CHAPTER XIII.
_In Which Captain Armine Finds Reason to Believe in the Existence of Fairies._
IT IS difficult to describe the restlessness of Ferdinand Armine. Hissolitary dinner was an excuse for quitting Glastonbury: but to eat isas impossible as to sleep, for a man who is really in love. He took aspoonful of soup, and then jumping up from his chair, he walked up anddown the room, thinking of Henrietta Temple. Then to-morrow occurredto him, and that other lady that to-morrow was to bring. He drowned thethought in a bumper of claret. Wine, mighty wine! thou best and surestconsolation! What care can withstand thy inspiring influence! from whatscrape canst thou not, for the moment, extricate the victim! Who candeny that our spiritual nature in some degree depends upon our corporealcondition? A man without breakfast is not a hero; a hero well fed isfull of audacious invention. Everything depends upon the circulation.Let but the blood flow freely, and a man of imagination is never withoutresources. A fine pulse is a talisman; a charmed life; a balance atour bankers. It is good luck; it is eternity; it is wealth. Nothing canwithstand us; nothing injure us; it is inexhaustible riches. So feltFerdinand Armine, though on the verge of a moral precipice. To-morrow!what of to-morrow? Did to-morrow daunt him? Not a jot. He would wrestlewith to-morrow, laden as it might be with curses, and dash it to theearth. It should not be a day; he would blot it out of the calendarof time; he would effect a moral eclipse of its influence. He lovedHenrietta Temple. She should be his. Who could prevent him? Was he notan Armine? Was he not the near descendant of that bold man who passedhis whole life in the voluptuous indulgence of his unrestrainedvolition! Bravo! he willed it, and it should be done. Everything yieldsto determination. What a fool! what a miserable craven fool had he beento have frightened himself with the flimsy shadows of petty worldlycares! He was born to follow his own pleasure; it was supreme; it wasabsolute; he was a despot; he set everything and everybody at defiance;and, filling a huge tumbler to the health of the great Sir Ferdinand, heretired, glorious as an emperor.
On the whole, Ferdinand had not committed so great an indiscretion asthe reader, of course shocked, might at first imagine. For the firsttime for some days he slept, and slept soundly. Next to wine, arenovating slumber perhaps puts us in the best humour with our destiny.Ferdinand awoke refreshed and sanguine, full of inventive life, whichsoon developed itself in a flow of improbable conclusions. His mostrational scheme, however, appeared to consist in winning HenriettaTemple, and turning pirate, or engaging in the service of some distantand disturbed state. Why might he not free Greece, or revolutionizeSpain, or conquer the Brazils? Others had embarked in these boldenterprises; men not more desperate than himself, and not betterqualified for the career. Young, courageous, a warrior by profession,with a name of traditionary glory throughout the courts of Christendom,perhaps even remembered in Asia, he seemed just the individual to carveout a glorious heritage with his sword. And as for his parents, theywere not in the vale of years; let them dream on in easy obscurity, andmaintain themselves at Armine until he returned to redeem his hereditarydomain. All that was requisite was the concurrence of his adoredmistress. Perhaps, after all his foolish fears and all his pettyanxiety, he might live to replace upon her brow the ancient coronetof Tewkesbury! Why not? The world is strange; nothing happens that weanticipate: when apparently stifled by the common-place, we are on thebrink of stepping into the adventurous. If he married Miss Grandison,his career was closed: a most unnatural conclusion for one so young andbold. It was evident that he must marry Henrietta Temple: and then? Whythen something would happen totally unexpected and unforeseen. Who coulddoubt it? Not he!
He rose, he mounted his horse, and galloped over to Ducie Common. Itsvery aspect melted his heart. He called at the cottages he had visitedtwo days before. Without enquiring after Miss Temple, he contrivedto hear a thousand circumstances relating to her which interested andcharmed him. In the distance rose the woods of Ducie; he gazed uponthem as if he could never withdraw his sight from their deep and silentforms. Oh, that sweet bower! Why was there any other world but Ducie?All his brave projects of war, and conquest, and imperial plunder,seemed dull and vain now. He sickened at the thought of action. Hesighed to gather roses, to listen to songs sweeter than the nightingale,and wander for ever in moon-lit groves.
