CHAPTER IX.
_Which I Hope May Prove as Agreeable to the Reader as to Our Hero_.
FERDINAND'S servant, whom he had despatched the previous evening toArmine, returned early with his master's letters; one from his 'mother,and one from Miss Grandison.
They were all to arrive at the Place on the day after the morrow.Ferdinand opened these epistles with a trembling hand. The sight ofKatherine's, his Katherine's, handwriting was almost as terrible ashis dream. It recalled to him, with a dreadful reality, his actualsituation, which he had driven from his thoughts. He had quitted hisfamily, his family who were so devoted to him, and whom he so loved,happy, nay, triumphant, a pledged and rejoicing bridegroom. What hadoccurred during the last eight-and-forty hours seemed completely to havechanged all his feelings, all his wishes, all his views, all his hopes!He had in that interval met a single human being, a woman, a girl, ayoung and innocent girl; he had looked upon that girl and listened toher voice, and his soul was changed as the earth by the sunrise. Aslying in his bed he read these letters, and mused over their contents,and all the thoughts that they suggested, the strangeness of life,the mystery of human nature, were painfully impressed upon him.His melancholy father, his fond and confiding mother, the devotedGlastonbury, all the mortifying circumstances of his illustrious race,rose in painful succession before him. Nor could he forget his ownwretched follies and that fatal visit to Bath, of which the consequencesclanked upon his memory like degrading and disgraceful fetters. Theburden of existence seemed intolerable. That domestic love which had sosolaced his existence, recalled now only the most painful associations.In the wildness of his thoughts he wished himself alone in the world, tostruggle with his fate and mould his fortunes. He felt himself a slaveand a sacrifice. He cursed Armine, his ancient house, and his brokenfortunes. He felt that death was preferable to life without HenriettaTemple. But even supposing that he could extricate himself from hisrash engagement; even admitting that all worldly considerations mightbe thrown aside, and the pride of his father, and his mother's love, andGlastonbury's pure hopes, might all be outraged; what chance, whathope was there of obtaining his great object? What was he, what was he,Ferdinand Armine, free as the air from the claims of Miss Grandison,with all sense of duty rooted out of his once sensitive bosom, andexisting only for the gratification of his own wild fancies? A beggar,worse than a beggar, without a home, without the possibility of a hometo offer the lady of his passion; nay, not even secure that the harshprocess of the law might not instantly claim its victim, and he himselfbe hurried from the altar to the gaol!
Moody and melancholy, he repaired to the salon; he beheld HenriettaTemple, and the cloud left his brow, and lightness came to his heart.Never had she looked so beautiful, so fresh and bright, so like a fairflower with the dew upon its leaves. Her voice penetrated his soul; hersunny smile warmed his breast. Her father greeted him too with kindness,and inquired after his slumbers, which he assured Mr. Temple had beensatisfactory.
'I find,' continued Mr. Temple, 'that the post has brought me somebusiness to-day which, I fear, claims the morning to transact; but Ihope you will not forget your promise. The keeper will be ready wheneveryou summon him.'
Ferdinand muttered something about trouble and intrusion, and theexpected arrival of his family; but Miss Temple begged him to accept theoffer, and refusal was impossible.
After breakfast Mr. Temple retired to his library, and Ferdinand foundhimself alone for the first time with Henrietta Temple.
She was copying a miniature of Charles the First. Ferdinand looked overher shoulder.
'A melancholy countenance!' he observed.
'It is a favourite one of mine,' she replied.
'Yet you are always gay.'
'Always.'
'I envy you, Miss Temple.'
'What, are you melancholy?'
'I have every cause.'
'Indeed, I should have thought the reverse.'
'I look upon myself as the most unfortunate of human beings,' repliedFerdinand.
He spoke so seriously, in a tone of such deep and bitter feeling,that Miss Temple could not resist looking up at her companion. Hiscountenance was gloomy.
