CHAPTER XII.
_Containing an Ominous Incident_.
THE last adieus are bidden: Ferdinand is on his road to Armine,flying from the woman whom he adores, to meet the woman to whom he isbetrothed. He reined in his horse as he entered the park. As he slowlyapproached his home, he could not avoid feeling, that after so longan absence, he had not treated Glastonbury with the kindness andconsideration he merited. While he was torturing his invention for anexcuse for his conduct he observed his old tutor in the distance; andriding up and dismounting, he joined that faithful friend. Whether itbe that love and falsehood are, under any circumstances, inseparable,Ferdinand Armine, whose frankness was proverbial, found himself involvedin a long and confused narrative of a visit to a friend, whom he hadunexpectedly met, whom he had known abroad, and to whom he was underthe greatest obligations. He even affected to regret this temporaryestrangement from Armine after so long a separation, and to rejoice athis escape. No names were mentioned, and the unsuspicious Glastonbury,delighted again to be his companion, inconvenienced him with nocross-examination. But this was only the commencement of the system ofdegrading deception which awaited him.
Willingly would Ferdinand have devoted all his time and feelings to hiscompanion; but in vain he struggled with the absorbing passion of hissoul. He dwelt in silence upon the memory of the last three days, themost eventful period of his existence. He was moody and absent, silentwhen he should have spoken, wandering when he should have listened,hazarding random observations instead of conversing, or breaking intohurried and inappropriate comments; so that to any worldly critic of hisconduct he would have appeared at the same time both dull and excited.At length he made a desperate effort to accompany Glastonbury to thepicture gallery and listen to his plans. The scene indeed was notungrateful to him, for it was associated with the existence and theconversation of the lady of his heart: he stood entranced before thepicture of the Turkish page, and lamented to Glastonbury a thousandtimes that there was no portrait of Henrietta Armine.
'I would sooner have a portrait of Henrietta Armine than the wholegallery together,' said Ferdinand.
Glastonbury stared.
'I wonder if there ever will be a portrait of Henrietta Armine. Comenow, my dear Glastonbury,' he continued, with an air of remarkableexcitement, 'let us have a wager upon it. What are the odds? Will thereever be a portrait of Henrietta Armine? I am quite fantastic to-day.You are smiling at me. Now do you know, if I had a wish certain to begratified, it should be to add a portrait of Henrietta Armine to ourgallery?'
'She died very young,' remarked Glastonbury.
'But my Henrietta Armine should not die young,' said Ferdinand. 'Sheshould live, breathe, smile: she------'
Glastonbury looked very confused.
So strange is love, that this kind of veiled allusion to his secretpassion relieved and gratified the overcharged bosom of Ferdinand. Hepursued the subject with enjoyment. Anybody but Glastonbury might havethought that he had lost his senses, he laughed so loud, and talkedso fast about a subject which seemed almost nonsensical; but the goodGlastonbury ascribed these ebullitions to the wanton spirit of youth,and smiled out of sympathy, though he knew not why, except that hispupil appeared happy.
At length they quitted the gallery; Glastonbury resumed his labours inthe hall, where he was copying an escutcheon; and after hovering a shorttime restlessly around his tutor, now escaping into the garden that hemight muse over Henrietta Temple undisturbed, and now returning fora few minutes to his companion, lest the good Glastonbury should feelmortified by his neglect, Ferdinand broke away altogether and wanderedfar into the pleasaunce.
He came to the green and shady spot where he had first beheld her.There rose the cedar spreading its dark form in solitary grandeur, andholding, as it were, its state among its subject woods. It was the samescene, almost the same hour: but where was she? He waited for her formto rise, and yet it came not. He shouted Henrietta Temple, yet no fairvision blessed his expectant sight. Was it all a dream? Had he been butlying beneath these branches in a rapturous trance, and had he onlywoke to the shivering dulness of reality? What evidence was there of theexistence of such a being as Henrietta Temple? If such a being did notexist, of what value was life? After a glimpse of Paradise, could hebreathe again in this tame and frigid world? Where was Ducie? Wherewere its immortal bowers, those roses of supernatural fragrance, and thecelestial melody of its halls? That garden, wherein he wandered and hungupon her accents; that wood, among whose shadowy boughs she glided likean antelope, that pensive twilight, on which he had gazed with suchsubdued emotion; that moonlight walk, when her voice floated, likeAriel's, in the purple sky: were these all phantoms? Could it be thatthis morn, this very morn, he had beheld Henrietta Temple, had conversedwith her alone, had bidden her a soft adieu? What, was it this day thatshe had given him this rose?
