Henrietta Temple: A Love Story
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.’