He turned his horse's head: slowly and sorrowfully he directed hiscourse to Armine. Had they arrived? The stern presence of reality wastoo much for all his slight and glittering visions. What was he, afterall? This future conqueror was a young officer on leave, obscure exceptin his immediate circle, with no inheritance, and very much in debt;awaited with anxiety by his affectionate parents, and a young ladywhom he was about to marry for her fortune! Most impotent epilogue to amagnificent reverie!
The post arrived at Armine in the afternoon. As Ferdinand, nervous asa child returning to school, tardily regained home, he recognised theapproaching postman. Hah! a letter? What was its import? The blessing ofdelay? or was it the herald of their instant arrival? Pale and sick atheart, he tore open the hurried lines of Katherine. The maiden aunt hadstumbled while getting out of a pony phaeton, and experienced a seriousaccident; their visit to Armine was necessarily postponed. He readno more. The colour returned to his cheek, reinforced by his heart'sliveliest blood. A thousand thoughts, a thousand wild hopes and wilderplans, came over him. Here was, at least, one interposition in hisfavour; others would occur. He felt fortunate. He rushed to the tower,to tell the news to Glastonbury. His tutor ascribed his agitation to theshock, and attempted to console him. In communicating the intelligence,he was obliged to finish the letter; it expressed a hope that, if theirvisit were postponed for more than a day or two, Katherine's dearestFerdinand would return to Bath.
Ferdinand wandered forth into the park to enjoy his freedom. A burdenhad suddenly fallen from his frame; a cloud that had haunted his visionhad vanished. To-day, that was so accursed, was to be marked now in hiscalendar with red chalk. Even Armine pleased him; its sky was brighter,its woods more vast and green. They had not arrived; they would notarrive to-morrow, that was certain; the third day, too, was a day ofhope. Why! three days, three whole days of unexpected, unhoped-forfreedom, it was eternity! What might not happen in three days! For threedays he might fairly remain in expectation of fresh letters. It couldnot be anticipated, it was not even desired, that he should instantlyrepair to them. Come, he would forget this curse, he would be happy. Thepast, the future, should be nothing; he would revel in the auspiciouspresent.
Thus communing with himself, he sauntered along, musing over HenriettaTemple, and building bright castles in the air. A man engaged with hisideas is insensible of fatigue. Ferdinand found himself at the Parkgate that led to Ducie; intending only a slight stroll, he had alreadyrambled half way to his beloved. It was a delicious afternoon: the heatof the sun had long abated; the air was sweet and just beginning tostir; not a sound was heard, except the last blow of the woodman'saxe, or the occasional note of some joyous bird waking from its siesta.Ferdinand passed the gate; he entered the winding road, the road thatHenrietta Temple had so admired; a beautiful green lane with banksof flowers and hedges of tall trees. He strolled along, our happyFerdinand, indefinite of purpose, almost insensible whether he wereadvancing or returning home. He plucked the wild flowers, and pressedthem to his lips, because she had admired them; rested on a bank,lounged on a gate, cut a stick from the hedge, traced Henrietta Templein the road, and then turned the words into Henrietta Armine, andso--and so--and so, he, at length, stared at finding himself on DucieCommon.
Beautiful common! how he loved it! How familiar every tree and rusticroof had become to him! Could he ever forget the morning he had bathedin those fresh waters! What lake of Italy, what heroic wave of themidland ocean, could rival in his imagination that simple basin! He drewnear to the woods of Ducie, glowing with the setting sun. Surely therewas no twilight like the twilight of this land! The woods of Ducie areentered. He recognised the path over which she had glided; he knelt downa
nd kissed that sacred earth. As he approached the pleasure grounds, heturned off into a side path that he might not be perceived; he caught,through a vista, a distant glimpse of the mansion. The sight of thatroof wherein he had been so happy; of that roof that contained all thathe cared for or thought of in this world, overcame him. He leant againsta tree, and hid his face.
