HENRIETTA TEMPLE

By Benjamin Disraeli

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TO THE COUNT ALFRED D'ORSAY

THESE VOLUMES ARE INSCRIBED

BY

HIS AFFECTIONATE FRIEND. 

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HENRIETTA TEMPLE

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BOOK I. 

CHAPTER I. 

 _Some Account of the Family of Armine, and Especially of Sir Ferdinand and of Sir Ratcliffe. _

THE family of Armine entered England with William the Norman. Ralphd'Armyn was standard-bearer of the Conqueror, and shared prodigally inthe plunder, as appears by Doomsday Book. At the time of the generalsurvey the family of Ermyn, or Armyn, possessed numerous manors inNottinghamshire, and several in the shire of Lincoln. William D'Armyn, lord of the honour of Armyn, was one of the subscribing Barons to theGreat Charter. His predecessor died in the Holy Land before Ascalon. A succession of stout barons and valiant knights maintained the highfortunes of the family; and in the course of the various struggles withFrance they obtained possession of several fair castles in Guienne andGascony. In the Wars of the Roses the Armyns sided with the house ofLancaster. Ferdinand Armyn, who shared the exile of Henry the Seventh, was knighted on Bosworth Field, and soon after created Earl ofTewkesbury. Faithful to the Church, the second Lord Tewkesbury becameinvolved in one of those numerous risings that harassed the last yearsof Henry the Eighth. The rebellion was unsuccessful, Lord Tewkesbury wasbeheaded, his blood attainted, and his numerous estates forfeited to theCrown. A younger branch of the family, who had adopted Protestantism, married the daughter of Sir Francis Walsingham, and attracted, by histalents in negotiation, the notice of Queen Elizabeth. He was sent on asecret mission to the Low Countries, where, having greatly distinguishedhimself, he obtained on his return the restoration of the family estateof Armine, in Nottinghamshire, to which he retired after an eminentlyprosperous career, and amused the latter years of his life in theconstruction of a family mansion, built in that national style ofarchitecture since described by the name of his royal mistress, at oncemagnificent and convenient. His son, Sir Walsingham Armine, figured inthe first batch of baronets under James the First. 

During the memorable struggle between the Crown and the Commons, in thereign of the unhappy Charles, the Armine family became distinguishedCavaliers. The second Sir Walsingham raised a troop of horse, and gainedgreat credit by charging at the head of his regiment and defeatingSir Arthur Haselrigg's Cuirassiers. It was the first time that thatimpenetrable band had been taught to fly; but the conqueror was coveredwith wounds. The same Sir Walsingham also successfully defended ArmineHouse against the Commons, and commanded the cavalry at the battleof Newbury, where two of his brothers were slain. For these variousservices and sufferings Sir Walsingham was advanced to the dignity ofa baron of the realm, by the title of Lord Armine, of Armine, in thecounty of Nottingham. He died without issue, but the baronetcy devolvedon his youngest brother, Sir Ferdinando. 

The Armine family, who had relapsed into popery, followed the fortunesof the second James, and the head of the house died at St. Germain. Hisson, however, had been prudent enough to remain in England and supportthe new dynasty, by which means he contrived to secure his title andestates. Roman Catholics, however, the Armines always remained, andthis circumstance accounts for this once-distinguished family no longerfiguring in the history of their country. So far, therefore, as thehouse of Armine was concerned, time flew during the next century withimmemorable wing. The family led a secluded life on their estate, intermarrying only with the great Catholic families, and duly begettingbaronets. 

At length arose, in the person of the last Sir Ferdinand Armine, oneof those extraordinary and rarely gifted beings who require only anopportunity to influence the fortunes of their nation, and to figure asa Cæsar or an Alcibiades. Beautiful, brilliant, and ambitious, the youngand restless Armine quitted, in his eighteenth year, the house ofhis fathers, and his stepdame of a country, and entered the Imperialservice. His blood and creed gained him a flattering reception; hisskill and valour soon made him distinguished. The world rang withstories of his romantic bravery, his gallantries, his eccentric manners, and his political intrigues, for he nearly contrived to be elected Kingof Poland. Whether it were disgust at being foiled in this high objectby the influence of Austria, or whether, as was much whispered at thetime, he had dared to urge his insolent and unsuccessful suit on a stillmore delicate subject to the Empress Queen herself, certain it is thatSir Ferdinand suddenly quitted the Imperial service, and appeared atConstantinople in person. The man whom a point of honour prevented frombecoming a Protestant in his native country had no scruples about hisprofession of faith at Stamboul: certain it is that the English baronetsoon rose high in the favour of the Sultan, assumed the Turkish dress, conformed to the Turkish customs, and finally, led against Austria adivision of the Turkish army. Having gratified his pique by defeatingthe Imperial forces in a sanguinary engagement, and obtaining afavourable peace for the Porte, Sir Ferdinand Armine doffed his turban, and suddenly reappeared in his native country. After the sketch we havegiven of the last ten years of his life, it is unnecessary to observethat Sir Ferdinand Armine immediately became what is called fashionable;and, as he was now in Protestant England, the empire of fashion was theonly one in which the young Catholic could distinguish himself. Let usthen charitably set down to the score of his political disabilitiesthe fantastic dissipation and the frantic prodigality in which theliveliness of his imagination and the energy of his soul exhaustedthemselves. After three startling years he married the Lady BarbaraRatcliffe, whose previous divorce from her husband, the Earl ofFaulconville, Sir Ferdinand had occasioned. He was, however, separatedfrom his lady during the first year of their more hallowed union, and, retiring to Rome, Sir Ferdinand became apparently devout. At the end ofa year he offered to transfer the whole of his property to the Church, provided the Pope would allow him an annuity and make him a cardinal. His Holiness not deeming it fit to consent to the proposition, SirFerdinand quitted his capital in a huff, and, returning to England, laid claim to the peerages of Tewkesbury and Armine. Although assured offailing in these claims, and himself perhaps as certain of ill successas his lawyers, Sir Ferdinand nevertheless expended upwards of 60, 000L. In their promotion, and was amply repaid for the expenditure in thegratification of his vanity by keeping his name before the public. Hewas never content except when he was astonishing mankind; and while hewas apparently exerting all his efforts to become a King of Poland, a Roman cardinal, or an English peer, the crown, the coronet, and thescarlet hat were in truth ever secondary points with him, comparedto the sensation throughout Europe which the effort was contrived andcalculated to ensure. 

On his second return to his native country Sir Ferdinand had notre-entered society. For such a man, society, with all its superficialexcitement, and all the shadowy variety with which it attempts tocloud the essential monotony of its nature, was intolerably dull andcommonplace. Sir Ferdinand, on the contrary, shut himself up in Armine, having previously announced to the world that he was going to write hismemoirs. This history, the construction of a castle, and the prosecutionof his claims before the House of Lords, apparently occupied his time tohis satisfaction, for he remained quiet for several years, until, on thebreaking out of the French Revolution, he hastened to Paris, became amember of the Jacobin Club, and of the National Convention. The nameof Citizen Armine appears among the regicides. Perhaps in this vote heavenged the loss of the crown of Poland, and the still more mortifyingrepulse he may have received from the mother of Marie Antoinette. Afterthe execution of the royal victims, however, it was discovered thatCitizen Armine had made them an offer to save their lives and raise aninsurrection in La Vendue, provided he was made Lieutenant-general ofthe kingdom. At his trial, which, from the nature of the accusation andthe character of the accused, occasioned to his gratification a greatsensation, he made no effort to defend himself, but seemed to glory inthe chivalric crime. He was hurried to the guillotine, and met his fatewith the greatest composure, assuring the public with a mysterious air, that had he lived four-and-twenty hours longer everything would havebeen arranged, and the troubles which he foresaw impending for Europeprevented. So successfully had Armine played his part, that hismysterious and doubtful career occasioned a controversy, from which onlythe appearance of Napoleon distracted universal attention, and which, indeed, only wholly ceased within these few years. What were hisintentions? Was he or was he not a sincere Jacobin? If he made the offerto the royal family, why did he vote for their death? Was he resolved, at all events, to be at the head of one of the parties? A middle coursewould not suit such a man; and so on. Interminable were the queries andtheir solutions, the pamphlets and the memoirs, which the conduct ofthis vain man occasioned, and which must assuredly have appeased hismanes. Recently it has been discovered that the charge brought againstArmine was perfectly false and purely malicious. Its victim, however, could not resist the dazzling celebrity of the imaginary crime, and hepreferred the reputation of closing his career by conduct which at onceperplexed and astonished mankind, to a vindication which would havedeprived his name of some brilliant accessories, and spared him to alife of which he was perhaps wearied. 

By the unhappy victim of his vanity and passion Sir Ferdinand Armineleft one child, a son, whom he had never seen, now Sir Ratcliffe. Brought up in sadness and in seclusion, education had faithfullydeveloped the characteristics of a reserved and melancholy mind. Pride of lineage and sentiments of religion, which even in early youthdarkened into bigotry, were not incompatible with strong affections, a stern sense of duty, and a spirit of chivalric honour. Limited incapacity, he was, however, firm in purpose. Trembling at the name of hisfather, and devoted to the unhappy parent whose presence he had scarcelyever quitted, a word of reproach had never escaped his lips against thechieftain of his blood, and one, too, whose career, how little soeverhis child could sympathise with it, still maintained, in men's mouthsand minds, the name and memory of the house of Armine. At the deathof his father Sir Ratcliffe had just attained his majority, andhe succeeded to immense estates encumbered with mortgages, and toconsiderable debts, which his feelings of honour would have compelledhim to discharge, had they indeed been enforced by no other claim. Theestates of the family, on their restoration, had not been entailed; but, until Sir Ferdinand no head of the house had abused the confidenceof his ancestors, and the vast possessions of the house of Armine haddescended unimpaired; and unimpaired, so far as he was concerned, SirRatcliffe determined they should remain. Although, by the sale of theestates, not only the encumbrances and liabilities might have beendischarged, but himself left in possession of a moderate independence, Sir Ratcliffe at once resolved to part with nothing. Fresh sums wereraised for the payment of the debts, and the mortgages now consumednearly the whole rental of the lands on which they were secured. SirRatcliffe obtained for himself only an annuity of three hundred perannum, which he presented to his mother, in addition to the smallportion which she had received on her first marriage; and for himself, visiting Armine Place for the first time, he roamed for a few days withsad complacency about that magnificent demesne, and then, taking downfrom the walls of the magnificent hall the sabre with which his fatherhad defeated the Imperial host, he embarked for Cadiz, and shortly afterhis arrival obtained a commission in the Spanish service. 

