Henrietta Temple: A Love Story
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