He threw himself upon the turf, and gazed upon the flower. The flowerwas young and beautiful as herself, and just expanding into perfectlife. To the fantastic brain of love there seemed a resemblance betweenthis rose and her who had culled it. Its stem was tall, its countenancewas brilliant, an aromatic essence pervaded its being. As he held it inhis hand, a bee came hovering round its charms, eager to revel in itsfragrant loveliness. More than once had Ferdinand driven the bee away,when suddenly it succeeded in alighting on the rose. Jealous of hisrose, Ferdinand, in his haste, shook the flower, and the fragile headfell from the stem!
A feeling of deep melancholy came over him, with which he found it invain to struggle, and which he could not analyse. He rose, and pressingthe flower to his heart, he walked away and rejoined Glastonbury, whosetask was nearly accomplished. Ferdinand seated himself upon one of thehigh cases which had been stowed away in the hall, folding his arms,swinging his legs, and whistling the German air which Miss Temple hadsung the preceding night.
'That is a wild and pretty air,' said Glastonbury, who was devoted tomusic. 'I never heard it before. You travellers pick up choice things.Where did you find it?'
'I am sure I cannot tell, my dear Glastonbury; I have been asking myselfthe same question the whole morning. Sometimes I think I dreamt it.'
'A few more such dreams would make you a rare composer,' saidGlastonbury, smiling.
'Ah! my dear Glastonbury, talking of music, I know a musician, such amusician, a musician whom I should like to introduce you to above allpersons in the world.'
'You always loved music, dear Ferdinand; 'tis in the blood. You comefrom a musical stock on your mother's side. Is Miss Grandison musical?'
'Yes, no, that is to say, I forget: some commonplace accomplishmentin the art she has, I believe; but I was not thinking of that sort ofthing; I was thinking of the lady who taught me this air.'
'A lady!' said Glastonbury. 'The German ladies are highly cultivated.'
'Yes! the Germans, and the women especially, have a remarkably finemusical taste,' rejoined Ferdinand, recovering from his blunder.
'I like the Germans very much,' said Glastonbury, 'and I admire thatair.'
'O! my dear Glastonbury, you should hear it sung by moonlight.'
'Indeed!' said Glastonbury.
'Yes, if you could only hear her sing it by moonlight, I venture to say,my dear Glastonbury, that you would confess that all you had ever heard,or seen, or imagined, of enchanted spirits floating in the air, andfilling the atmosphere with supernatural symphonies, was realised.'
'Indeed!' said Glastonbury, 'a most accomplished performer, no doubt!Was she professional?' 'Who?' inquired Ferdinand. 'Your songstress.'
'Professional! oh! ah! yes! No! she was not a professional singer, butshe was fit to be one; and that is an excellent idea, too; for I wouldsooner, after all, be a professional singer, and live by my art, thanmarry against my inclination, or not marry according to it.'
'Marry!' said Glastonbury, rather astonished; 'what, is she going to bemarried against her will? Poor devoted thing!'
'Devoted, indeed!' said Ferdinand; 'there is no g
reater curse on earth.'
Glastonbury shook his head.
'The affections should not be forced,' the old man added; 'our feelingsare our own property, often our best.'
Ferdinand fell into a fit of abstraction; then, suddenly turning round,he said, 'Is it possible that I have been away from Armine only twodays? Do you know it really seems to me a year!'
'You are very kind to say so, my Ferdinand,' said Glastonbury.