI. + + + + +CHAPTER I. + + _Which Contains a Remarkable Change of Fortune_. + +ALTHOUGH Lord Montfort was now the received and recognised admirer +of Miss Temple, their intended union was not immediate. Henrietta was +herself averse from such an arrangement, but it was not necessary +for her to urge this somewhat ungracious desire, as Lord Montfort +was anxious that she should be introduced to his family before their +marriage, and that the ceremony should be performed in his native +country. Their return to England, therefore, was now meditated. The +event was hastened by an extraordinary occurrence. + +Good fortune in this world, they say, is seldom single. Mr. Temple at +this moment was perfectly content with his destiny. Easy in his own +circumstances, with his daughter’s future prosperity about to be +provided for by an union with the heir to one of the richest peerages +in the kingdom, he had nothing to desire. His daughter was happy, he +entertained the greatest esteem and affection for his future son-in-law, +and the world went well with him in every respect. + +It was in this fulness of happiness that destiny, with its usual wild +caprice, resolved ‘to gild refined gold and paint the lily;’ and it was +determined that Mr. Temple should wake one morning among the wealthiest +commoners of England. + +There happened to be an old baronet, a great humourist, without any very +near relations, who had been a godson of Mr. Temple’s grandfather. He +had never invited or encouraged any intimacy or connection with the +Temple family, but had always throughout life kept himself aloof from +any acquaintance with them. Mr. Temple indeed had only seen him once, +but certainly under rather advantageous circumstances. It was when Mr. +Temple was minister at the German Court, to which we have alluded, that +Sir Temple Devereux was a visitor at the capital at which Mr. Temple +was Resident. The minister had shown him some civilities, which was his +duty; and Henrietta had appeared to please him. But he had not remained +long at this place; and refused at the time to be more than their +ordinary guest; and had never, by any letter, message, or other mode of +communication, conveyed to them the slightest idea that the hospitable +minister and his charming daughter had dwelt a moment on his memory. And +yet Sir Temple Devereux had now departed from the world, where it had +apparently been the principal object of his career to avoid ever making +a friend, and had left the whole of his large fortune to the Right +Honourable Pelham Temple, by this bequest proprietor of one of the +finest estates in the county of York, and a very considerable personal +property, the accumulated savings of a large rental and a long life. + +This was a great event. Mr. Temple had the most profound respect for +property. It was impossible for the late baronet to have left his estate +to an individual who could more thoroughly appreciate its possession. +Even personal property was not without its charms; but a large landed +estate, and a large landed estate in the county of York, and that large +landed estate flanked by a good round sum of Three per Cent. Consols +duly recorded in the Rotunda of Threadneedle Street,--it was a +combination of wealth, power, consideration, and convenience which +exactly hit the ideal of Mr. Temple, and to the fascination of which +perhaps the taste of few men would be insensible. Mr. Temple being a +man of family, had none of the awkward embarrassments of a parvenu to +contend with. ‘It was the luckiest thing in the world,’ he would say, +‘that poor Sir Temple was my grandfather’s godson, not only because in +all probability it obtained us his fortune, but because he bore the name +of Temple: we shall settle down in Yorkshire scarcely as strangers, we +shall not be looked upon as a new family, and in a little time the whole +affair will be considered rather one of inheritance than bequest. But, +after all, what is it to me! It is only for your sake, Digby, that I +rejoice. I think it will please your family. I will settle everything +immediately on Henrietta. They shall have the gratification of knowing +that their son is about to marry the richest heiress in England.’ + +The richest heiress in England! Henrietta Temple the richest heiress in +England! Ah! how many feelings with that thought arise! Strange to say, +the announcement of this extraordinary event brought less joy than might +have been supposed to the heiress herself. + +It was in her chamber and alone, that Henrietta Temple mused over this +freak of destiny. It was in vain to conceal it, her thoughts recurred +to Ferdinand. They might have been so happy! Why was he not true? And +perhaps he had sacrificed himself to his family, perhaps even personal +distress had driven him to the fatal deed. Her kind feminine fancy +conjured up every possible extenuation of his dire offence. She grew +very sad. She could not believe that he was false at Ducie; oh, no! she +never could believe it! He must have been sincere, and if sincere, oh! +what a heart was lost there! What would she not have given to have +been the means of saving him from all his sorrows! She recalled his +occasional melancholy, his desponding words, and how the gloom left his +brow and his eye brightened when she fondly prophesied that she would +restore the house. She might restore it now; and now he was another’s, +and she, what was she? A slave like him. No longer her own mistress, at +the only moment she had the power to save him. Say what they like, there +is a pang in balked affection, for which no wealth, power, or place, +watchful indulgence, or sedulous kindness, can compensate. Ah! the +heart, the heart! + + + + +CHAPTER II. + + _In Which the Reader Is Again Introduced to Captain + Armine, during His Visit to London_. + +MISS GRANDISON had resolved upon taking a house in London for the +season, and had obtained a promise from her uncle and aunt to be +her guests. Lady Armine’s sister was to join them from Bath. As for +Ferdinand, the spring had gradually restored him to health, but not to +his former frame of mind. He remained moody and indolent, incapable of +exertion, and a prey to the darkest humours; circumstances, however, +occurred which rendered some energy on his part absolutely necessary. +His creditors grew importunate, and the arrangement of his affairs or +departure from his native land was an alternative now inevitable. The +month of April, which witnessed the arrival of the Temples and Lord +Montfort in England, welcomed also to London Miss Grandison and her +guests. A few weeks after, Ferdinand, who had evaded the journey with +his family, and who would not on any account become a guest of his +cousin, settled himself down at a quiet hotel in the vicinity of +Grosvenor-square; but not quite alone, for almost at the last hour +Glastonbury had requested permission to accompany him, and Ferdinand, +who duly valued the society of the only person with whom he could +converse about his broken fortunes and his blighted hopes without +reserve, acceded to his wish with the greatest satisfaction. + +A sudden residence in a vast metropolis, after a life of rural +seclusion, has without doubt a very peculiar effect upon the mind. The +immense population, the multiplicity of objects, the important interests +hourly impressed upon the intelligence, the continually occurring +events, the noise, the bustle, the general and widely-spread excitement, +all combine to make us keenly sensible of our individual insignificance; +and those absorbing passions that in our solitude, fed by our +imagination, have assumed such gigantic and substantial shapes, +rapidly subside, by an almost imperceptible process, into less colossal +proportions, and seem invested, as it were, with a more shadowy aspect. +As Ferdinand Armine jostled his way through the crowded streets of +London, urged on by his own harassing and inexorable affairs, and +conscious of the impending peril of his career, while power and wealth +dazzled his eyes in all directions, he began to look back upon the +passionate past with feelings of less keen sensation than heretofore, +and almost to regret that a fatal destiny or his impetuous soul had +entailed upon him so much anxiety, and prompted him to reject the +glittering cup of fortune that had been proffered to him so opportunely. +He sighed for enjoyment and repose; the memory of his recent sufferings +made him shrink from that reckless indulgence of the passions, of which +the consequences had been so severe. + +It was in this mood, exhausted by a visit to his lawyer, that he +stepped into a military club and took up a newspaper. Caring little for +politics, his eye wandered over, uninterested, its pugnacious leading +articles and tedious parliamentary reports; and he was about to throw +it down when a paragraph caught his notice which instantly engrossed all +his attention. It was in the ‘Morning Post’ that he thus read: + +‘The Marquis of Montfort, the eldest son of the Duke of------, whose +return to England we recently noticed, has resided for several years in +Italy. His lordship is considered one of the most accomplished noblemen +of the day, and was celebrated at Rome for his patronage of the arts. +Lord Montfort will shortly be united to the beautiful Miss Temple, the +only daughter of the Right Honourable Pelham Temple. Miss Temple is +esteemed one of the richest heiresses in England, as she will doubtless +inherit the whole of the immense fortune to which her father so +unexpectedly acceded. Mr. Temple is a widower, and has no son. Mr. +Temple was formerly our minister at several of the German Courts, +where he was distinguished by his abilities and his hospitality to his +travelling countrymen. It is said that the rent-roll of the Yorkshire +estates of the late Sir Temple Devereux is not less than 15,000L. per +annum. The personal property is also very considerable. We understand +that Mr. Temple has purchased the mansion of the Duke of -----, in +Grosvenor-square. Lord Montfort accompanied Mr. Temple and his amiable +daughter to this country.’ + +What a wild and fiery chaos was the mind of Ferdinand Armine when he +read this paragraph. The wonders it revealed succeeded each other +with such rapidity that for some time he was deprived of the power of +reflection. Henrietta Temple in England! Henrietta Temple one of +the greatest heiresses in the country! Henrietta Temple about to be +immediately married to another! His Henrietta Temple, the Henrietta +Temple whom he adored, and by whom he had been worshipped! The Henrietta +Temple whose beautiful lock of hair was at this very moment on his +heart! The Henrietta Temple for whom he had forfeited fortune, family, +power, almost life! + +O Woman, Woman! Put not thy trust in woman! And yet, could he reproach +her? Did she not believe herself trifled with by him, outraged, +deceived, deluded, deserted? And did she, could she love another? Was +there another to whom she had poured forth her heart as to him, and all +that beautiful flow of fascinating and unrivalled emotion? Was there +another to whom she had pledged her pure and passionate soul? Ah, no! +he would not, he could not believe it. Light and false Henrietta could +never be. She had been seen, she had been admired, she had been loved: +who that saw her would not admire and love? and he was the victim of her +pique, perhaps of her despair. + +But she was not yet married. They were, according to these lines, to be +soon united. It appeared they had travelled together; that thought gave +him a pang. Could he not see her? Could he not explain all? Could he not +prove that his heart had ever been true and fond? Could he not tell her +all that had happened, all that he had suffered, all the madness of his +misery; and could she resist that voice whose accents had once been her +joy, that glance which had once filled her heart with rapture? And when +she found that Ferdinand, her own Ferdinand, had indeed never deceived +her, was worthy of her choice affection, and suffering even at this +moment for her sweet sake, what were all the cold-blooded ties in which +she had since involved herself? She was his by an older and more ardent +bond. Should he not claim his right? Could she deny it? + +Claim what? The hand of an heiress. Should it be said that an Armine +came crouching for lucre, where he ought to have commanded for love? +Never! Whatever she might think, his conduct had been faultless to her. +It was not for Henrietta to complain. She was not the victim, if one +indeed there might chance to be. He had loved her, she had returned his +passion; for her sake he had made the greatest of sacrifices, forfeited +a splendid inheritance, and a fond and faithful heart. When he had +thought of her before, pining perhaps in some foreign solitude, he +had never ceased reproaching himself for his conduct, and had accused +himself of deception and cruelty; but now, in this moment of her flush +prosperity, ‘esteemed one of the richest heiresses in England’ (he +ground his teeth as he recalled that phrase), and the affianced bride +of a great noble (his old companion, Lord Montfort, too; what a strange +thing is life!), proud, smiling, and prosperous, while he was alone, +with a broken heart and worse than desperate fortunes, and all for her +sake, his soul became bitter: he reproached her with want of feeling; +he pictured her as void of genuine sensibility; he dilated on her +indifference since they had parted; her silence, so strange, now no +longer inexplicable; the total want of interest she had exhibited as to +his career; he sneered at the lightness of her temperament; he cursed +her caprice; he denounced her infernal treachery; in the distorted +phantom of his agonised imagination she became to him even an object of +hatred. + +Poor Ferdinand Armine! it was the first time he had experienced the +maddening pangs of jealousy. + +Yet how he had loved this woman! How he had doated on her! And now they +might have been so happy! There is nothing that depresses a man so much +as the conviction of bad fortune. There seemed, in this sudden return, +great wealth, and impending marriage of Henrietta Temple, such a +combination, so far as Ferdinand Armine was concerned, of vexatious +circumstances; it would appear that he had been so near perfect +happiness and missed it, that he felt quite weary of existence, and +seriously meditated depriving himself of it. + +It so happened that he had promised this day to dine at his cousin’s; +for Glastonbury, who was usually his companion, had accepted an +invitation this day to dine with the noble widow of his old patron. +Ferdinand, however, found himself quite incapable of entering into +any society, and he hurried to his hotel to send a note of excuse to +Brook-street. As he arrived, Glastonbury was just about to step into a +hackney-coach, so that Ferdinand had no opportunity of communicating his +sorrows to his friend, even had he been inclined. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + + _In Which Glastonbury Meets the Very Last Person in the + World He Expected, and the Strange Consequences_. + +WHEN Glastonbury arrived at the mansion of the good old duchess, he +found nobody in the drawing-room but a young man of distinguished +appearance, whose person was unknown to him, but who nevertheless +greeted him with remarkable cordiality. The good Glastonbury returned, +with some confusion, his warm salutation. + +‘It is many years since we last met, Mr. Glastonbury,’ said the young +man. ‘I am not surprised you have forgotten me. I am Digby; perhaps you +recollect me?’ + +‘My dear child! My dear lord! You have indeed changed! You are a man, +and I am a very old one.’ ‘Nay! my dear sir, I observe little change. +Believe me, I have often recalled your image in my long absence, and I +find now that my memory has not deceived me.’ + +Glastonbury and his companion fell into some conversation about the +latter’s travels, and residence at Rome, in the midst of which their +hostess entered. + +‘I have asked you, my dear sir, to meet our family circle,’ said her +Grace, ‘for I do not think I can well ask you to meet any who love you +better. It is long since you have seen Digby.’ + +‘Mr. Glastonbury did not recognise me, grandmamma,’ said Lord Montfort. + +‘These sweet children have all grown out of your sight, Mr. +Glastonbury,’ said the duchess; ‘but they are very good. And as for +Digby, I really think he comes to see his poor grandmother every day.’ + +The duke and duchess, and two young daughters, were now announced. + +‘I was so sorry that I was not at home when you called, Glastonbury,’ +said his Grace; ‘but I thought I should soon hear of you at +grandmamma’s.’ + +‘And, dear Mr. Glastonbury, why did you not come up and see me?’ said +the younger duchess. + +‘And, dear Mr. Glastonbury, do you remember me?’ said one beautiful +daughter. + +‘And me, Mr. Glastonbury, me? I am Isabella.’ + +Blushing, smiling, bowing, constrained from the novelty of his +situation, and yet every now and then quite at ease when his ear +recalled a familiar voice, dear Mr. Glastonbury was gratified and happy. +The duke took him aside, and they were soon engaged in conversation. + +‘How is Henrietta to-day, Digby?’ enquired Isabella. + +‘I left her an hour ago; we have been riding, and expected to meet you +all. She will be here immediately.’ + +There was a knock, and soon the drawing-room door opened, and Miss +Temple was announced. + +‘I must make papa’s apologies,’ said Henrietta, advancing and embracing +the old duchess. ‘I hope he may get here in the evening: but he bade +me remind your Grace that your kind invitation was only provisionally +accepted.’ + +‘He is quite right,’ said the old lady; ‘and indeed I hardly expected +him, for he told me there was a public dinner which he was obliged +to attend. I am sure that our dinner is a very private one indeed,’ +continued the old lady with a smile. ‘It is really a family party, +though there is one member of the family here whom you do not know, my +dear Miss Temple, and whom, I am sure, you will love as much as all of +us do. Digby, where is------’ + +At this moment dinner was announced. Lord Montfort offered his arm to +Henrietta. ‘There, lead the way,’ said the old lady; ‘the girls must +beau themselves, for I have no young men to-day for them. I suppose man +and wife must be parted, so I must take my son’s arm; Mr. Glastonbury, +you will hand down the duchess.’ But before Glastonbury’s name was +mentioned Henrietta was half-way down stairs. + +The duke and his son presided at the dinner. Henrietta sat on one side +of Lord Montfort, his mother on the other. Glastonbury sat on the right +hand of the duke, and opposite their hostess; the two young ladies +in the middle. All the guests had been seated without Glastonbury and +Henrietta recognising each other; and, as he sat on the same side of +the table as Miss Temple, it was not until Lord Montfort asked Mr. +Glastonbury to take wine with him, that Henrietta heard a name that +might well indeed turn her pale. + +Glastonbury! It never entered into her head at the moment that it was +the Mr. Glastonbury whom she had known. Glastonbury! what a name! What +dreadful associations did it not induce! She looked forward, she caught +the well-remembered visage; she sunk back in her chair. But Henrietta +Temple had a strong mind; this was surely an occasion to prove it. Mr. +Glastonbury’s attention was not attracted to her: he knew, indeed, that +there was a lady at the table, called Henrietta, but he was engrossed +with his neighbours, and his eye never caught the daughter of Mr. +Temple. It was not until the ladies rose to retire that Mr. Glastonbury +beheld that form which he had not forgotten, and looked upon a lady +whose name was associated in his memory with the most disastrous and +mournful moments of his life. Miss Temple followed the duchess out of +the room, and Glastonbury, perplexed and agitated, resumed his seat. + +But Henrietta was the prey of emotions far more acute and distracting. +It seemed to her that she had really been unacquainted with the state +of her heart until this sudden apparition of Glastonbury. How his image +recalled the past! She had schooled herself to consider it all a dream; +now it lived before her. Here was one of the principal performers in +that fatal tragedy of Armine. Glastonbury in the house, under the same +roof as she? Where was Ferdinand? There was one at hand who could tell +her. Was he married? She had enjoyed no opportunity of ascertaining it +since her return: she had not dared to ask. Of course he was married; +but was he happy? And Glastonbury, who, if he did not know all, knew +so much. How strange it must be to Glastonbury to meet her! Dear +Glastonbury! She had not forgotten the days when she so fondly listened +to Ferdinand’s charming narratives of all his amiable and simple life! +Dear, dear Glastonbury, whom she was so to love! And she met him now, +and did not speak to him, or looked upon him as a stranger; and he--he +would, perhaps, look upon her with pity, certainly with pain. O Life! +what a heart-breaking thing is life! And our affections, our sweet and +pure affections, fountains of such joy and solace, that nourish all +things, and make the most barren and rigid soil teem with life and +beauty, oh! why do we disturb the flow of their sweet waters, and +pollute their immaculate and salutary source! Ferdinand, Ferdinand +Armine, why were you false? + +The door opened. Mr. Glastonbury entered, followed by the duke and his +son. Henrietta was sitting in an easy chair, one of Lord Montfort’s +sisters, seated on an ottoman at her side, held her hand. Henrietta’s +eye met Glastonbury’s; she bowed to him. + +‘How your hand trembles, Henrietta!’ said the young lady. + +Glastonbury approached her with a hesitating step. He blushed faintly, +he looked exceedingly perplexed. At length he reached her, and stood +before her, and said nothing. + +‘You have forgotten me, Mr. Glastonbury,’ said Henrietta; for it was +absolutely necessary that some one should break the awkward silence, and +she pointed to a chair at her side. + +‘That would indeed be impossible,’ said Glastonbury. + +‘Oh, you knew Mr. Glastonbury before,’ said the young lady. ‘Grandmamma, +only think, Henrietta knew Mr. Glastonbury before.’ + +‘We were neighbours in Nottinghamshire,’ said Henrietta, in a quick +tone. + +‘Isabella,’ said her sister, who was seated at the piano, ‘the harp +awaits you.’ Isabella rose, Lord Montfort was approaching Henrietta, +when the old duchess called to him. + +Henrietta and Glastonbury were alone. + +‘This is a strange meeting, Mr. Glastonbury,’ said Henrietta. + +What could poor Glastonbury say? Something he murmured, but not very +much to the purpose. ‘Have you been in Nottinghamshire lately?’ said +Henrietta. + +‘I left it about ten days back with-----,’ and here Glastonbury stopped, +‘with a friend,’ he concluded. + +‘I trust all your friends are well,’ said Henrietta, in a tremulous +voice. + +‘No; yes; that is,’ said Glastonbury, ‘something better than they were.’ + +‘I am sorry that my father is not here,’ said Miss Temple; ‘he has a +lively remembrance of all your kindness.’ + +‘Kindness, I fear,’ said Glastonbury, in a melancholy tone, ‘that was +most unfortunate.’ + +‘We do not deem it so, sir,’ was the reply. + +‘My dear young lady,’ said Glastonbury, but his voice faltered as he +added, ‘we have had great unhappiness.’ + +‘I regret it,’ said Henrietta. ‘You had a marriage, I believe, expected +in your family?’ + +‘It has not occurred,’ said Glastonbury. + +‘Indeed!’ + +‘Alas! madam,’ said her companion, ‘if I might venture indeed to speak +of one whom I will not name, and yet-----’ + +‘Pray speak, sir,’ said Miss Temple, in a kind, yet hushed voice. + +‘The child of our affections, madam, is not what he was. God, in His +infinite mercy, has visited him with great afflictions.’ + +‘You speak of Captain Armine, sir?’ + +‘I speak indeed of my broken-hearted Ferdinand; I would I could say +yours. O Miss Temple, he is a wreck.’ ‘Yes! yes!’ said Henrietta in a +low tone. + +‘What he has endured,’ continued Glastonbury, ‘passes all description +of mine. His life has indeed been spared, but under circumstances that +almost make me regret he lives.’ + +‘He has not married!’ muttered Henrietta. + +‘He came to Ducie to claim his bride, and she was gone,’ said +Glastonbury; ‘his mind sunk under the terrible bereavement. For weeks +he was a maniac; and, though Providence spared him again to us, and +his mind, thanks to God, is again whole, he is the victim of a +profound melancholy, that seems to defy alike medical skill and worldly +vicissitude.’ + +‘Digby, Digby!’ exclaimed Isabella, who was at the harp, ‘Henrietta is +fainting.’ Lord Montfort rushed forward just in time to seize her cold +hand. + +‘The room is too hot,’ said one sister. + +‘The coffee is too strong,’ said the other. + +‘Air,’ said the young duchess. + +Lord Montfort carried Henrietta into a distant room. There was a balcony +opening into a garden. He seated her on a bench, and never quitted +her side, but contrived to prevent anyone approaching her. The women +clustered together. + +‘Sweet creature!’ said the old duchess, ‘she often makes me tremble; +she has but just recovered, Mr. Glastonbury, from a long and terrible +illness.’ + +‘Indeed!’ said Glastonbury. + +‘Poor dear Digby,’ continued her grace, ‘this will quite upset him +again. He was in such spirits about her health the other day.’ + +‘Lord Montfort?’ enquired Glastonbury. + +‘Our Digby. You know that he is to be married to Henrietta next month.’ + +‘Holy Virgin!’ muttered Glastonbury; and, seizing advantage of the +confusion, he effected his escape. + + + +[Illustration: frontis-title2.jpg] + +[Illustration: pageimage2.jpg] + + + + +BOOK VI. [CONTINUED] + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + + _In Which Mr. Glastonbury Informs Captain Armine of His + Meeting with Miss Temple_. + +IT WAS still an early hour when Mr. Glastonbury arrived at his hotel. +He understood, however, that Captain Armine had already returned and +retired. Glastonbury knocked gently at his door, and was invited to +enter. The good man was pale and agitated. Ferdinand was already in bed. +Glastonbury took a chair, and seated himself by his side. + +‘My dear friend, what is the matter?’ said Ferdinand. + +‘I have seen her, I have seen her!’ said Glastonbury. + +‘Henrietta! seen Henrietta?’ enquired Ferdinand. + +Glastonbury nodded assent, but with a most rueful expression of +countenance. + +‘What has happened? what did she say?’ asked Ferdinand in a quick voice. + +‘You are two innocent lambs,’ said Glastonbury, rubbing his hands. + +‘Speak, speak, my Glastonbury.’ + +‘I wish that my death could make you both happy,’ said Glastonbury; ‘but +I fear that would do you no good.’ + +‘Is there any hope?’ said Ferdinand. ‘None!’ said Glastonbury. ‘Prepare +yourself, my dear child, for the worst.’ + +‘Is she married?’ enquired Ferdinand. + +‘No; but she is going to be.’ + +‘I know it,’ said Ferdinand. + +Glastonbury stared. + +‘You know it? what! to Digby?’ + +‘Digby, or whatever his name may be; damn him!’ + +‘Hush! hush!’ said Glastonbury. + +‘May all the curses------’ + +‘God forbid,’ said Glastonbury, interrupting him. + +‘Unfeeling, fickle, false, treacherous------’ + +‘She is an angel,’ said Glastonbury, ‘a very angel. She has fainted, and +nearly in my arms.’ + +‘Fainted! nearly in your arms! Oh, tell me all, tell me all, +Glastonbury,’ exclaimed Ferdinand, starting up in his bed with an eager +voice and sparkling eyes. ‘Does she love me?’ + +‘I fear so,’ said Glastonbury. ‘Fear!’ + +‘Oh, how I pity her poor innocent heart!’ said Glastonbury. + +‘When I told her of all your sufferings------’ + +‘Did you tell her? What then?’ + +‘And she herself has barely recovered from a long and terrible illness.’ + +‘My own Henrietta! Now I could die happy,’ said Ferdinand. + +‘I thought it would break your heart,’ said Glastonbury. + +‘It is the only happy moment I have known for months,’ said Ferdinand. + +‘I was so overwhelmed that I lost my presence of mind,’ said +Glastonbury. ‘I really never meant to tell you anything. I do not know +how I came into your room.’ + +‘Dear, dear Glastonbury, I am myself again.’ + +‘Only think!’ said Glastonbury; ‘I never was so unhappy in my life.’ + +‘I have endured for the last four hours the tortures of the damned,’ +said Ferdinand, ‘to think that she was going to be married, to be +married to another; that she was happy, proud, prosperous, totally +regardless of me, perhaps utterly forgetful of the past; and that I was +dying like a dog in this cursed caravanserai! O Glastonbury! nothing +that I have ever endured has been equal to the hell of this day. And now +you have come and made me comparatively happy. I shall get up directly.’ + +Glastonbury looked quite astonished; he could not comprehend how his +fatal intelligence could have produced effects so directly contrary from +those he had anticipated. However, in answer to Ferdinand’s reiterated +enquiries, he contrived to give a detailed account of everything that +had occurred, and Ferdinand’s running commentary continued to be one of +constant self-congratulation. + +‘There is, however, one misfortune,’ said Ferdinand, ‘with which you are +unacquainted, my dear friend.’ + +‘Indeed!’ said Glastonbury, ‘I thought I knew enough.’ + +‘Alas! she has become a great heiress!’ + +‘Is that it?’ said Glastonbury. + +‘There is the blow,’ said Ferdinand. ‘Were it not for that, by the soul +of my grandfather, I would tear her from the arms of this stripling.’ + +‘Stripling!’ said Glastonbury. ‘I never saw a truer nobleman in my +life.’ + +‘Ah!’ exclaimed Ferdinand. + +‘Nay, second scarcely to yourself! I could not believe my eyes,’ +continued Glastonbury. ‘He was but a child when I saw him last; but so +were you, Ferdinand. Believe me, he is no ordinary rival.’ + +‘Good-looking?’ + +‘Altogether of a most princely presence. I have rarely met a personage +so highly accomplished, or who more quickly impressed you with his moral +and intellectual excellence.’ + +‘And they are positively engaged?’ + +‘To be married next month,’ replied Glastonbury. + +‘O Glastonbury! why do I live?’ exclaimed Ferdinand; ‘why did I +recover?’ + +‘My dear child, but just now you were comparatively happy.’ + +‘Happy! You cannot mean to insult me. Happy! Oh, is there in this world +a thing so deplorable as I am!’ + +‘I thought I did wrong to say anything,’ said Glastonbury, speaking as +it were to himself. + +Ferdinand made no observation. He turned himself in his bed, with his +face averted from Glastonbury. + +‘Good night,’ said Glastonbury, after remaining some time in silence. + +‘Good night,’ said Ferdinand, in a faint and mournful tone. + + + + +CHAPTER V. + + _Which, on the Whole, Is Perhaps as Remarkable a Chapter as + Any in the Work_. + +WRETCHED as he was, the harsh business of life could not be neglected; +Captain Armine was obliged to be in Lincoln’s Inn by ten o’clock the +next morning. It was on his return from his lawyer, as he was about to +cross Berkeley-square, that a carriage suddenly stopped in the middle of +the road, and a female hand apparently beckoned to him from the window. +He was at first very doubtful whether he were indeed the person to +whom the signal was addressed, but as on looking around there was not +a single human being in sight, he at length slowly approached the +equipage, from which a white handkerchief now waved with considerable +agitation. Somewhat perplexed by this incident, the mystery was, +however, immediately explained by the voice of Lady Bellair. + +‘You wicked man,’ said her little ladyship, in a great rage. ‘Oh! how I +hate you! I could cut you up into minced meat; that I could. Here I have +been giving parties every night, all for you too. And you have been in +town, and never called on me. Tell me your name. How is your wife? Oh! +you are not married. You should marry; I hate a _ci-devant jeune homme_. +However, you can wait a little. Here, James, Thomas, Peter, what is your +name, open the door and let him in. There get in, get in; I have a +great deal to say to you.’ And Ferdinand found that it was absolutely +necessary to comply. + +‘Now, where shall we go?’ said her ladyship; ‘I have got till two +o’clock. I make it a rule to be at home every day from two till six, to +receive my friends. You must come and call upon me. You may come every +day if you like. Do not leave your card. I hate people who leave cards. +I never see them; I order all to be burnt. I cannot bear people who +leave bits of paper at my house. Do you want to go anywhere? You do not! +Why do not you? How is your worthy father, Sir Peter? Is his name Sir +Peter or Sir Paul? Well, never mind, you know whom I mean. And your +charming mother, my favourite friend? She is charming; she is quite one +of my favourites. And were not you to marry? Tell me, why have you not? +Miss--Miss--you know whom I mean, whose grandfather was my son’s friend. +In town, are they? Where do they live? Brook-street! I will go and call +upon them. There, pull the string, and tell him where they live.’ + +And so, in a few minutes, Lady Bellair’s carriage stopped opposite the +house of Miss Grandison. + +‘Are they early risers?’ said her ladyship; ‘I get up every morning at +six. I dare say they will not receive me; but do you show yourself, and +then they cannot refuse.’ + +In consequence of this diplomatic movement Lady Bellair effected an +entrance. Leaning on the arm of Ferdinand, her ladyship was ushered into +the morning-room, where she found Lady Armine and Katherine. + +‘My dear lady, how do you do? And my sweet miss! Oh! your eyes are so +bright, that it quite makes me young to look upon them! I quite love +you, that I do. Your grandfather and my poor son were bosom friends. +And, my dear lady, where have you been all this time? Here have I been +giving parties every night, and all for you; all for my Bath friends; +telling everybody about you; talking of nothing else; everybody longing +to see you; and you have never been near me. My dinner-parties are over; +I shall not give any more dinners until June. But I have three evenings +yet; to-night, you must come to me to-night, and Thursday, and Saturday; +you must come on all three nights. Oh! why did you not call upon me? +I should have asked you to dinner. I would have asked you to meet Lord +Colonnade and Lady Ionia! They would have just suited you; they would +have tasted you! But I tell you what I will do; I will come and dine +with you some day. Now, when will you have me? Let me see, when am I. +free?’ So saying, her ladyship opened a little red book, which was her +inseparable companion in London. ‘All this week I am ticketed; Monday, +the Derricourts, dull, but then he is a duke. Tuesday I dine with +Bonmot; we have made it up; he gives me a dinner. Wednesday, Wednesday, +where is Wednesday? General Faneville, my own party. Thursday, the +Maxburys, bad dinner, but good company. Friday, Waring Cutts, a famous +house for eating; but that is not in my way; however, I must go, for +he sends me pines. And Saturday, I dine off a rabbit, by myself, at one +o’clock, to go and see my dear darling Lady St. Julians at Richmond. So +it cannot be this or next week. I will send you a note; I will tell you +to-night. And now I must go, for it is five minutes to two, I am always +at home from two till six; I receive my friends; you may come every +day, and you must come to see my new squirrel; my darling, funny little +grandson gave it me. And, my dear miss, where is that wicked Lady +Grandison? Do you ever see her, or are you enemies? She has got the +estate, has not she? She never calls upon me. Tell her she is one of my +greatest favourites. Oh! why does not she come? I should have asked her +to dinner; and now all my dinners are over till June. Tell me where she +lives, and I will call upon her to-morrow.’ + +So saying, and bidding them all farewell very cordially, her ladyship +took Ferdinand’s arm and retired. + +Captain Armine returned to his mother and cousin, and sat an hour with +them, until their carriage was announced. Just as he was going away, he +observed Lady Bellair’s little red book, which she had left behind. + +‘Poor Lady Bellair, what will she do?’ said Miss Grandison; ‘we must +take it to her immediately.’ + +‘I will leave it,’ said Ferdinand, ‘I shall pass her house.’ + +Bellair House was the prettiest mansion in May Fair. It was a long +building, in the Italian style, situate in the midst of gardens, which, +though not very extensive, were laid out with so much art and taste, +that it was very difficult to believe that you were in a great city. +The house was furnished and adorned with all that taste for which Lady +Bellair was distinguished. All the reception rooms were on the ground +floor, and were all connected. Ferdinand, who remembered Lady Bellair’s +injunctions not to leave cards, attracted by the spot, and not knowing +what to do with himself, determined to pay her ladyship a visit, and was +ushered into an octagon library, lined with well-laden dwarf cases of +brilliant volumes, crowned with no lack of marble busts, bronzes, and +Etruscan vases. On each side opened a magnificent saloon, furnished in +that classic style which the late accomplished and ingenious Mr. Hope +first rendered popular in this country. The wings, projecting far into +the gardens, comprised respectively a dining-room and a conservatory of +considerable dimensions. Isolated in the midst of the gardens was a +long building, called the summer-room, lined with Indian matting, and +screened on one side from the air merely by Venetian blinds. The walls +of this chamber were almost entirely covered with caricatures, and +prints of the country seats of Lady Bellair’s friends, all of which +she took care to visit. Here also were her parrots, and some birds of a +sweeter voice, a monkey, and the famous squirrel. + +Lady Bellair was seated in a chair, the back of which was much higher +than her head; at her side was a little table with writing materials, +on which also was placed a magnificent bell, by Benvenuto Cellini, with +which her ladyship summoned her page, who, in the meantime, loitered in +the hall. + +‘You have brought me my book!’ she exclaimed, as Ferdinand entered with +the mystical volume. ‘Give it me, give it me. Here I cannot tell Mrs. +Fancourt what day I can dine with her. I am engaged all this week and +all next, and I am to dine with your dear family when I like. But Mrs. +Fancourt must choose her day, because they will keep. You do not know +this gentleman,’ she said, turning to Mrs. Fan-court. ‘Well, I shall not +introduce you; he will not suit you; he is a fine gentleman, and only +dines, with dukes.’ + +Mrs. Fancourt consequently looked very anxious for an introduction. + +‘General Faneville,’ Lady Bellair continued, to a gentleman on her left, +‘what day do I dine with you? Wednesday. Is our party full? You must +make room for him; he is my greatest favourite. All the ladies are in +love with him.’ + +General Faneville expressed his deep sense of the high honour; Ferdinand +protested he was engaged on Wednesday; Mrs. Fancourt looked very +disappointed that she had thus lost another opportunity of learning the +name of so distinguished a personage. + +There was another knock. Mrs. Fancourt departed. Lady Maxbury, and her +daughter, Lady Selina, were announced. + +‘Have you got him?’ asked Lady Bellair, very eagerly, as her new +visitors entered. + +‘He has promised most positively,’ answered Lady Maxbury. + +‘Dear, good creature!’ exclaimed Lady Bellair, ‘you are the dearest +creature that I know. And you are charming,’ she continued, addressing +herself to Lady Selina; ‘if I were a man, I would marry you directly. +There now, he (turning to Ferdinand) cannot marry you, because he is +married already; but he should, if he were not. And how will he come?’ +enquired Lady Bellair. + +‘He will find his way,’ said Lady Maxbury. + +‘And I am not to pay anything?’ enquired Lady Bellair. + +‘Not anything,’ said Lady Maxbury. + +‘I cannot bear paying,’ said Lady Bellair. ‘But will he dance, and +will he bring his bows and arrows? Lord Dorfield protests ‘tis nothing +without the bows and arrows.’ + +‘What, the New Zealand chief, Lady Bellair?’ enquired the general. + +‘Have you seen him?’ enquired Lady Bellair, eagerly. + +‘Not yet,’ replied the gentleman. + +‘Well, then, you will see him to-night,’ said Lady Bellair, with an air +of triumph. ‘He is coming to me to-night.’ + +Ferdinand rose, and was about to depart. + +‘You must not go without seeing my squirrel,’ said her ladyship, ‘that +my dear funny grandson gave me: he is such a funny boy. You must see it, +you must see it,’ added her ladyship, in a peremptory tone. ‘There, +go out of that door, and you will find your way to my summer-room, and +there you will find my squirrel.’ + +The restless Ferdinand was content to quit the library, even with the +stipulation of first visiting the squirrel. He walked through a saloon, +entered the conservatory, emerged into the garden, and at length found +himself in the long summer-room. At the end of the room a lady was +seated, looking over a book of prints; as she heard a footstep she +raised her eyes, and Ferdinand beheld Henrietta Temple. + +He was speechless; he felt rooted to the ground; all power of thought +and motion alike deserted him. + +There he stood, confounded and aghast. Nor indeed was his companion +less disturbed. She remained with her eyes fixed on Ferdinand with +an expression of fear, astonishment, and distress impressed upon her +features. At length Ferdinand in some degree rallied, and he followed +the first impulse of his mind, when mind indeed returned to him: he +moved to retire. + +He had retraced half his steps, when a voice, if human voice indeed it +were that sent forth tones so full of choking anguish, pronounced his +name. + +‘Captain Armine!’ said the voice. + +How he trembled, yet mechanically obedient to his first impulse, he +still proceeded to the door. + +‘Ferdinand!’ said the voice. + +He stopped, he turned, she waved her hand wildly, and then leaning her +arm on the table, buried her face in it. Ferdinand walked to the table +at which she was sitting; she heard his footstep near her, yet she +neither looked up nor spoke. At length he said, in a still yet clear +voice, ‘I am here.’ + +‘I have seen Mr. Glastonbury,’ she muttered. + +‘I know it,’ he replied. + +‘Your illness has distressed me,’ she said, after a slight pause, her +face still concealed, and speaking in a hushed tone. Ferdinand made no +reply, and there was another pause, which Miss Temple broke. + +‘I would that we were at least friends,’ she said. The tears came into +Ferdinand’s eyes when she said this, for her tone, though low, was now +sweet. It touched his heart. + +‘Our mutual feelings now are of little consequence,’ he replied. + +She sighed, but made no reply. At length Ferdinand said, ‘Farewell, Miss +Temple.’ + +She started, she looked up, her mournful countenance harrowed his heart. +He knew not what to do; what to say. He could not bear her glance; he in +his turn averted his eyes. + +‘Our misery is--has been great,’ she said in a firmer tone, ‘but was it +of my making?’ + +‘The miserable can bear reproaches; do not spare me. My situation, +however, proves my sincerity. I have erred certainly,’ said Ferdinand; +‘I could not believe that you could have doubted me. It was a mistake,’ +he added, in a tone of great bitterness. + +Miss Temple again covered her face as she said, ‘I cannot recall the +past: I wish not to dwell on it. I desire only to express to you the +interest I take in your welfare, my hope that you may yet be happy. Yes! +you can be happy, Ferdinand; Ferdinand, for my sake you will be happy.’ + +‘O Henrietta, if Henrietta I indeed may call you, this is worse than +that death I curse myself for having escaped.’ + +‘No, Ferdinand, say not that. Exert yourself, only exert yourself, +bear up against irresistible fate. Your cousin, everyone says she is so +amiable; surely------’ + +‘Farewell, madam, I thank you for your counsel.’ + +‘No, Ferdinand, you shall not go, you shall not go in anger. Pardon me, +pity me, I spoke for your sake, I spoke for the best.’ + +‘I, at least, will never be false,’ said Ferdinand with energy. ‘It +shall not be said of me that I broke vows consecrated by the finest +emotions of our nature. No, no, I have had my dream; it was but a dream: +but while I live, I will live upon its sweet memory.’ + +‘Ah! Ferdinand, why were you not frank; why did you conceal your +situation from me?’ + +‘No explanation of mine can change our respective situations,’ said +Ferdinand; ‘I content myself therefore by saying that it was not Miss +Temple who had occasion to criticise my conduct.’ + +‘You are bitter.’ + +‘The lady whom I injured, pardoned me. She is the most generous, the +most amiable of her sex; if only in gratitude for all her surpassing +goodness, I would never affect to offer her a heart which never can +be hers. Katherine is indeed more than woman. Amid my many and almost +unparalleled sorrows, one of my keenest pangs is the recollection that +I should have clouded the life, even for a moment, of that admirable +person. Alas! alas! that in all my misery the only woman who sympathises +with my wretchedness is the woman I have injured. And so delicate +as well as so generous! She would not even enquire the name of the +individual who had occasioned our mutual desolation.’ + +‘Would that she knew all,’ murmured Henrietta; ‘would that I knew her.’ + +‘Your acquaintance could not influence affairs. My very affection for my +cousin, the complete appreciation which I now possess of her character, +before so little estimated and so feebly comprehended by me, is the very +circumstance that, with my feelings, would prevent our union. She may, +I am confident she will, yet be happy. I can never make her so. Our +engagement in old days was rather the result of family arrangements than +of any sympathy. I love her far better now than I did then, and yet +she is the very last person in the world that I would marry. I trust, I +believe, that my conduct, if it have clouded for a moment her life, will +not ultimately, will not long obscure it; and she has every charm and +virtue and accident of fortune to attract the admiration and attention +of the most favoured. Her feelings towards me at any time could have +been but mild and calm. It is a mere abuse of terms to style such +sentiments love. But,’ added he sarcastically, ‘this is too delicate a +subject for me to dilate on to Miss Temple.’ + +‘For God’s sake, do not be so bitter!’ she exclaimed; and then she +added, in a voice half of anguish, half of tenderness, ‘Let me never be +taunted by those lips! O Ferdinand, why cannot we be friends?’ + +‘Because we are more than friends. To me such a word from your lips is +mere mockery. Let us never meet. That alone remains for us. Little did +I suppose that we ever should have met again. I go nowhere, I enter +no single house; my visit here this morning was one of those whimsical +vagaries which cannot be counted on. This old lady indeed seems, somehow +or other, connected with our destiny. I believe I am greatly indebted to +her.’ + +The page entered the room. ‘Miss Temple,’ said the lad, ‘my lady bid me +say the duchess and Lord Montfort were here.’ + +Ferdinand started, and darting, almost unconsciously, a glance of fierce +reproach at the miserable Henrietta, he rushed out of the room and made +his escape from Bellair House without re-entering the library. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + + _Containing an Evening Assembly at Bellair House_. + +SEATED on an ottoman in the octagon library, occasionally throwing a +glance at her illuminated and crowded saloons, or beckoning, with a fan +almost as long as herself, to a distant guest, Lady Bellair received the +world on the evening of the day that had witnessed the strange rencontre +between Henrietta Temple and Ferdinand Armine. Her page, who stood at +the library-door in a new fancy dress, received the announcement of +the company from the other servants, and himself communicated the +information to his mistress. + +‘Mr. Million de Stockville, my lady,’ said the page. + +‘Hem!’ said her ladyship, rather gruffly, as, with no very amiable +expression of countenance, she bowed, with her haughtiest dignity, to a +rather common-looking personage in a gorgeously-embroidered waistcoat. + +‘Lady Ionia Colonnade, my lady.’ Lady Bellair bestowed a smiling nod +on this fair and classic dame, and even indicated, by a movement of her +fan, that she might take a seat on her ottoman. + +‘Sir Ratcliffe and Lady Armine, my lady, and Miss Grandison.’ + +‘Dear, good people!’ exclaimed Lady Bellair, ‘how late you are! and +where is your wicked son? There, go into the next room, go, go, and see +the wonderful man. Lady Ionia, you must know Lady Armine; she is +like you; she is one of my favourites. Now then, there all of you go +together. I will not have anybody stay here except my niece. This is my +niece,’ Lady Bellair added, pointing to a young lady seated by her side; +‘I give this party for her.’ ‘General Faneville, my lady.’ ‘You are very +late,’ said Lady Bellair. ‘I dined at Lord Rochfort’s,’ said the general +bowing. + +‘Rochfort’s! Oh! where are they? where are the Rochforts? they ought +to be here. I must, I will see them. Do you think Lady Rochfort wants a +nursery governess? Because I have a charming person who would just suit +her. Go and find her out, General, and enquire; and if she do not want +one, find out some one who does. Ask Lady Maxbury. There, go, go.’ + +‘Mr. and Miss Temple, my lady.’ + +‘Oh, my darling!’ said Lady Bellair, ‘my real darling! sit by me. I sent +Lady Ionia away, because I determined to keep this place for you. I give +this party entirely in your honour, so you ought to sit here. You are a +good man,’ she continued, addressing Mr. Temple; ‘but I can’t love you +so well as your daughter.’ + +‘I should be too fortunate,’ said Mr. Temple, smiling. + +‘I knew you when you ate pap,’ said Lady Bellair, laughing. + +‘Mrs. Montgomery Floyd, my lady.’ + +Lady Bellair assumed her coldest and haughtiest glance. Mrs. Montgomery +appeared more gorgeous than ever. The splendour of her sweeping train +almost required a page to support it; she held a bouquet which might +have served for the centre-piece of a dinner-table. A slender youth, +rather distinguished in appearance, simply dressed, with a rose-bud just +twisted into his black coat, but whose person distilled odours whose +essence might have exhausted a conservatory, lounged at her side. + +‘May I have the honour to present to your ladyship Lord Catchimwhocan?’ +breathed forth Mrs. Montgomery, exulting in her companion, perhaps in +her conquest. + +Lady Bellair gave a short and ungracious nod. Mrs. Montgomery recognised +Mr. and Miss Temple. ‘There, go, go,’ said Lady Bellair, interrupting +her, ‘nobody must stop here; go and see the wonderful man in the next +room.’ + +‘Lady Bellair is so strange,’ whimpered Mrs. Montgomery, in an +apologetical whisper to Miss Temple, and she moved away, covering her +retreat by the graceful person of Lord Catchimwhocan. + +‘Some Irish guardsman, I suppose,’ said Lady Bellair. ‘I never heard of +him; I hate guardsmen.’ + +‘Rather a distinguished-looking man, I think,’ said Mr. Temple. + +‘Do you think so?’ said Lady Bellair, who was always influenced by the +last word. ‘I will ask him for Thursday and Saturday. I think I must +have known his grandfather. I must tell him not to go about with that +horrid woman. She is so very fine, and she uses musk; she puts me +in mind of the Queen of Sheba,’ said the little lady, laughing, ‘all +precious stones and frankincense. I quite hate her.’ + +‘I thought she was quite one of your favourites, Lady Bellair?’ said +Henrietta Temple rather maliciously. + +‘A Bath favourite, my dear; a Bath favourite. I wear my old bonnets at +Bath, and use my new friends; but in town I have old friends and new +dresses.’ + +‘Lady Frederick Berrington, my lady.’ ‘Oh! my dear Lady Frederick, now +I will give you a treat. I will introduce you to my sweet, sweet friend, +whom I am always talking to you of. You deserve to know her; you will +taste her; there, sit down, sit by her, and talk to her, and make love +to her.’ + +‘Lady Womandeville, my lady.’ + +‘Ah! she will do for the lord; she loves a lord. My dear lady, you come +so late, and yet I am always so glad to see you. I have such a charming +friend for you, the handsomest, most fashionable, witty person, quite +captivating, and his grandfather was one of my dearest friends. What is +his name? what is his name? Lord Catchimwhocan. Mind, I introduce you +to him, and ask him to your house very often.’ + +Lady Womandeville smiled, expressed her delight, and moved on. + +Lord Montfort, who had arrived before the Temples, approached the +ottoman. + +‘Is the duchess here?’ enquired Henrietta, as she shook hands with him. + +‘And Isabella,’ he replied. Henrietta rose, and taking his arm, bid +adieu to Lady Bellair. + +‘God bless you,’ said her ladyship, with great emphasis. ‘I will not +have you speak to that odious Mrs. Floyd, mind.’ + +When Lord Montfort and Henrietta succeeded in discovering the duchess, +she was in the conservatory, which was gaily illuminated with coloured +lamps among the shrubs. Her Grace was conversing with cordiality with +a lady of very prepossessing appearance, in whom the traces of a beauty +once distinguished were indeed still considerable, and her companion, +an extremely pretty person, in the very bloom of girlhood. Lord Montfort +and Henrietta were immediately introduced to these ladies, as Lady +Armine and Miss Grandison. After the scene of the morning, it was not +easy to deprive Miss Temple of her equanimity; after that shock, no +incident connected with the Armine family could be surprising; she +was even desirous of becoming acquainted with Miss Grandison, and she +congratulated herself upon the opportunity which had so speedily offered +itself to gratify her wishes. The duchess was perfectly delighted with +Lady Armine, whose manners were fascinating; between the families there +was some connection of blood, and Lady Armine, too, had always retained +a lively sense of the old duke’s services to her son. Henrietta had even +to listen to enquiries made after Ferdinand, and she learnt that he was +slowly recovering from an almost fatal illness, that he could not endure +the fatigues of society, and that he was even living at an hotel for the +sake of quiet. Henrietta watched the countenance of Katherine, as Lady +Armine gave this information. It was serious, but not disturbed. Her +Grace did not separate from her new friends the whole of the evening, +and they parted with a mutually expressed wish that they might speedily +and often meet. The duchess pronounced Lady Armine the most charming +person she had ever met; while, on the other hand, Miss Grandison was +warm in her admiration of Henrietta Temple and Lord Montfort, whom she +thought quite worthy even of so rare a prize. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + + _Containing a Very Important Communication_. + +BETWEEN the unexpected meeting with Captain Armine in the morning and +the evening assembly at Bellair House, a communication had been made by +Miss Temple to Lord Montfort, which ought not to be quite unnoticed. +She had returned home with his mother and himself, and her silence and +depression had not escaped him. Soon after their arrival they were left +alone, and then Henrietta said, ‘Digby, I wish to speak to you!’ + +‘My own!’ said Lord Montfort, as he seated himself by her on the sofa, +and took her hand. + +Miss Temple was calm; but he would have been a light observer who had +not detected her suppressed agitation. + +‘Dearest Digby,’ she continued, ‘you are so generous and so kind, that +I ought to feel no reluctance in speaking to you upon this subject; and +yet it pains me very much.’ She hesitated. + +‘I can only express my sympathy with any sorrow of yours, Henrietta,’ +said Lord Montfort. ‘Speak to me as you always do, with that frankness +which so much delights me.’ + +‘Let your thoughts recur to the most painful incident of my life, then,’ +said Henrietta. + +‘If you require it,’ said Lord Montfort, in a serious tone. + +‘It is not my fault, dearest Digby, that a single circumstance connected +with that unhappy event should be unknown to you. I wished originally +that you should know all. I have a thousand times since regretted +that your consideration for my feelings should ever have occasioned an +imperfect confidence between us; and something has occurred to-day which +makes me lament it bitterly.’ + +‘No, no, dearest Henrietta; you feel too keenly,’ said Lord Montfort. + +‘Indeed, Digby, it is so,’ said Henrietta very mournfully. + +‘Speak, then, dearest Henrietta.’ + +‘It is necessary that you should know the name of that person who once +exercised an influence over my feelings, which I never affected to +disguise to you.’ + +‘Is it indeed necessary?’ enquired Lord Montfort. + +‘It is for my happiness,’ replied Henrietta. + +‘Then, indeed, I am anxious to learn it.’ + +‘He is in this country,’ said Henrietta, ‘he is in this town; he may be +in the same room with you to-morrow; he has been in the same room with +me even this day.’ + +‘Indeed!’ said Lord Montfort. + +‘He bears a name not unknown to you,’ said Henrietta, ‘a name, too, that +I must teach myself to mention, and yet------’ + +Lord Montfort rose and took a pencil and a sheet of paper from the +table, ‘Write it,’ he said in a kind tone. + +Henrietta took the pencil, and wrote, + +‘Armine.’ + +‘The son of Sir Ratcliffe?’ said Lord Montfort. + +‘The same,’ replied Henrietta. + +‘You heard then of him last night?’ enquired her companion. + +‘Even so; of that, too, I was about to speak.’ + +‘I am aware of the connection of Mr. Glastonbury with the Armine +family,’ said Lord Montfort, quietly. + +[Illustration: frontis-page025.jpg] + +There was a dead pause. At length Lord Montfort said, ‘Is there anything +you wish me to do?’ + +‘Much,’ said Henrietta. ‘Dearest Digby,’ she continued, after a moment’s +hesitation, ‘do not misinterpret me; my heart, if such a heart be worth +possessing, is yours. I can never forget who solaced me in my misery; I +can never forget all your delicate tenderness, Digby. Would that I +could make a return to you more worthy of all your goodness; but if the +grateful devotion of my life can repay you, you shall be satisfied.’ + +He took her hand and pressed it to his lips. ‘It is of you, and of your +happiness that I can alone think,’ he murmured. + +‘Now let me tell you all,’ said Henrietta, with desperate firmness. ‘I +have done this person great injustice.’ + +‘Hah!’ said Lord Montfort. + +‘It cuts me to the heart,’ said Henrietta. + +‘You have then misconceived his conduct?’ enquired Lord Montfort. + +‘Utterly.’ + +‘It is indeed a terrible situation for you,’ said Lord Montfort; ‘for +all of us,’ he added, in a lower tone. + +‘No, Digby; not for all of us; not even for myself; for if you are happy +I will be. But for him, yes! I will not conceal it from you, I feel for +him.’ + +‘Your destiny is in your own hands, Henrietta.’ + +‘No, no, Digby; do not say so,’ exclaimed Miss Temple, very earnestly; +‘do not speak in that tone of sacrifice. There is no need of sacrifice; +there shall be none. I will not, I do not falter. Be you firm. Do not +desert me in this moment of trial. It is for support I speak; it is for +consolation. We are bound together by ties the purest, the holiest. Who +shall sever them? No! Digby, we will be happy; but I am interested in +the destiny of this unhappy person. You, you can assist me in rendering +it more serene; in making him, perhaps, not less happy than ourselves.’ + +‘I would spare no labour,’ said Lord Montfort. + +‘Oh, that you would not!’ exclaimed Miss Temple. ‘You are so good, +so noble! You would sympathise even with him. What other man in your +situation would?’ + +‘What can be done?’ + +‘Listen: he was engaged to his cousin even on that fatal day when we +first met; a lady with every charm and advantage that one would think +could make a man happy; young, noble, and beautiful; of a most amiable +and generous disposition, as her subsequent conduct has proved; and of +great wealth.’ + +‘Miss Grandison?’ said Lord Montfort. + +‘Yes: his parents looked forward to their union with delight, not +altogether unmixed with anxiety. + +The Armines, with all their princely possessions, are greatly +embarrassed from the conduct of the last head of their house. Ferdinand +himself has, I grieve to say, inherited too much of his grandfather’s +imprudent spirit; his affairs, I fear, are terribly involved. When I +knew him, papa was, as you are aware, a poor man. This marriage would +have cured all; my Digby, I wish it to take place.’ + +‘How can we effect it?’ asked Lord Montfort. + +‘Become his friend, dear Digby. I always think you can do anything. Yes! +my only trust is in you. Oh! my Digby, make us all happy.’ + +Lord Montfort rose and walked up and down the room, apparently in +profound meditation. At length he said, ‘Rest assured, Henrietta, that +to secure your happiness nothing shall ever be wanting on my part. I +will see Mr. Glastonbury on this subject. At present, dearest, let us +think of lighter things.’ + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + + _Which Is Rather Strange_. + +IT WAS on the morning after the assembly at Bellair House that Ferdinand +was roused from his welcome slumbers, for he had passed an almost +sleepless night, by his servant bringing him a note, and telling him +that it had been left by a lady in a carriage. He opened it, and read as +follows:-- + +‘Silly, silly Captain Armine! why did you not come to my Vauxhall last +night? I wanted to present you to the fairest damsel in the world, who +has a great fortune too; but that you don’t care about. When are you +going to be married? Miss Grandison looked charming, but disconsolate +without her knight. Your mother is an angel, and the Duchess of-----is +quite in love with her. Your father, too, is a worthy man. I love your +family very much. Come and call upon poor old doting bedridden H. B., +who is at home every day from two to six to receive her friends. Has +charming Lady Armine got a page? I have one that would just suit her. He +teases my poor squirrel so that I am obliged to turn him away; but he is +a real treasure. That fine lady, Mrs. Montgomery Floyd, would give her +ears for him; but I love your mother much more, and so she shall have +him. He shall come to her to-night. All the world takes tea with H. B. +on Thursday and Saturday.’ + +‘One o’clock!’ said Ferdinand. ‘I may as well get up and call in +Brook-street, and save my mother from this threatened infliction. +Heigho! Day after day, and each more miserable than the other. How will +this end?’ + +When Ferdinand arrived in Brook-street, he went up stairs without +being announced, and found in the drawing-room, besides his mother and +Katherine, the duchess, Lord Montfort, and Henrietta Temple. + +The young ladies were in their riding-habits. Henrietta appeared before +him, the same Henrietta whom he had met, for the first time, in the +pleasaunce at Armine. Retreat was impossible. Her Grace received +Ferdinand cordially, and reminded him of old days. Henrietta bowed, but +she was sitting at some distance with Miss Grandison, looking at some +work. Her occupation covered her confusion. Lord Montfort came forward +with extended hand. + +‘I have the pleasure of meeting an old friend,’ said his lordship. + +Ferdinand just touched his lordship’s finger, and bowed rather stiffly; +then, turning to his mother, he gave her Lady Bellair’s note. ‘It +concerns you more than myself,’ he observed. + +‘You were not at Lady Bellair’s last night, Captain Armine,’ said her +Grace. + +‘I never go anywhere,’ was the answer. + +‘He has been a great invalid,’ said Lady Armine. + +‘Where is Glastonbury, Ferdinand?’ said Lady Armine. ‘He never comes +near us.’ + +‘He goes every day to the British Museum.’ + +‘I wish he would take me,’ said Katherine. ‘I have never been there. +Have you?’ she enquired, turning to Henrietta. + +‘I am ashamed to say never,’ replied Henrietta. ‘It seems to me that +London is the only city of which I know nothing.’ + +‘Ferdinand,’ said Katherine, ‘I wish you would go with us to the Museum +some day. Miss Temple would like to go. You know Miss Temple,’ she +added, as if she of course supposed he had not that pleasure. + +Ferdinand bowed; Lord Montfort came forward, and turned the conversation +to Egyptian antiquities. When a quarter of an hour had passed, Ferdinand +thought that he might now withdraw. + +‘Do you dine at home, Katherine, to-day?’ he enquired. + +Miss Grandison looked at Miss Temple; the young ladies whispered. + +‘Ferdinand,’ said Katherine, ‘what are you going to do?’ + +‘Nothing particular.’ + +‘We are going to ride, and Miss Temple wishes you would come with us.’ + +‘I should be very happy, but I have some business to attend to.’ + +‘Dear Ferdinand, that is what you always say. You really appear to me to +be the most busy person in the world.’ + +‘Pray come, Captain Armine,’ said Lord Montfort. + +‘Thank you; it is really not in my power.’ His hat was in his hand; +he was begging her Grace to bear his compliments to the duke, when +Henrietta rose from her seat, and, coming up to him, said, ‘Do, Captain +Armine, come with us; I ask you as a favour.’ + +That voice! Oh! it came o’er his ear ‘like the sweet south;’ it unmanned +him quite. He scarcely knew where he was. He trembled from head to foot. +His colour deserted him, and the unlucky hat fell to the floor; and yet +she stood before him, awaiting his reply, calm, quite calm, serious, +apparently a little anxious. The duchess was in earnest conversation +with his mother. Lord Montfort had walked up to Miss Grandison, and was +engaged in arranging a pattern for her. Ferdinand and Henrietta +were quite unobserved. He looked up; he caught her eye; and then he +whispered, ‘This is hardly fair.’ + +She stretched forth her hand, took his hat, and laid it on the table; +then, turning to Katherine, she said, in a tone which seemed to admit +no doubt, ‘Captain Armine will ride with us;’ and she seated herself by +Lady Armine. + +The expedition was a little delayed by Ferdinand having to send for his +horse; the others had, in the meantime, arrived. Yet this half-hour, +by some contrivance, did at length disappear. Lord Montfort continued +talking to Miss Grandison. Henrietta remained seated by Lady Armine. +Ferdinand revolved a great question in, his mind, and it was this: Was +Lord Montfort aware of the intimate acquaintance between himself and +Miss Temple? And what was the moving principle of her present conduct? +He conjured up a thousand reasons, but none satisfied him. His curiosity +was excited, and, instead of regretting his extracted promise to join +the cavalcade, he rejoiced that an opportunity was thus afforded him of +perhaps solving a problem in the secret of which he now began to feel +extremely interested. + +And yet in truth when Ferdinand found himself really mounted, and riding +by the side of Henrietta Temple once more, for Lord Montfort was very +impartial in his attentions to his fair companions, and Ferdinand +continually found himself next to Henrietta, he really began to think +the world was bewitched, and was almost sceptical whether he was or was +not Ferdinand Armine. The identity of his companion too was so complete: +Henrietta Temple in her riding-habit was the very image most keenly +impressed upon his memory. He looked at her and stared at her with +a face of curious perplexity. She did not, indeed, speak much; the +conversation was always general, and chiefly maintained by Lord +Montfort, who, though usually silent and reserved, made on this occasion +successful efforts to be amusing. His attention to Ferdinand too was +remarkable; it was impossible to resist such genuine and unaffected +kindness. It smote Ferdinand’s heart that he had received his lordship’s +first advances so ungraciously. Compunction rendered him now doubly +courteous; he was even once or twice almost gay. + +The day was as fine as a clear sky, a warm sun, and a western breeze +could render it. Tempted by so much enjoyment, their ride was long. It +was late, much later than they expected, when they returned home by the +green lanes of pretty Willesden, and the Park was quite empty when they +emerged from the Edgware-road into Oxford-street. + +‘Now the best thing we can all do is to dine in St. James’-square,’ said +Lord Montfort. ‘It is ten minutes past eight. We shall just be in time, +and then we can send messages to Grosvenor-square and Brook-street. What +say you, Armine? You will come, of course?’ + +‘Thank you, if you would excuse me.’ + +‘No, no; why excuse you?’ said Lord Montfort: ‘I think it shabby to +desert us now, after all our adventures.’ + +‘Really you are very kind, but I never dine out.’ + +‘Dine out! What a phrase! You will not meet a human being; perhaps not +even my father. If you will not come, it will spoil everything.’ + +‘I cannot dine in a frock,’ said Ferdinand. + +‘I shall,’ said Lord Montfort, ‘and these ladies must dine in their +habits, I suspect.’ + +‘Oh! certainly, certainly,’ said the ladies. + +‘Do come, Ferdinand,’ said Katherine. + +‘I ask you as a favour,’ said Henrietta, turning to him and speaking in +a low voice. + +‘Well,’ said Ferdinand, with a sigh. + +‘That is well,’ said Montfort; ‘now let us trot through the Park, and +the groom can call in Grosvenor-square and Brook-street, and gallop +after us. This is amusing, is it not?’ + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + + _Which Is on the Whole Almost as Perplexing as the Preceding + One_. + +WHEN Ferdinand found himself dining in St. James’-square, in the very +same room where he had passed so many gay hours during that boyish month +of glee which preceded his first joining his regiment, and then looked +opposite him and saw Henrietta Temple, it seemed to him that, by some +magical process or other, his life was acting over again, and the order +of the scenes and characters had, by some strange mismanagement, got +confused. Yet he yielded himself up to the excitement which had so +unexpectedly influenced him; he was inflamed by a species of wild +delight which he could not understand, nor stop to analyse; and when the +duchess retired with the young ladies to their secret conclave in the +drawing-room, she said, ‘I like Captain Armine very much; he is so full +of spirit and imagination. When we met him this morning, do you know, +I thought him rather stiff and fine. I regretted the bright boyish flow +that I so well recollected, but I see I was mistaken.’ + +‘Ferdinand is much changed,’ said Miss Grandison. ‘He was once the +most brilliant person, I think, that ever lived: almost too brilliant; +everybody by him seemed so tame. But since his illness he has quite +changed. I have scarcely heard him speak or seen him smile these six +months. There is not in the whole world a person so wretchedly altered. +He is quite a wreck. I do not know what is the matter with him to-day. +He seemed once almost himself.’ + +‘He indulged his feelings too much, perhaps,’ said Henrietta; ‘he lived, +perhaps, too much alone, after so severe an illness.’ + +‘Oh, no! it is not that,’ said Miss Grandison, ‘it is not exactly +that. Poor Ferdinand! he is to be pitied. I fear he will never be happy +again.’ + +‘Miss Grandison should hardly say that,’ said the duchess, ‘if report +speaks truly.’ + +Katherine was about to reply, but checked herself. + +Henrietta rose from her seat rather suddenly, and asked Katherine to +touch the piano. + +The duchess took up the ‘Morning Post.’ + +‘Poor Ferdinand! he used to sing once so beautifully, too!’ said +Katherine to Miss Temple, in a hushed voice. ‘He never sings now.’ + +‘You must make him,’ said Henrietta. + +Miss Grandison shook her head. + +‘You have influence with him; you should exert it,’ said Henrietta. + +‘I neither have, nor desire to have, influence with him,’ said Miss +Grandison. ‘Dearest Miss Temple, the world is in error with respect to +myself and my cousin; and yet I ought not to say to you what I have not +thought proper to confess even to my aunt.’ + +Henrietta leant over and kissed her forehead. ‘Say what you like, +dearest Miss Grandison; you speak to a friend, who loves you, and will +respect your secret.’ + +The gentlemen at this moment entered the room, and interrupted this +interesting conversation. + +‘You must not quit the instrument, Miss Grandison,’ said Lord Montfort, +seating himself by her side. Ferdinand fell into conversation with the +duchess; and Miss Temple was the amiable victim of his Grace’s passion +for écarté. + +‘Captain Armine is a most agreeable person,’ said Lord Montfort. + +Miss Grandison rather stared. ‘We were just speaking of Ferdinand,’ she +replied, ‘and I was lamenting his sad change.’ + +‘Severe illness, illness so severe as his, must for the moment change +anyone; we shall soon see him himself again.’ + +‘Never,’ said Miss Grandison mournfully. + +‘You must inspire him,’ said Lord Montfort. ‘I perceive you have great +influence with him.’ + +‘I give Lord Montfort credit for much acuter perception than that,’ said +Miss Grandison. + +Their eyes met: even Lord Montfort’s dark vision shrank before the +searching glance of Miss Grandison. It conveyed to him that his purpose +was not undiscovered. + +‘But you can exert influence, if you please,’ said Lord Montfort. + +‘But it may not please me,’ said Miss Grandison. + +At this moment Mr. Glastonbury was announced. He had a general +invitation, and was frequently in the habit of paying an evening visit +when the family were disengaged. When he found Ferdinand, Henrietta, +and Katherine, all assembled together, and in so strange a garb, his +perplexity was wondrous. The tone of comparative ease, too, with which +Miss Temple addressed him, completed his confusion. He began to suspect +that some critical explanation had taken place. He looked around for +information. + +‘We have all been riding,’ said Lord Montfort. + +‘So I perceive,’ said Glastonbury. + +‘And as we were too late for dinner, took refuge here,’ continued his +lordship. + +‘I observe it,’ said Glastonbury. + +‘Miss Grandison is an admirable musician, sir.’ + +‘She is an admirable lady in every respect,’ said Glastonbury. + +‘Perhaps you will join her in some canzonette; I am so stupid as not to +be able to sing. I wish I could induce Captain Armine.’ + +‘He has left off singing,’ said Glastonbury, mournfully. ‘But Miss +Temple?’ added Glastonbury, bowing to that lady. + +‘Miss Temple has left off singing, too,’ said Lord Montfort, quietly. + +‘Come, Mr. Glastonbury,’ said the duchess, ‘time was when you and I have +sung together. Let us try to shame these young folks.’ So saying, +her Grace seated herself at the piano, and the gratified Glastonbury +summoned all his energies to accompany her. + +Lord Montfort seated himself by Ferdinand. ‘You have been severely ill, +I am sorry to hear.’ + +‘Yes; I have been rather shaken.’ + +‘This spring will bring you round.’ + +‘So everyone tells me. I cannot say I feel its beneficial influence.’ + +‘You should,’ said Lord Montfort. ‘At our age we ought to rally +quickly.’ + +‘Yes! Time is the great physician. I cannot say I have much more faith +in him than in the spring.’ + +‘Well, then, there is Hope; what think you of that?’ + +‘I have no great faith,’ said Ferdinand, affecting to smile. + +‘Believe, then, in optimism,’ said Henrietta Temple, without taking her +eyes off the cards. ‘Whatever is, is best.’ + +‘That is not my creed, Miss Temple,’ said Ferdinand, and he rose and was +about to retire. + +‘Must you go? Let us all do something to-morrow!’ said Lord Montfort, +interchanging a glance with Henrietta. ‘The British Museum; Miss +Grandison wishes to go to the British Museum. Pray come with us.’ + +‘You are very good, but------’ + +‘Well! I will write you a little note in the morning and tell you our +plans,’ said Lord Montfort. ‘I hope you will not desert us.’ + +Ferdinand bowed and retired: he avoided catching the eye of Henrietta. + +The carriages of Miss Temple and Miss Grandison were soon announced, +and, fatigued with their riding-dresses, these ladies did not long +remain. + +‘To-day has been a day of trial,’ said Henrietta, as she was about to +bid Lord Montfort farewell. ‘What do you think of affairs? I saw you +speaking to Katherine. What do you think?’ + +‘I think Ferdinand Armine is a formidable rival. Do you know, I am +rather jealous?’ + +‘Digby! can you be ungenerous?’ + +‘My sweet Henrietta, pardon my levity. I spoke in the merest +playfulness. Nay,’ he continued, for she seemed really hurt, ‘say good +night very sweetly.’ + +‘Is there any hope?’ said Henrietta. + +‘All’s well that ends well,’ said Lord Montfort, smiling; ‘God bless +you.’ + +Glastonbury was about to retire, when Lord Montfort returned and asked +him to come up to his lordship’s own apartments, as he wished to show +him a curious antique carving. + +‘You seemed rather surprised at the guests you found here to-night,’ +said Lord Montfort when they were alone. + +Glastonbury looked a little confused. ‘It was certainly a curious +meeting, all things considered,’ continued Lord Montfort: ‘Henrietta has +never concealed anything of the past from me, but I have always wished +to spare her details. I told her this morning I should speak to you upon +the subject, and that is the reason why I have asked you here.’ + +‘It is a painful history,’ said Glastonbury. + +‘As painful to me as anyone,’ said his lordship; ‘nevertheless, it must +be told. When did you first meet Miss Temple?’ + +‘I shall never forget it,’ said Glastonbury, sighing and moving very +uneasily in his chair. ‘I took her for Miss Grandison.’ And Glastonbury +now entered into a complete history of everything that had occurred. + +‘It is a strange, a wonderful story,’ said Lord Montfort, ‘and you +communicated everything to Miss Grandison?’ + +‘Everything but the name of her rival. To that she would not listen. It +was not just, she said, to one so unfortunate and so unhappy.’ + +‘She seems an admirable person, that Miss Grandison,’ said Lord +Montfort. + +‘She is indeed as near an angel as anything earthly can be,’ said +Glastonbury. + +‘Then it is still a secret to the parents?’ + +‘Thus she would have it,’ said Glastonbury. ‘She clings to them, who +love her indeed as a daughter; and she shrank from the desolation that +was preparing for them.’ + +‘Poor girl!’ said Lord Montfort, ‘and poor Armine! By heavens, I pity +him from the bottom of my heart.’ + +‘If you had seen him as I have,’ said Glastonbury, ‘wilder than the +wildest Bedlamite! It was an awful sight.’ + +‘Ah! the heart, the heart,’ said Lord Montfort: ‘it is a delicate organ, +Mr. Glastonbury. And think you his father and mother suspect nothing?’ + +‘I know not what they think,’ said Glastonbury, ‘but they must soon know +all.’ And he seemed to shudder at the thought. + +‘Why must they?’ asked Lord Montfort. + +Glastonbury stared. + +‘Is there no hope of softening and subduing all their sorrows?’ said +Lord Montfort; ‘cannot we again bring together these young and parted +spirits?’ + +‘It is my only hope,’ said Glastonbury, ‘and yet I sometimes deem it a +forlorn one.’ + +‘It is the sole desire of Henrietta,’ said Lord Montfort; ‘cannot you +assist us? Will you enter into this conspiracy of affection with us?’ + +‘I want no spur to such a righteous work,’ said Glastonbury, ‘but I +cannot conceal from myself the extreme difficulty. Ferdinand is the most +impetuous of human beings. His passions are a whirlwind; his volition +more violent than becomes a suffering mortal.’ + +‘You think, then, there is no difficulty but with him?’ + +‘I know not what to say,’ said Glastonbury; ‘calm as appears the +temperament of Miss Grandison, she has heroic qualities. Oh! what have I +not seen that admirable young lady endure! Alas! my Digby, my dear +lord, few passages of this terrible story are engraven on my memory more +deeply than the day when I revealed to her the fatal secret. Yet, and +chiefly for her sake, it was my duty.’ + +‘It was at Armine?’ + +‘At Armine. I seized an opportunity when we were alone together, and +without fear of being disturbed. We had gone to view an old abbey in the +neighbourhood. We were seated among its ruins, when I took her hand and +endeavoured to prepare her for the fatal intelligence, “All is not right +with Ferdinand,” she immediately said; “there is some mystery. I have +long suspected it.” She listened to my recital, softened as much as I +could for her sake, in silence. Yet her paleness I never can forget. She +looked like a saint in a niche. When I had finished, she whispered me to +leave her for some short time, and I walked away, out of sight indeed, +but so near that she might easily summon me. I stood alone until it was +twilight, in a state of mournful suspense that I recall even now with +anguish. At last I heard my name sounded, in a low yet distinct voice, +and I looked round and she was there. She had been weeping. I took her +hand and pressed it, and led her to the carriage. When I approached our +unhappy home, she begged me to make her excuses to the family, and for +two or three days we saw her no more. At length she sent for me, and +told me she had been revolving all these sad circumstances in her mind, +and she felt for others more even than for herself; that she forgave +Ferdinand, and pitied him, and would act towards him as a sister; that +her heart was distracted with the thoughts of the unhappy young lady, +whose name she would never know, but that if by her assistance I could +effect their union, means should not be wanting, though their source +must be concealed; that for the sake of her aunt, to whom she is indeed +passionately attached, she would keep the secret, until it could no +longer be maintained; and that in the meantime it was to be hoped that +health might be restored to her cousin, and Providence in some way +interfere in favour of this unhappy family.’ + +‘Angelic creature!’ said Lord Montfort. ‘So young, too; I think so +beautiful. Good God! with such a heart what could Armine desire?’ + +‘Alas!’ said Glastonbury, and he shook his head. ‘You know not the +love of Ferdinand Armine for Henrietta Temple. It is a wild and fearful +thing; it passeth human comprehension.’ + +Lord Montfort leant back in his chair, and covered his face with his +hands. After some minutes he looked up, and said in his usual placid +tone, and with an’ unruffled brow, ‘Will you take anything before you +go, Mr. Glastonbury?’ + + + + +CHAPTER X. + + _In Which Captain Armine Increases His Knowledge of the + Value of Money, and Also Becomes Aware of the Advantage of + an Acquaintance Who Burns Coals_. + +FERDINAND returned to his hotel in no very good humour, revolving in his +mind Miss Temple’s advice about optimism. What could she mean? Was there +really a conspiracy to make him marry his cousin, and was Miss Temple +one of the conspirators? He could scarcely believe this, and yet it was +the most probable, deduction from all that had been said and done. He +had lived to witness such strange occurrences, that no event ought now +to astonish him. Only to think that he had been sitting quietly in +a drawing-room with Henrietta Temple, and she avowedly engaged to be +married to another person, who was present; and that he, Ferdinand +Armine, should be the selected companion of their morning ride, and +be calmly invited to contribute to their daily amusement by his social +presence! What next? If this were not an insult, a gross, flagrant, and +unendurable outrage, he was totally at a loss to comprehend what was +meant by offended pride. Optimism, indeed! He felt far more inclined +to embrace the faith of the Manichee! And what a fool was he to have +submitted to such a despicable, such a degrading situation! What +infinite weakness not to be able to resist her influence, the influence +of a woman who had betrayed him! Yes! betrayed him. He had for some +period reconciled his mind to entertain the idea of Henrietta’s +treachery to him. Softened by time, atoned for by long suffering, +extenuated by the constant sincerity of his purpose, his original +imprudence, to use his own phrase in describing his misconduct, had +gradually ceased to figure as a valid and sufficient cause for her +behaviour to him. When he recollected how he had loved this woman, +what he had sacrificed for her, and what misery he had in consequence +entailed upon himself and all those dear to him; when he contrasted +his present perilous situation with her triumphant prosperity, and +remembered that while he had devoted himself to a love which proved +false, she who had deserted him was, by a caprice of fortune, absolutely +rewarded for her fickleness; he was enraged, he was disgusted, he +despised himself for having been her slave; he began even to hate her. +Terrible moment when we first dare to view with feelings of repugnance +the being that our soul has long idolised! It is the most awful of +revelations. We start back in horror, as if in the act of profanation. + +Other annoyances, however, of a less ethereal character, awaited our +hero on his return to his hotel. There he found a letter from his +lawyer, informing him that he could no longer parry the determination of +one of Captain Armine’s principal creditors to arrest him instantly for +a considerable sum. Poor Ferdinand, mortified and harassed, with his +heart and spirit alike broken, could scarcely refrain from a groan. +However, some step must be taken. He drove Henrietta from his thoughts, +and, endeavouring to rally some of his old energy, revolved in his mind +what desperate expedient yet remained. + +His sleep was broken by dreams of bailiffs, and a vague idea of +Henrietta Temple triumphing in his misery; but he rose early, wrote a +diplomatic note to his menacing creditor, which he felt confident must +gain him time, and then, making a careful toilet, for when a man is +going to try to borrow money it is wise to look prosperous, he took his +way to a quarter of the town where lived a gentleman with whose brother +he had had some previous dealings at Malta, and whose acquaintance he +had made in England in reference to them. + +It was in that gloomy quarter called Golden-square, the murky repose of +which strikes so mysteriously on the senses after the glittering bustle +of the adjoining Regent-street, that Captain Armine stopped before a +noble yet now dingy mansion, that in old and happier days might probably +have been inhabited by his grandfather, or some of his gay friends. A +brass plate on the door informed the world that here resided Messrs. +Morris and Levison, following the not very ambitious calling of coal +merchants. But if all the pursuers of that somewhat humble trade could +manage to deal in coals with the same dexterity as Messrs. Morris and +Levison, what very great coal merchants they would be! + +The ponderous portal obeyed the signal of the bell, and apparently +opened without any human means; and Captain Armine, proceeding down +a dark yet capacious passage, opened a door, which invited him by +an inscription on ground glass that assured him he was entering the +counting-house. Here several clerks, ensconced within lofty walls of the +darkest and dullest mahogany, were busily employed; yet one advanced +to an aperture in this fortification and accepted the card which the +visitor offered him. The clerk surveyed the ticket with a peculiar +glance; and then, begging the visitor to be seated, disappeared. He +was not long absent, but soon invited Ferdinand to follow him. Captain +Armine was ushered up a noble staircase, and into a saloon that once +was splendid. The ceiling was richly carved, and there still might be +detected the remains of its once gorgeous embellishment in the faint +forms of faded deities and the traces of murky gilding. The walls of +this apartment were crowded with pictures, arranged, however, with +little regard to taste, effect, or style. A sprawling copy of Titian’s +Venus flanked a somewhat prim peeress by Hoppner; a landscape that +smacked of Gainsborough was the companion of a dauby moonlight, that +must have figured in the last exhibition; and insipid Roman matrons by +Hamilton, and stiff English heroes by Northcote, contrasted with a vast +quantity of second-rate delineations of the orgies of Dutch boors and +portraits of favourite racers and fancy dogs. The room was crowded with +ugly furniture of all kinds, very solid, and chiefly of mahogany; among +which were not less than three escritoires, to say nothing of the huge +horsehair sofas. A sideboard of Babylonian proportions was crowned +by three massive and enormous silver salvers, and immense branch +candlesticks of the same precious metal, and a china punch-bowl which +might have suited the dwarf in Brobdignag. The floor was covered with +a faded Turkey carpet. But amid all this solid splendour there were +certain intimations of feminine elegance in the veil of finely-cut +pink paper which covered the nakedness of the empty but highly-polished +fire-place, and in the hand-screens, which were profusely ornamented +with ribbon of the same hue, and one of which afforded a most accurate +if not picturesque view of Margate, while the other glowed with a huge +wreath of cabbage-roses and jonquils. + +Ferdinand was not long alone, and Mr. Levison, the proprietor of all +this splendour, entered. He was a short, stout man, with a grave +but handsome countenance, a little bald, but nevertheless with an +elaborateness of raiment which might better have become a younger man. +He wore a plum-colored frock coat of the finest cloth; his green velvet +waistcoat was guarded by a gold chain, which would have been the envy +of a new town council; an immense opal gleamed on the breast of his +embroidered shirt; and his fingers were covered with very fine rings. + +‘Your sarvant, Captin,’ said Mr. Levison, and he placed a chair for his +guest. + +‘How are you, Levison?’ responded our hero in an easy voice. ‘Any news?’ + +Mr. Levison shrugged his shoulders, as he murmured, ‘Times is very bad, +Captin.’ + +‘Oh! I dare say,’ said Ferdinand; ‘I wish they were as well with me as +with you. By Jove, Levison, you must be making an immense fortune.’ + +Mr. Levison shook his head, as he groaned out, ‘I work hard, Captin; but +times is terrible.’ + +‘Fiddlededee! Come! I want you to assist me a little, old fellow. No +humbug between us.’ + +‘Oh!’ groaned Mr. Levison, ‘you could not come at a worse time; I don’t +know what money is.’ + +‘Of course. However, the fact is, money I must have; and so, old fellow, +we are old friends, and you must get it.’ + +‘What do you want, Captin?’ slowly spoke Mr. Levison, with an expression +of misery. + +‘Oh! I want rather a tolerable sum, and that is the truth; but I only +want it for a moment.’ + +‘It is not the time, ‘tis the money,’ said Mr. Levison. ‘You know me and +my pardner, Captin, are always anxious to do what we can to sarve you.’ + +‘Well, now you can do me a real service, and, by Jove, you shall never +repent it. To the point; I must have 1,500L.’ + +‘One thousand five hundred pounds!’ exclaimed Mr. Levison. ‘’Tayn’t in +the country.’ + +‘Humbug! It must be found. What is the use of all this stuff with me? I +want 1,500L., and you must give it me.’ + +‘I tell you what it is, Captin,’ said Mr. Levison, leaning over the back +of a chair, and speaking with callous composure; ‘I tell you what it is, +me and my pardner are very willing always to assist you; but we want to +know when the marriage is to come off, and that’s the truth.’ + +‘Damn the marriage,’ said Captain Armine, rather staggered. + +‘There it is, though,’ said Mr. Levison, very quietly. ‘You know, +Captin, there is the arrears on that ‘ere annuity, three years next +Michaelmas. I think it’s Michaelmas; let me see.’ So saying, Mr. Levison +opened an escritoire, and brought forward an awful-looking volume, and, +consulting the terrible index, turned to the fatal name of Armine. ‘Yes! +three years next Michaelmas, Captin.’ + +‘Well, you will be paid,’ said Ferdinand. + +‘We hope so,’ said Mr. Levison; ‘but it is a long figure.’ + +‘Well, but you get capital interest?’ + +‘Pish!’ said Mr. Levison; ‘ten per cent.! Why! it is giving away the +money. Why! that’s the raw, Captin. With this here new bill annuities is +nothink. Me and my pardner don’t do no annuities now. It’s giving money +away; and all this here money locked up; and all to sarve you.’ + +‘Well; you will not help me,’ said Ferdinand, rising. + +‘Do you raly want fifteen hundred?’ asked Mr. Levison. + +‘By Jove, I do.’ + +‘Well now, Captin, when is this marriage to come off?’ + +‘Have I not told you a thousand times, and Morris too, that my cousin is +not to marry until one year has passed since my grandfather’s death? It +is barely a year. But of course, at this moment, of all others, I cannot +afford to be short.’ + +‘Very true, Captin; and we are the men to sarve you, if we could. But we +cannot. Never was such times for money; there is no seeing it. However, +we will do what we can. Things is going very bad at Malta, and that’s +the truth. There’s that young Catchimwhocan, we are in with him wery +deep; and now he has left the Fusiliers and got into Parliament, he +don’t care this for us. If he would only pay us, you should have the +money; so help me, you should.’ + +‘But he won’t pay you,’ said Ferdinand. ‘What can you do?’ + +‘Why, I have a friend,’ said Mr. Levison, ‘who I know has got three +hundred pound at his bankers, and he might lend it us; but we shall have +to pay for it.’ + +‘I suppose so,’ said Ferdinand. ‘Well, three hundred.’ + +‘I have not got a shilling myself,’ said Mr. Levison. ‘Young Touchemup +left us in the lurch yesterday for 750L., so help me, and never gave +us no notice. Now, you are a gentleman, Captin; you never pay, but you +always give us notice.’ + +Ferdinand could not help smiling at Mr. Levison’s idea of a gentleman. + +‘Well, what else can you do?’ + +‘Why, there is two hundred coming in to-morrow,’ said Mr. Levison; ‘I +can depend on that.’ + +‘Well, that is five.’ + +‘And you want fifteen hundred,’ said Mr. Levison. ‘Well, me and my +pardner always like to sarve you, and it is very awkward certainly for +you to want money at this moment. But if you want to buy jewels, I can +get you any credit you like, you know.’ + +‘We will talk of that by and by,’ said Ferdinand. + +‘Fifteen hundred pound!’ ejaculated Mr. Levison. ‘Well, I suppose we +must make it 700L. somehow or other, and you must take the rest in +coals.’ + +‘Oh, by Jove, Levison, that is too bad.’ + +‘I don’t see no other way,’ said Mr. Levison, rather doggedly. + +‘But, damn it, my good fellow, my dear Levison, what the deuce am I to +do with 800L. worth of coals?’ + +‘Lord! My dear Captin, 800L. worth of coals is a mere nothink. With your +connection, you will get rid of them in a morning. All you have got to +do, you know, is to give your friends an order on us, and we will let +you have cash at a little discount.’ + +‘Then you can let me have the cash now at a little discount, or even a +great; I cannot get rid of 800L. worth of coals.’ + +‘Why, ‘tayn’t four hundred chaldron, Captin,’ rejoined Mr. Levison. +‘Three or four friends would do the thing. Why, Baron Squash takes ten +thousand chaldron of us every year; but he has such a knack, he gits the +Clubs to take them.’ + +‘Baron Squash, indeed! Do you know whom you are talking to, Mr. Levison? +Do you think that I am going to turn into a coal merchant? your +working partner, by Jove! No, sir; give me the 700L., without the coals, +and charge what interest you please.’ ‘We could not do it, Captin. +‘Tayn’t our way.’ ‘I ask you once more, Mr. Levison, will you let me +have the money, or will you not?’ + +‘Now, Captin, don’t be so high and mighty! ‘Tayn’t the way to do +business. Me and my pardner wish to sarve you; we does indeed. And if +a hundred pound will be of any use to you, you shall have it on your +acceptance; and we won’t be curious about any name that draws; we won’t +indeed.’ + +‘Well, Mr. Levison,’ said Ferdinand, rising, ‘I see we can do nothing +to-day. The hundred pounds would be of no use to me. I will think over +your proposition. Good morning to you.’ + +‘Ah, do!’ said Mr. Levison, bowing and opening the door, ‘do, Captin; we +wish to sarve you, we does indeed. See how we behave about that arrears. +Think of the coals; now do. Now for a bargin; come! Come, Captin, I dare +say now you could get us the business of the Junior Sarvice Club; and +then you shall have the seven hundred on your acceptance for three +months, at two shillings in the pound; come!’ + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + + _In Which Captain Armine Unexpectedly Resumes His + Acquaintance with Lord Catchimwhocan, Who Introduces Him + to Mr. Bond Sharpe_. + +FERDINAND quitted his kind friend Mr. Levison in no very amiable mood; +but just as he was leaving the house, a cabriolet, beautifully painted, +of a brilliant green colour picked out with a somewhat cream-coloured +white, and drawn by a showy Holstein horse of tawny tint, with a flowing +and milk-white tail and mane, and caparisoned in harness almost as +precious as Mr. Levison’s sideboard, dashed up to the door. + +‘Armine, by Jove!’ exclaimed the driver, with great cordiality. + +‘Ah! Catch, is it you?’ said Ferdinand. ‘What! have you been here?’ +said Lord Catchimwhocan. ‘At the old work, eh? Is “me and my pardner” + troublesome? for your countenance is not very radiant.’ + +‘By Jove, old fellow!’ said Ferdinand, in a depressed tone, ‘I am in a +scrape, and also in a rage. Nothing is to be done here.’ + +‘Never mind,’ said his lordship; ‘keep up your spirits, jump into my +cab, and we will see how we can carry on the war. I am only going to +speak one word to “me and my pardner.”’ + +So saying, his lordship skipped into the house as gay as a lark, +although he had a bill for a good round sum about to be dishonoured in +the course of a few hours. + +‘Well, my dear Armine,’ he resumed, when he reappeared and took the +reins; ‘now as I drive along, tell me all about it; for if there be a +man in the world whom I should like to “sarve,” it is thyself, my noble +Ferdinand.’ + +With this encouragement, Captain Armine was not long in pouring his +cares into a congenial bosom. + +‘I know the man to “sarve” you,’ said Catchimwhocan. + +‘The fact is, these fellows here are regular old-fashioned humbugs. The +only idea they have is money, money. They have no enlightened notions. +I will introduce you to a regular trump; and if he does not do our +business, I am much mistaken. Courage, old fellow! How do you like this +start?’ + +‘Deuced neat. By-the-bye, Catch, my boy, you are going it rather, I +see.’ + +‘To be sure. I have always told you there is a certain system in affairs +which ever prevents men being floored. No fellow is ever dished who has +any connection. What man that ever had his run was really ever fairly +put _hors de combat_, unless he was some one who ought never to have +entered the arena, blazing away without any set, making himself a damned +fool and everybody his enemy. So long as a man bustles about and is in a +good set, something always turns up. I got into Parliament, you see; and +you, you are going to be married.’ + +All this time the cabriolet was dashing down Regent-street, twisting +through the Quadrant, whirling along Pall Mall, until it finally entered +Cleveland-row, and stopped before a newly painted, newly pointed, and +exceedingly compact mansion, the long brass knocker of whose dark green +door sounded beneath the practised touch of his lordship’s tiger. Even +the tawny Holstein horse, with the white flowing mane, seemed conscious +of the locality, and stopped before the accustomed resting-place in the +most natural manner imaginable. A tall serving-man, well-powdered, and +in a dark and well-appointed livery, immediately appeared. + +‘At home?’ enquired Lord Catchimwhocan, with a peculiarly confidential +expression. + +‘To you, my lord,’ responded the attendant. + +‘Jump out, Armine,’ said his lordship; and they entered the house. + +‘Alone?’ said his lordship. + +‘Not alone,’ said the servant, ushering the friends into the +dining-room, ‘but he shall have your lordship’s card immediately. There +are several gentlemen waiting in the third drawing-room; so I have shown +your lordship in here, and shall take care that he sees your lordship +before anyone.’ + +‘That’s a devilish good fellow,’ said Lord Catchimwhocan, putting his +hand into his waistcoat pocket to give him a sovereign; but not finding +one, he added, ‘I shall remember you.’ + +The dining-room into which they were shown was at the back of the house, +and looked into agreeable gardens. The apartment was in some little +confusion at this moment, for their host gave a dinner to-day, and +his dinners were famous. The table was arranged for eight guests; its +appointments indicated refined taste. A candelabrum of Dresden china was +the centre piece; there was a whole service of the same material, even +to the handles of the knives and forks; and the choice variety of glass +attracted Ferdinand’s notice. The room was lofty and spacious; it was +simply and soberly furnished; not an object which could distract the +taste or disturb the digestion. But the sideboard, which filled a recess +at the end of the apartment, presented a crowded group of gold plate +that might have become a palace; magnificent shields, tall vases, +ancient tankards, goblets of carved ivory set in precious metal, and +cups of old ruby glass mounted on pedestals, glittering with gems. +This accidental display certainly offered an amusing contrast to the +perpetual splendour of Mr. Levison’s buffet; and Ferdinand was wondering +whether it would turn out that there was as marked a difference between +the two owners, when his companion and himself were summoned to the +presence of Mr. Bond Sharpe. + +They ascended a staircase perfumed with flowers, and on each +landing-place was a classic tripod or pedestal crowned with a bust. And +then they were ushered into a drawing-room of Parisian elegance; buhl +cabinets, marqueterie tables, hangings of the choicest damask suspended +from burnished cornices of old carving. The chairs had been rifled from +a Venetian palace; the couches were part of the spoils of the French +revolution. There were glass screens in golden frames, and a clock +that represented the death of Hector, the chariot wheel of Achilles +conveniently telling the hour. A round table of mosaic, mounted on a +golden pedestal, was nearly covered with papers; and from an easy-chair, +supported by air cushions, half rose to welcome them Mr. Bond Sharpe. He +was a man not many years the senior of Captain Armine and his friend; of +elegant appearance, pale, pensive, and prepossessing. Deep thought was +impressed upon his clear and protruding brow, and the expression of +his grey sunken eyes, which were delicately arched, was singularly +searching. His figure was slight but compact. His dress was plain, but +a model in its fashion. He was habited entirely in black, and his only +ornament were his studs, which were turquoise and of great size: but +there never were such boots, so brilliant and so small! + +He welcomed Lord Catchimwhocan in a voice scarcely above a whisper, and +received Captain Armine in a manner alike graceful and dignified. + +‘My dear Sharpe,’ said his lordship, ‘I am going to introduce to you +my most particular friend, and an old brother officer. This is Captain +Armine, the only son of Sir Ratcliffe, and the heir of Armine Castle. +He is going to be married very soon to his cousin, Miss Grandison, the +greatest heiress in England.’ + +‘Hush, hush,’ said Ferdinand, shrinking under this false representation, +and Mr. Sharpe with considerate delicacy endeavoured to check his +lordship. + +‘Well, never mind, I will say nothing about that,’ continued Lord +Catchimwhocan. ‘The long and the short of it is this, that my friend +Armine is hard up, and we must carry on the war till we get into winter +quarters. You are just the man for him, and by Jove, my dear Sharpe, +if you wish sensibly to oblige me, who I am sure am one of your warmest +friends, you will do everything for Armine that human energy can +possibly effect.’ + +‘What is the present difficulty that you have?’ enquired Mr. Sharpe of +our hero, in a calm whisper. + +‘Why, the present difficulty that he has,’ said Lord Catchimwhocan, ‘is +that he wants 1,500L.’ + +‘I suppose you have raised money, Captain Armine?’ said Mr. Sharpe. + +‘In every way,’ said Captain Armine. + +‘Of course,’ said Mr. Sharpe, ‘at your time of life one naturally does. +And I suppose you are bothered for this 1,500L.’ + +‘I am threatened with immediate arrest, and arrest in execution.’ + +‘Who is the party?’ + +‘Why, I fear an unmanageable one, even by you. It is a house at Malta.’ + +‘Mr. Bolus, I suppose?’ + +‘Exactly.’ + +‘I thought so.’ + +‘Well, what can be done?’ said Lord Catchimwhocan. + +‘Oh! there is no difficulty,’ said Mr. Sharpe quietly. ‘Captain Armine +can have any money he likes.’ + +‘I shall be happy,’ said Captain Armine, ‘to pay any consideration you +think fit.’ + +‘Oh! my dear sir, I cannot think of that. Money is a drug now. I shall +be happy to accommodate you without giving you any trouble. You can have +the 1,500L., if you please, this moment.’ + +‘Really, you are very generous,’ said Ferdinand, much surprised, ‘but I +feel I am not entitled to such favours. What security can I give you?’ + +‘I lend the money to you. I want no security. You can repay me when you +like. Give me your note of hand.’ So saying, Mr. Sharpe opened a drawer, +and taking out his cheque-book drew a draft for the 1,500L. ‘I believe +I have a stamp in the house,’ he continued, looking about. ‘Yes, here +is one. If you will fill this up, Captain Armine, the affair may be +concluded at once.’ + +‘Upon my honour, Mr. Sharpe,’ said Ferdinand, very confused, ‘I do not +like to appear insensible to this extraordinary kindness, but really +I came here by the merest accident, and without any intention of +soliciting or receiving such favours. And my kind friend here has given +you much too glowing an account of my resources. It is very probable I +shall occasion you great inconvenience.’ + +‘Really, Captain Armine,’ said Mr. Sharpe with a slight smile, ‘if we +were talking of a sum of any importance, why, one might be a little more +punctilious, but for such a bagatelle we have already wasted too much +time in its discussion. I am happy to serve you.’ + +Ferdinand stared, remembering Mr. Levison and the coals. Mr. Sharpe +himself drew up the note, and presented it to Ferdinand, who signed it +and pocketed the draft. + +‘I have several gentlemen waiting,’ said Mr. Bond Sharpe; ‘I am sorry I +cannot take this opportunity of cultivating your acquaintance, Captain +Armine, but I should esteem it a great honour if you would dine with me +to-day. Your friend Lord Catchimwhocan favours me with his company, and +you might meet a person or two who would amuse you.’ + +‘I really shall be very happy,’ said Ferdinand. + +And Mr. Bond Sharpe again slightly rose and bowed them out of the room. + +‘Well, is not he a trump?’ said Lord Catchimwhocan, when they were once +more in the cab. + +‘I am so astonished,’ said Ferdinand, ‘that I cannot speak. Who in the +name of fortune is this great man?’ + +‘A genius,’ said Lord Catchimwhocan. ‘Don’t you think he is a deuced +good-looking fellow?’ + +‘The best-looking fellow I ever saw,’ said the grateful Ferdinand. + +‘And capital manners?’ + +‘Most distinguished.’ + +‘Neatest dressed man in town!’ + +‘Exquisite taste!’ + +‘What a house!’ + +‘Capital!’ + +‘Did you ever see such furniture? It beats your rooms at Malta.’ + +‘I never saw anything more complete in my life.’ + +‘What plate!’ ‘Miraculous!’ ‘And, believe me, we shall have the best +dinner in town.’ + +‘Well, he has given me an appetite,’ said Ferdinand. ‘But who is he?’ + +‘Why, by business he is what is called a conveyancer; that is to say, he +is a lawyer by inspiration.’ + +‘He is a wonderful man,’ said Ferdinand. ‘He must be very rich.’ + +‘Yes; Sharpe must be worth his quarter of a million. And he has made it +in such a deuced short time!’ + +‘Why, he is not much older than we are!’ + +‘Ten years ago that man was a prizefighter,’ said Lord Catchimwhocan. + +‘A prizefighter!’ exclaimed Ferdinand. + +‘Yes; and licked everybody. But he was too great a genius for the ring, +and took to the turf.’ + +‘Ah!’ + +‘Then he set up a hell.’ + +‘Hum!’ + +‘And then he turned it into a subscription-house.’ + +‘Hoh!’ + +‘He keeps his hell still, but it works itself now. In the mean time he +is the first usurer in the world, and will be in the next Parliament.’ + +‘But if he lends money on the terms he accommodates me, he will hardly +increase his fortune.’ + +‘Oh! he can do the thing when he likes. He took a fancy to you. The fact +is, my dear fellow, Sharpe is very rich and wants to get into society. +He likes to oblige young men of distinction, and can afford to risk a +few thousands now and then. By dining with him to-day you have quite +repaid him for his loan. Besides, the fellow has a great soul; and, +though born on a dung-hill, nature intended him for a palace, and he has +placed himself there.’ + +‘Well, this has been a remarkable morning,’ said Ferdinand Armine, as +Lord Catchimwhocan set him down at his club. ‘I am very much obliged to +you, dear Catch!’ + +‘Not a word, my dear fellow. You have helped me before this, and glad am +I to be the means of assisting the best fellow in the world, and that we +all think you. _Au revoir!_ We dine at eight.’ + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + + _Miss Grandison Makes a Remarkable Discovery_. + +IN THE mean time, while the gloomy morning which Ferdinand had +anticipated terminated with so agreeable an adventure, Henrietta and +Miss Grandison, accompanied by Lord Montfort and Glastonbury, paid their +promised visit to the British Museum. + +‘I am sorry that Captain Armine could not accompany us,’ said Lord +Montfort. ‘I sent to him this morning early, but he was already out.’ + +‘He has many affairs to attend to,’ said Glastonbury. + +Miss Temple looked grave; she thought of poor Ferdinand and all his +cares. She knew well what were those affairs to which Glastonbury +alluded. The thought that perhaps at this moment he was struggling with +rapacious creditors made her melancholy. The novelty and strangeness of +the objects which awaited her, diverted, however, her mind from these +painful reflections. Miss Grandison, who had never quitted England, was +delighted with everything she saw; but the Egyptian gallery principally +attracted the attention of Miss Temple. Lord Montfort, regardful of his +promise to Henrietta, was very attentive to Miss Grandison. + +‘I cannot help regretting that your cousin is not here,’ said his +lordship, returning to a key that he had already touched. But Katherine +made no answer. + +‘He seemed so much better for the exertion he made yesterday,’ resumed +Lord Montfort. ‘I think it would do him good to be more with us.’ + +‘He seems to like to be alone,’ said Katherine. + +‘I wonder at that,’ said Lord Montfort; ‘I cannot conceive a happier +life than we all lead.’ + +‘You have cause to be happy, and Ferdinand has not,’ said Miss +Grandison, calmly. + +‘I should have thought that he had very great cause,’ said Lord +Montfort, enquiringly. + +‘No person in the world is so unhappy as Ferdinand,’ said Katherine. + +‘But cannot we cure his unhappiness?’ said his lordship. ‘We are his +friends; it seems to me, with such friends as Miss Grandison and Miss +Temple one ought never to be unhappy.’ + +‘Miss Temple can scarcely be called a friend of Ferdinand,’ said +Katherine. + +‘Indeed, a very warm one, I assure you.’ + +‘Ah, that is your influence.’ + +‘Nay, it is her own impulse.’ + +‘But she only met him yesterday for the first time.’ + +‘I assure you Miss Temple is an older friend of Captain Armine than I +am,’ said his lordship. + +‘Indeed!’ said Miss Grandison, with an air of considerable astonishment. + +‘You know they were neighbours in the country.’ + +‘In the country!’ repeated Miss Grandison. + +‘Yes; Mr. Temple, you know, resided not far from Armine.’ + +‘Not far from Armine!’ still repeated Miss Grandison. + +‘Digby,’ said Miss Temple, turning to him at this moment, ‘tell Mr. +Glastonbury about your sphinx at Rome. It was granite, was it not?’ + +‘And most delicately carved. I never remember having observed an +expression of such beautiful serenity. The discovery that, after all, +they are male countenances is quite mortifying. I loved their mysterious +beauty.’ + +What Lord Montfort had mentioned of the previous acquaintance of +Henrietta and her cousin made Miss Grandison muse. Miss Temple’s +address to Ferdinand yesterday had struck her at the moment as somewhat +singular; but the impression had not dwelt upon her mind. But now it +occurred to her as very strange, that Henrietta should have become so +intimate with the Armine family and herself, and never have mentioned +that she was previously acquainted with their nearest relative. Lady +Armine was not acquainted with Miss Temple until they met at Bellair +House. That was certain. Miss Grandison had witnessed their mutual +introduction. Nor Sir Ratcliffe. And yet Henrietta and Ferdinand were +friends, warm friends, old friends, intimately acquainted: so said Lord +Montfort, and Lord Montfort never coloured, never exaggerated. All +this was very mysterious. And if they were friends, old friends, warm +friends, and Lord Montfort said they were, and, therefore, there could +be no doubt of the truth of the statement, their recognition of each +other yesterday was singularly frigid. + +It was not indicative of a very intimate acquaintance. Katherine had +ascribed it to the natural disrelish of Ferdinand now to be introduced +to anyone. And yet they were friends, old friends, warm friends. +Henrietta Temple and Ferdinand Armine! Miss Grandison was so perplexed +that she scarcely looked at another object in the galleries. + +The ladies were rather tired when they returned from the Museum. Lord +Montfort walked to the Travellers, and Henrietta agreed to remain and +dine in Brook-street. Katherine and herself retired to Miss Grandison’s +boudoir, a pretty chamber, where they were sure of being alone. +Henrietta threw herself upon a sofa, and took up the last new novel; +Miss Grandison seated herself on an ottoman by her side, and worked at a +purse which she was making for Mr. Temple. + +‘Do you like that book?’ said Katherine. + +‘I like the lively parts, but not the serious ones,’ replied Miss +Temple; ‘the author has observed but he has not felt.’ + +‘It is satirical,’ said Miss Grandison; ‘I wonder why all this class of +writers aim now at the sarcastic. I do not find life the constant sneer +they make it.’ + +‘It is because they do not understand life,’ said Henrietta, ‘but +have some little experience of society. Therefore their works give a +perverted impression of human conduct; for they accept as a principal, +that which is only an insignificant accessory; and they make existence +a succession of frivolities, when even the career of the most frivolous +has its profounder moments.’ + +‘How vivid is the writer’s description of a ball or a dinner,’ said Miss +Grandison; ‘everything lives and moves. And yet, when the hero makes +love, nothing can be more unnatural. His feelings are neither deep, nor +ardent, nor tender. All is stilted, and yet ludicrous.’ + +‘I do not despise the talent which describes so vividly a dinner and a +ball,’ said Miss Temple. ‘As far as it goes it is very amusing, but +it should be combined with higher materials. In a fine novel, manners +should be observed, and morals should be sustained; we require thought +and passion, as well as costume and the lively representation of +conventional arrangements; and the thought and passion will be the +better for these accessories, for they will be relieved in the novel as +they are relieved in life, and the whole will be more true.’ + +‘But have you read that love scene, Henrietta? It appeared to me so +ridiculous!’ + +‘I never read love scenes,’ said Henrietta Temple. + +‘Oh, I love a love story,’ said Miss Grandison, smiling, ‘if it be +natural and tender, and touch my heart. When I read such scenes, I +weep.’ + +‘Ah, my sweet Katherine, you are soft-hearted.’ + +‘And you, Henrietta, what are you?’ + +‘Hard-hearted. The most callous of mortals.’ + +‘Oh, what would Lord Montfort say?’ + +‘Lord Montfort knows it. We never have love scenes.’ + +‘And yet you love him?’ + +‘Dearly; I love and esteem him.’ + +‘Well,’ said Miss Grandison, ‘I may be wrong, but if I were a man I do +not think I should like the lady of my love to esteem me.’ + +‘And yet esteem is the only genuine basis of happiness, believe me, +Kate. Love is a dream.’ + +‘And how do you know, dear Henrietta?’ + +‘All writers agree it is.’ + +‘The writers you were just ridiculing?’ + +‘A fair retort; and yet, though your words are the more witty, believe +me, mine are the more wise.’ + +‘I wish my cousin would wake from his dream,’ said Katherine. ‘To tell +you a secret, love is the cause of his unhappiness. Don’t move, dear +Henrietta,’ added Miss Grandison; ‘we are so happy here;’ for Miss +Temple, in truth, seemed not a little discomposed. + +‘You should marry your cousin,’ said Miss Temple. + +‘You little know Ferdinand or myself, when you give that advice,’ said +Katherine. ‘We shall never marry; nothing is more certain than that. +In the first place, to be frank, Ferdinand would not marry me, nothing +would induce him; and in the second place, I would not marry him, +nothing would induce me.’ + +‘Why not?’ said Henrietta, in a low tone, holding her book very near to +her face. + +‘Because I am sure that we should not be happy,’ said Miss Grandison. ‘I +love Ferdinand, and once could have married him. He is so brilliant that +I could not refuse his proposal. And yet I feel it is better for me that +we have not married, and I hope it may yet prove better for him, for I +love him very dearly. He is indeed my brother.’ + +‘But why should you not be happy?’ enquired Miss Temple. + +‘Because we are not suited to each other. Ferdinand must marry some one +whom he looks up to, somebody brilliant like himself, some one who can +sympathise with all his fancies. I am too calm and quiet for him. You +would suit him much better, Henrietta.’ + +‘You are his cousin; it is a misfortune; if you were not, he would adore +you, and you would sympathise with him.’ + +‘I think not: I should like to marry a very clever man,’ said Katherine. +‘I could not endure marrying a fool, or a commonplace person; I should +like to marry a person very superior in talent to myself, some one whose +opinion would guide me on all points, one from whom I could not differ. +But not Ferdinand; he is too imaginative, too impetuous; he would +neither guide me, nor be guided by me.’ + +Miss Temple did not reply, but turned over a page of her book. + +‘Did you know Ferdinand before you met him yesterday at our house?’ +enquired Miss Grandison, very innocently. + +‘Yes!’ said Miss Temple. + +‘I thought you did,’ said Miss Grandison, ‘I thought there was something +in your manner that indicated you had met before. I do not think you +knew my aunt before you met her at Bellair House?’ + +‘I did not.’ + +‘Nor Sir Ratclifle?’ + +‘Nor Sir Ratclifle.’ + +‘But you did know Mr. Glastonbury?’ + +‘I did know Mr. Glastonbury.’ + +‘How very odd!’ said Miss Grandison. + +‘What is odd?’ enquired Henrietta. + +‘That you should have known Ferdinand before.’ + +‘Not at all odd. He came over one day to shoot at papa’s. I remember him +very well.’ + +‘Oh,’ said Miss Grandison. ‘And did Mr. Glastonbury come over to shoot?’ + +‘I met Mr. Glastonbury one morning that I went to see the picture +gallery at Armine. It is the only time I ever saw him.’ + +‘Oh!’ said Miss Grandison again, ‘Armine is a beautiful place, is it +not?’ + +‘Most interesting.’ + +‘You know the pleasaunce.’ + +‘Yes.’ + +‘I did not see you when I was at Armine.’ + +‘No; we had just gone to Italy.’ + +‘How beautiful you look to-day, Henrietta!’ said Miss Grandison. ‘Who +could believe that you ever were so ill!’ + +‘I am grateful that I have recovered,’ said Henrietta. ‘And yet I never +thought that I should return to England.’ + +‘You must have been so very ill in Italy, about the same time as poor +Ferdinand was at Armine. Only think, how odd you should both have been +so ill about the same time, and now that we should all be so intimate!’ + +Miss Temple looked perplexed and annoyed. ‘Is it so odd?’ she at length +said in a low tone. + +‘Henrietta Temple,’ said Miss Grandison, with great earnestness, ‘I have +discovered a secret; you are the lady with whom my cousin is in love.’ + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + + _In Which Ferdinand Has the Honour of Dining with Mr. Bond + Sharpe_. + +WHEN Ferdinand arrived at Mr. Bond Sharpe’s he was welcomed by his host +in a magnificent suite of saloons, and introduced to two of the guests +who had previously arrived. The first was a stout man, past middle +age, whose epicurean countenance twinkled with humour. This was Lord +Castlefyshe, an Irish peer of great celebrity in the world of luxury and +play, keen at a bet, still keener at a dinner. Nobody exactly knew +who the other gentleman, Mr. Bland-ford, really was, but he had the +reputation of being enormously rich, and was proportionately respected. +He had been about town for the last twenty years, and did not look a day +older than at his first appearance. He never spoke of his family, was +unmarried, and apparently had no relations; but he had contrived to +identify himself with the first men in London, was a member of every +club of great repute, and of late years had even become a sort of +authority; which was strange, for he had no pretension, was very quiet, +and but humbly ambitious; seeking, indeed, no happier success than +to merge in the brilliant crowd, an accepted atom of the influential +aggregate. As he was not remarkable for his talents or his person, +and as his establishment, though well appointed, offered no singular +splendour, it was rather strange that a gentleman who had apparently +dropped from the clouds, or crept out of a kennel, should have succeeded +in planting himself so vigorously in a soil which shrinks from anything +not indigenous, unless it be recommended by very powerful qualities. But +Mr. Bland-ford was good-tempered, and was now easy and experienced, and +there was a vague tradition that he was immensely rich, a rumour which +Mr. Blandford always contradicted in a manner which skilfully confirmed +its truth. + +‘Does Mirabel dine with you, Sharpe?’ enquired Lord Castlefyshe of his +host, who nodded assent. + +‘You won’t wait for him, I hope?’ said his lordship. ‘By-the-bye, +Blandford, you shirked last night.’ + +‘I promised to look in at the poor duke’s before he went off,’ said Mr. +Blandford. + +‘Oh! he has gone, has he?’ said Lord Castlefyshe. ‘Does he take his cook +with him?’ + +But here the servant ushered in Count Alcibiades de Mirabel, Charles +Doricourt, and Mr. Bevil. + +‘Excellent Sharpe, how do you do?’ exclaimed the Count. ‘Castlefyshe, +what _bêtises_ have you been talking to Crocky about Felix Winchester? +Good Blandford, excellent Blandford, how is my good Blandford?’ + +Mr. Bevil was a tall and handsome young man, of a great family and +great estate, who passed his life in an imitation of Count Alcibiades de +Mirabel. He was always dressed by the same tailor, and it was his pride +that his cab or his _vis-à-vis_ was constantly mistaken for the equipage +of his model; and really now, as the shade stood beside its substance, +quite as tall, almost as good-looking, with the satin-lined coat +thrown open with the same style of flowing grandeur, and revealing a +breastplate of starched cambric scarcely less broad and brilliant, the +uninitiated might have held the resemblance as perfect. The wristbands +were turned up with not less compact precision, and were fastened +by jewelled studs that glittered with not less radiancy. The satin +waistcoat, the creaseless hosen, were the same; and if the foot were +not quite as small, its Parisian polish was not less bright. But here, +unfortunately, Mr. Bevil’s mimetic powers deserted him. + +We start, for soul is wanting there! + +The Count Mirabel could talk at all times, and at all times well; Mr. +Bevil never opened his mouth. Practised in the world, the Count Mirabel +was nevertheless the child of impulse, though a native grace, and an +intuitive knowledge of mankind, made every word pleasing and every act +appropriate; Mr. Bevil was all art, and he had not the talent to conceal +it. The Count Mirabel was gay, careless, generous; Mr. Bevil was solemn, +calculating, and rather a screw. It seemed that the Count Mirabel’s +feelings grew daily more fresh, and his faculty of enjoyment more keen +and relishing; it seemed that Mr. Bevil could never have been a child, +but that he must have issued to the world ready equipped, like Minerva, +with a cane instead of a lance, and a fancy hat instead of a helmet. +His essence of high breeding was never to be astonished, and he never +permitted himself to smile, except in the society of intimate friends. + +Charles Doricourt was another friend of the Count Mirabel, but not his +imitator. His feelings were really worn, but it was a fact he always +concealed. He had entered life at a remarkably early age, and had +experienced every scrape to which youthful flesh is heir. Any other +man but Charles Doricourt must have sunk beneath these accumulated +disasters, but Charles Doricourt always swam. Nature had given him an +intrepid soul; experience had cased his heart with iron. But he always +smiled; and audacious, cool, and cutting, and very easy, he thoroughly +despised mankind, upon whose weaknesses he practised without remorse. +But he was polished and amusing, and faithful to his friends. The world +admired him, and called him Charley, from which it will be inferred that +he was a privileged person, and was applauded for a thousand actions, +which in anyone else would have been met with decided reprobation. + +‘Who is that young man?’ enquired the Count Mirabel of Mr. Bond Sharpe, +taking his host aside, and pretending to look at a picture. + +‘He is Captain Armine, the only son of Sir Ratcliffe Armine. He has just +returned to England after a long absence.’ + +‘Hum! I like his appearance,’ said the Count. ‘It is very +distinguished.’ + +Dinner and Lord Catchimwhocan were announced at the same moment; Captain +Armine found himself seated next to the Count Mirabel. The dinners at +Mr. Bond Sharpe’s were dinners which his guests came to eat. Mr. Bond +Sharpe had engaged for his club-house the most celebrated of living +artists, a gentleman who, it was said, received a thousand a-year, whose +convenience was studied by a chariot, and amusement secured by a box +at the French play. There was, therefore, at first little conversation, +save criticism on the performances before them, and that chiefly +panegyrical; each dish was delicious, each wine exquisite; and yet, even +in these occasional remarks, Ferdinand was pleased with the lively fancy +of his neighbour, affording an elegant contrast to the somewhat gross +unction with which Lord Castlefyshe, whose very soul seemed wrapped up +in his occupation, occasionally expressed himself. + +‘Will you take some wine, Captain Armine?’ said the Count Mirabel, with +a winning smile. ‘You have recently returned here?’ + +‘Very recently,’ said Ferdinand. + +‘And you are glad?’ + +‘As it may be; I hardly know whether to rejoice or not.’ + +‘Then, by all means rejoice,’ said the Count; ‘for, if you are in doubt, +it surely must be best to decide upon being pleased.’ + +‘I think this is the most infernal country there ever was,’ said Lord +Catchimwhocan. + +‘My dear Catch!’ said the Count Mirabel, ‘you think so, do you? You make +a mistake, you think no such thing, my dear Catch. Why is it the most +infernal? Is it because the women are the handsomest, or because the +horses are the best? Is it because it is the only country where you can +get a good dinner, or because it is the only country where there are +fine wines? Or is it because it is the only place where you can get a +coat made, or where you can play without being cheated, or where you +can listen to an opera without your ears being destroyed? Now, my dear +Catch, you pass your life in dressing and in playing hazard, in eating +good dinners, in drinking good wines, in making love, in going to the +opera, and in riding fine horses. Of what, then, have you to complain?’ + +‘Oh! the damned climate!’ + +‘On the contrary, it is the only good climate there is. In England you +can go out every day, and at all hours; and then, to those who love +variety, like myself, you are not sure of seeing the same sky every +morning you rise, which, for my part, I think the greatest of all +existing sources of ennui.’ + +‘You reconcile me to my country, Count,’ said Ferdinand, smiling. + +‘Ah! you are a sensible man; but that dear Catch is always repeating +nonsense which he hears from somebody else. To-morrow,’ he added, in a +low voice, ‘he will be for the climate.’ + +The conversation of men, when they congregate together, is generally +dedicated to one of two subjects: politics or women. In the present +instance the party was not political; and it was the fair sex, and +particularly the most charming portion of it, in the good metropolis +of England, that were subject to the poignant criticism or the profound +speculation of these practical philosophers. There was scarcely a +celebrated beauty in London, from the proud peeress to the vain +opera-dancer, whose charms and conduct were not submitted to their +masterly analysis. And yet it would be but fair to admit that their +critical ability was more eminent and satisfactory than their abstract +reasoning upon this interesting topic; for it was curious to observe +that, though everyone present piqued himself upon his profound knowledge +of the sex, not two of the sages agreed in the constituent principles +of female character. One declared that women were governed by their +feelings; another maintained that they had no heart; a third propounded +that it was all imagination; a fourth that it was all vanity. Lord +Castlefyshe muttered something about their passions; and Charley +Doricourt declared that they had no passions whatever. But they all +agreed in one thing, to wit, that the man who permitted himself a +moment’s uneasiness about a woman was a fool. + +All this time Captain Armine spoke little, but ever to the purpose, and +chiefly to the Count Mirabel, who pleased him. Being very handsome, and, +moreover, of a distinguished appearance, this silence on the part of +Ferdinand made him a general favourite, and even Mr. Bevil whispered his +approbation to Lord Catchimwhocan. + +‘The fact is,’ said Charles Doricourt, ‘it is only boys and old men who +are plagued by women. They take advantage of either state of childhood. +Eh! Castlefyshe?’ + +‘In that respect, then, somewhat resembling you, Charley,’ replied +his lordship, who did not admire the appeal. ‘For no one can doubt you +plagued your father; I was out of my teens, fortunately, before you +played écarté.’ + +‘Come, good old Fyshe,’ said Count Mirabel, ‘take a glass of claret, +and do not look so fierce. You know very well that Charley learned +everything of you.’ + +‘He never learned from me to spend a fortune upon an actress,’ said his +lordship. ‘I ave spent a fortune, but, thank heaven, it was on myself.’ + +‘Well, as for that,’ said the Count, ‘I think there is something great +in being ruined for one’s friends. If I were as rich as I might have +been, I would not spend much on myself. My wants are few; a fine house, +fine carriages, fine horses, a complete wardrobe, the best opera-box, +the first cook, and pocket-money; that is all I require. I have these, +and I get on pretty well; but if I had a princely fortune I would make +every good fellow I know quite happy.’ + +‘Well,’ said Charles Doricourt, ‘you are a lucky fellow, Mirabel. I have +had horses, houses, carriages, opera-boxes, and cooks, and I have had a +great estate; but pocket-money I never could get. Pocket-money was the +thing which always cost me the most to buy of all.’ + +The conversation now fell upon the theatre. Mr. Bond Sharpe was +determined to have a theatre. He believed it was reserved for him to +revive the drama. Mr. Bond Sharpe piqued himself upon his patronage of +the stage. He certainly had a great admiration of actresses. There +was something in the management of a great theatre which pleased the +somewhat imperial fancy of Mr. Bond Sharpe. The manager of a great +theatre is a kind of monarch. Mr. Bond Sharpe longed to seat himself on +the throne, with the prettiest women in London for his court, and +all his fashionable friends rallying round their sovereign. He had an +impression that great results might be obtained with his organising +energy and illimitable capital. Mr. Bond Sharpe had unbounded confidence +in the power of capital. Capital was his deity. He was confident that +it could always produce alike genius and triumph. Mr. Bond Sharpe was +right: capital is a wonderful thing, but we are scarcely aware of this +fact until we are past thirty; and then, by some singular process, which +we will not now stop to analyse, one’s capital is in general sensibly +diminished. As men advance in life, all passions resolve themselves into +money. Love, ambition, even poetry, end in this. + +‘Are you going to Shropshire’s this autumn, Charley?’ said Lord +Catchimwhocan. + +‘Yes, I shall go.’ + +‘I don’t think I shall,’ said his lordship; ‘it is such a bore.’ + +‘It is rather a bore; but he is a good fellow.’ + +‘I shall go,’ said Count Mirabel. + +‘You are not afraid of being bored,’ said Ferdinand, smiling. + +‘Between ourselves, I do not understand what this being bored is,’ said +the Count. ‘He who is bored appears to me a bore. To be bored supposes +the inability of being amused; you must be a dull fellow. Wherever I may +be, I thank heaven that I am always diverted.’ + +‘But you have such nerves, Mirabel,’ said Lord Catchimwhocan. ‘By Jove! +I envy you. You are never floored.’ + +‘Floored! what an idea! What should floor me? I live to amuse myself, +and I do nothing that does not amuse me. Why should I be floored?’ + +‘Why, I do not know; but every other man is floored now and then. As for +me, my spirits are sometimes something dreadful.’ + +‘When you have been losing.’ + +‘Well, we cannot always win. Can we, Sharpe? That would not do. But, by +Jove! you are always in good humour, Mirabel, when you lose.’ + +‘Fancy a man ever being in low spirits,’ said the Count Mirabel. ‘Life +is too short for such _bêtises_. The most unfortunate wretch alive +calculates unconsciously that it is better to live than to die. Well, +then, he has something in his favour. Existence is a pleasure, and the +greatest. The world cannot rob us of that; and if it is better to live +than to die, it is better to live in a good humour than a bad one. If a +man be convinced that existence is the greatest pleasure, his happiness +may be increased by good fortune, but it will be essentially independent +of it. He who feels that the greatest source of pleasure always remains +to him ought never to be miserable. The sun shines on all: every man can +go to sleep: if you cannot ride a fine horse, it is something to look +upon one; if you have not a fine dinner, there is some amusement in a +crust of bread and Gruyère. Feel slightly, think little, never plan, +never brood. Everything depends upon the circulation; take care of it. +Take the world as you find it; enjoy everything. _Vive la bagatelle!_’ + +Here the gentlemen rose, took their coffee, and ordered their carriages. + +‘Come with us,’ said Count Mirabel to Ferdinand. + +Our hero accepted the offer of his agreeable acquaintance. There was a +great prancing and rushing of cabs and _vis-à-vis_ at Mr. Bond +Sharpe’s door, and in a few minutes the whole party were dashing up +St. James’-street, where they stopped before a splendid building, +resplendent with lights and illuminated curtains. + +‘Come, we will make you an honorary member, _mon cher_ Captain Armine,’ +said the Count; ‘and do not say _Lasciate ogni speranza_ when you enter +here.’ + +They ascended a magnificent staircase, and entered a sumptuous and +crowded saloon, in which the entrance of Count Mirabel and his friends +made no little sensation. Mr. Bond Sharpe glided along, dropping +oracular sentences, without condescending to stop to speak to those whom +he addressed. Charley Doricourt and Mr. Blandford walked away together, +towards a further apartment. Lord Castlefyshe and Lord Catchimwhocan +were soon busied with écarté. + +‘Well, Faneville, good general, how do you do?’ said Count Mirabel. +‘Where have you dined to-day? at the Balcombes’? You are a very brave +man, mon general! Ah! Stock, good Stock, excellent Stock!’ he continued, +addressing Mr. Million de Stockville, ‘that Burgundy you sent me is +capital. How are you, my dear fellow? Quite well? Fitzwarrene, I did +that for you: your business is all right. Ah! my good Massey, _mon cher, +mon brave_, Anderson will let you have that horse. And what is doing +here? Is there any fun? Fitzwarrene, let me introduce you to my friend +Captain Armine:’ (in a lower tone) ‘excellent _garçon!_ You will like +him very much. We have been all dining at Bond’s.’ + +‘A good dinner?’ + +‘Of course a good dinner. I should like to see a man who would give me a +bad dinner: that would be a _bêtise_,--to ask me to dine, and then give +me a bad dinner.’ + +‘I say, Mirabel,’ exclaimed a young man, ‘have you seen Horace +Poppington about the match?’ + +‘It is arranged; ‘tis the day after to-morrow, at nine o’clock.’ + +‘Well, I bet on you, you know.’ + +‘Of course you bet on me. Would you think of betting on that good Pop, +with that gun? Pah! _Eh! bien!_ I shall go in the next room.’ And the +Count walked away, followed by Mr. Bevil. + +Ferdinand remained talking for some time with Lord Fitzwarrene. By +degrees the great saloon had become somewhat thinner: some had stolen +away to the House, where a division was expected; quiet men, who just +looked in after dinner, had retired; and the play-men were engaged in +the contiguous apartments. Mr. Bond Sharpe approached Ferdinand, and +Lord Fitzwarrene took this opportunity of withdrawing. + +‘I believe you never play, Captain Armine,’ said Mr. Bond Sharpe. + +‘Never,’ said Ferdinand. + +‘You are quite right.’ + +‘I am rather surprised at your being of that opinion,’ said Ferdinand, +with a smile. + +Mr. Bond Sharpe shrugged his shoulders. ‘There will always be votaries +enough,’ said Mr. Bond Sharpe, ‘whatever may be my opinion.’ + +‘This is a magnificent establishment of yours,’ said Ferdinand. + +‘Yes; it is a very magnificent establishment. I have spared no expense +to produce the most perfect thing of the kind in Europe; and it is the +most perfect thing of the kind. I am confident that no noble in any +country has an establishment better appointed. I despatched an agent to +the Continent to procure this furniture: his commission had no limit, +and he was absent two years. My cook was with Charles X.; the cellar is +the most choice and considerable that was ever collected. I take a pride +in the thing, but I lose money by it.’ + +‘Indeed!’ + +‘I have made a fortune; there is no doubt of that; but I did not make it +here.’ + +‘It is a great thing to make a fortune,’ said Ferdinand. + +‘Very great,’ said Mr. Bond Sharpe. ‘There is only one thing greater, +and that is, to keep it when made.’ + +Ferdinand smiled. + +‘Many men make fortunes; few can keep them,’ said Mr. Bond Sharpe. +‘Money is power, and rare are the heads that can withstand the +possession of great power.’ + +‘At any rate, it is to be hoped that you have discovered this more +important secret,’ said Ferdinand; ‘though I confess to judge from my +own experience, I should fear that you are too generous.’ + +‘I had forgotten that to which you allude,’ said his companion, quietly. +‘But with regard to myself, whatever may be my end, I have not yet +reached my acme.’ + +‘You have at least my good wishes,’ said Ferdinand. + +‘I may some day claim them,’ said Mr. Bond Sharpe. ‘My position,’ he +continued, ‘is difficult. I have risen by pursuits which the world does +not consider reputable, yet if I had not had recourse to them, I should +be less than nothing. My mind, I think, is equal to my fortune; I am +still young, and I would now avail myself of my power and establish +myself in the land, a recognised member of society. But this cannot +be. Society shrinks from an obscure foundling, a prizefighter, a leg, a +hell-keeper, and an usurer. Debarred therefore from a fair theatre for +my energy and capital, I am forced to occupy, perhaps exhaust, myself in +multiplied speculations. Hitherto they have flourished, and perhaps my +theatre, or my newspaper, may be as profitable as my stud. But I +would gladly emancipate myself. These efforts seem to me, as it were, +unnecessary and unnatural. The great object has been gained. It is a +tempting of fate. I have sometimes thought myself the Napoleon of the +sporting world; I may yet find my St. Helena.’ ‘Forewarned, forearmed, +Mr. Sharpe.’ ‘I move in a magic circle: it is difficult to extricate +myself from it. Now, for instance, there is not a man in the room who is +not my slave. You see how they treat me. They place me upon an equality +with them. They know my weakness; they fool me to the top of my +bent. And yet there is not a man in that room who, if I were to break +to-morrow, would walk down St. James’-street to serve me. Yes! there +is one; there is the Count. He has a great and generous soul. I believe +Count Mirabel sympathises with my situation. I believe he does not +think, because a man has risen from an origin the most ignoble and +obscure to a powerful position, by great courage and dexterity, and +let me add also, by some profound thought, by struggling too, be it +remembered, with a class of society as little scrupulous, though not so +skilful as himself, that he is necessarily an infamous character. What +if, at eighteen years of age, without a friend in the world, trusting to +the powerful frame and intrepid spirit with which Nature had endowed me, +I flung myself into the ring? Who should be a gladiator if I were +not? Is that a crime? What if, at a later period, with a brain for +calculation which none can rival, I invariably succeeded in that in +which the greatest men in the country fail! Am I to be branded because +I have made half a million by a good book? What if I have kept a +gambling-house? From the back parlour of an oyster-shop my hazard +table has been removed to this palace. Had the play been foul, this +metamorphosis would never have occurred. It is true I am an usurer. My +dear sir, if all the usurers in this great metropolis could only pass +in procession before you at this moment, how you would start! You might +find some Right Honourables among them; many a great functionary, many +a grave magistrate; fathers of families, the very models of respectable +characters, patrons and presidents of charitable institutions, and +subscribers for the suppression of those very gaming-houses whose +victims, in nine cases out of ten, are their principal customers. I +speak not in bitterness. On the whole, I must not complain of the world, +but I have seen a great deal of mankind, and more than most, of what is +considered its worst portion. The world, Captain Armine, believe me, is +neither so bad nor so good as some are apt to suppose. And after all,’ +said Mr. Bond Sharpe, shrugging up his shoulders, ‘perhaps we ought to +say with our friend the Count, _Vive la bagatelle!_ Will you take some +supper?’ + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + + _Miss Grandison Piques the Curiosity of Lord Montfort, and + Count Mirabel Drives Ferdinand Down to Richmond, Which + Drive Ends in an Agreeable Adventure and an Unexpected + Confidence_. + +THE discovery that Henrietta Temple was the secret object of Ferdinand’s +unhappy passion, was a secret which Miss Grandison prized like a true +woman. Not only had she made this discovery, but from her previous +knowledge and her observation during her late interview with Miss +Temple, Katherine was persuaded that Henrietta must still love her +cousin as before. Miss Grandison was attached to Henrietta; she was +interested in her cousin’s welfare, and devoted to the Armine family. +All her thoughts and all her energies were engaged in counteracting, +if possible, the consequences of those unhappy misconceptions which had +placed them all in this painful position. + +It was on the next day that she had promised to accompany the duchess +and Henrietta on a water excursion. Lord Montfort was to be their +cavalier. In the morning she found herself alone with his lordship in +St. James’-square. + +‘What a charming day!’ said Miss Grandison. ‘I anticipate so much +pleasure! Who is our party?’ + +‘Ourselves alone,’ said Lord Montfort. ‘Lady Armine cannot come, and +Captain Armine is engaged. I fear you will find it very dull, Miss +Grandison.’ + +‘Oh! not at all. By-the-bye, do you know I was surprised yesterday at +finding that Ferdinand and Henrietta were such old acquaintances.’ + +‘Were you?’ said Lord Montfort, in a peculiar tone. + +‘It is odd that Ferdinand never will go with us anywhere. I think it is +very bad taste.’ + +‘I think so too,’ said Lord Montfort. + +‘I should have thought that Henrietta was the very person he would have +admired; that he would have been quite glad to be with us. I can +easily understand his being wearied to death with a cousin,’ said Miss +Grandison; ‘but Henrietta,--it is so strange that he should not avail +himself of the delight of being with her.’ + +‘Do you really think that such a cousin as Miss Grandison can drive him +away?’ + +‘Why, to tell you the truth, dear Lord Montfort, Ferdinand is placed in +a very awkward position with me. You are our friend, and so I speak +to you in confidence. Sir Ratcliffe and Lady Armine both expect that +Ferdinand and myself are going to be married. Now, neither of us has the +slightest intention of anything of the sort.’ + +‘Very strange, indeed,’ said Lord Montfort. ‘The world will be much +astonished, more so than myself, for I confess to a latent suspicion on +the subject.’ + +‘Yes, I was aware of that,’ said Miss Grandison, ‘or I should not have +spoken with so much frankness. For my own part, I think we are very wise +to insist upon having our own way, for an ill-assorted marriage must be +a most melancholy business.’ Miss Grandison spoke with an air almost of +levity, which was rather unusual with her. + +‘An ill-assorted marriage,’ said Lord Montfort. ‘And what do you call an +ill-assorted marriage, Miss Grandison?’ + +‘Why, many circumstances might constitute such an union,’ said +Katherine; ‘but I think if one of the parties were in love with another +person, that would be quite sufficient to ensure a tolerable portion of +wretchedness.’ + +‘I think so too,’ said Lord Montfort; ‘an union, under such +circumstances, would be ill-assorted. But Miss Grandison is not in that +situation?’ he added with a faint smile. + +‘That is scarcely a fair question,’ said Katherine, with gaiety, ‘but +there is no doubt Ferdinand Armine is.’ + +‘Indeed!’ + +‘Yes; he is in love, desperately in love; that I have long discovered. I +wonder with whom it can be!’ + +‘I wonder!’ said Lord Montfort. + +‘Do you?’ said Miss Grandison. ‘Well, I have sometimes thought that you +might have a latent suspicion of that subject, too. I thought you were +his confidant.’ + +‘I!’ said Lord Montfort; ‘I, of all men in the world?’ + +‘And why not you of all men in the world?’ said Miss Grandison. + +‘Our intimacy is so slight,’ said Lord Montfort. + +‘Hum!’ said Miss Grandison. ‘And now I think of it, it does appear to me +very strange how we have all become suddenly such intimate friends. The +Armines and your family not previously acquainted: Miss Temple, too, +unknown to my aunt and uncle. And yet we never live now out of each +other’s sight. I am sure I am grateful for it; I am sure it is very +agreeable, but still it does appear to me to be very odd. I wonder what +the reason can be?’ + +‘It is that you are so charming, Miss Grandison,’ said Lord Montfort. + +‘A compliment from you!’ + +‘Indeed, no compliment, dearest Miss Grandison,’ said Lord Montfort, +drawing near her. ‘Favoured as Miss Temple is in so many respects, in +none, in my opinion, is she more fortunate than in the possession of so +admirable a friend.’ + +‘Not even in the possession of so admirable a lover, my lord?’ + +‘All must love Miss Temple who are acquainted with her,’ said Lord +Montfort, seriously. + +‘Indeed, I think so,’ said Katherine, in a more subdued voice. ‘I love +her; her career fills me with a strange and singular interest. May she +be happy, for happiness she indeed deserves!’ + +‘I have no fonder wish than to secure that happiness, Miss Grandison,’ +said Lord Montfort; ‘by any means,’ he added. + +‘She is so interesting!’ said Katherine. ‘When you first knew her she +was very ill?’ + +‘Very.’ + +‘She seems quite recovered.’ + +‘I hope so.’ + +‘Mr. Temple says her spirits are not what they used to be. I wonder what +was the matter with her?’ + +Lord Montfort was silent. + +‘I cannot bear to see a fine spirit broken,’ continued Miss Grandison. +‘There was Ferdinand. Oh! if you had but known my cousin before he was +unhappy. Oh! that was a spirit! He was the most brilliant being that +ever lived. And then I was with him during all his illness. It was +so terrible. I almost wish we could have loved each other. It is very +strange, he must have been ill at Armine, at the very time Henrietta +was ill in Italy. And I was with him in England, while you were solacing +her. And now we are all friends. There seems a sort of strange destiny +in our lots, does there not?’ + +‘A happy lot that can in any way be connected with Miss Grandison,’ said +Lord Montfort. + +At this moment her Grace and Henrietta entered; the carriage was ready; +and in a few minutes they were driving to Whitehall Stairs, where a +beautiful boat awaited them. + +In the mean time, Ferdinand Armine was revolving the strange occurrences +of yesterday. Altogether it was an exciting and satisfactory day. In +the first place, he had extricated himself from his most pressing +difficulties; in the next, he had been greatly amused; and thirdly, he +had made a very interesting acquaintance, for such he esteemed Count +Mirabel. Just at the moment when, lounging over a very late breakfast, +he was thinking of Bond Sharpe and his great career, and then turning +in his mind whether it were possible to follow the gay counsels of his +friends of yesterday, and never plague himself about a woman again, the +Count Mirabel was announced. + +_Mon cher_ Armine,’ said the Count, ‘you see I kept my promise, and +would find you at home.’ + +The Count stood before him, the best-dressed man in London, fresh and +gay as a bird, with not a care on his sparkling visage, and his eye +bright with _bonhomie_. And yet Count Mirabel had been the very last +to desert the recent mysteries of Mr. Bond Sharpe; and, as usual, the +dappled light of dawn had guided him to his luxurious bed, that bed +which always afforded him serene slumbers, whatever might be the +adventures of the day, or the result of the night’s campaign. How the +Count Mirabel did laugh at those poor devils who wake only to moralise +over their own folly with broken spirits and aching heads! Care he knew +nothing about; Time he defied; indisposition he could not comprehend. He +had never been ill in his life, even for five minutes. + +Ferdinand was really very glad to see him; there was something in +Count Mirabel’s very presence which put everybody in good spirits. +His lightheartedness was caught by all. Melancholy was a farce in the +presence of his smile; and there was no possible combination of scrapes +that could withstand his kind and brilliant raillery. At the present +moment, Ferdinand was in a sufficiently good humour with his destiny, +and he kept up the ball with effect; so that nearly an hour passed in +amusing conversation. + +‘You were a stranger among us yesterday,’ said Count Mirabel; ‘I think +you were rather diverted. I saw you did justice to that excellent Bond +Sharpe. That shows that you have a mind above prejudice. Do you know he +was by far the best man at the table except ourselves?’ + +Ferdinand smiled. + +‘It is true, he has a heart and a brain. Old Castlefyshe has neither. +As for the rest of our friends, some have hearts without brains, and the +rest brains without hearts. Which do you prefer?’ + +‘’Tis a fine question,’ said Ferdinand; ‘and yet I confess I should like +to be callous.’ + +‘Ah! but you cannot be,’ said the Count, ‘you have a soul of great +sensibility; I see that in a moment.’ + +‘You see very far, and very quickly, Count Mirabel,’ said Ferdinand, +with a little reserve. + +‘Yes; in a minute,’ said the Count, ‘in a minute I read a person’s +character. I know you are very much in love, because you changed +countenance yesterday when we were talking of women.’ + +Ferdinand changed countenance again. ‘You are a very extraordinary man, +Count,’ he at length observed. + +‘Of course; but, _mon cher_ Armine, what a fine day this is! What are +you going to do with yourself?’ + +‘Nothing; I never do anything,’ said Ferdinand, in an almost mournful +tone. + +‘A melancholy man! _Quelle bêtise!_ I will cure you. I will be your +friend and put you all right. Now, we will just drive down to Richmond; +we will have a light dinner, a flounder, a cutlet, and a bottle of +champagne, and then we will go to the French play. I will introduce you +to Jenny Vertpré. She is full of wit; perhaps she will ask us to supper. +_Allons, mon ami, mon cher_ Armine; _allons, mon brave!_’ Ceremony was a +farce with Alcibiades de Mirabel. + +Ferdinand had nothing to do; he was attracted to his companion. The +effervescence produced by yesterday’s fortunate adventure had not quite +subsided; he was determined to forget his sorrows, and, if only for +a day, join in the lively chorus of _Vive la bagatelle!_ So, in a +few moments, he was safely ensconced in the most perfect cabriolet +in London, whirled along by a horse that stepped out with a proud +consciousness of its master. + +The Count Mirabel enjoyed the drive to Richmond as if he had never been +to Richmond in his life. The warm sun, the western breeze, every object +he passed and that passed him called for his praise or observation. +He inoculated Ferdinand with his gaiety, as Ferdinand listened to his +light, lively tales, and his flying remarks, so full of merriment and +poignant truth and daring fancy. When they had arrived at the Star and +Garter, and ordered their dinner, they strolled into the Park, along the +Terrace walk; and they had not proceeded fifty paces when they came up +with the duchess and her party, who were resting on a bench and looking +over the valley. + +Ferdinand would gladly have bowed and passed on; but that was +impossible. He was obliged to stop and speak to them, and it was +difficult to disembarrass himself of friends who greeted him so kindly. +Ferdinand presented his companion. The ladies were charmed to know so +celebrated a gentleman, of whom they had heard so much. Count Mirabel, +who had the finest tact in the world, but whose secret spell, after all, +was perhaps only that he was always natural, adapted himself in a moment +to the characters, the scene, and the occasion. He was quite delighted +at these sources of amusement, that had so unexpectedly revealed +themselves; and in a few minutes they had all agreed to walk together, +and in due time the duchess was begging Ferdinand and his friend to dine +with them. Before Ferdinand could frame an excuse, Count Mirabel +had accepted the proposition. After passing the morning together so +agreeably, to go and dine in separate rooms, it would be a _bêtise_. +This word _bêtise_ settled everything with Count Mirabel; when once he +declared that anything was a _bêtise_, he would hear no more. + +It was a charming stroll. Never was Count Mirabel more playful, more +engaging, more completely winning. Henrietta and Katherine alike smiled +upon him, and the duchess was quite enchanted. Even Lord Montfort, who +might rather have entertained a prejudice against the Count before he +knew him--though none could after--and who was prepared for something +rather brilliant, but pretending, presumptuous, fantastic, and affected, +quite yielded to his amiable gaiety, and his racy and thoroughly genuine +and simple manner. So they walked and talked and laughed, and all +agreed that it was the most fortunately fine day and the most felicitous +_rencontre_ that had ever occurred, until the dinner hour was at hand. +The Count was at her Grace’s side, and she was leaning on Miss Temple’s +arm. Lord Montfort and Miss Grandison had fallen back apace, as their +party had increased. Ferdinand fluttered between Miss Temple and his +cousin; but would have attached himself to the latter, had not Miss +Temple occasionally addressed him. He was glad, however, when they +returned to dinner. + +‘We have only availed ourselves of your Grace’s permission to join our +dinners,’ said Count Mirabel, offering the duchess his arm. He placed +himself at the head of the table; Lord Montfort took the other end. To +the surprise of Ferdinand, Miss Grandison, with a heedlessness that was +quite remarkable, seated herself next to the duchess, so that Ferdinand +was obliged to sit by Henrietta Temple, who was thus separated from Lord +Montfort. + +The dinner was as gay as the stroll. Ferdinand was the only person who +was silent. + +‘How amusing he is!’ said Miss Temple, turning to Ferdinand, and +speaking in an undertone. + +‘Yes; I envy him his gaiety.’ + +‘Be gay.’ + +‘I thank you; I dare say I shall in time. I have not yet quite embraced +all Count Mirabel’s philosophy. He says that the man who plagues himself +for five minutes about a woman is an idiot. When I think the same, which +I hope I may soon, I dare say I shall be as gay.’ + +Miss Temple addressed herself no more to Ferdinand. + +They returned by water. To Ferdinand’s great annoyance, the Count did +not hesitate for a moment to avail himself of the duchess’s proposal +that he and his companion should form part of the crew. He gave +immediate orders that his cabriolet should meet him at Whitehall Stairs, +and Ferdinand found there was no chance of escape. + +It was a delicious summer evening. The setting sun bathed the bowers of +Fulham with refulgent light, just as they were off delicate Rosebank; +but the air long continued warm, and always soft, and the last few miles +of their pleasant voyage were tinted by the young and glittering moon. + +‘I wish we had brought a guitar,’ said Miss Grandison; ‘Count Mirabel, +I am sure, would sing to us?’ ‘And you, you will sing to us without a +guitar, will you not?’ said the Count, smiling. + +‘Henrietta, will you sing?’ said Miss Grandison. ‘With you.’ + +‘Of course; now you must,’ said the Count: so they did. + +This gliding home to the metropolis on a summer eve, so soft and still, +with beautiful faces, as should always be the case, and with sweet +sounds, as was the present--there is something very ravishing in the +combination. The heart opens; it is a dangerous moment. As Ferdinand +listened once more to the voice of Henrietta, even though it was blended +with the sweet tones of Miss Grandison, the passionate past vividly +recurred to him. Fortunately he did not sit near her; he had taken +care to be the last in the boat. He turned away his face, but its stern +expression did not escape the observation of the Count Mirabel. + +‘And now, Count Mirabel, you must really favour us,’ said the duchess. + +‘Without a guitar?’ said the Count, and he began thrumming on his arm +for an accompaniment. ‘Well, when I was with the Duc d’Angoulême in +Spain, we sometimes indulged in a serenade at Seville. I will try to +remember one.’ + + + A SERENADE OF SEVILLE. + + I. + + Come forth, come forth, the star we love + Is high o’er Guadalquivir’s grove, + And tints each tree with golden light; + Ah! Rosalie, one smile from thee were far more bright. + + + II. + + Come forth, come forth, the flowers that fear + To blossom in the sun’s career + The moonlight with their odours greet; + Ah! Rosalie, one sigh from thee were far more sweet! + + + III. + + Come forth, come forth, one hour of night, + When flowers are fresh and stars are bright, + Were worth an age of gaudy day; + Then, Rosalie, fly, fly to me, nor longer stay! + + +‘I hope the lady came,’ said Miss Temple, ‘after such a pretty song.’ + +‘Of course,’ said the Count, ‘they always come.’ + +‘Ferdinand, will you sing?’ said Miss Grandison. + +‘I cannot, Katherine.’ + +‘Henrietta, ask Ferdinand to sing,’ said Miss Grandison; ‘he makes it +a rule never to do anything I ask him, but I am sure you have more +influence.’ + +Lord Montfort came to the rescue of Miss Temple. ‘Miss Temple has spoken +so often to us of your singing, Captain Armine,’ said his lordship; +and yet Lord Montfort, in this allegation, a little departed front the +habitual exactitude of his statements. + +‘How very strange!’ thought Ferdinand; ‘her callousness or her candour +baffles me. I will try to sing,’ he continued aloud, ‘but it is a year, +really, since I have sung.’ + +In a voice of singular power and melody, and with an expression which +increased as he proceeded, until the singer seemed scarcely able to +control his emotions, Captain Armine thus proceeded:-- + + + CAPTAIN ARMINE’S SONG. + + I. + + My heart is like a silent lute + Some faithless hand has thrown aside; + Those chords are dumb, those tones are mute, + That once sent forth a voice of pride! + Yet even o’er the lute neglected + The wind of heaven will sometimes fly, + And even thus the heart dejected, + Will sometimes answer to a sigh! + + II. + + And yet to feel another’s power + May grasp the prize for which I pine, + And others now may pluck the flower + I cherished for this heart of mine! + No more, no more! The hand forsaking, + The lute must fall, and shivered lie + In silence: and my heart thus breaking, + Responds not even to a sigh. + + +Miss Temple seemed busied with her shawl; perhaps she felt the cold. +Count Mirabel, next whom she sat, was about to assist her. Her face was +turned to the water; it was streaming with tears. Without appearing +to notice her, Count Mirabel leant forward, and engaged everybody’s +attention; so that she was unobserved and had time to recover. And yet +she was aware that the Count Mirabel had remarked her emotion, and was +grateful for his quick and delicate consideration. It was fortunate +that Westminster-bridge was now in sight, for after this song of Captain +Armine, everyone became dull or pensive; even Count Mirabel was silent. + +The ladies and Lord Montfort entered their britzka. They bid a cordial +adieu to Count Mirabel, and begged him to call upon them in St. +James’-square, and the Count and Ferdinand were alone. + +‘_Cher_ Armine,’ said the Count, as he was driving up Charing-cross, +‘Catch told me you were going to marry your cousin. Which of those two +young ladies is your cousin?’ + +‘The fair girl; Miss Grandison.’ + +‘So I understood. She is very pretty, but you are not going to marry +her, are you?’ + +‘No; I am not.’ + +‘And who is Miss Temple?’ + +‘She is going to be married to Lord Montfort.’ + +‘_Diable!_ But what a fortunate man! What do you think of Miss Temple?’ + +‘I think of her as all, I suppose, must.’ + +‘She is beautiful: she is the most beautiful woman I ever saw. She +marries for money, I suppose?’ + +‘She is the richest heiress in England; she is much richer than my +cousin.’ + +‘_C’est drôle_. But she does not want to marry Lord Montfort.’ + +‘Why?’ + +‘Because, my dear fellow, she is in love with you.’ + +‘By Jove, Mirabel, what a fellow you are! What do you mean?’ + +‘_Mon cher_ Armine, I like you more than anybody. I wish to be, I am, +your friend. Here is some cursed _contretemps_. There is a mystery, +and both of you are victims of it. Tell me everything. I will put you +right.’ + +‘Ah! my dear Mirabel, it is past even your skill. I thought I could +never speak on these things to human being, but I am attracted to you by +the same sympathy which you flatter me by expressing for myself. I want +a confidant, I need a friend; I am most wretched.’ + +‘_Eh! bien!_ we will not go to the French play. As for Jenny Vertpré, +we can sup with her any night. Come to my house, and we will talk over +everything. But trust me, if you wish to marry Henrietta Temple, you are +an idiot if you do not have her.’ + +So saying, the Count touched his bright horse, and in a few minutes +the cabriolet stopped before a small but admirably appointed house in +Berkeley-square. + +‘Now, _mon cher,_’ said the Count, ‘coffee and confidence.’ + + + + +CHAPTER XV. + + _In Which the Count Mirabel Commences His Operations with + Great Success_. + +IS THERE a more gay and graceful spectacle in the world than Hyde Park, +at the end of a long sunny morning in the merry months of May and June? +Where can we see such beautiful women, such gallant cavaliers, such fine +horses, and such brilliant equipages? The scene, too, is worthy of +such agreeable accessories: the groves, the gleaming waters, and the +triumphal arches. In the distance, the misty heights of Surrey, and the +bowery glades of Kensington. + +It was the day after the memorable voyage from Richmond. Eminent among +the glittering throng, Count Mirabel cantered along on his Arabian, +scattering gay recognitions and bright words. He reined in his steed +beneath a tree, under whose shade was assembled a knot of listless +cavaliers. The Count received their congratulations, for this morning he +had won his pigeon match. + +‘Only think of that old fool, Castlefyshe, betting on Poppington,’ said +the Count. ‘I want to see him, old idiot! Who knows where Charley is?’ + +‘I do, Mirabel,’ said Lord Catchimwhocan. ‘He has gone to Richmond with +Blandford and the two little Furzlers.’ + +‘That good Blandford! Whenever he is in love he always gives a dinner. +It is a droll way to succeed.’ + +‘Apropos, will you dine with me to-day, Mirabel?’ said Mr. de +Stockville. + +‘Impossible, my dear fellow; I dine with Fitz-warrene.’ + +‘I say, Mirabel,’ drawled out a young man, ‘I saw you yesterday driving +a man down to Richmond yourself. Who is your friend?’ + +‘No one you know, or will know. ‘Tis the best fellow that ever lived; +but he is under my guidance, and I shall be very particular to whom he +is introduced.’ + +‘Lord! I wonder who he can be!’ said the young man. + +‘I say, Mirabel, you will be done on Goshawk, if you don’t take care, I +can tell you that.’ + +‘Thank you, good Coventry; if you like to bet the odds, I will take +them.’ + +‘No, my dear fellow, I do not want to bet, but at the same time------’ + +‘You have an opinion that you will not back. That is a luxury, for +certainly it is of no, use. I would advise you to enjoy it.’ + +‘Well, I must say, Mirabel,’ said Lord Catchimwhocan, ‘I think the same +about Goshawk.’ + +‘Oh, no, Catch, you do not think so; you think you think. Go and take +all the odds you can get upon Goshawk. Come, now, to-morrow you will +tell me you have a very pretty book. Eh! _mon cher_ Catch?’ + +‘But do you really think Goshawk will win?’ asked Lord Cathimwhocan, +earnestly. + +‘Certain!’ + +‘Well, damned if I don’t go and take the odds,’ said his lordship. + +‘Mirabel,’ said a young noble, moving his horse close to the Count, and +speaking in a low voice, ‘shall you be at home to-morrow morning?’ + +‘Certainly. But what do you want?’ + +‘I am in a devil of a scrape; I do not know what to do. I want you to +advise me.’ + +‘The Count moved aside with this cavalier. ‘And what is it?’ said he. +‘Have you been losing?’ + +‘No, no,’ said the young man, shaking his head. ‘Much worse. It is the +most infernal business; I do not know what I shall do. I think I shall +cut my throat.’ + +‘_Bêtise!_ It cannot be very bad, if it be not money.’ + +‘Oh, my dear Mirabel, you do not know what trouble I am in.’ + +‘_Mon cher Henri, soyez tranquille,_’ said the Count, in a kind voice. +‘I am your friend. Rest assured, I will arrange it. Think no more of it +until to-morrow at one o’clock, and then call on me. If you like, I am +at your service at present.’ + +‘No, no, not here: there are letters.’ + +‘Ha, ha! Well, to-morrow, at one. In the meantime, do not write any +nonsense.’ + +At this moment, the duchess, with a party of equestrians, passed and +bowed to the Count Mirabel. + +‘I say, Mirabel,’ exclaimed a young man, ‘who is that girl? I want +to know. I have seen her several times lately. By Jove, she is a fine +creature!’ + +‘Do not you know Miss Temple?’ said the Count. ‘Fancy a man not knowing +Miss Temple! She is the only woman in London to be looked at.’ + +Now there was a great flutter in the band, and nothing but the name of +Miss Temple was heard. All vowed they knew her very well, at least +by sight, and never thought of anybody else. Some asked the Count to +present them, others meditated plans by which that great result might +be obtained; but, in the midst of all this agitation, Count Mirabel rode +away, and was soon by the very lady’s side. + +‘What a charming voyage yesterday,’ said the Count to Miss Temple. ‘You +were amused?’ + +‘Very.’ + +‘And to think you should all know my friend Armine so well! I was +astonished, for he will never go anywhere, or speak to anyone.’ + +‘You know him intimately?’ said Miss Temple. + +‘He is my brother! There is not a human being in the world I love so +much! If you only knew him as I know him. Ah! _chère_ Miss Temple, there +is not a man in London to be compared with him, so clever and so +good! What a heart! so tender! and what talent! There is no one so +_spirituel_.’ + +‘You have known him long, Count?’ + +‘Always; but of late I find a great change in him. I cannot discover +what is the matter with him. He has grown melancholy. I think he will +not live.’ + +‘Indeed!’ + +‘No, I am never wrong. That _cher_ Armine will not live.’ + +‘You are his friend, surely------’ + +‘Ah! yes; but I do not know what it is. Even me he cares not for. I +contrive sometimes to get him about a little; yesterday, for instance; +but to-day, you see, he will not move. There he is, sitting alone, in a +dull hotel, with his eyes fixed on the ground, dark as night. Never was +a man so changed. I suppose something has happened to him abroad. When +you first knew him, I daresay now, he was the gayest of the gay?’ + +‘He was indeed very different,’ said Miss Temple, turning away her face. + +‘You have known that dear Armine a long time?’ + +‘It seems a long time,’ said Miss Temple. + +‘If he dies, and die he must, I do not think I shall ever be in very +good spirits again,’ said the Count. ‘It is the only thing that would +quite upset me. Now do not you think, Miss Temple, that our _cher_ +Armine is the most interesting person you ever met?’ + +‘I believe Captain Armine is admired by all those who know him.’ + +‘He is so good, so tender, and so clever. Lord Montfort, he knows him +very well?’ + +‘They were companions in boyhood, I believe; but they have resumed their +acquaintance only recently.’ + +‘We must interest Lord Montfort in his case. Lord Montfort must assist +in our endeavours to bring him out a little.’ + +‘Lord Montfort needs no prompting, Count. We are all alike interested in +Captain Armine’s welfare.’ + +‘I wish you would try to find out what is on his mind,’ said Count +Mirabel. ‘After all, men cannot do much. It requires a more delicate +sympathy than we can offer. And yet I would do anything for the _cher_ +Armine, because I really love him the same as if he were my brother.’ + +‘He is fortunate in such a friend.’ + +‘Ah! he does not think so any longer,’ said the Count; ‘he avoids me, he +will not tell me anything. _Chère_ Miss Temple, this business haunts +me; it will end badly. I know that dear Armine so well; no one knows him +like me; his feelings are too strong: no one has such strong feelings. +Now, of all my friends, he is the only man I know who is capable of +committing suicide.’ + +‘God forbid!’ said Henrietta Temple, with emphasis. + +‘I rise every morning with apprehension,’ said the Count. ‘When I call +upon him every day, I tremble as I approach his hotel.’ + +‘Are you indeed serious?’ + +‘Most serious. I knew a man once in the same state. It was the Duc de +Crillon. He was my brother friend, like this dear Armine. We were at +college together; we were in the same regiment. He was exactly like +this dear Armine, young, beautiful, and clever, but with a heart all +tenderness, terrible passions. He loved Mademoiselle de Guise, my +cousin, the most beautiful girl in France. Pardon me, but I told Armine +yesterday that you reminded me of her. They were going to be married; +but there was a _contretemps_. He sent for me; I was in Spain; she +married the Viscount de Marsagnac. Until that dreadful morning he +remained exactly in the same state as our dear Armine. Never was a +melancholy so profound. After the ceremony he shot himself.’ + +‘No, no!’ exclaimed Miss Temple in great agitation. + +‘Perfectly true. It is the terrible recollection of that dreadful +adventure that overcomes me when I see our dear friend here, because I +feel it must be love. I was in hopes it was his cousin. But it is +not so; it must be something that has happened abroad. Love alone can +account for it. It is not his debts that would so overpower him. What +are his debts? I would pay them myself. It is a heart-rending business. +I am going to him. How I tremble!’ ‘How good you are!’ exclaimed Miss +Temple, with streaming eyes. ‘I shall ever be grateful; I mean, we all +must. Oh! do go to him, go to him directly; tell him to be happy.’ + +‘It is the song I ever sing,’ said the Count. ‘I wish some of you would +come and see him, or send him a message. It is wise to show him that +there are some who take interest in his existence. Now, give me that +flower, for instance, and let me give it to him from you.’ + +‘He will not care for it,’ said Miss Temple. ‘Try. It is a fancy I have. +Let me bear it.’ Miss Temple gave the flower to the Count, who rode off +with his prize. + +It was about eight o’clock: Ferdinand was sitting alone in his +room, having just parted with Glastonbury, who was going to dine in +Brook-street. The sun had set, and yet it was scarcely dark enough for +artificial light, particularly for a person without a pursuit. It was +just that dreary dismal moment, when even the most gay grow pensive, +if they be alone. And Ferdinand was particularly dull; a reaction had +followed the excitement of the last eight-and-forty hours, and he was at +this moment feeling singularly disconsolate, and upbraiding himself +for being so weak as to permit himself to be influenced by Mirabel’s +fantastic promises and projects, when his door flew open, and the Count, +full dressed, and graceful as a Versailles Apollo, stood before him. + +‘_Cher ami!_ I cannot stop one minute. I dine with Fitzwarrene, and I am +late. I have done your business capitally. Here is a pretty flower! Who +do you think gave it me? She did, pardy. On condition, however, that +I should bear it to you, with a message; and what a message! that you +should be happy.’ + +‘Nonsense, my dear Count’ + +‘It is true; but I romanced at a fine rate for it. It is the only way +with women. She thinks we have known each other since the Deluge. Do not +betray me. But, my dear fellow, I cannot stop now. Only, mind, all is +changed. Instead of being gay, and seeking her society, and amusing +her, and thus attempting to regain your influence, as we talked of last +night; mind, suicide is the system. To-morrow I will tell you all. She +has a firm mind and a high spirit, which she thinks is principle. If +we go upon the tack of last night, she will marry Montfort, and fall in +love with you afterwards. That will never do. So we must work upon her +fears, her generosity, pity, remorse, and so on. Call upon me to-morrow +morning, at half-past two; not before, because I have an excellent boy +coming to me at one, who is in a scrape. At half-past two, _cher, cher_ +Armine, we will talk more. In the meantime, enjoy your flower; and rest +assured that it is your own fault if you do not fling the good Montfort +in a very fine ditch.’ + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + + _In Which Mr. Temple Surprises His Daughter Weeping_. + +THE Count Mirabel proceeded with his projects with all the ardour, +address, and audacity of one habituated to success. By some means or +other he contrived to see Miss Temple almost daily. He paid assiduous +court to the duchess, on whom he had made a favourable impression from +the first; in St. James’-square he met Mr. Temple, who was partial to +the society of a distinguished foreigner. He was delighted with Count +Mirabel. As for Miss Grandison, the Count absolutely made her his +confidante, though he concealed this bold step from Ferdinand. He +established his intimacy in the three families, and even mystified Sir +Ratcliffe and Lady Armine so completely that they imagined he must be +some acquaintance that Ferdinand had made abroad; and they received him +accordingly as one of their son’s oldest and most cherished friends. +But the most amusing circumstance of all was that the Count, who even in +business never lost sight of what might divert or interest him, became +great friends with Mr. Glastonbury. Count Mirabel comprehended and +appreciated that good man’s character. + +All Count Mirabel’s efforts were directed to restore the influence of +Ferdinand Armine over Henrietta Temple; and with this view he omitted no +opportunity of impressing the idea of his absent friend on that lady’s +susceptible brain. His virtues, his talents, his accomplishments, his +sacrifices; but, above all, his mysterious sufferings, and the fatal end +which the Count was convinced awaited him, were placed before her in +a light so vivid that they engrossed her thought and imagination. She +could not resist the fascination of talking about Ferdinand Armine to +Count Mirabel. He was the constant subject of their discourse. All her +feelings now clustered round his image. She had quite abandoned her old +plan of marrying him to his cousin. That was desperate. Did she regret +it? She scarcely dared urge to herself this secret question; and yet it +seemed that her heart, too, would break were Ferdinand another’s. But, +then, what was to become of him? Was he to be left desolate? Was he +indeed to die? And Digby, the amiable, generous Digby; ah! why did she +ever meet him? Unfortunate, unhappy woman! And yet she was resolved to +be firm; she could not falter; she would be the victim of her duty even +if she died at the altar. Almost she wished that she had ceased to live, +and then the recollection of Armine came back to her so vividly! And +those long days of passionate delight! All his tenderness and all his +truth; for he had been true to her, always had he been true to her. She +was not the person who ought to complain of his conduct. And yet she +was the person who alone punished him. How different was the generous +conduct of his cousin! She had pardoned all; she sympathised with him, +she sorrowed for him, she tried to soothe him. She laboured to unite +him to her rival. What must he think of herself? How hard-hearted, how +selfish must the contrast prove her! Could he indeed believe now that +she had ever loved him? Oh, no! he must despise her. He must believe +that she was sacrificing her heart to the splendour of rank. Oh! could +he believe this! Her Ferdinand, her romantic Ferdinand, who had thrown +fortune and power to the winds but to gain that very heart! What a +return had she made him! And for all his fidelity he was punished; +lone, disconsolate, forlorn, overpowered by vulgar cares, heart-broken, +meditating even death------. The picture was too terrible, too +harrowing. She hid her face in the pillow of the sofa on which she was +seated, and wept bitterly. + +She felt an arm softly twined round her waist; she looked up; it was her +father. + +‘My child,’ he said, ‘you are agitated.’ + +‘Yes; yes, I am agitated,’ she said, in a low voice. + +‘You are unwell.’ + +‘Worse than unwell.’ + +‘Tell me what ails you, Henrietta.’ + +‘Grief for which there is no cure.’ + +‘Indeed! I am greatly astonished.’ + +His daughter only sighed. + +‘Speak to me, Henrietta. Tell me what has happened.’ + +‘I cannot speak; nothing has happened; I have nothing to say.’ + +‘To see you thus makes me quite unhappy,’ said Mr. Temple; ‘if only for +my sake, let me know the cause of this overwhelming emotion.’ + +‘It is a cause that will not please you. Forget, sir, what you have +seen.’ + +‘A father cannot. I entreat you tell me. If you love me, Henrietta, +speak.’ + +‘Sir, sir, I was thinking of the past.’ + +‘Is it so bitter?’ + +‘Ah! that I should live!’ said Miss Temple. + +‘Henrietta, my own Henrietta, my child, I beseech you tell me all. +Something has occurred; something must have occurred to revive such +strong feelings. Has--has------ I know not what to say, but so much +happens that surprises me; I know, I have heard, that you have seen +one who once influenced your feelings, that you have been thrown in +unexpected contact with him; he has not--he has not dared-----’ + +‘Say nothing harshly of him,’ said Miss Temple wildly; ‘I will not bear +it, even from you.’ + +‘My daughter!’ + +‘Ay! your daughter, but still a woman. Do I murmur? Do I complain? Have +I urged you to compromise your honour? I am ready for the sacrifice. My +conduct is yours, but my feelings are my own.’ + +‘Sacrifice, Henrietta! What sacrifice? I have heard only of your +happiness; I have thought only of your happiness. This is a strange +return.’ + +‘Father, forget what you have seen; forgive what I have said. But let +this subject drop for ever.’ + +‘It cannot drop here. Captain Armine prefers his suit?’ continued Mr. +Temple, in a tone of stern enquiry. + +‘What if he did? He has a right to do so.’ + +‘As good a right as he had before. You are rich now, Henrietta, and he +perhaps would be faithful.’ + +‘O Ferdinand!’ exclaimed Miss Temple, lifting, up her hands and eyes to +heaven, ‘and you must endure even this!’ + +‘Henrietta,’ said Mr. Temple in a voice of affected calmness, as he +seated himself by her side, ‘listen to me: I am not a harsh parent; you +cannot upbraid me with insensibility to your feelings. They have ever +engrossed my thought and care; and how to gratify, and when necessary +how to soothe them, has long been the principal occupation of my life. +If you have known misery, girl, you made that misery yourself. It +was not I that involved you in secret engagements and clandestine +correspondence; it was not I that made you, you, my daughter, on whom +I have lavished all the solicitude of long years, the dupe of the first +calculating libertine who dared to trifle with your affections, and +betray your heart.’ + +‘’Tis false,’ exclaimed Miss Temple, interrupting him; ‘he is as true +and pure as I am; more, much more,’ she added, in a voice of anguish. + +‘No doubt he has convinced you of it,’ said Mr. Temple, with a laughing +sneer. ‘Now, mark me,’ he continued, resuming his calm tone, ‘you +interrupted me; listen to me. You are the betrothed bride of Lord +Montfort; Lord Montfort, my friend, the man I love most in the world; +the most generous, the most noble, the most virtuous, the most gifted of +human beings. You gave him your hand freely, under circumstances which, +even if he did not possess every quality that ought to secure the +affection of a woman, should bind you to him with an unswerving faith. +Falter one jot and I whistle you off for ever. You are no more daughter +of mine. I am as firm as I am fond; nor would I do this, but that I know +well I am doing rightly. Yes! take this Armine once more to your heart, +and you receive my curse, the deepest, the sternest, the deadliest that +ever descended on a daughter’s head.’ + +‘My father, my dear, dear father, my beloved father!’ exclaimed Miss +Temple, throwing herself at his feet. ‘Oh! do not say so; oh! recall +those words, those wild, those terrible words. Indeed, indeed, my heart +is breaking. Pity me, pity me; for God’s sake, pity me.’ + +‘I would do more than pity you; I would save you.’ + +‘It is not as you think,’ she continued, with streaming eyes: ‘indeed +it is not. He has not preferred his suit, he has urged no claim. He has +behaved in the most delicate, the most honourable, the most considerate +manner. He has thought only of my situation. He met me by accident. My +friends are his friends. They know not what has taken place between us. +He has not breathed it to human being. He has absented himself from his +home, that we might not meet.’ + +‘You must marry Lord Montfort at once.’ + +‘Oh! my father, even as you like. But do not curse me; dream not of +such terrible things; recall those fearful words; love me, love me; +say I am your child. And Digby, I am true to Digby. But, indeed, can +I recall the past; can I alter it? Its memory overcame me. Digby knows +all; Digby knows we met; he did not curse me; he was kind and gentle. +Oh! my father!’ + +‘My Henrietta,’ said Mr. Temple, moved; ‘my child!’ + +‘Oh! my father, I will do all you wish; but speak not again as you have +spoken of Ferdinand. We have done him great injustice; I have done him +great injury. He is good and pure; indeed, he is; if you knew all, you +would not doubt it. He was ever faithful; indeed, indeed he was. Once +you liked him. Speak kindly of him, father. He is the victim. If you +meet him, be gentle to him, sir: for, indeed, if you knew all, you would +pity him.’ + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. + + _In Which Ferdinand Has a Very Stormy Interview with His + Father_. + +IF WE pause now to take a calm and comprehensive review of the state and +prospects of the three families, in whose feelings and fortunes we have +attempted to interest the reader, it must be confessed that, however +brilliant and satisfactory they might appear on the surface, the +elements of discord, gloom, and unhappiness might be more profoundly +discovered, and might even be held as rapidly stirring into movement. +Miss Temple was the affianced bride of Lord Montfort, but her heart was +Captain Armine’s: Captain Armine, in the estimation of his parents, was +the pledged husband of Miss Grandison, while he and his cousin had, in +fact, dissolved their engagement. Mr. Temple more than suspected his +daughter’s partiality for Ferdinand. Sir Ratcliffe, very much surprised +at seeing so little of his son, and resolved that the marriage should +be no further delayed, was about to precipitate confessions, of which +he did not dream, and which were to shipwreck all the hopes of his life. +The Count Mirabel and Miss Grandison were both engaged in an active +conspiracy. Lord Montfort alone was calm, and if he had a purpose to +conceal, inscrutable. All things, however, foreboded a crisis. + +Sir Ratcliffe, astonished at the marked manner in which his son absented +himself from Brook-street, resolved upon bringing him to an explanation. +At first he thought there might be some lovers’ quarrel; but the +demeanour of Katherine, and the easy tone in which she ever spoke of +her cousin, soon disabused him of this fond hope. He consulted his wife. +Now, to tell the truth, Lady Armine, who was a shrewd woman, was not +without her doubts and perplexities, but she would not confess them to +her husband. Many circumstances had been observed by her which filled +her with disquietude, but she had staked all her hopes upon this cast, +and she was of a sanguine temper. She was leading an agreeable life. +Katherine appeared daily more attached to her, and Lady Armine was +quite of opinion that it is always very injudicious to interfere. She +endeavoured to persuade Sir Ratcliffe that everything was quite right, +and she assured him that the season would terminate, as all seasons +ought to terminate, by the marriage. + +And perhaps Sir Ratcliffe would have followed her example, only it so +happened that as he was returning home one morning, he met his son in +Grosvenor-square. + +‘Why, Ferdinand, we never see you now,’ said Sir Ratcliffe. + +‘Oh! you are all so gay,’ said Ferdinand. ‘How is my mother?’ + +‘She is very well. Katherine and herself have gone to see the balloon, +with Lord Montfort and Count Mirabel. Come in,’ said Sir Ratcliffe, for +he was now almost at his door. + +The father and son entered. Sir Ratcliffe walked into a little library +on the ground floor, which was his morning room. + +‘We dine at home to-day, Ferdinand,’ said Sir Ratcliffe. ‘Perhaps you +will come.’ + +‘Thank you, sir, I am engaged.’ + +‘It seems to me you are always engaged. For a person who does not like +gaiety, it is very odd.’ + +‘Heigho!’ said Ferdinand. ‘How do you like your new horse, sir?’ + +‘Ferdinand, I wish to speak a word to you,’ said Sir Ratcliffe. ‘I do +not like ever to interfere unnecessarily with your conduct; but the +anxiety of a parent will, I think, excuse the question I am about to +ask. When do you propose being married?’ + +‘Oh, I do not know exactly.’ + +‘Your grandfather has been dead now, you know, much more than a year. +I cannot help thinking your conduct singular. There is nothing wrong +between you and Katherine, is there?’ + +‘Wrong, sir?’ + +‘Yes, wrong? I mean, is there any misunderstanding? Have you +quarrelled?’ + +‘No, sir, we have not quarrelled; we perfectly understand each other.’ + +‘I am glad to hear it, for I must say I think your conduct is very +unlike that of a lover. All I can say is, I did not win your mother’s +heart by such proceedings.’ + +‘Katherine has made no complaint of me, sir?’ + +‘Certainly not, and that surprises me still more.’ + +Ferdinand seemed plunged in thought. The silence lasted some +minutes. Sir Ratcliffe took up the newspaper; his son leant over the +mantel-piece, and gazed upon the empty fire-place. At length he turned +round and said, ‘Father, I can bear this no longer; the engagement +between Katherine and myself is dissolved.’ + +[Illustration: page2-118.jpg] + +‘Good God! when, and why?’ exclaimed Sir Ratcliffe, the newspaper +falling from his hand. + +‘Long since, sir; ever since I loved another woman, and she knew it.’ + +‘Ferdinand! Ferdinand!’ exclaimed the unhappy father; but he was so +overpowered that he could not give utterance to his thoughts. He threw +himself in a chair, and wrung his hands. Ferdinand stood still and +silent, like a statue of Destiny, gloomy and inflexible. + +‘Speak again,’ at length said Sir Ratcliffe. ‘Let me hear you speak +again. I cannot believe what I have heard. Is it indeed true that your +engagement with your cousin has been long terminated?’ + +Ferdinand nodded assent. + +‘Your poor mother!’ exclaimed Sir Ratcliffe. ‘This will kill her.’ He +rose from his seat, and walked up and down the room in great agitation. + +‘I knew all was not right,’ he muttered to himself. ‘She will sink under +it; we must all sink under it. Madman! you know not what you have done!’ + +‘It is in vain to regret, sir; my sufferings have been greater than +yours.’ + +‘She will pardon you, my boy,’ said Sir Ratcliffe, in a quicker and +kinder tone. ‘You have lived to repent your impetuous folly; Katherine +is kind and generous; she loves us all; she must love you; she will +pardon you. Yes! entreat her to forget it; your mother, your mother has +great influence with her; she will exercise it, she will interfere; you +are very young, all will yet be well.’ + +‘It is as impossible for me to marry Katherine Grandison, as for you +yourself to do it, sir,’ said Ferdinand, in a tone of calmness. + +‘You are not married to another?’ + +‘In faith; I am bound by a tie which I can never break.’ + +‘And who is this person?’ + +‘She must be nameless, for many reasons.’ + +‘Ferdinand,’ said Sir Ratcliffe, ‘you know not what you are doing. +My life, your mother’s, the existence of our family, hang upon your +conduct. Yet, yet there is time to prevent this desolation. I am +controlling my emotions; I wish you to save us, you, all! Throw yourself +at your cousin’s feet. She is soft-hearted; she may yet be yours!’ + +‘Dear father, it cannot be.’ + +‘Then-then, welcome ruin!’ exclaimed Sir Ratcliffe, in a hoarse voice. +‘And,’ he continued, pausing between every word, from the difficulty +of utterance, ‘if the conviction that you have destroyed all our hopes, +rewarded us for all our affection, our long devotion, by blasting every +fond idea that has ever illumined our sad lives, that I and Constance, +poor fools, have clung and clung to; if this conviction can console you, +sir, enjoy it----- + +‘Ferdinand! my son, my child, that I never have spoken an unkind word +to, that never gave me cause to blame or check him, your mother will be +home soon, your poor, poor mother. Do not let me welcome her with all +this misery. Tell me it is not true; recall what you have said; let us +forget these harsh words; reconcile yourself to your cousin; let us be +happy.’ + +‘Father, if my heart’s blood could secure your happiness, my life were +ready; but this I cannot do.’ + +‘Do you know what is at stake? Everything. All, all, all! We can see +Armine no more; our home is gone. Your mother and myself must be exiles. +Oh! you have not thought of this: say you have not thought of this.’ + +Ferdinand hid his face; his father, emboldened, urged the fond plea. +‘You will save us, Ferdinand, you will be our preserver? It is all +forgotten, is it not? It is a lovers’ quarrel, after all?’ + +‘Father, why should I trifle with your feelings? why should I feign what +can never be? This sharp interview, so long postponed, ought not now to +be adjourned. Indulge no hopes, for there are none.’ + +‘Then by every sacred power I revoke every blessing that since your +birth I have poured upon your head. I recall the prayers that every +night I have invoked upon your being. Great God! I cancel them. You have +betrayed your cousin; you have deserted your mother and myself; you have +first sullied the honour of our house, and now you have destroyed it. +Why were you born? What have we done that your mother’s womb should +produce such a curse? Sins of my father, they are visited upon me! And +Glastonbury, what will Glastonbury say? Glastonbury, who sacrificed his +fortune for you.’ + +‘Mr. Glastonbury knows all, sir, and has always been my confidant.’ + +‘Is he a traitor? For when a son deserts me, I know not whom to trust.’ + +‘He has no thoughts but for our welfare, sir. He will convince you, sir, +I cannot marry my cousin.’ + +‘Boy, boy! you know not what you say. Not marry your cousin! Then let us +die. It were better for us all to die.’ + +‘My father! Be calm, I beseech you; you have spoken harsh words; I +have not deserted you or my mother; I never will. If I have wronged my +cousin, I have severely suffered, and she has most freely forgiven me. +She is my dear friend. As for our house: tell me, would you have that +house preserved at the cost of my happiness? You are not the father I +supposed, if such indeed be your wish.’ + +‘Happiness! Fortune, family, beauty, youth, a sweet and charming spirit, +if these will not secure a man’s happiness, I know not what might. And +these I wished you to possess.’ + +‘Sir, it is in vain for us to converse upon this subject. See +Glastonbury, if you will. He can at least assure you that neither my +feelings are light nor my conduct hasty. I will leave you now.’ + +Ferdinand quitted the room; Sir Ratcliffe did not notice his departure, +although he was not unaware of it. He heaved a deep sigh, and was +apparently plunged in profound thought. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. + + _Ferdinand Is Arrested by Messrs. Morris and Levison, and + Taken to a Spunging-House_. + +IT MUST be confessed that the affairs of our friends were in a critical +state: everyone interested felt that something decisive in their +respective fortunes was at hand. And, yet, so vain are all human plans +and calculations, that the unavoidable crisis was brought about by +an incident which no one anticipated. It so happened that the stormy +interview between Sir Ratcliffe and his son was overheard by a servant. +This servant, who had been engaged by Miss Grandison in London, was a +member of a club to which a confidential clerk of Messrs. Morris and +Levison belonged. In the ensuing evening, when this worthy knight of +the shoulder-knot just dropped out for an hour to look in at this choice +society, smoke a pipe, and talk over the affairs of his mistress and +the nation, he announced the important fact that the match between Miss +Grandison and Captain Armine was ‘no go,’ which, for his part, he +did not regret, as he thought his mistress ought to look higher. The +confidential clerk of Messrs. Morris and Levison listened in silence to +this important intelligence, and communicated it the next morning to +his employers. And so it happened that a very few days afterwards, +as Ferdinand was lying in bed at his hotel, the door of his chamber +suddenly opened, and an individual, not of the most prepossessing +appearance, being much marked with smallpox, reeking with gin, and +wearing top-boots and a belcher handkerchief, rushed into his room and +enquired whether he were Captain Armine. + +‘The same,’ said Ferdinand. ‘And pray, sir, who are you?’ + +‘Don’t wish to be unpleasant,’ was the answer, ‘but, sir, you are my +prisoner.’ + +There is something exceedingly ignoble in an arrest: Ferdinand felt that +sickness come over him which the uninitiated in such ceremonies must +experience. However, he rallied, and enquired at whose suit these +proceedings were taken. + +‘Messrs. Morris and Levison, sir.’ + +‘Cannot I send for my lawyer and give bail?’ + +The bailiff shook his head. ‘You see, sir, you are taken in execution, +so it is impossible.’ + +‘And the amount of the debt?’ + +‘Is 2,800L., sir.’ + +‘Well, what am I to do?’ + +‘Why, sir, you must go along with us. We will do it very quietly. My +follower is in a hackney-coach at the door, sir. You can just step in +as pleasant as possible. I suppose you would like to go to a house, and +then you can send for your friends, you know.’ + +‘Well, if you will go down stairs, I will come to you.’ + +The bailiff grinned. ‘Can’t let you out of my sight, sir.’ + +‘Why, I cannot dress if you are here.’ + +The bailiff examined the room to see if there were any mode of escape; +there was no door but the entrance; the window offered no chance. ‘Well, +sir,’ he said, ‘I likes to do things pleasant. I can stand outside, sir; +but you must be quick.’ + +Ferdinand rang for his servant. When Louis clearly understood the state +of affairs, he was anxious to throw the bailiff out of the window, but +his master prevented him. Mr. Glastonbury had gone out some two hours; +Ferdinand sent Louis with a message to his family, to say he was about +leaving town for a few days; and impressing upon him to be careful not +to let them know in Brook-street what had occurred, he completed his +rapid toilet and accompanied the sheriff’s officer to the hackney-coach +that was prepared for him. + +As they jogged on in silence, Ferdinand revolved in his mind how it +would be most advisable for him to act. Any application to his own +lawyer was out of the question. That had been tried before, and he +felt assured that there was not the slightest chance of that gentleman +discharging so large a sum, especially when he was aware that it was +only a portion of his client’s liabilities; he thought of applying for +advice to Count Mirabel or Lord Catchimwhocan, but with what view? He +would not borrow the money of them, even if they would lend it; and as +it was, he bitterly reproached himself for having availed himself so +easily of Mr. Bond Sharpe’s kind offices. At this moment, he could not +persuade himself that his conduct had been strictly honourable to that +gentleman. He had not been frank in the exposition of his situation. +The money had been advanced under a false impression, if not absolutely +borrowed under a false pretence. He cursed Catchimwhocan and his levity. +The honour of the Armines was gone, like everything else that once +belonged to them. The result of Ferdinand’s reflections was, that he +was utterly done up; that no hope or chance of succour remained for +him; that his career was closed; and not daring to contemplate what +the consequences might be to his miserable parents, he made a desperate +effort to command his feelings. + +Here the coach turned up a dingy street, leading out of the lower end +of Oxford-street, and stopped before a large but gloomy dwelling, which +Ferdinand’s companion informed him was a spunging-house. ‘I suppose you +would like to have a private room, sir; you can have every accommodation +here, sir, and feel quite at home, I assure you.’ + +In pursuance of this suggestion, Captain Armine was ushered into +the best drawing-room, with barred windows, and treated in the most +aristocratic manner. It was evidently the chamber reserved only for +unfortunate gentlemen of the utmost distinction. It was amply furnished +with a mirror, a loo-table, and a very hard sofa. The walls were hung +with old-fashioned caricatures by Bunbury; the fire-irons were of +polished brass; over the mantel-piece was the portrait of the master of +the house, which was evidently a speaking likeness, and in which +Captain Armine fancied he traced no slight resemblance to his friend Mr. +Levison; and there were also some sources of literary amusement in the +room, in the shape of a Hebrew Bible and the Racing Calendar. + +After walking up and down the room for an hour, meditating over the +past, for it seemed hopeless to trouble himself any further with the +future, Ferdinand began to feel faint, for it may be recollected that he +had not even breakfasted. So pulling the bell-rope with such force that +it fell to the ground, a funny little waiter immediately appeared, awed +by the sovereign ring, and having, indeed, received private intelligence +from the bailiff that the gentleman in the drawing-room was a regular +nob. + +And here, perhaps, I should remind the reader, that of all the great +distinctions in life none perhaps is more important than that which +divides mankind into the two great sections of NOBS and SNOBS. It might +seem at the first glance, that if there were a place in the world which +should level all distinctions, it would be a debtors’ prison. But this +would be quite an error. Almost at the very moment that Captain Armine +arrived at his sorrowful hotel, a poor devil of a tradesman who had been +arrested for fifty pounds, and torn from his wife and family, had been +forced to repair to the same asylum. He was introduced into what is +styled the coffee-room, being a long, low, unfurnished sanded chamber, +with a table and benches; and being very anxious to communicate with +some friend, in order, if possible, to effect his release, and prevent +himself from being a bankrupt, he had continued meekly to ring at +intervals for the last half-hour in order that he might write and +forward his letter. The waiter heard the coffee-room bell ring, but +never dreamed of noticing it, though the moment the signal of the +private room sounded, and sounded with so much emphasis, he rushed +upstairs, three steps at a time, and instantly appeared before our hero: +and all this difference was occasioned by the simple circumstance, that +Captain Armine was a NOB, and the poor tradesman a SNOB. + +‘I am hungry,’ said Ferdinand. ‘Can I get anything to eat at this damned +place?’ + +‘What would you like, sir? Anything you choose, sir. Mutton chop, rump +steak, weal cutlet? Do you a fowl in a quarter of an hour; roast or +boiled, sir?’ + +‘I have not breakfasted yet; bring me some breakfast.’ + +‘Yes, sir,’ said the little waiter. ‘Tea, sir? Coffee, eggs, toast, +buttered toast, sir? Like any meat, sir? Ham, sir? Tongue, sir? Like a +devil, sir?’ + +‘Anything, everything, only be quick.’ + +‘Yes, sir,’ responded the waiter. ‘Beg pardon, sir. No offence, I hope, +but custom to pay here, sir. Shall be happy to accommodate you, sir. +Know what a gentleman is.’ + +‘Thank you, I will not trouble you,’ said Ferdinand; ‘get me that note +changed.’ + +‘Yes, sir,’ replied the little waiter, bowing very low as he +disappeared. + +‘Gentleman in best drawing-room wants breakfast. Gentleman in best +drawing-room wants change for a ten-pound note. Breakfast immediately +for gentleman in best drawing-room. Tea, coffee, toast, ham, tongue, and +a devil. A regular nob!’ + +Ferdinand was so exhausted that he had postponed all deliberation as to +his situation until he had breakfasted; and when he had breakfasted, +he felt dull. It is the consequence of all meals. In whatever light +he viewed his affairs, they seemed inextricable. He was now in a +spunging-house; he could not long remain here, he must be soon in a +gaol. A gaol! What a bitter termination of all his great plans and +hopes! What a situation for one who had been betrothed to Henrietta +Temple! He thought of his cousin, he thought of her great fortune, +which might have been his. Perhaps at this moment they were all riding +together in the Park. In a few days all must be known to his father. He +did not doubt of the result. Armine would immediately be sold, and +his father and mother, with the wretched wreck of their fortune, would +retire to the Continent. What a sad vicissitude! And he had done it all; +he, their only child, their only hope, on whose image they had lived, +who was to restore the house. He looked at the bars of his windows, it +was a dreadful sight. His poor father, his fond mother, he was quite +sure their hearts would break. They never could survive all this misery, +this bitter disappointment of all their chopes. Little less than a year +ago and he was at Bath, and they were all joy and triumph. What a wild +scene had his life been since! O Henrietta! why did we ever meet? That +fatal, fatal morning! The cedar tree rose before him, he recalled, he +remembered everything. And poor Glastonbury--it was a miserable end. He +could not disguise it from himself, he had been most imprudent, he +had been mad. And yet so near happiness, perfect, perfect happiness! +Henrietta might have been his, and they might have been so happy! +This confinement was dreadful; it began to press upon his nerves. No +occupation, not the slightest resource. He took up the Racing Calendar, +he threw it down again. He knew all the caricatures by heart, they +infinitely disgusted him. He walked up and down the room till he was so +tired that he flung himself upon the hard sofa. It was intolerable. + +A gaol must be preferable to this. There must be some kind of wretched +amusement in a gaol; but this ignoble, this humiliating solitude, he was +confident he should go mad if he remained here. He rang the bell again. + +‘Yes, sir,’ said the little waiter. + +‘This place is intolerable to me,’ said Captain Armine. ‘I really am +quite sick of it. What can I do?’ + +The waiter looked a little perplexed. + +‘I should like to go to gaol at once,’ said Ferdinand. + +‘Lord! sir!’ said the little waiter. + +‘Yes! I cannot bear this,’ he continued; ‘I shall go mad.’ + +‘Don’t you think your friends will call soon, sir?’ + +‘I have no friends,’ said Ferdinand. ‘I hope nobody will call.’ + +‘No friends!’ said the little waiter, who began to think Ferdinand was +not such a nob as he had imagined. ‘Why, if you have no friends, sir, it +would be best to go to the Fleet, I think.’ + +‘By Jove, I think it would be better.’ + +‘Master thinks your friends will call, I am sure.’ + +‘Nobody knows I am here,’ said Ferdinand. + +‘Oh!’ said the little waiter, ‘You want to let them know, do you, sir?’ + +‘Anything sooner; I wish to conceal my disgrace.’ + +‘O sir! you are not used to it; I dare say you never were nabbed +before?’ + +‘Certainly not.’ + +‘There it is; if you will be patient, you will see everything go well.’ + +‘Never, my good fellow; nothing can go well.’ + +‘O sir! you are not used to it. A regular nob like you, nabbed for the +first time, and for such a long figure, sir, sure not to be diddled. +Never knowed such a thing yet. Friends sure to stump down, sir.’ + +‘The greater the claim, the more difficulty in satisfying it, I should +think,’ said Ferdinand. + +‘Lord! no, sir: you are not used to it. It is only poor devils nabbed +for their fifties and hundreds that are ever done up. A nob was never +nabbed for the sum you are, sir, and ever went to the wall. Trust my +experience. I never knowed such a thing.’ + +Ferdinand could scarcely refrain from a smile. Even the conversation of +the little waiter was a relief to him. + +‘You see, sir,’ continued that worthy, ‘Morris and Levison would never +have given you such a deuce of a tick unless they knowed your resources. +Trust Morris and Levison for that. You done up, sir! a nob like you, +that Morris and Levison have trusted for such a tick! Lord! sir, +you don’t know nothing about it. I could afford to give them fifteen +shillings in the pound for their debt myself and a good day’s business, +too. Friends will stump down, sir, trust me.’ + +‘Well, it is some satisfaction for me to know that they will not, and +that Morris and Levison will not get a farthing.’ + +‘Well, sir,’ said the incredulous little functionary, ‘when I find +Morris and Levison lose two or three thousand pounds by a nob who is +nabbed for the first time, I will pay the money myself, that is all I +know.’ + +Here the waiter was obliged to leave Ferdinand, but he proved his +confidence in that gentleman’s fortunes by his continual civility, and +in the course of the day brought him a stale newspaper. It seemed to +Ferdinand that the day would never close. The waiter pestered him about +dinner, eulogising the cook, and assuring him that his master was famous +for champagne. Although he had no appetite, Ferdinand ordered dinner in +order to ensure the occurrence of one incident. The champagne made him +drowsy; he was shown to his room; and for a while he forgot his cares in +sleep. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. + + _The Crisis Rapidly Advances_. + +HENRIETTA TEMPLE began once more to droop. This change was not unnoticed +by her constant companion Lord Montfort, and yet he never permitted her +to be aware of his observation. All that he did was still more to study +her amusement; if possible, to be still more considerate and tender. +Miss Grandison, however, was far less delicate; she omitted no +opportunity of letting Miss Temple know that she thought that Henrietta +was very unwell, and that she was quite convinced Henrietta was thinking +of Ferdinand. Nay! she was not satisfied to confine these intimations to +Miss Temple; she impressed her conviction of Henrietta’s indisposition +on Lord Montfort, and teased him with asking his opinion of the cause. + +‘What do you think is the cause, Miss Grandison?’ said his lordship, +very quietly. + +‘Perhaps London does not agree with her; but then, when she was ill +before she was in the country; and it seems to me to be the same +illness. I wonder you do not notice it, Lord Montfort. A lover to be so +insensible, I am surprised!’ + +‘It is useless to notice that which you cannot remedy.’ + +‘Why do you not call in those who can offer remedies?’ said Miss +Grandison. ‘Why not send for Sir Henry?’ + +‘I think it best to leave Henrietta alone,’ said Lord Montfort. + +‘Do you think it is the mind, then?’ said Miss Grandison. + +‘It may be,’ said Lord Montford. + +‘It may be! Upon my word, you are very easy.’ + +‘I am not indifferent, Miss Grandison. There is nothing that I would not +do for Henrietta’s welfare.’ + +‘Oh! yes, there is; there is something,’ said Miss Grandison, rather +maliciously. + +‘You are really an extraordinary person, Miss Grandison,’ said Lord +Montfort. ‘What can you mean by so strange an observation?’ + +‘I have my meaning; but I suppose I may have a mystery as well as +anybody else.’ + +‘A mystery, Miss Grandison?’ + +‘Yes! a mystery, Lord Montfort. There is not a single individual in the +three families who has not a mystery, except myself; but I have found +out something. I feel quite easy now: we are all upon an equality.’ + +‘You are a strange person.’ + +‘It may be so; but I am happy, for I have nothing on my mind. Now that +poor Ferdinand has told Sir Ratcliffe we are not going to marry, I have +no part to play. I hate deception; it is almost as bitter as marrying +one who is in love with another person.’ + +‘That must indeed be bitter. And is that the reason that you do not +marry your cousin?’ enquired Lord Montfort. + +‘I may be in love with another person, or I may not,’ said Miss +Grandison. ‘But, however that may be, the moment Ferdinand very candidly +told me he was, we decided not to marry. I think we were wise; do not +you. Lord Montfort?’ + +‘If you are happy, you were wise,’ said Lord Montfort. + +‘Yes, I am pretty happy: as happy as I can well be when all my best +friends are miserable.’ + +‘Are they?’ + +‘I think so: my aunt is in tears; my uncle in despair; Ferdinand +meditates suicide; Henrietta is pining away; and you, who are the +philosopher of the society, you look rather grave. I fancy I think we +are a most miserable set.’ + +‘I wish we could be all happy,’ said Lord Montfort. + +‘And so we might, I think,’ said Miss Grandison; ‘at least, some of us.’ + +‘Make us, then,’ said Lord Montfort. + +‘I cannot make you.’ + +‘I think you could, Miss Grandison.’ + +At this moment Henrietta entered, and the conversation assumed a +different turn. + +‘Will you go with us to Lady Bellair’s, Kate?’ said Miss Temple. ‘The +duchess has asked me to call there this morning.’ + +Miss Grandison expressed her willingness: the carriage was waiting, and +Lord Montfort offered to attend them. At this moment the servant entered +with a note for Miss Grandison. + +‘From Glastonbury,’ she said; ‘dear Henrietta, he wishes to see me +immediately. What can it be? Go to Lady Bellair’s, and call for me on +your return. You must, indeed; and then we can all go out together.’ + +And so it was arranged. Miss Temple, accompanied by Lord Montfort, +proceeded to Bellair House. + +‘Don’t come near me,’ said the old lady when she saw them; ‘don’t come +near me; I am in despair; I do not know what I shall do; I think I shall +sell all my china. Do you know anybody who wants to buy old china? They +shall have it a bargain. But I must have ready money; ready money I must +have. Do not sit down in that chair; it is only made to look at. Oh! +if I were rich, like you! I wonder if my china is worth three hundred +pounds. I could cry my eyes out, that I could. The wicked men; I should +like to tear them to pieces. Why is not he in Parliament? and then they +could not take him up. They never could arrest Charles Fox. I have known +him in as much trouble as anyone. Once he sent all his furniture to my +house from his lodgings. He lodged in Bury-street. I always look at the +house when I pass by. Don’t fiddle the pens; I hate people who fiddle. +Where is Gregory? where is my bell’ Where is the page? Naughty boy! why +do not you come? There, I do not want anything; I do not know what to +do. The wicked men! The greatest favourite I had: he was so charming! +Charming people are never rich; he always looked melancholy. I think I +will send to the rich man I dine with; but I forget his name. Why do not +you tell me his name?’ + +‘My dear Lady Bellair, what is the matter?’ + +‘Don’t ask me; don’t speak to me. I tell you I am in despair. Oh! if I +were rich, how I would punish those wicked men!’ + +‘Can I do anything?’ said Lord Montfort. + +‘I do not know what you can do. I have got the tic. I always have the +tic when my friends are in trouble.’ + +‘Who is in trouble, Lady Bellair?’ + +‘My dearest friend; the only friend I care about. How can you be so +hard-hearted? I called upon him this morning, and his servant was +crying. I must get him a place; he is such a good man, and loves +his master. Now, do you want a servant? You never want anything. Ask +everybody you know whether they want a servant, an honest man, who loves +his master. There he is crying down stairs, in Gregory’s room. Poor, +good creature! I could cry myself, only it is of no use.’ + +‘Who is his master?’ said Lord Montfort. + +‘Nobody you know; yes! you know him very well. It is my dear, dear +friend; you know him very well. The bailiffs went to his hotel +yesterday, and dragged him out of bed, and took him to prison. Oh! I +shall go quite distracted. I want to sell my china to pay his debts. +Where is Miss Twoshoes?’ continued her ladyship; ‘why don’t you answer? +You do everything to plague me.’ + +‘Miss Grandison, Lady Bellair?’ + +‘To be sure; it is her lover.’ + +‘Captain Armine?’ + +‘Have I not been telling you all this time? They have taken him to +prison.’ + +Miss Temple rose and left the room. + +‘Poor creature! she is quite shocked. She knows him, too,’ said her +ladyship. ‘I am afraid he is quite ruined. There is a knock. I will make +a subscription for him. I dare say it is my grandson. He is very rich, +and very good-natured.’ + +‘My dear Lady Bellair,’ said Lord Montfort, rising, ‘favour me by not +saying a word to anybody at present. I will just go in the next room to +Henrietta. She is intimate with the family, and much affected. Now, my +dear lady, I entreat you,’ continued his lordship, ‘do not say a word. +Captain Armine has good friends, but do not speak to strangers. It will +do harm; it will indeed.’ + +‘You are a good creature; you are a good creature. Go away.’ + +‘Lady Frederick Berrington, my lady,’ announced the page. + +‘She is very witty, but very poor. It is no use speaking to her. I won’t +say a word. Go to Miss Thingabob: go, go.’ And Lord Montfort escaped +into the saloon as Lady Frederick entered. + +Henrietta was lying on the sofa, her countenance was hid, she was +sobbing convulsively. + +‘Henrietta,’ said Lord Montfort, but she did not answer. ‘Henrietta, he +again said, ‘dear Henrietta! I will do whatever you wish.’ + +‘Save him, save him!’ she exclaimed. ‘Oh! you cannot save him! And I +have brought him to this! Ferdinand! dearest Ferdinand! oh! I shall +die!’ + +‘For God’s sake, be calm,’ said Lord Montfort, ‘there is nothing I will +not do for you, for him.’ + +‘Ferdinand, Ferdinand, my own, own Ferdinand, oh! why did we ever part? +Why was I so unjust, so wicked? And he was true! I cannot survive his +disgrace and misery. I wish to die!’ + +‘There shall be no disgrace, no misery,’ said Lord Montfort, ‘only for +God’s sake, be calm. There is a chattering woman in the next room. Hush! +hush! I tell you I will do everything.’ + +‘You cannot; you must not; you ought not! Kind, generous Digby! Pardon +what I have said; forget it; but indeed I am so wretched, I can bear +this life no longer.’ + +‘But you shall not be wretched, Henrietta; you shall be happy; everybody +shall be happy. I am Armine’s friend, I am indeed. I will prove it. On +my honour, I will prove that I am his best friend.’ + +‘You must not. You are the last person, you are indeed. He is so proud! +Anything from us will be death to him. Yes! I know him, he will die +sooner than be under an obligation to either of us.’ + +‘You shall place him under still greater obligations than this,’ said +Lord Montfort. ‘Yes! Henrietta, if he has been true to you, you shall +not be false to him.’ + +‘Digby, Digby, speak not such strange words. I am myself again. I left +you that I might be alone. Best and most generous of men, I have never +deceived you; pardon the emotions that even you were not to witness.’ + +‘Take my arm, dearest, let us walk into the garden. I wish to speak +to you. Do not tremble. I have nothing to say that is not for your +happiness; at all times, and under all circumstances, the great object +of my thoughts.’ + +He raised Miss Temple gently from the sofa, and they walked away far +from the observation of Lady Bellair, or the auricular powers, though +they were not inconsiderable, of her lively guest. + + + + +CHAPTER XX. + + _In Which Ferdinand Receives More than One Visit, and Finds + That Adversity Has Not Quite Deprived Him of His Friends_. + +IN THE mean time morning broke upon the unfortunate Ferdinand. He +had forgotten his cares in sleep, and, when he woke, it was with some +difficulty that he recalled the unlucky incident of yesterday, and +could satisfy himself that he was indeed a prisoner. But the bars of his +bedroom window left him not very long in pleasing doubt. + +His friend, the little waiter, soon made his appearance. ‘Slept pretty +well, sir? Same breakfast as yesterday, sir? Tongue and ham, sir? +Perhaps you would like a kidney instead of a devil? It will be a +change.’ + +‘I have no appetite.’ + +‘It will come, sir. You an’t used to it. Nothing else to do here but to +eat. Better try the kidney, sir. Is there anything you fancy?’ + +‘I have made up my mind to go to gaol to-day.’ ‘Lord! sir, don’t think +of it. Something will turn up, sir, take my word.’ + +And sooth to say, the experienced waiter was not wrong. For bringing +in the breakfast, followed by an underling with a great pomp of plated +covers, he informed Ferdinand with a chuckle, that a gentleman was +enquiring for him. ‘Told you your friends would come, sir.’ + +The gentleman was introduced, and Ferdinand beheld Mr. Glastonbury. + +‘My dear Glastonbury,’ said Ferdinand, scarcely daring to meet his +glance, ‘this is very kind, and yet I wished to have saved you this.’ + +‘My poor child,’ said Glastonbury. + +‘Oh! my dear friend, it is all over. This is a more bitter moment for +you even than for me, kind friend. This is a terrible termination of all +your zeal and labours.’ + +‘Nay!’ said Glastonbury; ‘let us not think of anything but the present. +For what are you held in durance?’ + +‘My dear Glastonbury, if it were only ten pounds, I could not permit you +to pay it. So let us not talk of that. This must have happened sooner +or later. It has come, and come unexpectedly: but it must be borne, like +all other calamities.’ + +‘But you have friends, my Ferdinand.’ + +‘Would that I had not! All that I wish now is that I were alone in +the world. If I could hope that my parents would leave me to myself, I +should be comparatively easy. But when I think of them, and the injury I +must do them, it is hell, it is hell.’ + +‘I wish you would tell me your exact situation,’ said Mr. Glastonbury. + +‘Do not let us talk of it; does my father know of this?’ + +‘Not yet.’ + +‘’Tis well; he may yet have a happy day. He will sell Armine.’ + +Glastonbury shook his head and sighed. ‘Is it so bad?’ he said. + +‘My dearest friend, if you will know the worst, take it. I am here for +nearly three thousand pounds, and I owe at least ten more.’ + +‘And they will not take bail?’ + +‘Not for this debt; they cannot. It is a judgment debt, the only one.’ + +‘And they gave you no notice?’ + +‘None: they must have heard somehow or other that my infernal marriage +was off. They have all waited for that. And now that you see that +affairs are past remedy; let us talk of other topics, if you will be +so kind as to remain half an hour in this dungeon. I shall quit it +directly; I shall go to gaol at once.’ + +Poor Glastonbury, he did not like to go, and yet it was a most +melancholy visit. What could they converse about? Conversation, except +on the interdicted subject of Ferdinand’s affairs, seemed quite a +mockery. At last, Ferdinand said, ‘Dear Glastonbury, do not stay here; +it only makes us both unhappy. Send Louis with some clothes for me, +and some books. I will let you know before I leave this place. Upon +reflection, I shall not do so for two or three days, if I can stay as +long. See my lawyer; not that he will do anything; nor can I expect him; +but he may as well call and see me. Adieu, dear friend.’ + +Glastonbury was about to retire, when Ferdinand called him back. ‘This +affair should be kept quiet,’ he said. ‘I told Louis to say I was out of +town in Brook-street. I should be sorry were Miss Temple to hear of it, +at least until after her marriage.’ + +Ferdinand was once more alone with the mirror, the loo-table, the +hard sofa, the caricatures which he hated even worse than his host’s +portrait, the Hebrew Bible, and the Racing Calendar. It seemed a year +that he had been shut up in this apartment, instead of a day, he had +grown so familiar with every object. And yet the visit of Glastonbury +had been an event, and he could not refrain from pondering over it. A +spunging-house seemed such a strange, such an unnatural scene, for such +a character. Ferdinand recalled to his memory the tower at Armine, and +all its glades and groves, shining in the summer sun, and freshened +by the summer breeze. What a contrast to this dingy, confined, close +dungeon! And was it possible that he had ever wandered at will in that +fair scene with a companion fairer? Such thoughts might well drive a +man mad. With all his errors, and all his disposition at present not +to extenuate them, Ferdinand Armine could not refrain from esteeming +himself unlucky. Perhaps it is more distressing to believe ourselves +unfortunate, than to recognise ourselves as imprudent. + +A fond mistress or a faithful friend, either of these are great +blessings; and whatever may be one’s scrapes in life, either of these +may well be sources of consolation. Ferdinand had a fond mistress once, +and had Henrietta Temple loved him, why, he might struggle with all +these calamities; but that sweet dream was past. As for friends, he +had none, at least he thought not. Not that he had to complain of human +nature. He had experienced much kindness from mankind, and many were the +services he had received from kind acquaintances. With the recollection +of Catch, to say nothing of Bond Sharpe, and above all, Count Mirabel, +fresh in his mind, he could not complain of his companions. Glastonbury +was indeed a friend, but Ferdinand sighed for a friend of his own +age, knit to him by the same tastes and sympathies, and capable of +comprehending all his secret feelings; a friend who could even whisper +hope, and smile in a spunging-house. + +The day wore away, the twilight shades were descending; Ferdinand became +every moment more melancholy, when suddenly his constant ally, the +waiter, rushed into the room. ‘My eye, sir, here is a regular nob +enquiring for you. I told you it would be all right.’ + +‘Who is it?’ + +‘Here he is coming up.’ + +Ferdinand caught the triumphant tones of Mirabel on the staircase. + +‘Which is the room? Show me directly. Ah! Armine, _mon ami! mon cher!_ +Is this your friendship? To be in this cursed hole, and not send for +me! _C’est une mauvaise plaisanterie_ to pretend we are friends! How are +you, good fellow, fine fellow, excellent Armine? If you were not here +I would quarrel with you. There, go away, man.’ The waiter disappeared, +and Count Mirabel seated himself on the hard sofa. + +‘My dear fellow,’ continued the Count, twirling the prettiest cane in +the world, ‘this is a _bêtise_ of you to be here and not send for me. +Who has put you here?’ + +‘My dear Mirabel, it is all up.’ + +‘Pah! How much is it?’ + +‘I tell you I am done up. It has got about that the marriage is off, +and Morris and Levison have nabbed me for all the arrears of my cursed +annuities.’ + +‘But how much?’ + +‘Between two and three thousand.’ + +The Count Mirabel gave a whistle. + +‘I brought five hundred, which I have. We must get the rest somehow or +other.’ + +‘My dear Mirabel, you are the most generous fellow in the world; but I +have troubled my friends too much. Nothing will induce me to take a sou +from you. Besides, between ourselves, not my least mortification at this +moment is some 1,500L., which Bond Sharpe let me have the other day for +nothing, through Catch.’ + +‘Pah! I am sorry about that, though, because he would have lent us this +money. I will ask Bevil.’ + +‘I would sooner die.’ + +‘I will ask him for myself.’ + +‘It is impossible.’ + +‘We will arrange it: I tell you who will do it for us. He is a good +fellow, and immensely rich: it is Fitzwarrene; he owes me great +favours.’ + +‘Dear Mirabel, I am delighted to see you. This is good and kind. I am so +damned dull here. It quite gladdens me to see you; but do not talk about +money.’ + +‘Here is 500L.; four other fellows at 500L. we can manage it.’ + +‘No more, no more! I beseech you.’ + +‘But you cannot stop here. _Quel drôle appartement!_ Before Charley +Doricourt was in Parliament he was always in this sort of houses, but I +got him out somehow or other; I managed it. Once I bought of the fellow +five hundred dozen of champagne.’ + +‘A new way to pay old debts, certainly,’ said Ferdinand. + +‘I tell you--have you dined?’ + +‘I was going to; merely to have something to do.’ + +‘I will stop and dine with you,’ said the Count, ringing the bell, ‘and +we will talk over affairs. Laugh, my friend; laugh, my Armine: this is +only a scene. This is life. What can we have for dinner, man? I shall +dine here.’ + +‘Gentleman’s dinner is ordered, my lord; quite ready,’ said the waiter. +‘Champagne in ice, my lord?’ + +‘To be sure; everything that is good. _Mon cher_ Armine, we shall have +some fun.’ + +‘Yes, my lord,’ said the waiter, running down stairs. ‘Dinner for best +drawing-room directly; green-pea-soup, turbot, beefsteak, roast duck and +boiled chicken, everything that is good, champagne in ice; two regular +nobs!’ + +The dinner soon appeared, and the two friends seated themselves. + +‘Potage admirable!’ said Count Mirabel. ‘The best champagne I ever drank +in my life. _Mon brave_, your health. This must be Charley’s man, by the +wine. I think we will have him up; he will lend us some money. Finest +turbot I ever ate! I will give you some of the fins. Ah! you are glad to +see me, my Armine, you are glad to see your friend. _Encore_ champagne! +Good Armine, excellent Armine! Keep up your spirits, I will manage these +fellows. You must take some bifteac. The most tender bifteac I ever +tasted! This is a fine dinner. _Encore un verre!_ Man, you may go; don’t +wait.’ + +‘By Jove, Mirabel, I never was so glad to see anybody in my life. Now, +you are a friend; I feel quite in spirits.’ + +‘To be sure! always be in spirits. _C’est une bêtise_ not to be in +spirits. Everything is sure to go well. You will see how I will manage +these fellows, and I will come and dine with you every day until you are +out: you shall not be here eight-and-forty hours. As I go home I will +stop at Mitchell’s and get you a novel by Paul de Kock. Have you ever +read Paul de Kock’s books?’ + +‘Never,’ said Ferdinand. + +‘What a fortunate man to be arrested! Now you can read Paul de Kock! +By Jove, you are the most lucky fellow I know. You see, you thought +yourself very miserable in being arrested. ‘Tis the finest thing in the +world, for now you will read _Mon Voisin Raymond_. There are always two +sides to a case.’ + +‘I am content to believe myself very lucky in having such a friend as +you,’ said Ferdinand; ‘but now as these things are cleared away, let us +talk over affairs. Have you seen Henrietta?’ + +‘Of course, I see her every day.’ + +‘I hope she will not know of my crash until she has married.’ + +‘She will not, unless you tell her.’ + +‘And when do you think she will be married?’ + +‘When you please.’ + +‘_Cher ami! point de moquerie!_’ + +‘By Jove, I am quite serious,’ exclaimed the Count. ‘I am as certain +that you will marry her as that we are in this damned spunging-house.’ + +‘Nonsense!’ + +‘The very finest sense in the world. If you will not marry her, I will +myself, for I am resolved that good Montfort shall not. It shall never +be said that I interfered without a result. Why, if she were to marry +Montfort now, it would ruin my character. To marry Montfort after all +my trouble: dining with that good Temple, and opening the mind of that +little Grandison, and talking fine things to that good duchess; it would +be a failure.’ + +‘What an odd fellow you are, Mirabel!’ ‘Of course! Would you have me +like other people and not odd? We will drink _la belle Henriette!_ +Fill up! You will be my friend when you are married, eh? _Mon Armine, +excellent garçon!_ How we shall laugh some day; and then this dinner, +this dinner will be the best dinner we ever had!’ + +‘But why do you think there is the slightest hope of Henrietta not +marrying Montfort?’ + +‘Because my knowledge of human nature assures me that a young woman, +very beautiful, very rich, with a very high spirit, and an only +daughter, will never go and marry one man when she is in love with +another, and that other one, my dear fellow, like you. You are more sure +of getting her because she is engaged.’ + +What a wonderful thing is a knowledge of human nature! thought Ferdinand +to himself. The Count’s knowledge of human nature is like my friend the +waiter’s experience. One assures me that I am certain to marry a woman +because she is engaged to another person, and the other, that it is +quite clear my debts will be paid because they are so large! The Count +remained with his friend until eleven o’clock, when everybody was locked +up. He invited himself to dine with him to-morrow, and promised that +he should have a whole collection of French novels before he awoke. And +assuring him over and over again that he looked upon him as the most +fortunate of all his friends, and that if he broke the bank at Crocky’s +to-night, which he fancied he should, he would send him two or three +thousand pounds; at the same time he shook him heartily by the hand, +and descended the staircase of the spunging-house, humming _Vive la +Bagatelle_. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. + + _The Crisis_. + +ALTHOUGH, when Ferdinand was once more left alone to his reflections, it +did not appear to him that anything had occurred which should change his +opinion of his forlorn lot, there was something, nevertheless, inspiring +in the visit of his friend Count Mirabel. It did not seem to him, +indeed, that he was one whit nearer extrication from his difficulties +than before; and as for the wild hopes as to Henrietta, he dismissed +them from his mind as the mere fantastic schemes of a sanguine spirit, +and yet his gloom, by some process difficult to analyse, had in great +measure departed. It could not be the champagne, for that was a remedy +he had previously tried; it was in some degree doubtless the magic +sympathy of a joyous temperament: but chiefly it might, perhaps, be +ascribed to the flattering conviction that he possessed the hearty +friendship of a man whose good-will was, in every view of the case, a +very enviable possession. With such a friend as Mirabel, he could not +deem himself quite so unlucky as in the morning. If he were fortunate, +and fortunate so unexpectedly, in this instance, he might be so in +others. A vague presentiment that he had seen the worst of life came +over him. It was equally in vain to justify the consoling conviction or +to resist it; and Ferdinand Armine, although in a spunging-house, fell +asleep in better humour with his destiny than he had been for the last +eight months. + +His dreams were charming: he fancied that he was at Armine, standing +by the Barbary rose-tree. It was moonlight; it was, perhaps, a slight +recollection of the night he had looked upon the garden from the window +of his chamber, the night after he had first seen Henrietta. Suddenly, +Henrietta Temple appeared at his window, and waved her hand to him with +a smiling face. He immediately plucked for her a flower, and stood with +his offering beneath her window. She was in a riding-habit, and she told +him that she had just returned from Italy. He invited her to descend, +and she disappeared; but instead of Henrietta, there came forward from +the old Place-----the duchess, who immediately enquired whether he had +seen his cousin; and then her Grace, by some confused process common in +dreams, turned into Glastonbury, and pointed to the rose-tree, where, to +his surprise, Katherine was walking with Lord Montfort. Ferdinand called +out for Henrietta, but, as she did not appear, he entered the Place, +where he found Count Mirabel dining by himself, and just drinking +a glass of champagne. He complained to Mirabel that Henrietta had +disappeared, but his friend laughed at him, and said that, after such a +long ride, leaving Italy only yesterday, he could scarcely expect to see +her. Satisfied with this explanation, Ferdinand joined the Count at his +banquet, and was awakened from his sleep, and his dream apparently, by +Mirabel drawing a cork. + +Ah! why did he ever wake? It was so real; he had seen her so plainly; it +was life; it was the very smile she wore at Ducie; that sunny glance, so +full of joy, beauty, and love, which he could live to gaze on! And now +he was in prison, and she was going to be married to another. Oh! there +are things in this world that may well break hearts! + +The cork of Count Mirabel was, however, a substantial sound, a gentle +tap at his door: he answered it, and the waiter entered his chamber. + +‘Beg pardon, sir, for disturbing you; only eight o’clock.’ + +‘Then why the deuce do you disturb me?’ ‘There has been another nob, +sir. I said as how you were not up, and he sent his compliments, +and said as how he would call in an hour, as he wished to see you +particular.’ ‘Was it the Count?’ + +‘No, sir; but it was a regular nob, sir, for he had a coronet on his +cab. But he would not leave his name.’ + +‘Catch, of course,’ thought Ferdinand to himself. ‘And sent by Mirabel. +I should not wonder, if after all, they have broken the bank at +Crocky’s. Nothing shall induce me to take a ducat.’ + +However, Ferdinand thought fit to rise, and contrived to descend to the +best drawing-room about a quarter of an hour after the appointed time. +To his extreme surprise he found Lord Montfort. + +‘My dear friend,’ said Lord Montfort, looking a little confused; ‘I am +afraid I have sadly disturbed you. But I could not contrive to find you +yesterday until it was so late that I was ashamed to knock them up here, +and I thought, therefore, you would excuse this early call, as, as, as, +I wished to see you very much indeed.’ + +‘You are extremely kind,’ said Captain Armine. ‘But really I much regret +that your lordship should have had all this trouble.’ + +‘Oh! what is trouble under such circumstances!’ replied his lordship. ‘I +cannot pardon myself for being so stupid as not reaching you yesterday. +I never can excuse myself for the inconvenience you have experienced.’ + +Ferdinand bowed, but was so perplexed that he could not say a word. + +‘I hope, my dear Armine,’ said his lordship, advancing rather slowly, +putting his arm within that of Ferdinand, and then walking up and down +the room together, ‘I hope you will act at this moment towards me as I +would towards you, were our respective situations changed.’ + +Ferdinand bowed, but said nothing. + +‘Money, you know, my good fellow,’ continued Lord Montfort, ‘is a +disagreeable thing to talk about; but there are circumstances which +should deprive such conversation between us of any awkwardness which +otherwise might arise.’ + +‘I am not aware of them, my lord,’ said Ferdinand, ‘though your good +feelings command my gratitude.’ + +‘I think, upon reflection, we shall find that there are some,’ said Lord +Montfort. ‘For the moment I will only hope that you will esteem those +good feelings, and which, on my part, I am anxious should ripen into +sincere and intimate friendship, as sufficient authority for my placing +your affairs in general in that state that they may in future +never deprive your family and friends of society necessary to their +happiness.’ + +‘My lord, I am sure that adversity has assumed a graceful hue with me, +for it has confirmed my most amiable views of human nature. I shall not +attempt to express what I feel towards your lordship for this generous +goodness, but I will say I am profoundly impressed with it; not the +less, because I cannot avail myself in the slightest degree of your +offer.’ + +‘You are too much a man of the world, I am sure, my dear Armine, to +be offended by my frankness. I shall, therefore, speak without fear of +misconception. It does appear to me that the offer which I have made you +is worthy of a little more consideration. You see, my dear friend, that +you have placed yourself in such a situation that however you may act +the result cannot be one completely satisfactory. The course you should +pursue, therefore, as, indeed, all conduct in this world should be, is a +matter of nice calculation. Have you well considered the consequences of +your rushing upon ruin? In the first place, your family will receive a +blow from which even future prosperity may not recover them. Your family +estate, already in a delicate position, may be irrecoverably lost; +the worldly consequences of such a vicissitude are very considerable; +whatever career you pursue, so long as you visibly possess Armine, +you rank always among the aristocracy of the land, and a family that +maintains such a position, however decayed, will ultimately recover. I +hardly know an exception to this rule. I do not think, of all men, that +you are most calculated to afford one.’ + +‘What you say has long pressed itself upon us,’ said Captain Armine. + +‘Then, again,’ resumed Lord Montfort, ‘the feelings and even interests +of your friends are to be considered. Poor Glastonbury! I love that old +man myself. The fall of Armine might break his heart; he would not like +to leave his tower. You see, I know your place.’ + +‘Poor Glastonbury!’ said Ferdinand. + +‘But above all,’ continued Lord Montfort, ‘the happiness, nay, the very +health and life of your parents, from whom all is now concealed, would +perhaps be the last and costliest sacrifices of your rashness.’ + +Ferdinand threw himself on the sofa and covered his face. + +‘Yet all this misery, all these misfortunes, may be avoided, and you +yourself become a calm and happy man, by--for I wish not to understate +your view of the subject, Armine--putting yourself under a pecuniary +obligation to me. A circumstance to be avoided in the common course of +life, no doubt; but is it better to owe me a favour and save your family +estate, preserve your position, maintain your friend, and prevent the +misery, and probable death, of your parents, or be able to pass me in +the street, in haughty silence if you please, with the consciousness +that the luxury of your pride has been satisfied at the cost of every +circumstance which makes existence desirable?’ + +‘You put the case strongly,’ said Ferdinand; ‘but no reasoning can ever +persuade me that I am justified in borrowing 3,000L., which I can never +repay.’ + +‘Accept it, then.’ + +‘’Tis the same thing,’ said Ferdinand. + +‘I think not,’ said Lord Montfort; ‘but why do you say never?’ + +‘Because it is utterly impossible that I ever can.’ + +‘How do you know you may not marry a woman of large fortune?’ said Lord +Montfort. ‘Now you seem to me exactly the sort of man who would marry an +heiress.’ + +‘You are thinking of my cousin,’ said Ferdinand. ‘I thought that you +had discovered, or that you might have learnt, that there was no real +intention of our union.’ + +‘No, I was not thinking of your cousin,’ said Lord Montfort; ‘though, +to tell you the truth, I was once in hopes that you would marry her. +However, that I well know is entirely out of the question, for I believe +Miss Grandison will marry someone else.’ + +‘Indeed!’ exclaimed Ferdinand, a little agitated. ‘Well! may she be +happy! I love Kate from the bottom of my heart. But who is the fortunate +fellow?’ + +‘’Tis a lady’s secret,’ said Lord Montfort. ‘But let us return to our +argument. To be brief: either, my dear Armine, you must be convinced by +my reasoning, or I must remain here a prisoner like yourself; for, to +tell you the truth, there is a fair lady before whom I cannot present +myself except in your company.’ + +Ferdinand changed countenance. There wanted but this to confirm +his resolution, which had scarcely wavered. To owe his release to +Henrietta’s influence with Lord Montfort was too degrading. + +‘My lord,’ he said, ‘you have touched upon a string that I had hoped +might have been spared me. This conversation must, indeed, cease. My +mouth is sealed from giving you the reasons, which nevertheless render +it imperative on me to decline your generous offer.’ + +‘Well, then,’ said Lord Montfort, ‘I must see if another can be more +successful,’ and he held forth a note to the astounded Ferdinand, in +Henrietta’s writing. It dropped from Ferdinand’s hand as he took it. +Lord Montfort picked it up, gave it him again, and walked to the other +end of the room. It was with extreme difficulty that Ferdinand prevailed +on himself to break the seal. The note was short; the hand that traced +the letters must have trembled. Thus it ran:-- + +‘Dearest Ferdinand,--Do everything that Digby wishes. He is our best +friend. Digby is going to marry Katherine; are you happy? Henrietta.’ + +Lord Montfort looked round; Ferdinand Armine was lying senseless on the +sofa. + +Our friend was not of a swooning mood, but we think the circumstances +may excuse the weakness. + +As for Lord Montfort, he rang the bell for the little waiter, who, the +moment he saw what had occurred, hurried away and rushed up stairs again +with cold water, a bottle of brandy, and a blazing sheet of brown paper, +which he declared was an infallible specific. By some means or other +Ferdinand was in time recovered, and the little waiter was fairly +expelled. + +‘My dear friend,’ said Ferdinand, in a faint voice; ‘I am the happiest +man that ever lived; I hope you will be, I am sure you will be; +Katherine is an angel. But I cannot speak. It is so strange.’ + +‘My dear fellow, you really must take a glass of brandy,’ said Lord +Montfort. ‘It is strange, certainly. But we are all happy.’ + +‘I hardly know where I am,’ said Ferdinand, after a few minutes. ‘Am I +really alive?’ + +‘Let us think how we are to get out of this place. I suppose they will +take my cheque. If not, I must be off.’ + +‘Oh, do not go,’ said Ferdinand. ‘If you go I shall not believe it is +true. My dear Montfort, is it really true?’ + +‘You see, my dear Armine,’ said Lord Montfort, smiling, ‘it was fated +that I should marry a lady you rejected. And to tell you the truth, the +reason why I did not get to you yesterday, as I ought to have done, was +an unexpected conversation I had with Miss Grandison. I really think +this arrest was a most fortunate incident. It brought affairs to a +crisis. We should have gone on playing at cross purposes for ever.’ + +Here the little waiter entered again with a note and a packet. + +‘The same messenger brought them?’ asked Ferdinand. + +‘No, sir; the Count’s servant brought the note, and waits for an answer; +the packet came by another person.’ + +Ferdinand opened the note and read as follows:-- + + +‘Berkeley-square, half-past 7, morning. + +‘Mon Ami,--Best joke in the world! I broke Crocky’s bank three times. +Of course; I told you so. I win 15,000L. Directly I am awake I will send +you the three thousand, and I will lend you the rest till your marriage. +It will not be very long. I write this before I go to bed, that you may +have it early. Adieu, _cher ami_. + +‘_Votre affectionné_, + +‘De Mirabel. + + +‘My arrest was certainly the luckiest incident in the world,’ said +Ferdinand, handing the note to Lord Montfort. ‘Mirabel dined here +yesterday, and went and played on purpose to save me. I treated it as +a joke. But what is this?’ Ferdinand opened the packet. The handwriting +was unknown to him. Ten bank notes of 300L. each fell to the ground. + +‘Do I live in fairyland?’ he exclaimed. ‘Now who can this be? It cannot +be you; it cannot be Mirabel. It is wondrous strange.’ + +‘I think I can throw some light upon it,’ said Lord Montfort. ‘Katherine +was mysteriously engaged with Glastonbury yesterday morning. They were +out together, and I know they went to her lawyer’s. There is no doubt it +is Katherine. I think, under the circumstances of the case, we need have +no delicacy in availing ourselves of this fortunate remittance. It will +at least save us time,’ said Lord Montfort, ringing the bell. ‘Send your +master here directly,’ he continued to the waiter. + +The sheriff’s officer appeared; the debt, the fees, all were paid, and +the discharge duly taken. Ferdinand in the meantime went up stairs to +lock up his dressing-case; the little waiter rushed after him to pack +his portmanteau. Ferdinand did not forget his zealous friend, who +whispered hope when all was black. The little waiter chuckled as he put +his ten guineas in his pocket. ‘You see, sir,’ he said, ‘I was quite +right. Knowed your friends would stump down. Fancy a nob like you being +sent to quod! Fiddlededee! You see, sir, you weren’t used to it.’ + +And so Ferdinand Armine bid adieu to the spunging-house, where, in the +course of less than eight-and-forty hours, he had known alike despair +and rapture. Lord Montfort drove along with a gaiety unusual to him. + +‘Now, my dear Armine,’ he said, ‘I am not a jot the less in love with +Henrietta than before. I love her as you love Katherine. What folly to +marry a woman who was in love with another person! I should have made +her miserable, when the great object of all my conduct was to make her +happy. Now Katherine really loves me as much as Henrietta loves you. I +have had this plan in my head for a long time. I calculated finely; I +was convinced it was the only way to make us all happy. And now we shall +all be related; we shall be constantly together; and we will be brother +friends.’ + +‘Ah! my dear Montfort,’ said Ferdinand, ‘what will Mr. Temple say?’ + +‘Leave him to me,’ said Lord Montfort. + +‘I tremble,’ said Ferdinand, ‘if it were possible to anticipate +difficulties to-day.’ + +‘I shall go to him at once,’ said Lord Montfort; ‘I am not fond of +suspense myself, and now it is of no use. All will be right.’ + +‘I trust only to you,’ said Ferdinand; ‘for I am as proud as Temple. He +dislikes me, and he is too rich for me to bow down to him.’ + +‘I take it upon myself,’ said Lord Montfort. ‘Mr. Temple is a calm, +sensible man. You will laugh at me, but the truth is, with him it must +be a matter of calculation: on the one hand, his daughter’s happiness, a +union with a family second to none in blood, alliances, and territorial +position, and only wanting his wealth to revive all its splendour; on +the other, his daughter broken-hearted, and a duke for his son-in-law. +Mr. Temple is too sensible a man to hesitate, particularly when I remove +the greatest difficulty he must experience. Where shall I out you down? +Berkeley-Square?’ + + + + +CHAPTER XXII. + + _Ferdinand Meditates over His Good Fortune_. + +IN MOMENTS of deep feeling, alike sudden bursts of prosperity as in +darker hours, man must be alone. It requires some self-communion to +prepare ourselves for good fortune, as well as to encounter difficulty, +and danger, and disgrace. This violent and triumphant revolution in his +prospects and his fortunes was hardly yet completely comprehended by our +friend, Ferdinand Armine; and when he had left a note for the generous +Mirabel, whose slumbers he would not disturb at this early hour, even +with good news, he strolled along up Charles-street, and to the Park, +in one of those wild and joyous reveries in which we brood over coming +bliss, and create a thousand glorious consequences. + +It was one of those soft summer mornings which are so delightful in a +great city. The sky was clear, the air was bland, the water sparkled +in the sun, and the trees seemed doubly green and fresh to one who so +recently had gazed only on iron bars. Ferdinand felt his freedom as well +as his happiness. He seated himself on a bench and thought of Henrietta +Temple! he took out her note, and read it over and over again. It was +indeed her handwriting! Restless with impending joy, he sauntered to the +bridge, and leant over the balustrade, gazing on the waters in charmed +and charming vacancy. How many incidents, how many characters, how many +feelings flitted over his memory! Of what sweet and bitter experience +did he not chew the cud! Four-and-twenty hours ago, and he deemed +himself the most miserable and forlorn of human beings, and now all the +blessings of the world seemed showered at his feet! A beautiful bride +awaited him, whom he had loved with intense passion, and who he had +thought but an hour ago was another’s. A noble fortune, which would +permit him to redeem his inheritance, and rank him among the richest +commoners of the realm, was to be controlled by one a few hours back a +prisoner for desperate debts. The most gifted individuals in the land +emulated each other in proving which entertained for him the most +sincere affection. What man in the world had friends like Ferdinand +Armine? Ferdinand Armine, who, two days back, deemed himself alone +in the world! The unswerving devotion of Glastonbury, the delicate +affection of his sweet cousin, all the magnanimity of the high-souled +Mont-fort, and the generosity of the accomplished Mirabel, passed before +him, and wonderfully affected him. He could not flatter himself that +he indeed merited such singular blessings; and yet with all his faults, +which with him were but the consequences of his fiery youth, Ferdinand +had been faithful, to Henrietta. His constancy to her was now rewarded. +As for his friends, the future must prove his gratitude to them.’ + +Ferdinand Armine had great tenderness of disposition, and somewhat of a +meditative mind; schooled by adversity, there was little doubt that his +coming career would justify his favourable destiny. + +It was barely a year since he had returned from Malta, but what an +eventful twelvemonth! Everything that had occurred previously seemed +of another life; all his experience was concentrated in that wonderful +drama that had commenced at Bath, the last scene of which was now +approaching; the characters, his parents, Glastonbury, Katherine, +Henrietta, Lord Montfort, Count Mirabel, himself, and Mr. Temple! + +Ah! that was a name that a little disturbed him; and yet he felt +confidence now in Mirabel’s prescience; he could not but believe that +with time even Mr. Temple might be reconciled! It was at this moment +that the sound of military music fell upon his ear; it recalled old +days; parades and guards at Malta; times when he did not know Henrietta +Temple; times when, as it seemed to him now, he had never paused to +think or moralise. That was a mad life. What a Neapolitan ball was his +career then! It was indeed dancing on a volcano. And now all had ended +so happily! Oh! could it indeed be true? Was it not all a dream of his +own creation, while his eye had been fixed in abstraction on that bright +and flowing river? But then there was Henrietta’s letter. He might be +enchanted, but that was the talisman. + +In the present unsettled, though hopeful state of affairs, Ferdinand +would not go home. He was resolved to avoid any explanations until +he heard from Lord Montfort. He shrank from seeing Glastonbury or his +cousin. As for Henrietta, it seemed to him that he never could have +heart to meet her again, unless they were alone. Count Mirabel was the +only person to whom he could abandon his soul, and Count Mirabel was +still in his first sleep. + +So Ferdinand entered Kensington Gardens, and walked in those rich glades +and stately avenues. It seems to the writer of this history that the +inhabitants of London are scarcely sufficiently sensible of the beauty +of its environs. On every side the most charming retreats open to them, +nor is there a metropolis in the world surrounded by so many rural +villages, picturesque parks, and elegant casinos. With the exception +of Constantinople, there is no city in the world that can for a +moment enter into competition with it. For himself, though in his time +something of a rambler, he is not ashamed in this respect to confess to +a legitimate Cockney taste; and for his part he does not know where life +can flow on more pleasantly than in sight of Kensington Gardens, viewing +the silver Thames winding by the bowers of Rosebank, or inhaling from +its terraces the refined air of graceful Richmond. + +In exactly ten minutes it is in the power of every man to free himself +from all the tumult of the world; the pangs of love, the throbs of +ambition, the wear and tear of play, the recriminating boudoir, the +conspiring club, the rattling hell; and find himself in a sublime sylvan +solitude superior to the cedars of Lebanon, and inferior only in extent +to the chestnut forests of Anatolia. Kensington Gardens is almost the +only place that has realised his idea of the forests of Spenser and +Ariosto. What a pity, that instead of a princess in distress we meet +only a nurserymaid! But here is the fitting and convenient locality to +brood over our thoughts; to project the great and to achieve the +happy. It is here that we should get our speeches by heart, invent our +impromptus; muse over the caprices of our mistresses, destroy a cabinet, +and save a nation. + +About the time that Ferdinand directed his steps from these green +retreats towards Berkeley-Square, a servant summoned Miss Temple to her +father. + +‘Is papa alone?’ enquired Miss Temple. + +‘Only my lord with him,’ was the reply. + +‘Is Lord Montfort here!’ said Miss Temple, a little surprised. + +‘My lord has been with master these three hours,’ said the servant. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. + + _Ferdinand Receives the Most Interesting Invitation to + Dinner Ever Offered to Him_. + +IS NOT it wonderful?’ said Ferdinand, when he had finished his history +to Count Mirabel. + +‘Not the least,’ said the Count, ‘I never knew anything less surprising. +‘Tis exactly what I said, ‘tis the most natural termination in the +world.’ + +‘Ah, my dear Mirabel, you are a prophet! What a lucky fellow I am to +have such a friend as you!’ + +‘To be sure you are. Take some more coffee. What are you going to do +with yourself?’ + +‘I do not know what to do with myself. I really do not like to go +anywhere until I have heard from Montfort. I think I shall go to my +hotel’ ‘I will drive you. It is now three o’clock.’ But just at this +moment, Mr. Bevil called on the Count, and another hour disappeared. +When they were fairly in the cabriolet, there were so many places to +call at, and so many persons to see, that it was nearly six o’clock when +they reached the hotel. Ferdinand ran up stairs to see if there were any +letter from Lord Montfort. He found his lordship’s card, and also Mr. +Temple’s; they had called about half an hour ago; there was also a note. +These were its contents:-- + +‘Grosvenor-square, Thursday. + +‘My Dear Captain Armine, + +‘I have prepared myself with this note, as I fear I shall hardly be so +fortunate as to find you at home. It is only very recently that I have +learnt from Henrietta that you were in London, and I much regret to hear +that you have been so great an invalid. It is so long since we met that +I hope you will dine with us to-day; and indeed I am so anxious to see +you, that I trust, if you have unfortunately made any other engagement, +you may yet contrive to gratify my request. It is merely a family party; +you will only meet our friends from St. James’-square, and your own +circle in Brook-street. I have asked no one else, save old Lady Bellair, +and your friend Count Mirabel; and Henrietta is so anxious to secure +his presence, that I shall be greatly obliged by your exerting your +influence to induce him to accompany you, as I fear there is little hope +of finding him free. + +‘Henrietta joins with me in kindest regards; and I beg you to believe +me, + +‘My dear Captain Armine, + +‘Most cordially yours, + +‘Pelham Temple.’ + + +‘Well, what is the matter?’ said the Count, when Ferdinand returned to +the cabriolet, with the note in his hand, and looking very agitated. + +‘The strangest note!’ said Ferdinand. + +‘Give it me,’ said the Count. ‘Do you call that strange? Tis the most +regular epistle I ever read; I expected it. ‘Tis an excellent fellow, +that Mr. Temple; I will certainly dine with him, and send an excuse to +that old Castlefyshe. A family party, all right; and he asks me, that +is proper. I should not wonder if it ended by my being your trustee, or +your executor, or your first child’s godfather. Ah, that good Temple +is a sensible man. I told you I would settle this business for you. +You should hear me talk to that good Temple. I open his mind. A family +party; it will be amusing! I would not miss it for a thousand pounds. +Besides, I must go to take care of you, for you will be committing all +sorts of _bêtises_. I will give you one turn in the park. Jump in, _mon +enfant_. Good Armine, excellent fellow, jump in! You see, I was right; +I am always right. But I will confess to you a secret: I never was so +right as I have been in the present case. ‘Tis the best business that +ever was!’ + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. + + _Some Account of the Party, and Its Result_. + +IN SPITE of the Count Mirabel’s inspiring companionship, it must be +confessed that Ferdinand’s heart failed him when he entered Mr. Temple’s +house. Indeed, had it not been for the encouragement and jolly raillery +of his light-hearted friend, it is not quite clear that he would have +succeeded in ascending the staircase. A mist came over his vision as +he entered the room; various forms, indeed, glanced before him, but he +could distinguish none. He felt so embarrassed, that he was absolutely +miserable. It was Mr. Temple’s hand that he found he had hold of; the +calm demeanour and bland tones of that gentleman somewhat reassured him. +Mr. Temple was cordial, and Count Mirabel hovered about Ferdinand, and +covered his confusion. Then he recognised the duchess and his mother; +they were sitting together, and he went up and saluted them. He dared +not look round for the lady of the house. Lady Bellair was talking to +his father. At last he heard his name called by the Count. ‘Armine, +_mon cher_, see this beautiful work!’ and Ferdinand advanced, or rather +staggered, to a window where stood the Count before a group, and in +a minute he clasped the hand of Henrietta Temple. He could not speak. +Katherine was sitting by her, and Lord Montfort standing behind her +chair. But Count Mirabel never ceased talking, and with so much art and +tact, that in a few moments he had succeeded in producing comparative +ease on all sides. + +‘I am so glad that you have come to-day,’ said Henrietta. Her eyes +sparkled with a strange meaning, and then she suddenly withdrew her +gaze. The rose of her cheek alternately glowed and faded. It was a +moment of great embarrassment, and afterwards they often talked of it. + +Dinner, however, was soon announced as served, for Mirabel and Ferdinand +had purposely arrived at the last moment. As the duke advanced to offer +his arm to Miss Temple, Henrietta presented Ferdinand with a flower, as +if to console him for the separation. It was a round table; the duchess +and Lady Bellair sat on each side of Mr. Temple, the duke on the right +hand of Miss Temple; where there were so many members of the same +family, it was difficult to arrange the guests. Ferdinand held back, +when Count Mirabel, who had secured a seat by Henrietta, beckoned to +Ferdinand, and saying that Lady Bellair wished him to sit next to her, +pushed Ferdinand, as he himself walked away, into the vacated seat. +Henrietta caught the Count’s eye as he moved off; it was a laughing eye. + +‘I am glad you sit next to me,’ said Lady Bellair to the Count, ‘because +you are famous. I love famous people, and you are very famous. Why don’t +you come and see me? Now I have caught you at last, and you shall come +and dine with me the 7th, 8th, or 9th of next month; I have dinner +parties every day. You shall dine with me on the 8th, for then Lady +Frederick dines with me, and she will taste you. You shall sit next +to Lady Frederick, and mind you flirt with her. I wonder if you are as +amusing as your grandfather. I remember dancing a minuet with him at +Versailles seventy years ago.’ + +‘It is well recollected in the family,’ said the Count. + +‘Ah! you rogue!’ said the little lady, chuckling, ‘you lie! I like a lie +sometimes,’ she resumed, ‘but then it must be a good one. Do you know, +I only say it to you, but I am half afraid lies are more amusing than +truth.’ + +‘Naturally,’ said the Count, ‘because truth must in general be +commonplace, or it would not be true.’ + +In the meantime, Ferdinand was seated next to Henrietta Temple. He might +be excused for feeling a little bewildered. Indeed, the wonderful events +of the last four-and-twenty hours were enough to deprive anyone of a +complete command over his senses. What marvel, then, that he nearly +carved his soup, ate his fish with a spoon; and drank water instead of +wine! In fact, he was labouring under a degree of nervous excitement +which rendered it quite impossible for him to observe the proprieties of +life. The presence of all these persons was insupportable to him. Five +minutes alone with her in the woods of Ducie, and he would have felt +quite reassured. Miss Temple avoided his glance! She was, in truth, +as agitated as himself, and talked almost entirely to the duke; yet +sometimes she tried to address him, and say kind things. She called him +Ferdinand; that was quite sufficient to make him happy, although he felt +very awkward. He had been seated some minutes before he observed that +Glastonbury was next to him. + +‘I am so nervous, dear Glastonbury,’ said Ferdinand, ‘that I do not +think I shall be able to remain in the room.’ + +‘I have heard something,’ said Glastonbury, with a smile, ‘that makes me +quite bold.’ + +‘I cannot help fancying that it is all enchantment,’ said Ferdinand. + +‘There is no wonder, my dear boy, that you are enchanted,’ said +Glastonbury. + +‘Ferdinand,’ said Miss Temple in a low voice, ‘papa is taking wine with +you.’ Ferdinand looked up and caught Mr. Temple’s kind salute. + +‘That was a fine horse you were riding to-day,’ said Count Mirabel, +across the table to Miss Grandison. + +‘Is it not pretty? It is Lord Montfort’s.’ + +‘Lord Montfort’s!’ thought Ferdinand. ‘How strange all this seems!’ + +‘You were not of the riding party this morning,’ said his Grace to +Henrietta. + +‘I have not been very well this day or two,’ said Miss Temple. + +‘Well, I think you are looking particularly well to-day,’ replied the +duke. ‘What say you, Captain Armine?’ + +Ferdinand blushed, and looked confused at this appeal, and muttered some +contradictory compliments. + +‘Oh! I am very well now,’ said Miss Temple. + +‘You must come and dine with me,’ said Lady Bellair to Count Mirabel, +‘because you talk well across a table. I want a man who talks well +across a table. So few can do it without bellowing. I think you do it +very well.’ + +‘Naturally,’ replied the Count. ‘If I did not do it well, I should not +do it at all.’ + +‘Ah! you are audacious,’ said the old lady. ‘I like a little impudence. +It is better to be impudent than to be servile.’ + +‘Mankind are generally both,’ said the Count. + +‘I think they are,’ said the old lady. ‘Pray, is the old Duke of +Thingabob alive? You know whom I mean: he was an _émigré_, and a +relation of yours.’ + +‘De Crillon. He is dead, and his son too.’ + +‘He was a great talker,’ said Lady Bellair, ‘but then, he was the tyrant +of conversation. Now, men were made to listen as well as to talk.’ + +‘Without doubt,’ said the Count; ‘for Nature has given us two ears, but +only one mouth.’ + +‘You said that we might all be very happy,’ whispered Lord Montfort to +Miss Grandison. ‘What think you; have we succeeded?’ + +‘I think we all look very confused,’ said Miss Grandison. ‘What a +fortunate, idea it was inviting Lady Bellair and the Count. They never +could look confused.’ + +‘Watch Henrietta,’ said Lord Montfort. + +‘It is not fair. How silent Ferdinand is!’ + +‘Yes, he is not quite sure whether he is Christopher Sly or not,’ said +Lord Montfort. ‘What a fine embarrassment you have contrived, Miss +Grandison!’ + +‘Nay, Digby, you were the author of it. I cannot help thinking of your +interview with Mr. Temple. You were prompt!’ + +‘Why, I can be patient, fair Katherine,’ said Lord Montfort; ‘but in the +present instance I shrank from suspense, more, however, for others than +myself. It certainly was a singular interview.’ + +‘And were you not nervous?’ + +‘Why, no; I felt convinced that the interview could have only one +result. I thought of your memorable words; I felt I was doing what you +wished, and that I was making all of us happy. However, all honour be to +Mr. Temple! He has proved himself a man of sense.’ + +As the dinner proceeded, there was an attempt on all sides to be gay. +Count Mirabel talked a great deal, and Lady Bellair laughed at what he +said, and maintained her reputation for repartee. Her ladyship had been +for a long time anxious to seize hold of her gay neighbour, and it was +evident that he was quite ‘a favourite.’ Even Ferdinand grew a little +more at his ease. He ventured to relieve the duke from some of his +labours, and carve for Miss Temple. + +‘What do you think of our family party?’ said Henrietta to Ferdinand, in +a low voice. + +‘I can think only of one thing,’ said Ferdinand. + +‘I am so nervous,’ she continued, ‘that it seems to me I shall every +minute shriek, and leave the room.’ + +‘I feel the same; I am stupefied.’ + +‘Talk to Mr. Glastonbury; drink wine, and talk. Look, look at your +mother; she is watching us. She is dying to speak to you, and so is some +one else.’ + +At length the ladies withdrew. Ferdinand attended them to the door of +the dining-room. Lady Bellair shook her fan at him, but said nothing. +He pressed his mother’s hand. ‘Good-bye, cousin Ferdinand,’ said Miss +Grandison in a laughing tone. Henrietta smiled upon him as she passed +by. It was a speaking glance, and touched his heart. The gentlemen +remained behind much longer than was the custom in Mr. Temple’s house. +Everybody seemed resolved to drink a great deal of wine, and Mr. Temple +always addressed himself to Ferdinand, if anything were required, in +a manner which seemed to recognise, his responsible position in the +family. + +Anxious as Ferdinand was to escape to the drawing-room, he could not +venture on the step. He longed to speak to Glastonbury on the subject +which engrossed his thoughts, but he had not courage. Never did a man, +who really believed himself the happiest and most fortunate person in +the world, ever feel more awkward and more embarrassed. Was his father +aware of what had occurred? He could not decide. Apparently, Henrietta +imagined that his mother did, by the observation which she had made at +dinner. Then his father must be conscious of everything. Katherine must +have told all. Were Lord Montfort’s family in the secret? But what use +were these perplexing enquiries? It was certain that Henrietta was to +be his bride, and that Mr. Temple had sanctioned their alliance. There +could be no doubt of that, or why was he there? + +At length the gentlemen rose, and Ferdinand once more beheld Henrietta +Temple. As he entered, she was crossing the room with some music in her +hand, she was a moment alone. He stopped, he would have spoken, but his +lips would not move. + +‘Well,’ she said, ‘are you happy?’ + +‘My head wanders. Assure me that it is all true,’ he murmured in an +agitated voice. + +‘It is all true; there, go and speak to Lady Armine. I am as nervous as +you are.’ + +Ferdinand seated himself by his mother. + +‘Well, Ferdinand,’ she said, ‘I have heard wonderful things.’ + +‘And I hope they have made you happy, mother?’ + +‘I should, indeed, be both unreasonable and ungrateful if they did not; +but I confess to you, my dear child, I am even as much astonished as +gratified.’ + +‘And my father, he knows everything?’ + +‘Everything. But we have heard it only from Lord Montfort and Katherine. +We have had no communication with anyone else. And we meet here to-day +in this extraordinary manner, and but for them we should be completely +in the dark.’ + +‘And the duchess; do they know all?’ + +‘I conclude so.’ + +‘’Tis very strange, is it not?’ + +‘I am quite bewildered.’ + +‘O mother! is she not beautiful? Do you not love her? Shall we not all +be the happiest family in the world?’ + +‘I think we ought to be, dear Ferdinand. But I have not recovered from +my astonishment. Ah, my child, why did you not tell me when you were +ill?’ + +‘Is it not for the best that affairs should have taken the course they +have done? But you must blame Kate as well as me; dear Kate!’ + +‘I think of her,’ said Lady Armine; ‘I hope Kate will be happy.’ + +‘She must be, dear mother; only think what an excellent person is Lord +Montfort.’ + +‘He is indeed an excellent person,’ said Lady Armine; ‘but if I had been +engaged to you, Ferdinand, and it ended by my marrying Lord Montfort, I +should be very disappointed.’ + +‘The duchess would be of a different opinion,’ said Ferdinand. + +Lady Bellair, who was sitting on a sofa opposite, and had hitherto been +conversing with the duchess, who had now quitted her and joined +the musicians, began shaking her fan at Ferdinand in a manner which +signified her extreme desire that he should approach her. + +‘Well, Lady Bellair,’ said Ferdinand, seating himself by her side. + +‘I am in the secret, you know,’ said her ladyship. + +‘What secret, Lady Bellair?’ + +‘Ah! you will not commit yourself. Well, I like discretion. I have +always seen it from the first. No one has worked for you as I have. I +like true love, and I have left her all my china in my will.’ + +‘I am sure the legatee is very fortunate, whoever she may be.’ + +‘Ah, you rogue, you know very well whom I mean. You are saucy; you never +had a warmer friend than myself. I always admired you; you have a great +many good qualities and a great many bad ones. You always were a little +saucy. But I like a little spice of sauciness; I think it takes. I hear +you are great friends with Count Thingabob; the Count, whose +grandfather I danced with seventy years ago. That is right; always have +distinguished friends. Never have fools for friends; they are no use. I +suppose he is in the secret too.’ + +‘Really, Lady Bellair, I am in no secret. You quite excite my +curiosity.’ + +‘Well, I can’t get anything out of you, I see that. However, it all +happened at my house, that can’t be denied. I tell you what I will do; +I will give you all a dinner, and then the world will be quite certain +that I made the match.’ + +Lady Armine joined them, and Ferdinand seized the opportunity of +effecting his escape to the piano. + +‘I suppose Henrietta has found her voice again, now,’ whispered +Katherine to her cousin. + +‘Dear Katherine, really if you are so malicious, I shall punish you,’ +said Ferdinand. + +‘Well, the comedy is nearly concluded. We shall join hands, and the +curtain will drop.’ + +‘And I hope, in your opinion, not an unsuccessful performance.’ + +‘Why, I certainly cannot quarrel with the catastrophe,’ said Miss +Grandison. + +In the meantime, the Count Mirabel had obtained possession of Mr. +Temple, and lost no opportunity of confirming every favourable view +which that gentleman had been influenced by Lord Montfort to take of +Ferdinand and his conduct. Mr. Temple was quite convinced that his +daughter must be very happy, and that the alliance, on the whole, would +be productive of every satisfaction that he had ever anticipated. + +The evening drew on; carriages were announced; guests retired; Ferdinand +lingered; Mr. Temple was ushering Lady Bellair, the last guest, to her +carriage; Ferdinand and Henrietta were alone. They looked at each +other, their eyes met at the same moment, there was but one mode of +satisfactorily terminating their mutual embarrassments: they sprang into +each other’s arms. Ah, that was a moment of rapture, sweet, thrilling, +rapid! There was no need of words, their souls vaulted over all petty +explanations; upon her lips, her choice and trembling lips, he sealed +his gratitude and his devotion. + +The sound of footsteps was heard, the agitated Henrietta made her escape +by an opposite entrance. Mr. Temple returned, he met Captain Armine with +his hat, and enquired whether Henrietta had retired; and when Ferdinand +answered in the affirmative, wished him good-night, and begged him to +breakfast with them to-morrow. + + + + +CHAPTER XXV. + + _Which, Though Final, It Is Hoped Will Prove Satisfactory_. + +OUR kind reader will easily comprehend that from the happy day we have +just noticed, Ferdinand Armine was seldom absent from Grosvenor-square, +or from the society of Henrietta Temple. Both were so happy that they +soon overcame any little embarrassment which their novel situation +might first occasion them. In this effort, however, they were greatly +encouraged by the calm demeanour of Lord Montfort and the complacent +carriage of his intended bride. The world wondered and whispered, +marvelled and hinted, but nothing disturbed Lord Montfort, and Katherine +had the skill to silence raillery. Although it was settled that +the respective marriages should take place as soon as possible, the +settlements necessarily occasioned delay. By the application of his +funded property, and by a charge upon his Yorkshire estates, Mr. Temple +paid off the mortgages on Armine, which, with a certain life-charge +in his own favour, was settled in strict entail upon the issue of his +daughter. A certain portion of the income was to be set aside annually +to complete the castle, and until that edifice was ready to receive +them, Ferdinand and Henrietta were to live with Mr. Temple, principally +at Ducie, which Mr. Temple had now purchased. + +In spite, however, of the lawyers, the eventful day at length arrived. +Both happy couples were married at the same time and in the same place, +and Glastonbury performed the ceremony. Lord and Lady Montfort departed +for a seat in Sussex, belonging to his father; Ferdinand and Henrietta +repaired to Armine; while Sir Ratcliffe and his lady paid a visit to Mr. +Temple in Yorkshire, and Glastonbury found himself once more in his old +quarters in Lancashire with the duke and duchess. + +Once more at Armine; wandering once more together in the old pleasaunce; +it was so strange and sweet, that both Ferdinand and Henrietta almost +began to believe that it was well that the course of their true love had +for a moment not run so smoothly as at present, and they felt that their +adversity had rendered them even more sensible of their illimitable +bliss. And the woods of Ducie, they were not forgotten; nor, least of +all, the old farmhouse that had been his shelter. Certainly they were +the happiest people that ever lived, and though some years have now +passed since these events took place, custom has not sullied the +brightness of their love. They have no cares now, and yet both have +known enough of sorrow to make them rightly appreciate their unbroken +and unbounded blessings. + +When the honeymoon was fairly over, for neither of them would bate a +jot of this good old-fashioned privilege, Sir Ratcliffe and Lady Armine +returned to the Place, and Glastonbury to his tower; while Mr. Temple +joined them at Ducie, accompanied by Lord and Lady Montfort. The +autumn also brought the Count Mirabel to slaughter the pheasants, gay, +brilliant, careless, kind-hearted as ever. He has ever remained one of +Ferdinand’s most cherished friends; indeed, I hardly think that there is +any individual to whom Ferdinand is more attached. And after all, as the +Count often observes, if it had not been for Ferdinand’s scrapes they +would not have known each other. Nor was Lord Catchimwhocan passed over. +Ferdinand Armine was not the man to neglect a friend or to forget a +good service; and he has conferred on that good-natured, though +somewhat improvident, young nobleman, more substantial kindness than the +hospitality which is always cheerfully extended to him. When Ferdinand +repaid Mr. Bond Sharpe his fifteen hundred pounds, he took care that the +interest should appear in the shape of a golden vase, which is now not +the least gorgeous ornament of that worthy’s splendid sideboard. The +deer have appeared again too in the park of Armine, and many a haunch +smokes on the epicurean table of Cleveland-row. + +Lady Bellair is as lively as ever, and bids fair to amuse society as +long as the famous Countess of Desmond, + + Who lived to the age of a hundred and ten, + And died by a fall from a cherry tree then; + What a frisky old girl! + +In her annual progresses through the kingdom she never omits laying +under contribution every establishment of the three families, in whose +fortunes she was so unexpectedly mixed up. As her ladyship persists in +asserting, and perhaps now really believes, that both matches were the +result of her matrimonial craft, it would be the height of ingratitude +if she ever could complain of the want of a hearty welcome. + +In the daily increasing happiness of his beloved daughter, Mr. Temple +has quite forgotten any little disappointment which he might once have +felt at not having a duke for a son-in-law, and such a duke as his +valued friend, Lord Montfort. But Ferdinand Armine is blessed with so +sweet a temper that it is impossible to live with him and not love him; +and the most cordial intimacy and confidence subsist between the father +of Henrietta Temple and his son-in-law. From the aspect of public +affairs also, Mr. Temple, though he keeps this thought to himself, +is inclined to believe that a coronet may yet grace the brow of his +daughter, and that the barony of Armine may be revived. Soon after +the passing of the memorable Act of 1828, Lord Montfort became the +representative of his native county, and an active and influential +member of the House of Commons. After the reform, Mr. Armine was also +returned for a borough situate near the duke’s principal seat, and +although Lord Montfort and Mr. Armine both adhere to the Whig politics +of their families, they have both also, in the most marked manner, +abstained from voting on the appropriation clause; and there is little +doubt that they will ultimately support that British and national +administration which Providence has doubtless in store for these +outraged and distracted realms. At least this is Mr. Temple’s more than +hope, who is also in the House, and acts entirely with Lord Stanley. The +Montforts and the younger Armines contrive, through mutual visits and +a town residence during the Session, to pass the greater part of their +lives together; they both honestly confess that they are a little in +love with each other’s wives, but this only makes their society more +agreeable. The family circle at Armine has been considerably increased +of late; there is a handsome young Armine who has been christened +Glastonbury, a circumstance which repays the tenant of the tower for +all his devotion, and this blending of his name and memory with the +illustrious race that has so long occupied his thoughts and hopes, is to +him a source of constant self-congratulation. The future Sir Glastonbury +has also two younger brothers quite worthy of the blood, Temple and +Digby; and the most charming sister in the world, with large violet eyes +and long dark lashes, who is still in arms, and who bears the hallowed +name of Henrietta. And thus ends our LOVE STORY. + +[Illustration: coverplates.jpg] + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Henrietta Temple, by Benjamin Disraeli + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HENRIETTA TEMPLE *** + +***** This file should be named 19771-0.txt or 19771-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/9/7/7/19771/ + +Produced by David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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