The twilight died away, the stars stole forth, and Ferdinand ventured inthe spreading gloom of night to approach the mansion. He threw himselfupon the turf, and watched the chamber where she lived. The windowswere open, there were lights within the room, but the thin curtains weredrawn, and concealed the inmates. Happy, happy chamber! All that wasbright and fair and sweet were concentrated in those charming walls!
The curtain is withdrawn; an arm, an arm which cannot be mistaken, pullsback the drapery. Is she coming forth? No, she does not; but he sees,distinctly he sees her. She sits in an old chair that he had oftenpraised; her head rests upon her arm, her brow seems pensive; and in herother hand she holds a volume that she scarcely appears to read. Oh! mayhe gaze upon her for ever! May this celestial scene, this seraphichour, never pass away. Bright stars! do not fade; thou summer wind thatplayest upon his brow, perfumed by her flowers, refresh him for ever;beautiful night be for ever the canopy of a scene so sweet and still;let existence glide away in gazing on yon delicate and tender vision!
Dreams of fantastic love: the curtain closes; a ruder hand than hers hasshut her from his sight! It has all vanished; the stars seem dim, theautumnal air is dank and harsh; and where he had gazed on heaven, a batflits wild and fleet. Poor Ferdinand, unhappy Ferdinand, how dull anddepressed our brave gallant has become! Was it her father who had closedthe curtain? Could he himself, thought Ferdinand, have been observed?
Hark! a voice softer and sweeter than the night breaks upon the air.It is the voice of his beloved; and, indeed, with all her singularand admirable qualities, there was not anything more remarkable aboutHenrietta Temple than her voice. It was a rare voice; so that inspeaking, and in ordinary conversation, though there was no one whoseutterance was more natural and less unstudied, it forcibly affected you.She could not give you a greeting, bid you an adieu, or make a routineremark, without impressing you with her power and sweetness. It soundedlike a bell, sweet and clear and thrilling; it was astonishing whatinfluence a little word, uttered by this woman, without thought, wouldhave upon those she addressed. Of such fine clay is man made.
That beautiful voice recalled to Ferdinand all his fading visions; itrenewed the spell which had recently enchanted him; it conjured up againall those sweet spirits that had a moment since hovered over him withtheir auspicious pinions. He could not indeed see her; her form wasshrouded, but her voice reached him; a voice attuned to tenderness, evento love; a voice that ravished his ear, melted his soul, and blendedwith his whole existence. His heart fluttered, his pulse beat high,he sprang up, he advanced to the window! Yes! a few paces alone dividethem: a single step and he will be at her side. His hand is outstretchedto clutch the curtain, his------, when suddenly the music ceased. Hiscourage vanished with its inspiration. For a moment he lingered, but hisheart misgave him, and he stole back to his solitude.
What a mystery is Love! All the necessities and habits of our life sinkbefore it. Food and sleep, that seem to divide our being as day andnight divide Time, lose all their influence over the lover. He is aspiritualised being, fit only to live upon ambrosia, and slumber in animaginary paradise. The cares of the world do not touch him; its moststirring events are to him but the dusty incidents of bygone annals. Allthe fortune of the world without his mistress is misery; and with herall its mischances a transient dream. Revolutions, earthquakes, thechange of governments, the fall of empires, are to him but childishgames, distasteful to a manly spirit. Men love in the plague, and forgetthe pest, though it rages about them. They bear a charmed life, andthink not of destruction until it touches their idol, and then they diewithout a pang, like zealots for their persecuted creed. A man in lovewanders in the world as a somnambulist, with eyes that seem open tothose that watch him, yet in fact view nothing but their own inwardfancies.
