Henrietta Temple: A Love Story
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!’