Henrietta Temple: A Love Story
Ferdinand started. He thought of Glastonbury.
His miserable situation recurred to him. This was the bitter drop in
the cup; yes! in the very plenitude of his rare felicity he expressed a
pang. His confusion was not unobserved by Miss Temple; for she was very
quick in her perception; but she could not comprehend it. It did
not rest on her mind, particularly when Ferdinand assented to her
proposition, but added, ‘I forgot that Armine is more interesting to
you than to me. All my associations with Armine are painful. Ducie is my
delight.’
‘Ah! my romance is at Armine; yours at Ducie. What we live among, we
do not always value. And yet I love my home,’ she added, in a somewhat
subdued, even serious tone; ‘all my associations with Ducie are sweet
and pleasant. Will they always be so?’
She hit upon a key to which the passing thoughts of Ferdinand too
completely responded, but he restrained the mood of his mind. As she
grew grave, he affected cheerfulness. ‘My Henrietta must always be
happy,’ he said, ‘at least, if her Ferdinand’s love can make her so.’
She did not reply, but she pressed his hand. Then, after a moment’s
silence, she said, ‘My Ferdinand must not be low-spirited about dear
Armine. I have confidence in our destiny; I see a happy, a very happy
future.’
Who could resist so fair a prophet? Not the sanguine mind of the
enamoured Ferdinand Armine. He drank inspiration from her smiles, and
dwelt with delight on the tender accents of her animating sympathy.
‘I never shall be low-spirited with you,’ he replied; ‘you are my good
genius. O Henrietta! what heaven it is to be together!’
‘I bless you for these words. We will not go to Armine to-day. Let us
walk. And to speak the truth, for I am not ashamed of saying anything
to you, it would be hardly discreet, perhaps, to be driving about the
country in this guise. And yet,’ she added, after a moment’s hesitation,
‘what care I for what people say? O Ferdinand! I think only of you!’
That was a delicious ramble which these young and enamoured creatures
took that sunny morn! The air was sweet, the earth was beautiful,
and yet they were insensible to everything but their mutual love.
Inexhaustible is the converse of fond hearts! A simple story, too, and
yet there are so many ways of telling it!
‘How strange that we should have ever met!’ said Henrietta Temple.
‘Indeed, I think it most natural,’ said Ferdinand; ‘I will believe it
the fulfilment of a happy destiny. For all that I have sighed for now I
meet, and more, much more than my imagination could ever hope for.’
‘Only think of that morning drive,’ resumed Henrietta, ‘such a little
time ago, and yet it seems an age! Let us believe in destiny, dear
Ferdinand, or you must think of me, I fear, that which I would not
wish.’
‘My own Henrietta, I can think of you only as the noblest and the
sweetest of beings. My love is ever equalled by my gratitude!’
‘My Ferdinand, I had read of such feelings, but did not believe in them.
I did not believe, at least, that they were reserved for me. And yet I
have met many persons, and seen something more, much more than falls to
the lot of women of my age. Believe me, indeed, my eye has hitherto been
undazzled, and my heart untouched.’ He pressed her hand.
‘And then,’ she resumed, ‘in a moment; but it seemed not like common
life. That beautiful wilderness, that ruinous castle! As I gazed around,
I felt not as is my custom. I felt as if some fate were impending, as if
my life and lot were bound up, as it were, with that strange and silent
scene. And then he came forward, and I beheld him, so unlike all other
men, so beautiful, so pensive! O Ferdinand! pardon me for loving you!’
and she gently turned her head, and hid her face on his breast.
‘Darling Henrietta,’ lowly breathed the enraptured lover, ‘best, and
sweetest, and loveliest of women, your Ferdinand, at that moment, was
not less moved than you were. Speechless and pale I had watched my
Henrietta, and I felt that I beheld the being to whom I must dedicate my
existence.’
‘I shall never forget the moment when I stood before the portrait of
Sir Ferdinand. Do you know my heart was prophetic; I wanted not that
confirmation of a strange conjecture. I felt that you must be an Armine.
I had heard so much of your grandfather, so much of your family. I loved
them for their glory, and for their lordly sorrows.’
‘Ah! my Henrietta, ‘tis that alone which galls me. It is bitter to
introduce my bride to our house of cares.’
‘You shall never think it so,’ she replied with animation. ‘I will
prove a true Armine. Happier in the honour of that name, than in the
most rich possessions! You do not know me yet. Your wife shall not
disgrace you or your lineage. I have a spirit worthy of you, Ferdinand;
at least, I dare to hope so. I can break, but I will not bend. We will
wrestle together with all our cares; and my Ferdinand, animated by his
Henrietta, shall restore the house.’
‘Alas! my noble-minded girl, I fear a severe trial awaits us. I can
offer you only love.’
‘Is there anything else in this world?’
‘But, to bear you from a roof of luxury, where you have been cherished
from your cradle, with all that ministers to the delicate delights
of woman, to--oh! my Henrietta, you know not the disheartening and
depressing burthen of domestic cares.’ His voice faltered as he recalled
his melancholy father; and the disappointment, perhaps the destruction,
that his passion was preparing for his roof.
‘There shall be no cares; I will endure everything; I will animate all.