Although the hereditary valour of the Armines had descended totheir forlorn representative, it is not probable that, under anycircumstances, Sir Ratcliffe would have risen to any eminence in thecountry of his temporary adoption. His was not one of those minds bornto command and to create; and his temper was too proud to serve and tosolicit. His residence in Spain, however, was not altogether withoutsatisfaction. It was during this sojourn that he gained the littleknowledge of life and human nature he possessed; and the creed andsolemn manners of the land harmonised with his faith and habits. Amongthese strangers, too, the proud young Englishman felt not so keenly thedegradation of his house; and sometimes, though his was not the fatalgift of imagination, sometimes he indulged in day dreams of its rise. Unpractised in business, and not gifted with that intuitive quicknesswhich supplies experience and often baffles it, Ratcliffe Armine, whohad not quitted the domestic hearth even for the purposes of education, was yet fortunate enough to possess a devoted friend: and this wasGlastonbury, his tutor, and confessor to his mother. It was to him thatSir Ratcliffe intrusted the management of his affairs, with a confidencewhich was deserved; for Glastonbury sympathised with all his feelings, and was so wrapped up in the glory of the family, that he had no greaterambition in life than to become their historiographer, and had been foryears employed in amassing materials for a great work dedicated to theircelebrity. 

When Ratcliffe Armine had been absent about three years his motherdied. Her death was unexpected. She had not fulfilled two-thirds of theallotted period of the Psalmist, and in spite of many sorrows she wasstill beautiful. Glastonbury, who communicated to him the intelligencein a letter, in which he vainly attempted to suppress his ownoverwhelming affliction, counselled his immediate return to England, ifbut for a season; and the unhappy Ratcliffe followed his advice. Bythe death of his mother, Sir Ratcliffe Armine became possessed, for thefirst time, of a small but still an independent income; and having paida visit, soon after his return to his native country, to a Catholicnobleman to whom his acquaintance had been of some use when travellingin Spain, he became enamored of one of his daughters, and his passionbeing returned, and not disapproved by the father, he was soon aftermarried to Constance, the eldest daughter of Lord Grandison. 

CHAPTER II. 

 _Armine Described_. 

AFTER his marriage Sir Ratcliffe determined to reside at Armine. In oneof the largest parks in England there yet remained a fragment of a vastElizabethan pile, that in old days bore the name of Armine Place. WhenSir Ferdinand had commenced building Armine Castle, he had pulled downthe old mansion, partly for the sake of its site and partly for the sakeof its materials. Long lines of turreted and many-windowed walls, talltowers, and lofty arches, now rose in picturesque confusion on thegreen ascent where heretofore old Sir Walsingham had raised the fairand convenient dwelling, which he justly deemed might have served thepurpose of a long posterity. The hall and chief staircase of the castleand a gallery alone were finished, and many a day had Sir Ferdinandpassed in arranging the pictures, the armour, and choice rarities ofthese magnificent apartments. The rest of the building was a mere shell;nor was it in all parts even roofed in. Heaps of bricks and stone andpiles of timber appeared in every direction; and traces of the suddenstoppage of a great work might be observed in the temporary saw-pitsstill remaining, the sheds for the workmen, and the kilns and furnaces, which never had been removed. Time, however, that had stained theneglected towers with an antique tint, and had permitted many ageneration of summer birds to build their sunny nests on all the coignesof vantage of the unfinished walls, had exercised a mellowing influenceeven on these rude accessories, and in the course of years they had beenso drenched by the rain, and so buffeted by the wind, and had become socovered with moss and ivy, that they rather added to then detracted fromthe picturesque character of the whole mass. 

A few hundred yards from the castle, but situate on the same verdantrising ground, and commanding, although well sheltered, an extensiveview over the wide park, was the fragment of the old Place that we havenoticed. The rough and undulating rent which marked the severance ofthe building was now thickly covered with ivy, which in its gamesomeluxuriance had contrived also to climb up a remaining stack of tallchimneys, and to spread over the covering of the large oriel window. This fragment contained a set of pleasant chambers, which, having beenoccupied by the late baronet, were of course furnished with great tasteand comfort; and there was, moreover, accommodation sufficient for asmall establishment. Armine Place, before Sir Ferdinand, unfortunatelyfor his descendants, determined in the eighteenth century on buildinga feudal castle, had been situate in famous pleasure-grounds, whichextended at the back of the mansion over a space of some hundred acres. The grounds in the immediate vicinity of the buildings had of coursesuffered severely, but the far greater portion had only been neglected;and there were some indeed who deemed, as they wandered through thearbour-walks of this enchanting wilderness, that its beauty had beenenhanced even by this very neglect. It seemed like a forest in abeautiful romance; a green and bowery wilderness where Boccaccio wouldhave loved to woo, and Watteau to paint. So artfully had the walks beenplanned, that they seemed interminable, nor was there a single point inthe whole pleasaunce where the keenest eye could have detected a limit. Sometimes you wandered in those arched and winding walks dear topensive spirits; sometimes you emerged on a plot of turf blazing inthe sunshine, a small and bright savannah, and gazed with wonder on thegroup of black and mighty cedars that rose from its centre, withtheir sharp and spreading foliage. The beautiful and the vast blendedtogether; and the moment after you had beheld with delight a bed ofgeraniums or of myrtles, you found yourself in an amphitheatre ofItalian pines. A strange exotic perfume filled the air: you trod on theflowers of other lands; and shrubs and plants, that usually are onlytrusted from their conservatories, like sultanas from their jalousies, to sniff the air and recall their bloom, here learning from hardshipthe philosophy of endurance, had struggled successfully even againstnorthern winters, and wantoned now in native and unpruned luxuriance. Sir Ferdinand, when he resided at Armine, was accustomed to fill thesepleasure-grounds with macaws and other birds of gorgeous plumage; butthese had fled away with their master, all but some swans which stillfloated on the surface of a lake, which marked the centre of thisparadise. In the remains of the ancient seat of his fathers, SirRatcliffe Armine and his bride now sought a home. 

The principal chamber of Armine Place was a large irregular room, witha low but richly-carved oaken roof, studded with achievements. Thisapartment was lighted by the oriel window we have mentioned, the upperpanes of which contained some ancient specimens of painted glass, and having been fitted up by Sir Ferdinand as a library, contained acollection of valuable books. From the library you entered through anarched door of glass into a small room, of which, it being much out ofrepair when the family arrived, Lady Armine had seized the opportunityof gratifying her taste in the adornment. She had hung it with someold-fashioned pea-green damask, that exhibited to a vantage severalcopies of Spanish paintings by herself, for she was a skilful artist. The third and remaining chamber was the dining-room, a somewhat gloomychamber, being shadowed by a neighbouring chestnut. A portrait of SirFerdinand, when a youth, in a Venetian dress, was suspended over theold-fashioned fireplace; and opposite hung a fine hunting piece bySchneiders. Lady Armine was an amiable and accomplished woman. She hadenjoyed the advantage of a foreign education under the inspection of acautious parent: and a residence on the Continent, while it had affordedher many graces, had not, as unfortunately sometimes is the case, divested her of those more substantial though less showy qualities ofwhich a husband knows the value. She was pious and dutiful: her mannerswere graceful, for she had visited courts and mixed in polished circles, but she had fortunately not learnt to affect insensibility as a system, or to believe that the essence of good breeding consists in showing yourfellow-creatures that you despise them. Her cheerful temper solaced theconstitutional gloom of Sir Ratcliffe, and indeed had originally won hisheart, even more than her remarkable beauty: and while at the sametime she loved a country life, she possessed in a lettered taste, in abeautiful and highly cultivated voice, and in a scientific knowledge ofmusic and of painting, all those resources which prevent retirement fromdegenerating into loneliness. Her foibles, if we must confess that shewas not faultless, endeared her to her husband, for her temper reflectedhis own pride, and she possessed the taste for splendour which was alsohis native mood, although circumstances had compelled him to stifle itsgratification. 

Love, pure and profound, had alone prompted the union between RatcliffeArmine and Constance Grandison Doubtless, like all of her race, shemight have chosen amid the wealthiest of the Catholic nobles and gentryone who would have been proud to have mingled his life with hers; but, with a soul not insensible to the splendid accidents of existence, sheyielded her heart to one who could repay the rich sacrifice only withdevotion. His poverty, his pride, his dangerous and hereditary gift ofbeauty, his mournful life, his illustrious lineage, his reserved andromantic mind, had at once attracted her fancy and captivated her heart. She shared all his aspirations and sympathised with all his hopes; andthe old glory of the house of Armine, and its revival and restoration, were the object of her daily thoughts, and often of her nightly dreams. 

With these feelings Lady Armine settled herself at her new home, scarcely with a pang that the whole of the park in which she lived waslet out as grazing ground, and only trusting, as she beheld the groupsof ruminating cattle, that the day might yet come for the antleredtenants of the bowers to resume their shady dwellings. The good man andhis wife who hitherto had inhabited the old Place, and shown the castleand the pleasaunce to passing travellers, were, under the new order ofaffairs, promoted to the respective offices of serving-man and cook, or butler and housekeeper, as they styled themselves in the village. A maiden brought from Grandison to wait on Lady Armine completed theestablishment, with her young brother, who, among numerous duties, performed the office of groom, and attended to a pair of beautiful whiteponies which Sir Ratcliffe drove in a phaeton. This equipage, which wasremarkable for its elegance, was the especial delight of Lady Armine, and certainly the only piece of splendour in which Sir Ratcliffeindulged. As for neighbourhood, Sir Ratcliffe, on his arrival, of coursereceived a visit from the rector of his parish, and, by the courteousmedium of this gentleman, he soon occasioned it to be generallyunderstood that he was not anxious that the example of his rector shouldbe followed. The intimation, in spite of much curiosity, was of courserespected. Nobody called upon the Armines. This happy couple, however, were too much engrossed with their own society to require amusement fromany other sources than themselves. The honeymoon was passed in wanderingin the pleasure-grounds, and in wondering at their own marvelloushappiness. Then Lady Armine would sit on a green bank and sing herchoicest songs, and Sir Ratcliffe repaid her for her kindness withspeeches softer even than serenades. The arrangement of their dwellingoccupied the second month; each day witnessed some felicitous yeteconomical alteration of her creative taste. The third month Lady Arminedetermined to make a garden. 

