Henrietta Temple: A Love Story
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