Oh! that night at Ducie, through whose long hours Ferdinand Armine, in atumult of enraptured passion, wandered in its lawns and groves, feedingon the image of its enchanting mistress, watching the solitary light inher chamber that was to him as the pharos to a mariner in a tumultuousvoyage! The morning, the grey cold morning, came at last; he hadoutwatched the stars, and listened to the matins of the waking birds. Itwas no longer possible to remain in the gardens unobserved; he regainedthe common.
What should he do! whither should he wend his course? To Armine? Oh!not to Armine; never could he return to Armine without the heart ofHenrietta Temple. Yes! on that great venture he had now resolved; onthat mighty hazard all should now be staked. Reckless of consequences,one vast object now alone sustained him. Existence without her wasimpossible! Ay! a day, a day, a single, a solitary day, should notelapse without his breathing to her his passion, and seeking his fatefrom her dark eyes.
He strolled along to the extremity of the common. It was a great tableland, from whose boundary you look down on small rich valleys; and intoone of these, winding his way through fields and pastures, of whichthe fertile soil was testified by their vigorous hedgerows, he nowdescended. A long, low farmhouse, with gable ends and ample porch,an antique building that in old days might have been some manorialresidence, attracted his attention. Its picturesque form, its angles andtwisted chimneys, its porch covered with jessamine and eglantine, itsverdant homestead, and its orchard rich with ruddy fruit, its vast barnsand long lines of ample stacks, produced altogether a rural picturecomplete and cheerful. Near it a stream, which Ferdinand followed, andwhich, after a devious and rapid course, emptied itself into a deepand capacious pool, touched by the early sunbeam, and grateful to theswimmer's eye. Here Ferdinand made his natural toilet; and afterwardsslowly returning to the farm-house, sought an agreeable refuge from thesun in its fragrant porch.
The farmer's wife, accompanied by a pretty daughter with downcast eyes,came forth and invited him to enter. While he courteously refused heroffer, he sought her hospitality. The good wife brought a table andplaced it in the porch, and covered it with a napkin purer than snow.Her viands were fresh eggs, milk warm from the cow, and bread she hadherself baked. Even a lover might feed on such sweet food. This happyvalley and this cheerful settlement wonderfully touched the fancy ofFerdinand. The season was mild and sunny, the air scented by the flowersthat rustled in the breeze, the bees soon came to rifle their sweetness,and flights of white and blue pigeons ever and anon skimmed along thesky from the neighbouring gables that were their dovecotes. Ferdinandmade a salutary, if not a plenteous meal; and when the tablewas removed, exhausted by the fatigue and excitement of the lastfour-and-twenty hours, he stretched himself at full length in the porch,and fell into a gentle and dreamless slumber.
Hours elapsed before he awoke, vigorous indeed, and wonderfullyrefreshed; but the sun had already greatly declined. To hisastonishment, as he moved, there fell from his breast a beautifulnosegay. He was charmed with this delicate attention from his hostess,or perhaps from her pretty daughter with those downcast eyes. Thereseemed a refinement about the gift, and the mode of its offering, whichscarcely could be expected from these kind yet simple rustics. Theflowers, too, were rare and choice; geraniums such as are found only inlady's bower, a cape jessamine, some musky carnations, and a rose thatseemed the sister of the one that he had borne from Ducie. They weredelicately bound together, too, by a bright blue riband, fastened bya gold and turquoise pin. This was most strange; this was an adventuremore suitable to a Sicilian palace than an English farm-house; to thegardens of a princess than the clustered porch of his kind hostess.Ferdinand gazed at the bouquet with a glance of blended perplexityand pleasure; then he entered the farmhouse and made enquiries of hishostess, but they were fruitless. The pretty daughter with the downcasteyes was there too; but her very admiration of the gif
t, so genuine andunrestrained, proved, if testimony indeed were necessary, that she wasnot his unknown benefactor: admirer, he would have said; but Ferdinandwas in love, and modest. All agreed no one, to their knowledge, had beenthere; and so Ferdinand, cherishing his beautiful gift, was fain to quithis new friends in as much perplexity as ever.