'I wish, ' said her affectionate husband, as he toiled with delight inher service, 'I wish, my dear Constance, that Glastonbury was here; hewas such a capital gardener. '

'Let us ask him, dear Ratcliffe; and, perhaps, for such a friend we havealready allowed too great a space of time to elapse without sending aninvitation. '

'Why, we are so happy, ' said Sir Ratcliffe, smiling; 'and yetGlastonbury is the best creature in the world. I hope you will like him, dear Constance. '

'I am sure I shall, dear Ratcliffe. Give me that geranium, love. Writeto him, to-day; write to Glastonbury to-day. '

CHAPTER III. 

 _Arrival of Glastonbury. _

ADRIAN GLASTONBURY was a younger son of an old but decayed Englishfamily. He had been educated at a college of Jesuits in France, and hadentered at an early period of life the service of the Romish Church, whose communion his family had never quitted. At college youngGlastonbury had been alike distinguished for his assiduous talents andfor the extreme benevolence of his disposition. His was one of thoseminds to which refinement is natural, and which learning and experiencenever deprive of simplicity. Apparently his passions were not violent;perhaps they were restrained by his profound piety. Next to hisdevotion, Glastonbury was remarkable for his taste. The magnificenttemples in which the mysteries of the Deity and saints he worshippedwere celebrated developed the latent predisposition for the beautifulwhich became almost the master sentiment of his life. In the inspiredand inspiring paintings that crowned the altars of the churches and thecathedrals in which he ministered, Glastonbury first studied art; and itwas as he glided along the solemn shade of those Gothic aisles, gazingon the brave groining of the vaulted roofs, whose deep and sublimeshadows so beautifully contrasted with the sparkling shrines and thedelicate chantries below, that he first imbibed that passion for thearchitecture of the Middle Ages that afterwards led him on many apleasant pilgrimage with no better companions than a wallet and asketch-book. Indeed, so sensible was Glastonbury of the influence of theearly and constant scene of his youth on his imagination, that he waswont to trace his love of heraldry, of which he possessed a remarkableknowledge, to the emblazoned windows that perpetuated the memory and theachievements of many a pious founder. 

When Glastonbury was about twenty-one years of age, he unexpectedlyinherited from an uncle a sum which, though by no means considerable, was for him a sufficient independence; and as no opening in the serviceof the Church at this moment offered itself, which he considered it aduty to pursue, he determined to gratify that restless feeling whichseems inseparable from the youth of men gifted with fine sensibilities, and which probably arises in an unconscious desire to quit thecommonplace and to discover the ideal. He wandered on foot throughoutthe whole of Switzerland and Italy; and, after more than three years'absence, returned to England with several thousand sketches, and acomplete Alpine Hortus Siccus. He was even more proud of the latter thanof having kissed the Pope's toe. In the next seven years the life ofGlastonbury was nearly equally divided between the duties of his sacredprofession and the gratification of his simple and elegant tastes. He resided principally in Lancashire, where he became librarian toa Catholic nobleman of the highest rank, whose notice he had firstattracted by publishing a description of his Grace's residence, illustrated by his drawings. The duke, who was a man of fine tasteand antiquarian pursuits, and an exceedingly benevolent person, soughtGlastonbury's acquaintance in consequence of the publication, and fromthat moment a close and cherished intimacy subsisted between them. Inthe absence of the family, however, Glastonbury found time for manyexcursions; by means of which he at last completed drawings of all ourcathedrals. There remained for him still the abbeys and the minstersof the West of England, a subject on which he was ever eloquent. Glastonbury performed all these excursions on foot, armed only with anashen staff which he had cut in his early travels, and respectingwhich he was superstitious; so that he would have no more thought ofjourneying without this stick than most other people without theirhat. Indeed, to speak truth, Glastonbury had been known to quit a houseoccasionally without that necessary appendage, for, from living muchalone, he was not a little absent; but instead of piquing himselfon such eccentricities, they ever occasioned him mortification. YetGlastonbury was an universal favourite, and ever a welcome guest. In hisjourneys he had no want of hosts; for there was not a Catholic familywhich would not have been hurt had he passed them without a visit. Hewas indeed a rarely accomplished personage. An admirable scholar andprofound antiquary, he possessed also a considerable practical knowledgeof the less severe sciences, was a fine artist, and no contemptiblemusician. His pen, too, was that of a ready writer; if his sonnets beever published, they will rank among the finest in our literature. 

Glastonbury was about thirty when he was induced by Lady Barbara Armineto quit a roof where he had passed some happy years, and to undertakethe education of her son Ratcliffe, a child of eight years of age. Fromthis time Glastonbury in a great degree withdrew himself from his formerconnexions, and so completely abandoned his previous mode of life, thathe never quitted his new home. His pupil repaid him for his zeal ratherby the goodness of his disposition and his unblemished conduct, than byany remarkable brilliancy of talents or acquirements: but Ratcliffe, andparticularly his mother, were capable of appreciating Glastonbury; andcertain it is, whatever might be the cause, he returned their sympathywith deep emotion, for every thought and feeling of his existence seemeddedicated to their happiness and prosperity. 

So great indeed was the shock which he experienced at the unexpecteddeath of Lady Barbara, that for some time he meditated assuming thecowl; and if the absence of his pupil prevented the accomplishment ofthis project, the plan was only postponed, not abandoned. The speedymarriage of Sir Ratcliffe followed. Circumstances had preventedGlastonbury from being present at the ceremony. It was impossible forhim to retire to the cloister without seeing his pupil. Business, if notaffection, rendered an interview between them necessary. It was equallyimpossible for Glastonbury to trouble a bride and bridegroom with hispresence. When, however, three months had elapsed, he began to believethat he might venture to propose a meeting to Sir Ratcliffe; but whilehe was yet meditating on this step, he was anticipated by the receipt ofa letter containing a warm invitation to Armine. 

It was a beautiful sunshiny afternoon in June. Lady Armine was seated infront of the Place looking towards the park, and busied with her work;while Sir Ratcliffe, stretched on the grass, was reading to her the lastpoem of Scott, which they had just received from the neighbouring town. 

'Ratcliffe, my dear, ' said Lady Armine, 'some one approaches. '

'A tramper, Constance?'

'No, no, my love; rise; it is a gentleman. '

'Who can it be?' said Sir Ratcliffe, rising; 'perhaps it is yourbrother, love. Ah! no, it is--it is Glastonbury!'

And at these words he ran forward, jumped over the iron hurdle whichseparated their lawn from the park, nor stopped his quick pace untilhe reached a middle-aged man of very prepossessing appearance, thoughcertainly not unsullied by the dust, for assuredly the guest hadtravelled far and long. 

'My dear Glastonbury, ' exclaimed Sir Ratcliffe, embracing him, andspeaking under the influence of an excitement in which he rarelyindulged, 'I am the happiest fellow alive. How do you do? I willintroduce you to Constance directly. She is dying to know you, and quiteprepared to love you as much as myself. O! my dear Glastonbury, you haveno idea how happy I am. She is a perfect angel. '

'I am sure of it, ' said Glastonbury, seriously. 

Sir Ratcliffe hurried his tutor along. 'Here is my best friend, Constance, ' he eagerly exclaimed. Lady Armine rose and welcomed Mr. Glastonbury very cordially. 'Your presence, my dear sir, has, I assureyou, been long desired by both of us, ' she said, with a delightfulsmile. 

'No compliments, believe me, ' added Sir Ratcliffe; 'Constance never payscompliments. She fixed upon your own room herself. She always calls itMr. Glastonbury's room. '

'Ah! madam, ' said Mr. Glastonbury, laying his hand very gently on theshoulder of Sir Ratcliffe, and meaning to say something felicitous, 'Iknow this dear youth well; and I have always thought whoever could claimthis heart should be counted a very fortunate woman. '

'And such the possessor esteems herself, ' replied Lady Armine with asmile. 

Sir Ratcliffe, after a quarter of an hour or so had passed inconversation, said: 'Come, Glastonbury, you have arrived at a good time, for dinner is at hand. Let me show you to your room. I fear you havehad a hot day's journey. Thank God, we are together again. Give me yourstaff; I will take care of it; no fear of that. So, this way. You haveseen the old Place before? Take care of that step. I say, Constance, 'said Sir Ratcliffe, in a suppressed voice, and running back to his wife, 'how do you like him?'

'Very much indeed. '

'But do you really?'

'Really, truly. '

'Angel!' exclaimed the gratified Sir Ratcliffe. 

CHAPTER IV. 

 _Progress of Affairs at Armine_. 

LIFE is adventurous. Events are perpetually occurring, even in thecalmness of domestic existence, which change in an instant the wholetrain and tenor of our thoughts and feelings, and often materiallyinfluence our fortunes and our character. It is strange, and sometimesas profitable as it is singular, to recall our state on the eve ofsome acquaintance which transfigures our being; with some man whosephilosophy revolutionises our mind; with some woman whose charmsmetamorphose our career. These retrospective meditations are fruitful ofself-knowledge. 

The visit of Glastonbury was one of those incidents which, from theunexpected results that they occasion, swell into events. He had notbeen long a guest at Armine before Sir Ratcliffe and his lady could notrefrain from mutually communicating to each other the gratification theyshould feel could Glastonbury be induced to cast his lot among them. Hisbenevolent and placid temper, his many accomplishments, and the entireaffection which he evidently entertained for everybody that bore thename, and for everything that related to the fortunes of Armine, allpointed him out as a friend alike to be cherished and to be valued. Under his auspices the garden of the fair Constance soon flourished:his taste guided her pencil, and his voice accompanied her lute. SirRatcliffe, too, thoroughly enjoyed his society: Glastonbury was with himthe only link, in life, between the present and the past. They talkedover old times together; and sorrowful recollections lost half theirbitterness, from the tenderness of his sympathetic reminiscences. SirRatcliffe, too, was conscious of the value of such a companion for hisgifted wife. And Glastonbury, moreover, among his many accomplishments, had the excellent quality of never being in the way. He was aware thatyoung people, and especially young lovers, are not averse sometimes tobeing alone; and his friends, in his absence, never felt that he wasneglected, because his pursuits were so various and his resources sonumerous that they were sure he was employed and amused. 

