Henrietta Temple: A Love Story
peasants alone who lived on the estate. The smoke began to rise in blue
curls from the cottage chimneys, and the church clock struck the hour of
five. It seemed to Ferdinand that those labourers were far happier than
he, since the setting sun would find them still at Armine: happy, happy
Armine!
The sound of carriage wheels roused him from his reverie. The fatal
moment had arrived. He hastened to the gate according to his promise,
to bid farewell to Glastonbury. The good old man was up. He pressed his
pupil to his bosom, and blessed him with a choking voice.
‘Dearest and kindest friend!’ murmured Ferdinand. Glastonbury placed
round his neck a small golden crucifix that had belonged to Lady
Barbara. ‘Wear it next your heart, my child,’ said he; ‘it will remind
you of your God, and of us all.’ Ferdinand quitted the tower with a
thousand blessings.
When he came in sight of the Place he saw his father standing by the
carriage, which was already packed. Ferdinand ran into the house to get
the card which had been left on the hall table for him by his mother.
He ran over the list with the old and faithful domestic, and shook hands
with him. Nothing now remained. All was ready. His father was seated.
Ferdinand stood a moment in thought. ‘Let me run up to my mother, sir?’
‘You had better not, my child,’ replied Sir Ratcliffe, ‘she does not
expect you. Come, come along.’ So he slowly seated himself, with his
eyes fixed on the window of his mother’s chamber; and as the carriage
drove off the window opened, and a hand waved a white handkerchief. He
saw no more; but as he saw it he clenched his hand in agony.
How different was this journey to London from his last! He scarcely
spoke a word. Nothing interested him but his own feelings. The guard and
the coachman, and the bustle of the inn, and the passing spectacles of
the road, appeared a collection of impertinences. All of a sudden it
seemed that his boyish feelings had deserted him. He was glad when they
arrived in London, and glad that they were to stay in it only a single
day. Sir Ratcliffe and his son called upon the Duke; but, as they had
anticipated, the family had quitted town. Our travellers put up at
Hatchett’s, and the following night started for Exeter in the Devonport
mail. Ferdinand arrived at the western metropolis having interchanged
with his father scarcely a hundred sentences. At Exeter, after a
night of most welcome rest, they took a post-chaise and proceeded by a
cross-road to Grandison.
When Lord Grandison, who as yet was perfectly unacquainted with the
revolutions in the Armine family, had clearly comprehended that his
grandson had obtained a commission without either troubling him for his
interest, or putting him in the disagreeable predicament of refusing
his money, there were no bounds to the extravagant testimonials of his
affection, both towards his son-in-law and his grandson. He seemed quite
proud of such relations; he patted Sir Ratcliffe on his back, asked a
thousand questions about his darling Constance, and hugged and slobbered
over Ferdinand as if he were a child of five years old. He informed
all his guests daily (and the house was full) that Lady Armine was his
favourite daughter, and Sir Ratcliffe his favourite son-in-law, and
Ferdinand especially his favourite grandchild. He insisted upon Sir
Ratcliffe always sitting at the head of his table, and always placed
Ferdinand on his own right hand. He asked his butler aloud at dinner why
he had not given a particular kind of Burgundy, because Sir Ratcliffe
Armine was here.
‘Darbois,’ said the old nobleman, ‘have not I told you that Clos
de Vougeot is always to be kept for Sir Ratcliffe Armine? It is his
favourite wine. Clos de Vougeot directly to Sir Ratcliffe Armine. I do
not think, my dear madam [turning to a fair neighbour], that I have
yet had the pleasure of introducing you to my son-in-law, my favourite
son-in-law, Sir Ratcliffe Armine. He married my daughter Constance, my
favourite daughter, Constance. Only here for a few days, a very, very
few days indeed. Quite a flying visit. I wish I could see the whole
family oftener and longer. Passing through to Falmouth with his son,
this young gentleman on my right, my grandson, my favourite grandson,
Ferdinand. Just got his commission. Ordered for Malta immediately. He is
in the Fusileers, the Royal Fusileers. Very difficult, my dear madam, in
these days to obtain a commission, especially a commission in the Royal
Fusileers. Very great interest required, very great interest, indeed.
But the Armines are a most ancient family, very highly connected, very
highly connected; and, between you and me, the Duke of-----would do
anything for them.
Come, come, Captain Armine, take a glass of wine with your old
grandfather.’
‘How attached the old gentleman appears to be to his grandson!’
whispered the lady to her neighbour.
‘Delightful! yes!’ was the reply, ‘I believe he is the favourite
grandson.’
In short, the old gentleman at last got so excited by the universal
admiration lavished on his favourite grandson, that he finally insisted
on seeing the young hero in his regimentals; and when Ferdinand took his
leave, after a great many whimpering blessings, his domestic feelings
were worked up to such a pitch of enthusiasm, that he absolutely
presented his grandson with a hundred-pound note.
‘Thank you, my dear grandpapa,’ said the astonished Ferdinand, who
really did not expect more than fifty, perhaps even a moiety of that
more moderate sum; ‘thank you, my dear grandpapa; I am very much obliged
to you, indeed.’
