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Title: Henrietta Temple: A Love Story

Author: Earl of Beaconsfield Benjamin Disraeli

Release date: November 12, 2006 [eBook #19771]
Most recently updated: February 25, 2021

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/19771

Credits: Produced by David Widger

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HENRIETTA
TEMPLE: A LOVE STORY ***

HENRIETTA TEMPLE

By Benjamin Disraeli

Earl of Beaconsfield

TO THE COUNT ALFRED D’ORSAY

THESE VOLUMES ARE INSCRIBED
BY
HIS AFFECTIONATE FRIEND.

CONTENTS

HENRIETTA TEMPLE

BOOK I.
CHAPTER I. -- Some Account of the Family of
Armine, and Especially of Sir Ferdinand and of Sir
Ratcliffe.
CHAPTER II. -- Armine Described.
CHAPTER III. -- Arrival of Glastonbury.
CHAPTER IV. -- Progress of Affairs at Armine.
CHAPTER V. -- A Domestic Scene.
CHAPTER VI. -- Containing Another Domestic
Scene.
CHAPTER VII. -- Containing an Unexpected Visit
to London, and Its Consequences.
CHAPTER VIII. -- A Visit to Glastonbury’s
Chamber.
CHAPTER IX. -- The Last Day and the Last Night.
CHAPTER X. -- The Advantage of Being a
Favourite Grandson.

BOOK II.
CHAPTER I. -- Partly Retrospective, yet Very
Necessary to be Perused.

CHAPTER II. -- In Which Captain Armine Achieves
with Rapidity a Result Which Always Requires Great
Deliberation.
CHAPTER III. -- Which Ferdinand Returns to
Armine.
CHAPTER IV. -- In Which Some Light Is Thrown on
the Title of This Work.
CHAPTER V. -- In Which Captain Armine Is Very
Absent during Dinner.
CHAPTER VI. -- In Which Captain Armine Pays
His First Visit to Ducie.
CHAPTER VII. -- In Which Captain Armine
Indulges in a Reverie.
CHAPTER VIII. -- A Strange Dream.
CHAPTER IX. -- Which I Hope May Prove as
Agreeable to the Reader as to Our Hero.
CHAPTER X. -- Evening Stroll.
CHAPTER XI. -- A Morning Walk.
CHAPTER XII. -- Containing an Ominous Incident.
CHAPTER XIII. -- In Which Captain Armine Finds
Reason to Believe in the Existence of Fairies.
CHAPTER XIV. -- Containing an Incident Which Is
the Termination of Most Tales, though Almost the
Beginning of the Present.

BOOK III.
CHAPTER I. -- In Which Captain Armine Proves
Himself a Complete Tactician.

CHAPTER II. -- A Day of Love.
CHAPTER III. -- Which on the Whole Is Found
Very Consoling.
CHAPTER IV. -- Henrietta Visits Armine, Which
Leads to a Rather Perplexing Encounter.
CHAPTER V. -- Which Contains Something Very
Unexpected.

BOOK IV.
CHAPTER I. -- Which Contains a Love-Letter.
CHAPTER II. -- Which, Supposing the Reader Is
Interested in the Correspondence, Pursues It.
CHAPTER III. -- Containing the Arrival at Ducie of
a Distinguished Guest.
CHAPTER IV. -- Containing Some Account of the
Viscountess Dowager Bellair.
CHAPTER V. -- In Which Lady Bellair Gives Some
Account of Some of Her Friends.
CHAPTER VI. -- Containing a Conversation Not
Quite so Amusing as the Last.
CHAPTER VII. -- In Which Mr. Temple Pays a Visit
to His Daughter’s Chamber.
CHAPTER VIII. -- In Which Glastonbury Is Very
Much Astonished.
CHAPTER IX. -- In Which Glastonbury Finds That
a Serene Temper Does Not Always Bring a Serene
Life.

CHAPTER X. -- In Which Ferdinand Armine Is
Much Concerned.
CHAPTER XI. -- In Which Ferdinand Begins to Be
a Little Troublesome.
CHAPTER XII. -- Containing the Intimation of a
Somewhat Mysterious Adventure.
CHAPTER XIII. -- In Which the Family Perplexities
Rather Increase than Diminish.
CHAPTER XIV. -- In Which Some Light Is Thrown
upon Some Circumstances Which Were Before Rather
Mysterious.
CHAPTER XV. -- Which Leaves Affairs in General
in a Scarcely More Satisfactory Position than the
Former One.

BOOK V.
CHAPTER I. -- Containing the Appearance on Our
Stage of a New and Important Character.
CHAPTER II. -- In Which Lord Montfort Contrives
That Miss Temple Should be Left Alone.
CHAPTER III. -- In Which Mr. Temple and His
Daughter, with Their New Friend, Make an
Unexpected Excursion.
CHAPTER IV. -- Showing That It Is the First Step
That Is Ever the Most Difficult.
CHAPTER V. -- Which Contains Some Rather
Painful Explanations.
CHAPTER VI. -- Which Contains an Event Not Less
Important Than the One Which Concluded Our

Second Book.

BOOK VI.
CHAPTER I. -- Which Contains a Remarkable
Change of Fortune.
CHAPTER II. -- In Which the Reader Is Again
Introduced to Captain Armine, during His Visit to
London.
CHAPTER III. -- In Which Glastonbury Meets the
Very Last Person in the World He Expected, and the
Strange Consequences.

BOOK VI. -- [Continued]
CHAPTER IV. -- In Which Mr. Glastonbury Informs
Captain Armine of His Meeting with Miss Temple.
CHAPTER V. -- Which, on the Whole, Is Perhaps as
Remarkable a Chapter as Any in the Work.
CHAPTER VI. -- Containing an Evening Assembly
at Bellair House.
CHAPTER VII. -- Containing a Very Important
Communication.
CHAPTER VIII. -- Which Is Rather Strange.
CHAPTER IX. -- Which Is on the Whole Almost as
Perplexing as the Preceding One.
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.

CHAPTER XI. -- In Which Captain Armine
Unexpectedly Resumes His Acquaintance with Lord
Catchimwhocan, Who Introduces Him to Mr. Bond
Sharpe.
CHAPTER XII. -- Miss Grandison Makes a
Remarkable Discovery.
CHAPTER XIII. -- In Which Ferdinand Has the
Honour of Dining with Mr. Bond Sharpe.
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.
CHAPTER XV. -- In Which the Count Mirabel
Commences His Operations with Great Success.
CHAPTER XVI. -- In Which Mr. Temple Surprises
His Daughter Weeping.
CHAPTER XVII. -- In Which Ferdinand Has a Very
Stormy Interview with His Father.
CHAPTER XVIII. -- Ferdinand Is Arrested by
Messrs. Morris and Levison, and Taken to a Spunging-
House.
CHAPTER XIX. -- The Crisis Rapidly Advances.
CHAPTER XX. -- In Which Ferdinand Receives
More than One Visit, and Finds That Adversity Has
Not Quite Deprived Him of His Friends.
CHAPTER XXI. -- The Crisis.
CHAPTER XXII. -- Ferdinand Meditates over His
Good Fortune.

CHAPTER XXIII. -- Ferdinand Receives the Most
Interesting Invitation to Dinner Ever Offered to Him.
CHAPTER XXIV. -- Some Account of the Party, and
Its Result.
CHAPTER XXV. -- Which, Though Final, It Is
Hoped Will Prove Satisfactory.

ILLUSTRATIONS

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HENRIETTA TEMPLE

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.

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.

‘’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.

‘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.

‘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