Henrietta Temple: A Love Story
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