In the pleasaunce of Armine, at the termination of a long turfen avenueof purple beeches, there was a turreted gate, flanked by round towers, intended by Sir Ferdinand for one of the principal entrances of hiscastle. Over the gate were small but convenient chambers, to which youascended by a winding stair-. Case in one of the towers; the other wasa mere shell. It was sunset; the long vista gleamed in the dying rays, that shed also a rich breadth of light over the bold and baronial arch. Our friends had been examining the chambers, and Lady Armine, who was alittle wearied by the exertion, stood opposite the building, leaning onher husband and his friend. 

'A man might go far, and find a worse dwelling than that portal, ' saidGlastonbury, musingly. 'Me-thinks life might glide away pleasantlyenough in those little rooms, with one's books and drawings, and thisnoble avenue for a pensive stroll. '

'I wish to heaven, my dear Glastonbury, you would try the experiment, 'said Sir Ratcliffe. 

'Ah! do, Mr. Glastonbury, ' added Lady Armine, 'take pity upon us!'

'At any rate, it is not so dull as a cloister, ' added Sir Ratcliffe;'and say what they like, there is nothing like living among friends. '

'You would find me very troublesome, ' replied Glastonbury, with a smile;and then, turning the conversation, evidently more from embarrassmentthan distaste, he remarked the singularity of the purple beeches. 

Their origin was uncertain; but one circumstance is sure: that, beforeanother month had passed, Glastonbury was a tenant for life of theportal of Armine Castle, and all his books and collections were safelystowed and arranged in the rooms with which he had been so much pleased. 

The course of time for some years flowed on happily at Armine. In thesecond year of their marriage Lady Armine presented her husband with ason. Their family was never afterwards increased, but the proud fatherwas consoled by the sex of his child for the recollection that theexistence of his line depended upon the precious contingency of a singlelife. The boy was christened Ferdinand. With the exception of an annualvisit to Lord Grandison, the Armine family never quitted their home. Necessity as well as taste induced this regularity of life. The affairsof Sir Ratcliffe did not improve. His mortgagees were more strict intheir demands of interest than his tenants in payment of their rents. His man of business, who had made his fortune in the service of thefamily, was not wanting in accommodation to his client; but he was aman of business; he could not sympathise with the peculiar feelings andfancies of Sir Ratcliffe, and he persisted in seizing every opportunityof urging on him the advisability of selling his estates. However, bystrict economy and temporary assistance from his lawyer, Sir Ratcliffe, during the first ten years of his marriage, managed to carry on affairs;and though occasional embarrassments sometimes caused him fits of gloomand despondency, the sanguine spirit of his wife, and the confidence inthe destiny of their beautiful child which she regularly enforced uponhim, maintained on the whole his courage. All their hopes and joys wereindeed centred in the education of the little Ferdinand. At ten years ofage he was one of those spirited and at the same time docile boys, who seem to combine with the wild and careless grace of childhood thethoughtfulness and self-discipline of maturer age. It was the constantand truthful boast of his parents, that, in spite of all his liveliness, he had never in the whole course of his life disobeyed them. In thevillage, where he was idolised, they called him 'the little prince;'he was so gentle and so generous, so kind and yet so dignified in hisdemeanour. His education was remarkable; for though he never quittedhome, and lived in such extreme seclusion, so richly gifted were thosefew persons with whom he passed his life, that it would have beendifficult to have fixed upon a youth, however favoured by fortune, whoenjoyed greater advantages for the cultivation of his mind and manners. From the first dawn of the intellect of the young Armine, Glastonburyhad devoted himself to its culture; and the kind scholar, who had notshrunk from the painful and patient task of impregnating a young mindwith the seeds of knowledge, had bedewed its budding promise with allthe fertilising influence of his learning and his taste. As Ferdinandadvanced in years, he had participated in the accomplishments of hismother; from her he derived not only a taste for the fine arts, but nounskilful practice. She, too, had cultivated the rich voice with whichNature had endowed him, and it was his mother who taught him not only tosing, but to dance. In more manly accomplishments, Ferdinand couldnot have found a more skilful instructor than his father, a consummatesportsman, and who, like all his ancestors, was remarkable for hisfinished horsemanship and the certainty of his aim. Under a roof, too, whose inmates were distinguished for their sincere piety and unaffectedvirtue, the higher duties of existence were not forgotten; and FerdinandArmine was early and ever taught to be sincere, dutiful, charitable, and just; and to have a deep sense of the great account hereafter tobe delivered to his Creator. The very foibles of his parents which heimbibed tended to the maintenance of his magnanimity. His illustriouslineage was early impressed upon him, and inasmuch as little now wasleft to them but their honour, so it was doubly incumbent upon him topreserve that chief treasure, of which fortune could not deprive them, unsullied. 

This much of the education of Ferdinand Armine. With great giftsof nature, with lively and highly cultivated talents, and a mostaffectionate and disciplined temper, he was adored by the friends whonevertheless had too much sense to spoil him. But for his character, what was that? Perhaps, with all their anxiety and all their care, andall their apparent opportunities for observation, the parent and thetutor are rarely skilful in discovering the character of their child orcharge. Custom blunts the fineness of psychological study: those withwhom we have lived long and early are apt to blend our essential and ouraccidental qualities in one bewildering association. The consequences ofeducation and of nature are not sufficiently discriminated. Nor is it, indeed, marvellous, that for a long time temperament should be disguisedand even stifled by education; for it is, as it were, a contest betweena child and a man. 

There were moments when Ferdinand Armine loved to be alone, when hecould fly from all the fondness of his friends, and roam in solitudeamid the wild and desolate pleasure-grounds, or wander for hours inthe halls and galleries of the castle, gazing on the pictures of hisancestors. He ever experienced a strange satisfaction in beholding theportrait of his grandfather. He would sometimes stand abstracted formany minutes before the portrait of Sir Ferdinand in the gallery, painted by Reynolds, before his grandfather left England, and which thechild already singularly resembled. But was there any other resemblancebetween them than form and feature? Did the fiery imagination and theterrible passions of that extraordinary man lurk in the innocent heartand the placid mien of his young descendant? No matter now! Behold, heis a light-hearted and airy child! Thought passes over his brow like acloud in a summer sky, or the shadow of a bird over the sunshiny earth;and he skims away from the silent hall and his momentary reverie to flya kite or chase a butterfly!

CHAPTER V. 

 _A Domestic Scene. _

YEARS glided away without any remarkable incidents in the life of youngFerdinand. He seldom quitted home, except as companion to Glastonburyin his pedestrian excursions, when he witnessed a different kind of lifefrom that displayed in the annual visit which he paid to Grandison. Theboy amused his grandfather, with whom, therefore, he became a favourite. The old Lord, indeed, would have had no objection to his grandsonpassing half the year with him; and he always returned home with abenediction, a letter full of his praises, and a ten-pound note. LadyArmine was quite delighted with these symptoms of affection on the partof her father towards her child, and augured from them important futureresults. But Sir Ratcliffe, who was not blessed with so sanguine atemperament as his amiable lady, and who, unbiassed by blood, wasperhaps better qualified to form an opinion of the character of hisfather-in-law, never shared her transports, and seldom omitted anopportunity of restraining them. 

'It is all very well, my dear, ' he would observe, 'for Ferdinand tovisit his relations. Lord Grandison is his grandfather. It is veryproper that he should visit his grandfather. I like him to be seenat Grandison. That is all very right. Grandison is a first-rateestablishment, where he is certain of meeting persons of his own class, with whom circumstances unhappily, ' and here Sir Ratcliffe sighed, 'debar him from mixing; and your father, Constance, is a very good sortof man. I like your father, Constance, you know, very much. No personever could be more courteous to me than he has ever been. I have nocomplaints to make of him, Constance; or your brother, or indeed ofany member of your family. I like them all. Persons more kind, or morethoroughly bred, I am sure I never knew. And I think they like us. Theyappear to me to be always really glad to see us, and to be unaffectedlysorry when we quit them. I am sure I should be very happy if it were inmy power to return their hospitality, and welcome them at Armine: but itis useless to think of that. God only knows whether we shall be able toremain here ourselves. All I want to make you feel, my love, is, that ifyou are building any castle in that little brain of yours on the groundof expectations from Grandison, trust me you will be disappointed, mydear, you will, indeed. ' 'But, my love--'

'If your father die to-morrow, my dear, he will not leave us a shilling. And who can complain? I cannot. He has always been very frank. Iremember when we were going to marry, and I was obliged to talk tohim about your portion; I remember it as if it were only yesterday; Iremember his saying, with the most flattering smile in the world, "I wish the 5, 000L. , Sir Ratcliffe, were 50, 000L. , for your sake;particularly as it will never be in my power to increase it. "'

'But, my dear Ratcliffe, surely he may do something for his favourite, Ferdinand?'

'My dear Constance, there you are again! Why _favourite_? I hate thevery word. Your father is a good-natured man, a very good-natured man:he is one of the best-natured men I ever was acquainted with. He has nota single care in the world, and he thinks nobody else has; and what ismore, my dear, nobody ever could persuade him that anybody else has. Hehas no idea of our situation; he never could form an idea of it. IfI chose to attempt to make him understand it he would listen with thegreatest politeness, shrug his shoulders at the end of the story, tellme to keep up my spirits, and order another bottle of Madeira in orderthat he might illustrate his precept by practice. He is a good-naturedselfish man. He likes us to visit him because you are gay and agreeable, and because I never asked a favour of him in the whole course of ouracquaintance: he likes Ferdinand to visit him because he is a handsomefine-spirited boy, and his friends congratulate him on having such agrandson. And so Ferdinand is his _favourite;_ and next year I shouldnot be surprised were he to give him a pony: and perhaps, if he die, hewill leave him fifty guineas to buy a gold watch. '

'Well, I dare say you are right, Ratcliffe; but still nothing thatyou can say will ever persuade me that Ferdinand is not papa's decidedfavourite. '

'Well! we shall soon see what this favour is worth, ' retorted SirRatcliffe, rather bitterly. 'Regularly every visit for the last threeyears your father has asked me what I intended to do with Ferdinand. Isaid to him last year more than I thought I ever could say to anyone. Itold him that Ferdinand was now fifteen, and that I wished to get him acommission; but that I had no influence to get him a commission, andno money to pay for it if it were offered me. I think that was prettyplain; and I have been surprised ever since that I ever could haveplaced myself in such a degrading position as to say so much. '

'Degrading, my dear Ratcliffe!' said his wife. 