I have energy; indeed I have, my Ferdinand. I have, young as I may be,
I have often inspirited, often urged on my father. Sometimes, he says,
that had it not been for me, he would not have been what he is. He is my
father, the best and kindest parent that ever loved his child; yet, what
are fathers to you, my Ferdinand? and, if I could assist him, what may I
not do for-----’
‘Alas! my Henrietta, we have no theatre for action. You forget our
creed.’
‘It was the great Sir Ferdinand’s. He made a theatre.’
‘My Henrietta is ambitious,’ said Ferdinand, smiling.
‘Dearest, I would be content, nay! that is a weak phrase, I would, if
the choice were in my power now to select a life most grateful to my
views and feelings, choose some delightful solitude, even as Armine,
and pass existence with no other aim but to delight you. But we were
speaking of other circumstances. Such happiness, it is said, is not for
us. And I wished to show you that I have a spirit that can struggle with
adversity, and a soul prescient of overwhelming it.’
‘You have a spirit I reverence, and a soul I worship, nor is there a
happier being in the world this moment than Ferdinand Armine. With such
a woman as you every fate must be a triumph. You have touched upon a
chord of my heart that has sounded before, though in solitude. It was
but the wind that played on it before; but now that tone rings with a
purpose. This is glorious sympathy. Let us leave Armine to its fate.
I have a sword, and it shall go hard if I do not carve out a destiny
worthy even of Henrietta Temple.’
CHAPTER IV.
_Henrietta Visits Armine, Which Leads to a Rather
Perplexing Encounter_.
THE communion of this day, of the spirit of which the conversation just
noticed may convey an intimation, produced an inspiriting effect on the
mind of Ferdinand. Love is inspiration; it encourages to great deeds,
and develops the creative faculty of our nature. Few great men have
flourished who, were they candid, would not acknowledge the vast
advantages they have experienced in the earlier years of their career
from the spirit and sympathy of woman. It is woman whose prescient
admiration strings the lyre of the desponding poet whose genius is
afterwards to be recognised by his race, and which often embalms
the memory of the gentle mistress whose kindness solaced him in less
glorious hours. How many an official portfolio would never have been
carried, had it not been for her sanguine spirit and assiduous love! How
many a depressed and despairing advocate has clutched the Great Seal,
and taken his precedence before princes, borne onward by the breeze
of her inspiring hope, and illumined by the sunshine of her prophetic
smile! A female friend, amiable, clever, and devoted, is a possession
more valuable than parks and palaces; and, without such a muse, few men
can succeed in life, none be content.
The plans and aspirations of Henrietta had relieved Ferdinand from
a depressing burthen. Inspired by her creative sympathy, a new scene
opened to him, adorned by a magnificent perspective. His sanguine
imagination sought refuge in a triumphant future. That love for which
he had hitherto schooled his mind to sacrifice every worldly advantage
appeared suddenly to be transformed into the very source of earthly
success. Henrietta Temple was to be the fountain, not only of his bliss,
but of his prosperity. In the revel of his audacious fancy he seemed, as
it were, by a beautiful retribution, to be already rewarded for having
devoted, with such unhesitating readiness, his heart upon the altar
of disinterested affection. Lying on his cottage-couch, he indulged
in dazzling visions; he wandered in strange lands with his beautiful
companion, and offered at her feet the quick rewards of his unparalleled
achievements.
Recurring to his immediate situation, he resolved to lose no time in
bringing his affairs to a crisis. He was even working himself up to his
instant departure, solaced by the certainty of his immediate return,
when the arrival of his servant announced to him that Glastonbury had
quitted Armine on one of those antiquarian rambles to which he was
accustomed. Gratified that it was now in his power to comply with the
wish of Henrietta to visit his home, and perhaps, in truth, not
very much mortified that so reasonable an excuse had arisen for the
postponement of his intended departure, Ferdinand instantly rose, and as
speedily as possible took his way to Ducie.
He found Henrietta in the garden. He had arrived, perhaps, earlier than
he was expected; yet what joy to see him! And when he himself proposed
an excursion to Armine, her grateful smile melted his very heart.
Indeed, Ferdinand this morning was so gay and light-hearted, that his
excessive merriment might almost have been as suspicious as his passing
gloom the previous day. Not less tender and fond than before, his
sportive fancy indulged in infinite expressions of playful humour
and delicate pranks of love. When he first recognised her gathering
a nosegay, too, for him, himself unobserved, he stole behind her on
tiptoe, and suddenly clasping her delicate waist, and raising her gently
in the air, ‘Well, lady-bird,’ he exclaimed, ‘I, too, will pluck a
flower!’
Ah! when she turned round her beautiful face, full of charming
confusion, and uttered a faint cry of fond astonishment, as she caught
his bright glance, what happiness was Ferdinand Armine’s, as he felt
this enchanting creature was his, and pressed to his bosom her noble and
throbbing form!
‘Perhaps this time next year, we may be travelling on mules,’ said
Ferdinand, as he flourished his whip, and the little pony trotted along.
Henrietta smiled. ‘And then,’ continued he, ‘we shall remember our
pony-chair that we turn up our noses at now. Donna Henrietta, jogged to
death over dull vegas, and picking her way across rocky sierras, will
be a very different person from Miss Temple, of Ducie Bower. I hope you
will not be very irritable, my child; and pray vent your spleen upon
your muleteer, and not upon your husband.’
‘Now, Ferdinand, how can you be so ridiculous?’
‘Oh! I have no doubt I shall have to bear all the blame. “You brought