‘I wish I could do more for you; I do, indeed,’ said Lord Grandison;
‘but nobody ever thinks of paying his rent now. You are my grandson, my
favourite grandson, my dear favourite daughter’s only child. And you are
an officer in his Majesty’s service, an officer in the Royal Fusiliers,
only think of that! It is the most unexpected thing that ever happened
to me. To see you so well and so unexpectedly provided for, my dear
child, has taken a very great load off my mind; it has indeed. You
have no idea of a parent’s anxiety in these matters, especially of a
grandfather. You will some day, I warrant you,’ continued the noble
grandfather, with an expression between a giggle and a leer; ‘but do
not be wild, my dear Ferdinand, do not be too wild at least. Young blood
must have its way; but be cautious; now, do; be cautious, my dear child.
Do not get into any scrapes; at least, do not get into any serious
scrapes; and whatever happens to you,’ and here his lordship assumed
even a solemn tone, ‘remember you have friends; remember, my dear
boy, you have a grandfather, and that you, my dear Ferdinand, are his
favourite grandson.’
This passing visit to Grandison rather rallied the spirits of our
travellers. When they arrived at Falmouth, they found, however, that the
packet, which waited for government despatches, was not yet to sail. Sir
Ratcliffe scarcely knew whether he ought to grieve or to rejoice at the
reprieve; but he determined to be gay. So Ferdinand and himself passed
their mornings in visiting the mines, Pendennis Castle, and the other
lions of the neighbourhood; and returned in the evening to their
cheerful hotel, with good appetites for their agreeable banquet, the
mutton of Dartmoor and the cream of Devon.
At length, however, the hour of separation approached; a message
awaited them at the inn, on their return from one of their rambles, that
Ferdinand must be on board at an early hour on the morrow. That evening
the conversation between Sir Ratcliffe and his son was of a graver
nature than they usually indulged in. He spoke to him in confidence
of his affairs. Dark hints, indeed, had before reached Ferdinand; nor,
although his parents had ever spared his feelings, could his intelligent
mind have altogether refrained from guessing much that had never
been formally communicated. Yet the truth was worse even than he had
anticipated. Ferdinand, however, was young and sanguine. He encouraged
his father with his hopes, and supported him by his sympathy. He
expressed to Sir Ratcliffe his confidence that the generosity of his
grandfather would prevent him at present from becoming a burden to
his own parent, and he inwardly resolved that no possible circumstance
should ever induce him to abuse the benevolence of Sir Ratcliffe.
The moment of separation arrived. Sir Ratcliffe pressed to his bosom his
only, his loving, and his beloved child. He poured over Ferdinand the
deepest, the most fervid blessing that a father ever granted to a son.
But, with all this pious consolation, it was a moment of agony.
BOOK II.
CHAPTER I.
_Partly Retrospective, yet Very Necessary to be Perused_.
EARLY five years had elapsed between the event which formed the subject
of our last chapter and the recall to England of the regiment in which
Captain Armine now commanded a company. This period of time had passed
away not unfruitful of events in the experience of that family, in
whose fate and feelings I have attempted to interest the reader. In this
interval Ferdinand Armine had paid one short visit to his native land;
a visit which had certainly been accelerated, if not absolutely
occasioned, by the untimely death of his cousin Augustus, the
presumptive heir of Grandison. This unforeseen event produced a great
revolution in the prospects of the family of Armine; for although the
title and an entailed estate devolved to a distant branch, the absolute
property of the old lord was of great amount; and, as he had no male
heir now living, conjectures as to its probable disposition were
now rife among all those who could possibly become interested in it.
Whatever arrangement the old lord might decide upon, it seemed nearly
certain that the Armine family must be greatly benefited. Some persons
even went so far as to express their conviction that everything would be
left to Mr. Armine, who everybody now discovered to have always been a
particular favourite with his grandfather. At all events, Sir Ratcliffe,
who ever maintained upon the subject a becoming silence, thought it
as well that his son should remind his grandfather personally of his
existence; and it was at his father’s suggestion that Ferdinand had
obtained a short leave of absence, at the first opportunity, to pay a
hurried visit to Grandison and his grandfather.
The old lord yielded him a reception which might have flattered the
most daring hopes. He embraced Ferdinand, and pressed him to his heart a
thousand times; he gave him his blessing in the most formal manner every
morning and evening; and assured everybody that he now was not only his
favourite but his only grandson. He did not even hesitate to affect a
growing dislike for his own seat, because it was not in his power to
leave it to Ferdinand; and he endeavoured to console that fortunate
youth for his indispensable deprivation by mysterious intimations that
he would, perhaps, find quite enough to do with his money in completing
Armine Castle, and maintaining its becoming splendour. The sanguine
Ferdinand returned to Malta with the conviction that he was his
grandfather’s heir; and even Sir Ratcliffe was almost disposed to
believe that his son’s expectations were not without some show of
probability, when he found that Lord Grandison had absolutely furnished
him with the funds for the purchase of his company.
Ferdinand was fond of his profession. He had entered it under favourable
circumstances. He had joined a crack regiment in a crack garrison. Malta
is certainly a delightful station. Its city, Valetta, equals in its
noble architecture, if it even do not excel, any capital in Europe;
and although it must be confessed that the surrounding region is little