'I felt it as such; and such I still feel it. '

At this moment Glastonbury, who was standing at the other end of theroom examining a large folio, and who had evidently been uneasy duringthe whole conversation, attempted to quit the room. 

'My dear Glastonbury, ' said Sir Ratcliffe, with a forced smile, 'you arealarmed at our domestic broils. Pray, do not leave the room. You know wehave no secrets from you. '

'No, pray do not go, Mr. Glastonbury, ' added Lady Armine: 'and if indeedthere be a domestic broil, ' and here she rose and kissed her husband, 'at any rate witness our reconciliation. '

Sir Ratcliffe smiled, and returned his wife's embrace with much feeling. 

'My own Constance, ' he said, 'you are the dearest wife in the world; andif I ever feel unhappy, believe me it is only because I do not see youin the position to which you are entitled. '

'I know no fortune to be compared to your love, Ratcliffe; and as forour child, nothing will ever persuade me that all will not go right, andthat he will not restore the fortunes of the family. '

'Amen!' said Glastonbury, closing the book with a reverberating sound. 'Nor indeed can I believe that Providence will ever desert a great andpious line!'

CHAPTER VI. 

 _Containing Another Domestic Scene_. 

LADY ARMINE and Glastonbury were both too much interested in the welfareof Sir Ratcliffe not to observe with deep concern that a great, althoughgradual, change had occurred in his character during the last fiveyears. He had become moody and querulous, and occasionally evenirritable. His constitutional melancholy, long diverted by theinfluence of a vigorous youth, the society of a charming woman, andthe interesting feelings of a father, began to reassert its ancient andessential sway, and at times even to deepen into gloom. Sometimes wholedays elapsed without his ever indulging in conversation; his nights, once tranquil, were now remarkable for their restlessness; his wife wasalarmed at the sighs and agitation of his dreams. He abandoned also hisfield sports, and none of those innocent sources of amusement, in whichit was once his boast their retirement was so rich, now interested him. In vain Lady Armine sought his society in her walks, or consulted himabout her flowers. His frigid and monosyllabic replies discouragedall her efforts. No longer did he lean over her easel, or call for arepetition of his favourite song. At times these dark fits passed away, and if not cheerful, he was at least serene. But on the whole he wasan altered man; and his wife could no longer resist the miserableconviction that he was an unhappy one. 

She, however, was at least spared the mortification, the bitterest thata wife can experience, of feeling that this change in his conduct wasoccasioned by any indifference towards her; for, averse as Sir Ratcliffewas to converse on a subject so hopeless and ungrateful as the state ofhis fortune, still there were times in which he could not refrain fromcommunicating to the partner of his bosom all the causes of his misery, and these, indeed, too truly had she divined. 

'Alas!' she would sometimes say as she tried to compose his restlesspillow; 'what is this pride to which you men sacrifice everything? Forme, who am a woman, love is sufficient. Oh! my Ratcliffe, why do you notfeel like your Constance? What if these estates be sold, still we areArmines! and still our dear Ferdinand is spared to us! Believe me, love, that if deference to your feelings has prompted my silence, I have longfelt that it would be wiser for us at once to meet a necessary evil. ForGod's sake, put an end to the torture of this life, which is destroyingus both. Poverty, absolute poverty, with you and with your love, I canmeet even with cheerfulness; but indeed, my Ratcliffe, I can bear ourpresent life no longer; I shall die if you be unhappy. And oh! dearestRatcliffe, if that were to happen, which sometimes I fear has happened, if you were no longer to love me--'

But here Sir Ratcliffe assured her of the reverse. 

'Only think, ' she would continue, 'if when we married we had voluntarilydone that which we may now be forced to do, we really should have beenalmost rich people; at least we should have had quite enough to livein ease, and even elegance. And now we owe thousands to that horribleBagster, who I am sure cheated your father out of house and home, and Idare say, after all, wants to buy Armine for himself. '

'He buy Armine! An attorney buy Armine! Never, Constance, never! I willbe buried in its ruins first. There is no sacrifice that I would notsooner make--'

'But, dearest love, suppose we sell it to some one else, and supposeafter paying every thing we have thirty thousand pounds left. How wellwe could live abroad on the interest of thirty thousand pounds?'

'There would not be thirty thousand pounds left now!'

'Well, five-and-twenty, or even twenty. I could manage on twenty. Andthen we could buy a commission for dear Ferdinand. '

'But to leave our child!'

'Could not he go into the Spanish service? Perhaps you could get acommission in the Spanish Guards for nothing. They must remember youthere. And such a name as Armine! I have no doubt that the king would bequite proud to have another Armine in his guard. And then we could liveat Madrid; and that would be so delightful, because you speak Spanishso beautifully, and I could learn it very quickly. I am very quick atlearning languages, I am, indeed. '

'I think you are very quick at everything, dear Constance. I am sure youare really a treasure of a wife; I have cause every hour to bless you;and, if it were not for my own sake, I should say that I wish you hadmade a happier marriage. '

'Oh! do not say that, Ratcliffe; say anything but that, Ratcliffe. Ifyou love me I am the happiest woman that ever lived. Be sure always ofthat. '

'I wonder if they do remember me at Madrid!'

'To be sure they do. How could they forget you; how could they forgetmy Ratcliffe? I daresay you go to this day by the name of the handsomeEnglishman. '

'Pooh! I remember when I left England before, I had no wife then, nochild, but I remembered who I was, and when I thought I was the last ofour race, and that I was in all probability going to spill the littleblood that was spared of us in a foreign soil, oh, Constance, I do notthink I ever could forget the agony of that moment. Had it been forEngland, I would have met my fate without a pang. No! Constance, I am anEnglishman: I am proud of being an Englishman. My fathers helped to makethis country what it is; no one can deny that; and no consideration inthe world shall ever induce me again to quit this island. '

'But suppose we do not quit England. Suppose we buy a small estate andlive at home. '

'A small estate at home! A small, new estate! Bought of a Mr. Hopkins, a great tallow-chandler, or some stock-jobber about to make a new flightfrom a Lodge to a Park. Oh no! that would be too degrading. '

'But suppose we keep one of our own manors?'

'And be reminded every instant of every day of those we have lost; andhear of the wonderful improvements of our successors. I should go mad. '

'But suppose we live in London?'

'Where?'

'I am sure I do not know; but I should think we might get a nice littlehouse somewhere. '

'In a suburb! a fitting lodgment for Lady Armine. No! at any rate wewill have no witnesses to our fall. '

'But could not we try some place near my father's?'

'And be patronised by the great family with whom I had the good fortuneof being connected. No! my dear Constance, I like your father very well, but I could not stand his eleemosynary haunches of venison, and greatbaskets of apples and cream-cheeses sent with the housekeeper's duty. '

'But what shall we do, dear Ratcliffe?'

'My love, there is no resisting fate. We must live or die at Armine, even if we starve. '

'Perhaps something will turn up. I dreamed the other night that dearFerdinand married an heiress. Suppose he should? What do you think?'

'Why, even then, that he would not be as lucky as his father. Goodnight, love!'

CHAPTER VII. 

 _Containing an Unexpected Visit to London, and Its Consequences. _

THE day after the conversation in the library to which Glastonburyhad been an unwilling listener, he informed his friends that it wasnecessary for him to visit the metropolis; and as young Ferdinand hadnever yet seen London, he proposed that he should accompany him. SirRatcliffe and Lady Armine cheerfully assented to this proposition; andas for Ferdinand, it is difficult to describe the delight which theanticipation of his visit occasioned him. The three days that wereto elapse before his departure did not seem sufficient to ensurethe complete packing of his portmanteau: and his excited manner, therapidity of his conversation, and the restlessness of his movements werevery diverting. 

'Mamma! is London twenty times bigger than Nottingham? How big is it, then? Shall we travel all night? What o'clock is it now? I wonder ifThursday will ever come? I think I shall go to bed early, to finish theday sooner. Do you think my cap is good enough to travel in? I shallbuy a hat in London. I shall get up early the very first morning, andbuy a hat. Do you think my uncle is in London? I wish Augustus were notat Eton, perhaps he would be there. I wonder if Mr. Glastonbury willtake me to see St. Paul's! I wonder if he will take me to the play. I'dgive anything to go to the play. I should like to go to the play and St. Paul's! What fun it will be dining on the road!'

It did indeed seem that Thursday would never come; yet it came at last. The travellers were obliged to rise before the sun, and drive over toNottingham to meet their coach; so they bid their adieus the previouseve. As for Ferdinand, so fearful was he of losing the coach, that hescarcely slept, and was never convinced that he was really in time, until he found himself planted in breathless agitation outside of theDart light-post-coach. It was the first time in his life that hehad ever travelled outside of a coach. He felt all the excitement ofexpanding experience and advancing manhood. They whirled along: atthe end of every stage Ferdinand followed the example of hisfellow-travellers and dismounted, and then with sparkling eyes hurriedto Glastonbury, who was inside, to inquire how he sped. 'Capitaltravelling, isn't it, sir? Did the ten miles within the hour. You haveno idea what a fellow our coachman is; and the guard, such a fellow ourguard! Don't wait here a moment. Can I get anything for you? We dine atMill-field. What fun!'

Away whirled the dashing Dart over the rich plains of our merry midland;a quick and dazzling vision of golden corn-fields and lawny pastureland; farmhouses embowered in orchards and hamlets shaded by thestraggling members of some vast and ancient forest. Then rose inthe distance the dim blue towers, or the graceful spire, of some oldcathedral, and soon the spreading causeways announced their approach tosome provincial capital. The coachman flanks his leaders, who break intoa gallop; the guard sounds his triumphant bugle; the coach boundsover the noble bridge that spans a stream covered with craft; publicbuildings, guildhalls, and county gaols rise on each side. Rattlingthrough many an inferior way they at length emerge into the High Street, the observed of all observers, and mine host of the Red Lion, or theWhite Hart, followed by all his waiters, advances from his portal with asmile to receive the 'gentlemen passengers. '

'The coach stops here half an hour, gentlemen: dinner quite ready!'