'You surprise me,' said Miss Temple; 'I think that few people ought tobe unhappy, and I rather suspect fewer are than we imagine.'
'All I wish is,' replied he, 'that the battle of Newbury had witnessedthe extinction of our family as well as our peerage.'
'A peerage, and such a peerage as yours, is a fine thing,' saidHenrietta Temple, 'a very fine thing; but I would not grieve, if I wereyou, for that. I would sooner be an Armine without a coronet than many abrow I wot of with.'
'You misconceived a silly phrase,' rejoined Ferdinand. 'I was notthinking of the loss of our coronet, though that is only part of thesystem. Our family, I am sure, are fated. Birth without honour, estateswithout fortune, life without happiness, that is our lot.'
'As for the first,' said Miss Temple, 'the honourable are alwayshonoured; money, in spite of what they say, I feel is not the greatestthing in the world; and as for misery, I confess I do not very readilybelieve in the misery of youth.'
'May you never prove it!' replied Ferdinand; 'may you never be, as I am,the victim of family profligacy and family pride!' So saying, he turnedaway, and, taking up a book, for a few minutes seemed wrapped in hisreflections.
He suddenly resumed the conversation in a more cheerful tone. Holding avolume of Petrarch in his hand, he touched lightly, but with grace, onItalian poetry; then diverged into his travels, recounted an adventurewith sprightliness, and replied to Miss Temple's lively remarks withgaiety and readiness. The morning advanced; Miss Temple closed herportfolio and visited her flowers, inviting him to follow her. Herinvitation was scarcely necessary, his movements were regulated by hers;he was as faithful to her as her shadow. From the conservatory theyentered the garden; Ferdinand was as fond of gardens as Miss Temple.She praised the flower-garden of Armine. He gave her some account of itsprincipal creator. The character of Glastonbury highly interested MissTemple. Love is confidential; it has no fear of ridicule. Ferdinandentered with freedom and yet with grace into family details, from which,at another time and to another person, he would have been the first toshrink. The imagination of Miss Temple was greatly interested by hissimple, and, to her, affecting account of this ancient line livingin their hereditary solitude, with all their noble pride and haughtypoverty. The scene, the circumstances, were all such as please amaiden's fancy; and he, the natural hero of this singular history,seemed deficient in none of those heroic qualities which the wildestspirit of romance might require for the completion of its spell.Beautiful as his ancestors, and, she was sure, as brave, young,spirited, graceful, and accomplished, a gay and daring spirit blendedwith the mournful melody of his voice, and occasionally contrasted withthe somewhat subdued and chastened character of his demeanour.
'Well, do not despair,' said Henrietta Temple; 'riches did not make SirFerdinand happy. I feel confident the house will yet flourish.'
'I have no confidence,' replied Ferdinand; 'I feel the struggle with ourfate to be fruitless. Once indeed I felt like you; there was a time whenI took even a fancied pride in all the follies of my grandfather. Butthat is past; I have lived to execrate his memory.'
'Hush! hush!'
'Yes, to execrate his memory! I repeat, to execrate his memory! Hisfollies stand between me and my happiness.'
'Indeed, I see not that.'
'May you never! I cannot disguise from myself that I am a slave, and awretched one, and that his career has entailed this curse of servitudeupon me. But away with this! You must think me, Miss Temple, the mostegotistical of human beings; and yet, to do myself justice, I neverremember having spoken of myself so much before.'
'Will you walk with me?' said Miss Temple, after a moment's silence;'you seem little inclined to avail yourself of my father's invitationto solitary sport. But I cannot stay at home, for I have visits to pay,although I fear you will consider
them rather dull ones.' 'Why so?'
'My visits are to cottages.'
'I love nothing better. I used ever to be my mother's companion on suchoccasions.'