'Tis a delightful sound. And what a dinner! What a profusion ofsubstantial delicacies! What mighty and iris-tinted rounds of beef! Whatvast and marble-veined ribs! What gelatinous veal pies! What colossalhams! Those are evidently prize cheeses! And how invigorating isthe perfume of those various and variegated pickles! Then the bustleemulating the plenty; the ringing of bells, the clash of thoroughfare, the summoning of ubiquitous waiters, and the all-pervading feelingof omnipotence, from the guests, who order what they please, to thelandlord, who can produce and execute everything they can desire. 'Tisa wondrous sight. Why should a man go and see the pyramids and cross thedesert, when he has not beheld York Minster or travelled on the Road!Our little Ferdinand amid all this novelty heartily enjoyed himself, and did ample justice to mine host's good cheer. They were soon againwhirling along the road; but at sunset, Ferdinand, at the instance ofGlastonbury, availed himself of his inside place, and, wearied by theair and the excitement of the day, he soon fell soundly asleep. 

Several hours had elapsed, when, awaking from a confused dream in whichArmine and all he had lately seen were blended together, he found hisfellow-travellers slumbering, and the mail dashing along through theilluminated streets of a great city. The streets were thickly thronged. Ferdinand stared at the magnificence of the shops blazing with lights, and the multitude of men and vehicles moving in all directions. Theguard sounded his bugle with treble energy, and the coach suddenlyturned through an arched entrance into the court-yard of anold-fashioned inn. His fellow-passengers started and rubbed their eyes. 

'So! we have arrived, I suppose, ' grumbled one of these gentlemen, taking off his night-cap. 

'Yes, gentlemen, I am happy to say our journey is finished, ' said a morepolite voice; 'and a very pleasant one I have found it. Porter, have thegoodness to call me a coach. '

'And one for me, ' added the gruff voice. 

'Mr. Glastonbury, ' whispered the awe-struck Ferdinand, 'is this London?'

'This is London: but we have yet two or three miles to go before wereach our quarters. I think we had better alight and look after ourluggage. Gentlemen, good evening!'

Mr. Glastonbury hailed a coach, into which, having safely depositedtheir portmanteaus, he and Ferdinand entered; but our young friend wasso entirely overcome by his feelings and the genius of the place, thathe was quite unable to make an observation. Each minute the streetsseemed to grow more spacious and more brilliant, and the multitudemore dense and more excited. Beautiful buildings, too, rose beforehim; palaces, and churches, and streets, and squares of imposingarchitecture; to his inexperienced eye and unsophisticated spirit theirroute appeared a never-ending triumph. To the hackney-coachman, however, who had no imagination, and who was quite satiated with metropolitanexperience, it only appeared that he had had an exceeding good fare, andthat he was jogging up from Bishopsgate Street to Charing Cross. 

When Jarvis, therefore, had safely deposited his charge at Morley'sHotel, in Cockspur Street, and extorted from them an extra shilling, inconsideration of their evident rustication, he bent his course towardsthe Opera House; for clouds were gathering, and, with the favour ofProvidence, there seemed a chance about midnight of picking up somehelpless beau, or desperate cabless dandy, the choicest victim, in amidnight shower, of these public conveyancers. 

The coffee-room at Morley's was a new scene of amusement to Ferdinand, and he watched with great diversion the two evening papers portionedout among twelve eager quidnuncs, and the evident anxiety which theyendured, and the nice diplomacies to which they resorted, to obtainthe envied journals. The entrance of our two travellers so alarminglyincreasing the demand over the supply, at first seemed to attractconsiderable and not very friendly notice; but when a malignant half-payofficer, in order to revenge himself for the restless watchfulness ofhis neighbour, a political doctor of divinity, offered the journal, which he had long finished, to Glastonbury, and it was declined, thegeneral alarm visibly diminished. Poor Mr. Glastonbury had never lookedinto a newspaper in his life, save the County Chronicle, to which heoccasionally contributed a communication, giving an account of thedigging up of some old coins, signed Antiquarius; or of the exhumationof some fossil remains, to which he more boldly appended his initials. 

In spite of the strange clatter in the streets, Ferdinand sleptwell, and the next morning, after an early breakfast, himself and hisfellow-traveller set out on their peregrinations. Young and sanguine, full of health and enjoyment, innocent and happy, it was with difficultythat Ferdinand could restrain his spirits as he mingled in the bustleof the streets. It was a bright sunny morning, and although the end ofJune, the town was yet quite full. 

'Is this Charing Cross, sir? I wonder if we shall ever be able to getover. Is this the fullest part of the town, sir? What a fine day, sir!How lucky we are in the weather! We are lucky in everything! Whose houseis that? Northumberland House! Is it the Duke of Northumberland's? Doeshe live there? How I should like to see it! Is it very fine? Who isthat? What is this? The Admiralty; oh! let me see the Admiralty! TheHorse Guards! Oh! where, where? Let us set our watches by the HorseGuards. The guard of our coach always sets his watch by the HorseGuards. Mr. Glastonbury, which is the best clock, the Horse Guards, orSt. Paul's? Is that the Treasury? Can we go in? That is Downing Street, is it? I never heard of Downing Street. What do they do in DowningStreet? Is this Charing Cross still, or is it Parliament Street? Wheredoes Charing Cross end, and where does Parliament Street begin? By Jove, I see Westminster Abbey!'

After visiting Westminster Abbey and the two Houses of Parliament, Mr. Glastonbury, looking at his watch, said it was now time to call upona friend of his who lived in St. James's Square. This was the noblemanwith whom early in life Glastonbury had been connected, and withwhom and whose family he had become so great a favourite, that, notwithstanding his retired life, they had never permitted the connexionentirely to subside. During the very few visits which he had made tothe metropolis, he always called in St. James's Square and his receptionalways assured him that his remembrance imparted pleasure. 

When Glastonbury sent up his name he was instantly admitted, and usheredup stairs. The room was full, but it consisted only of a family party. The mother of the Duke, who was an interesting personage, with finegrey hair, a clear blue eye, and a soft voice, was surrounded by hergreat-grandchildren, who were at home for the Midsummer holidays, andwho had gathered together at her rooms this morning to consult uponamusements. Among them was the heir presumptive of the house, a youthof the age of Ferdinand, and of a prepossessing appearance. It wasdifficult to meet a more amiable and agreeable family, and nothing couldexceed the kindness with which they all welcomed Glastonbury. The Dukehimself soon appeared. 'My dear, dear Glastonbury, ' he said, 'I heardyou were here, and I would come. This shall be a holiday for us all. Why, man, you bury yourself alive!'

'Mr. Armine, ' said the Duchess, pointing to Ferdinand. 

'Mr. Armine, how do you do? Your grandfather and I were well acquainted. I am glad to know his grandson. I hope your father, Sir Ratcliffe, andLady Armine are well. My dear Glastonbury, I hope you have come tostay a long time. You must dine with us every day. You know we are veryold-fashioned people; we do not go much into the world; so you willalways find us at home, and we will do what we can to amuse your youngfriend. Why, I should think he was about the same age as Digby? Is he atEton? His grandfather was. I shall never forget the time he cut off oldBarnard's pig-tail. He was a wonderful man, poor Sir Ferdinand! he wasindeed. '

While his Grace and Glastonbury maintained their conversation, Ferdinandconducted himself with so much spirit and propriety towards the rest ofthe party, and gave them such a lively and graceful narrative of all histravels up to town, and the wonders he had already witnessed, that theywere quite delighted with him; and, in short, from this moment, duringhis visit to London he was scarcely ever out of their society, and everyday became a greater favourite with them. His letters to his mother, forhe wrote to her almost every day, recounted all their successful effortsfor his amusement, and it seemed that he passed his mornings in a roundof sight-seeing, and that he went to the play every night of his life. Perhaps there never existed a human being who at this moment morethoroughly enjoyed life than Ferdinand Armine. 

In the meantime, while he thought only of amusement, Mr. Glastonbury wasnot inattentive to his more important interests; for the truth is thatthis excellent man had introduced him to the family only with the hopeof interesting the feelings of the Duke in his behalf. His Grace wasa man of a generous disposition. He sympathised with the recital ofGlastonbury as he detailed to him the unfortunate situation of thisyouth, sprung from so illustrious a lineage, and yet cut off by acombination of unhappy circumstances from almost all those naturalsources whence he might have expected support and countenance. And whenGlastonbury, seeing that the Duke's heart was moved, added that all herequired for him, Ferdinand, was a commission in the army, for which hisparents were prepared to advance the money, his Grace instantly declaredthat he would exert all his influence to obtain their purpose. 

Mr. Glastonbury was, therefore, more gratified than surprised when, a few days after the conversation which we have mentioned, his noblefriend informed him, with a smile, that he believed all might bearranged, provided his young charge could make it convenient to quitEngland at once. A vacancy had unexpectedly occurred in a regiment justordered to Malta, and an ensigncy had been promised to Ferdinand Armine. Mr. Glastonbury gratefully closed with the offer. He sacrificed a fourthpart of his moderate independence in the purchase of the commission andthe outfit of his young friend, and had the supreme satisfaction, erethe third week of their visit was completed, of forwarding a Gazette toArmine, containing the appointment of Ferdinand Armine as Ensign in theRoyal Fusiliers. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

 _A Visit to Glastonbury's Chamber_. 

IT WAS arranged that Ferdinand should join his regiment by the nextMediterranean packet, which was not to quit Falmouth for a fortnight. Glastonbury and himself, therefore, lost no time in bidding adieu totheir kind friends in London, and hastening to Armine. They arrived theday after the Gazette. They found Sir Ratcliffe waiting for them atthe town, and the fond smile and cordial embrace with which he greetedGlastonbury more than repaid that good man for all his exertions. Therewas, notwithstanding, a perceptible degree of constraint both on thepart of the baronet and his former tutor. It was evident that SirRatcliffe had something on his mind of which he wished to disburdenhimself; and it was equally apparent that Glastonbury was unwilling toafford him an opportunity. Under these rather awkward circumstances, itwas perhaps fortunate that Ferdinand talked without ceasing, giving hisfather an account of all he had seen, done, and heard, and of all thefriends he had made, from the good Duke of-----to that capital fellow, the guard of the coach. 

They were at the park gates: Lady Armine was there to meet them. Thecarriage stopped; Ferdinand jumped out and embraced his mother. She kissed him, and ran forward and extended both her hands to Mr. Glastonbury. 'Deeds, not words, must show our feelings, ' she said, andthe tears glittered in her beautiful eyes; Glastonbury, with a blush, pressed her hand to his lips. After dinner, during which Ferdinandrecounted all his adventures, Lady Armine invited him, when she rose, to walk with her in the garden. It was then, with an air of considerableconfusion, clearing his throat, and filling his glass at the same time, that Sir Ratcliffe said to his remaining guest, 'My dear Glastonbury, you cannot suppose that I believe that the daysof magic have returned. This commission, both Constance and myselffeel, that is, we are certain, that you are at the bottom of it all. Thecommission is purchased. I could not expect the Duke, deeply as I feelhis generous kindness, to purchase a commission for my son: I couldnot permit it. No! Glastonbury, ' and here Sir Ratcliffe became moreanimated, '_you_ could not permit it, my honour is safe in your hands?'Sir Ratcliffe paused for a reply. 

'On that score my conscience is clear, ' replied Glastonbury. 

'It is, then, --it must be then as I suspect, ' rejoined Sir Ratcliffe. 'Iam your debtor for this great service. '

'It is easy to count your obligations to me, ' said Glastonbury, 'butmine to you and yours are incalculable. '

'My dear Glastonbury, ' said Sir Ratcliffe, pushing his glass away as herose from his seat and walked up and down the room, 'I may be proud, but I have no pride for you, I owe you too much; indeed, my dear friend, there is nothing that I would not accept from you, were it in your powerto grant what you would desire. It is not pride, my dear Glastonbury;do not mistake me; it is not pride that prompts this explanation;but--but--had I your command of language I would explain myself morereadily; but the truth is, I--I--I cannot permit that you should sufferfor us, Glastonbury, I cannot indeed. '

Mr. Glastonbury looked at Sir Ratcliffe steadily; then rising from hisseat he took the baronet's arm, and without saying a word walked slowlytowards the gates of the castle where he lodged, and which we havebefore described. When he had reached the steps of the tower he withdrewhis arm, and saying, 'Let me be pioneer, ' invited Sir Ratcliffe tofollow him. They accordingly entered his chamber. 

It was a small room lined with shelves of books, except in one spot, where was suspended a portrait of Lady Barbara, which she had bequeathedhim in her will. The floor was covered with so many boxes and casesthat it was not very easy to steer a course when you had entered. Glastonbury, however, beckoned to his companion to seat himself in oneof his two chairs, while he unlocked a small cabinet, from a drawer ofwhich he brought forth a paper. 

'It is my will, ' said Glastonbury, handing it to Sir Ratcliffe, who laidit down on the table. 

'Nay, I wish you, my dear friend, to peruse it, for it concernsyourself. '

'I would rather learn its contents from yourself, if you positivelydesire me, ' replied Sir Ratcliffe. 

'I have left everything to our child, ' said Glastonbury; for thus, whenspeaking to the father alone, he would often style the son. 

'May it be long before he enjoys the 'bequest, ' said Sir Ratcliffe, brushing away a tear; 'long, very long. '

'As the Almighty pleases, ' said Glastonbury, crossing himself. 'Butliving or dead, I look upon all as Ferdinand's, and hold myself but thesteward of his inheritance, which I will never abuse. '

'O! Glastonbury, no more of this I pray; you have wasted a precious lifeupon our forlorn race. Alas! how often and how keenly do I feel, thathad it not been for the name of Armine your great talents and goodnessmight have gained for you an enviable portion of earthly felicity; yes, Glastonbury, you have sacrificed yourself to us. '

'Would that I could!' said the old man, with brightening eyes and anunaccustomed energy of manner. 'Would that I could! would that any actof mine, I care not what, could revive the fortunes of the house ofArmine. Honoured for ever be the name, which with me is associated withall that is great and glorious in man, and [here his voice faltered, andhe turned away his face] exquisite and enchanting in woman!

'No, Ratcliffe, ' he resumed, 'by the memory of one I cannot name, bythat blessed and saintly being from whom you derive your life, you willnot, you cannot deny this last favour I ask, I entreat, I supplicate youto accord me: me, who have ever eaten of your bread, and whom your roofhath ever shrouded!'

'My friend, I cannot speak, ' said Sir Ratcliffe, throwing himself backin the chair and covering his face with his right hand; 'I know not whatto say; I know not what to feel. '

Glastonbury advanced, and gently took his other hand. 'Dear SirRatcliffe, ' he observed, in his usual calm, sweet voice, 'if I haveerred you will pardon me. I did believe that, after my long andintimate connection with your house; after having for nearly forty yearssympathised as deeply with all your fortunes as if, indeed, your nobleblood flowed in these old veins; after having been honoured on yourside with a friendship which has been the consolation and charm of myexistence; indeed, too great a blessing; I did believe, more especiallywhen I reminded myself of the unrestrained manner in which I had availedmyself of the advantages of that friendship, I did believe, actuated byfeelings which perhaps I cannot describe, and thoughts to which I cannotnow give utterance, that I might venture, without offence, upon thisslight service: ay, that the offering might be made in the spirit ofmost respectful affection, and not altogether be devoid of favour inyour sight. '

'Excellent, kind-hearted man!' said Sir Ratcliffe, pressing the hand ofGlastonbury in his own; 'I accept your offering in the spirit of perfectlove. Believe me, dearest friend, it was no feeling of false pride thatfor a moment influenced me; I only felt-'

'That in venturing upon this humble service I deprived myself of someportion of my means of livelihood: you are mistaken. When I cast my lotat Armine I sank a portion of my capital on my life; so slender are mywants here, and so little does your dear lady permit me to desire, that, believe me, I have never yet expended upon myself this apportionedincome; and as for the rest, it is, as you have seen, destined for ourFerdinand. Yet a little time and Adrian Glastonbury must be gathered tohis fathers. Why, then, deprive him of the greatest gratification ofhis remaining years? the consciousness that, to be really serviceable tothose he loves, it is not necessary for him to cease to exist. '

'May you never repent your devotion to our house!' said Sir Ratcliffe, rising from his seat. 'Time was we could give them who served ussomething better than thanks; but, at any rate, these come from theheart. '

CHAPTER IX. 

 _The Last Day and the Last Night_. 

IN THE meantime, the approaching I departure of Ferdinand was the greattopic of interest at Armine, It was settled that his father shouldaccompany him to Falmouth, where he was to embark; and that they shouldpay a visit on their way to his grandfather, whose seat was situate inthe west of England. This separation, now so near at hand, occasionedLady Armine the deepest affliction; but she struggled to suppress heremotion. Yet often, while apparently busied with the common occupationsof the day, the tears trickled down her cheek; and often she rose fromher restless seat, while surrounded by those she loved, to seek thesolitude of her chamber and indulge her overwhelming sorrow. Nor wasFerdinand less sensible of the bitterness of this separation. With allthe excitement of his new prospects, and the feeling of approachingadventure and fancied independence, so flattering to inexperiencedyouth, he could not forget that his had been a very happy home. Nearlyseventeen years of an innocent existence had passed, undisturbed bya single bad passion, and unsullied by a single action that he couldregret. The river of his life had glided along, reflecting only acloudless sky. But if he had been dutiful and happy, if at this momentof severe examination his conscience were serene, he could not but feelhow much this enviable state of mind was to be attributed to thosewho had, as it were, imbued his life with love; whose never-varyingaffection had developed all the kindly feelings of his nature, hadanticipated all his wants, and listened to all his wishes; had assistedhim in difficulty and guided him in doubt; had invited confidence bykindness, and deserved it by sympathy; had robbed instruction of all itslabour, and discipline of all its harshness. 

It was the last day; on the morrow he was to quit Armine. He strolledabout among the mouldering chambers of the castle, and a host ofthoughts and passions, like clouds in a stormy sky, coursed over hishitherto serene and light-hearted breast. In this first great struggleof his soul some symptoms of his latent nature developed themselves, and, amid the rifts of the mental tempest, occasionally he caught someglimpses of self-knowledge. Nature, that had endowed him with a fieryimagination and a reckless courage, had tempered those dangerous, and, hitherto, those undeveloped and untried gifts, with a heart of infinitesensibility. Ferdinand Armine was, in truth, a singular blending of thedaring and the soft; and now, as he looked around him and thought of hisillustrious and fallen race, and especially of that extraordinary man, of whose splendid and ruinous career, that man's own creation, thesurrounding pile, seemed a fitting emblem, he asked himself if he hadnot inherited the energies with the name of his grandsire, and if theirexertion might not yet revive the glories of his line. He felt withinhim alike the power and the will; and while he indulged in magnificentreveries of fame and glory and heroic action, of which career, indeed, his approaching departure was to be the commencement, the associationof ideas led his recollection to those beings from whom he was about todepart. His fancy dropped like a bird of paradise in full wing, tumblingexhausted in the sky: he thought of his innocent and happy boyhood, of his father's thoughtful benevolence, his sweet mother's gentleassiduities, and Glastonbury's devotion; and he demanded aloud, in avoice of anguish, whether Fate could indeed supply a lot more exquisitethan to pass existence in these calm and beauteous bowers with suchbeloved companions. 

His name was called: it was his mother's voice. He dashed away adesperate tear, and came forth with a smiling face. His mother andfather were walking together at a little distance. 

'Ferdinand, ' said Lady Armine, with an air of affected gaiety, 'we havejust been settling that you are to send me a gazelle from Malta. ' And inthis strain, speaking of slight things, yet all in some degree touchingupon the mournful incident of the morrow, did Lady Armine for some timeconverse, as if she were all this time trying the fortitude of her mind, and accustoming herself to a catastrophe which she was resolved to meetwith fortitude. 