So, crossing the lawn, they entered a beautiful wood of considerableextent, which formed the boundary of the grounds, and, after some timepassed in agreeable conversation, emerged upon a common of no ordinaryextent or beauty, for it was thickly studded in some parts with loftytimber, while in others the furze and fern gave richness and varietyto the vast wilderness of verdant turf, scarcely marked, except by thelight hoof of Miss Temple's palfrey.
'It is not so grand as Armine Park,' said Miss Temple; 'but we are proudof our common.'
The thin grey smoke that rose in different directions was a beacon tothe charitable visits of Miss Temple. It was evident that she was avisitor both habitual and beloved. Each cottage-door was familiar to herentrance. The children smiled at her approach; their mothers rose andcourtesied with affectionate respect. How many names and how many wantshad she to remember! yet nothing was forgotten. Some were rewarded forindustry, some were admonished not to be idle; but all were treated withan engaging suavity more efficacious than gifts or punishments. Theaged were solaced by her visit; the sick forgot their pains; and, asshe listened with sympathising patience to long narratives of rheumaticgriefs, it seemed her presence in each old chair, her tender enquiriesand sanguine hopes, brought even more comfort than her plenteouspromises of succour from the Bower, in the shape of arrowroot and gruel,port wine and flannel petticoats.
This scene of sweet simplicity brought back old days and old places tothe memory of Ferdinand Armine. He thought of the time when he was ahappy boy at his innocent home; his mother's boy, the child she so lovedand looked after, when a cloud upon her brow brought a tear into hiseye, and when a kiss from her lips was his most dear and desired reward.The last night he had passed at Armine, before his first departure, roseup to his recollection; all his mother's passionate fondness, all herwild fear that the day might come when her child would not love her sodearly as he did then. That time had come. But a few hours back, ay! buta few hours back, and he had sighed to be alone in the world, and hadfelt those domestic ties which had been the joy of his existence aburthen and a curse. A tear stole down his cheek; he stepped forth fromthe cottage to conceal his emotion. He seated himself on the trunk ofa tree, a few paces withdrawn; he looked upon the declining sun thatgilded the distant landscape with its rich yet pensive light. Thescenes of the last five years flitted across his mind's eye in fleetsuccession; his dissipation, his vanity, his desperate folly, his hollowworldliness. Why, oh! why had he ever left his unpolluted home? Whycould he not have lived and died in that sylvan paradise? Why, oh! whywas it impossible to admit his beautiful companion into that sweet andserene society? Why should his love for her make his heart a rebel tohis hearth? Money! horrible money! It seemed to him that the contiguouscottage and the labour of his hands, with her, were preferable topalaces and crowds of retainers without her inspiring presence. And whynot screw his courage to the sticking-point, and commune in confidencewith his parents? They loved him; yes, they idolised him! For him, forhim alone, they sought the restoration of their house and fortunes.Why, Henrietta Temple was a treasure richer than any his ancestors hadcounted. Let them look on her, let them listen to her, let them breatheas he had done in her enchantment; and could they wonder, could theymurmur, at his conduct? Would they not, oh! would they not, ratheradmire, extol it! But, then, his debts, his overwhelming debts. Allthe rest might be faced. His desperate engagement might be broken; hisfamily might be reconciled to obscurity and poverty: but, ruin! whatwas to grapple with his impending ruin? Now his folly stung him; now thescorpion 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 hislove; it was his own culpable and heartless career! He covered his facewith his hands; something touched him lightly; it was the parasol ofMiss Temple.
'I am afraid,' she said, 'that my visits have wearied you; but you havebeen very kind and good.'
He rose rapidly, with a slight blush. 'Indeed,' he replied, 'I havepassed a most delightful morning, and I was only regretting that lifeconsisted of anything else but cottages and yourself.'
They were late; they heard the first dinner-bell at Ducie as theyre-entered the wood. 'We must hurry on,' said Miss Temple; 'dinner isthe only subject on which papa is a tyrant. What a sunset! I wonder ifLady Armine will return on Saturday. When she returns, I hope you willmake 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 lookeda little confused.