While they were walking together, Glastonbury, who was hurrying from hisrooms to the Place, for the dinner hour was at hand, joined them, andthey entered their home together. It was singular at dinner, too, inwhat excellent spirits everybody determined to be. The dinner also, generally a simple repast, was almost as elaborate as the demeanourof the guests, and, although no one felt inclined to eat, consistedof every dish and delicacy which was supposed to be a favourite withFerdinand. Sir Ratcliffe, in general so grave, was to-day quite joyous, and produced a magnum of claret which he had himself discovered in theold cellars, and of which even Glastonbury, an habitual water-drinker, ventured to partake. As for Lady Armine, she scarcely ever ceasedtalking; she found a jest in every sentence, and seemed only uneasy whenthere was silence. Ferdinand, of course, yielded himself to the apparentspirit of the party; and, had a stranger been present, he could onlyhave supposed that they were celebrating some anniversary of domesticjoy. It seemed rather a birth-day feast than the last social meeting ofthose who had lived together so long, and loved each other so dearly. 

But as the evening drew on their hearts began to grow heavy, and everyone was glad that the early departure of the travellers on the morrowwas an excuse for speedily retiring. 

'No adieus to-night!' said Lady Armine with a gay air, as shescarcely returned the habitual embrace of her son. 'We shall be all upto-morrow. '

So wishing his last good night with a charged heart and falteringtongue, Ferdinand Armine took up his candle and retired to his chamber. He could not refrain from exercising an unusual scrutiny when he hadentered the room. He held up the light to the old accustomed walls, andthrew a parting glance of affection at the curtains. There was the glassvase which his mother had never omitted each day to fill with freshflowers, and the counterpane that was her own handiwork. He kissed it;and, flinging off his clothes, was glad when he was surrounded withdarkness and buried in his bed. 

There was a gentle tap at his door. He started. 

'Are you in bed, my Ferdinand?' inquired his mother's voice. 

Ere he could reply he heard the door open, and observed a tall whitefigure approaching him. 

Lady Armine, without speaking, knelt down by his bedside and took him inher arms. She buried her face in his breast. He felt her tears upon hisheart. He could not move; he could not speak. At length he sobbed aloud. 

'May our Father that is in heaven bless you, my darling child; may Heguard over you; may He preserve you!' Very weak was her still, solemnvoice. 'I would have spared you this, my darling. For you, not formyself, have I controlled my feelings. But I knew not the strength of amother's love. Alas! what mother has a child like thee? O! Ferdinand, my first, my only-born: child of love and joy and happiness, that nevercost me a thought of sorrow; so kind, so gentle, and so dutiful! mustwe, oh! must we indeed part?'

'It is too cruel, ' continued Lady Armine, kissing with a thousand kissesher weeping child. 'What have I done to deserve such misery as this?Ferdinand, beloved Ferdinand, I shall die. '

'I will not go, mother, I will not go, ' wildly exclaimed the boy, disengaging himself from her embrace and starting up in his bed. 'Mother, I cannot go. No, no, it never can be good to leave a home likethis. '

'Hush! hush! my darling. What words are these? How unkind, how wickedit is of me to say all this! Would that I had not come! I only meantto listen at your door a minute, and hear you move, perhaps to hear youspeak, and like a fool, --how naughty of me! never, never shall I forgivemyself-like a miserable fool I entered. '

'My own, own mother, what shall I say? what shall I do? I love you, mother, with all my heart and soul and spirit's strength: I love you, mother. There is no mother loved as you are loved!'

''Tis that that makes me mad. I know it. Oh! why are you not likeother children, Ferdinand? When your uncle left us, my father said, "Good-bye, " and shook his hand; and he--he scarcely kissed us, he was soglad to leave his home; but you-tomorrow; no, not to-morrow. Can it beto-morrow?'

'Mother, let me get up and call my father, and tell him I will not go. '

'Good God! what words are these? Not go! 'Tis all your hope to go; allours, dear child. What would your father say were he to hear me speakthus? Oh! that I had not entered! What a fool I am!'

'Dearest, dearest mother, believe me we shall soon meet. '

'Shall we soon meet? God! how joyous will be the day. '

'And I--I will write to you by every ship. '

'Oh! never fail, Ferdinand, never fail. '

'And send you a gazelle, and you shall call it by my name, dear mother. '

'Darling child!'

'You know I have often stayed a month at grand-papa's, and once sixweeks. Why! eight times six weeks, and I shall be home again. '

'Home! home again! eight times six weeks; a year, nearly a year! Itseems eternity. Winter, and spring, and summer, and winter again, all topass away. And for seventeen years he has scarcely been out of my sight. Oh! my idol, my beloved, my darling Ferdinand, I cannot believe it; Icannot believe that we are to part. '

'Mother, dearest mother, think of my father; think how much his hopesare placed on me; think, dearest mother, how much I have to do. All nowdepends on me, you know. I must restore our house. '

'O! Ferdinand, I dare not express the thoughts that rise upon me; yetI would say that, had I but my child, I could live in peace; how, orwhere, I care not. '

'Dearest mother, you unman me. '

'It is very wicked. I am a fool. I never, no! never shall pardon myselffor this night, Ferdinand. '

'Sweet mother, I beseech you calm yourself. Believe me we shall indeedmeet very soon, and somehow or other a little bird whispers to me weshall yet be very happy. '

'But will you be the same Ferdinand to me as before? Ay! There it is, mychild. You will be a man when you come back, and be ashamed to love yourmother. Promise me now, ' said Lady Armine, with extraordinary energy, 'promise me, Ferdinand, you will always love me. Do not let them makeyou ashamed of loving me. They will joke, and jest, and ridicule allhome affections. You are very young, sweet love, very, very young, andvery inexperienced and susceptible. Do not let them spoil your frankand beautiful nature. Do not let them lead you astray. Remember Armine, dear, dear Armine, and those who live there. Trust me, oh! yes, indeedbelieve me, darling, you will never find friends in this world likethose you leave at Armine. '

'I know it, ' exclaimed Ferdinand, with streaming eyes; 'God be mywitness how deeply I feel that truth. If I forget thee and them, dearmother, may God indeed forget me. '

'My Ferdinand, ' said Lady Armine, in a calm tone, 'I am better now. Ihardly am sorry that I did come now. It will be a consolation to mein your absence to remember all you have said. Good night, my belovedchild; my darling child, good night. I shall not come down to-morrow, dear. We will not meet again; I will say good-bye to you from thewindow. Be happy, my dear Ferdinand, and as you say indeed, we shallsoon meet again. Eight-and-forty weeks! Why what are eight-and-fortyweeks? It is not quite a year. Courage, my sweet boy! let us keep upeach other's spirits. Who knows what may yet come from this your firstventure into the world? I am full of hope. I trust you will find allthat you want. I packed up everything myself. Whenever you want anythingwrite to your mother. Mind, you have eight packages; I have written themdown on a card and placed it on the hall table. And take the greatestcare of old Sir Ferdinand's sword. I am very superstitious about thatsword, and while you have it I am sure you will succeed. I have everthought that had he taken it with him to France all would have goneright with him. God bless, God Almighty bless you, child. Be of goodheart. I will write you everything that takes place, and, as you say, weshall soon meet. Indeed, after to-night, ' she added in a more mournfultone, 'we have naught else to think of but of meeting. I fear it is verylate. Your father will be surprised at my absence. ' She rose from hisbed and walked up and down the room several times in silence; then againapproaching him, she folded him in her arms and quitted the chamberwithout again speaking. 

CHAPTER X. 

 _The Advantage of Being a Favourite Grandson_. 

THE exhausted Ferdinand found consolation in sleep. When he woke thedawn was just breaking. He dressed and went forth to look, for thelast time, on his hereditary woods. The air was cold, but the sky wasperfectly clear, and the beams of the rising sun soon spread over theblue heaven. How fresh, and glad, and sparkling was the surroundingscene! With what enjoyment did he inhale the soft and renovating breeze!The dew quivered on the grass, and the carol of the wakening birds, roused from their slumbers by the spreading warmth, resounded from thegroves. From the green knoll on which he stood he beheld the clusteringvillage of Armine, a little agricultural settlement formed of thepeasants alone who lived on the estate. The smoke began to rise in bluecurls from the cottage chimneys, and the church clock struck the hour offive. It seemed to Ferdinand that those labourers were far happier thanhe, since the setting sun would find them still at Armine: happy, happyArmine!

The sound of carriage wheels roused him from his reverie. The fatalmoment had arrived. He hastened to the gate according to his promise, to bid farewell to Glastonbury. The good old man was up. He pressed hispupil to his bosom, and blessed him with a choking voice. 

'Dearest and kindest friend!' murmured Ferdinand. Glastonbury placedround his neck a small golden crucifix that had belonged to LadyBarbara. 'Wear it next your heart, my child, ' said he; 'it will remindyou of your God, and of us all. ' Ferdinand quitted the tower with athousand blessings. 

When he came in sight of the Place he saw his father standing by thecarriage, which was already packed. Ferdinand ran into the house to getthe 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 handswith 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 notexpect you. Come, come along. ' So he slowly seated himself, with hiseyes fixed on the window of his mother's chamber; and as the carriagedrove off the window opened, and a hand waved a white handkerchief. Hesaw no more; but as he saw it he clenched his hand in agony. 

How different was this journey to London from his last! He scarcelyspoke a word. Nothing interested him but his own feelings. The guard andthe coachman, and the bustle of the inn, and the passing spectacles ofthe road, appeared a collection of impertinences. All of a sudden itseemed that his boyish feelings had deserted him. He was glad when theyarrived in London, and glad that they were to stay in it only a singleday. Sir Ratcliffe and his son called upon the Duke; but, as they hadanticipated, the family had quitted town. Our travellers put up atHatchett's, and the following night started for Exeter in the Devonportmail. Ferdinand arrived at the western metropolis having interchangedwith his father scarcely a hundred sentences. At Exeter, after anight of most welcome rest, they took a post-chaise and proceeded by across-road to Grandison. 

When Lord Grandison, who as yet was perfectly unacquainted with therevolutions in the Armine family, had clearly comprehended that hisgrandson had obtained a commission without either troubling him for hisinterest, or putting him in the disagreeable predicament of refusinghis money, there were no bounds to the extravagant testimonials of hisaffection, both towards his son-in-law and his grandson. He seemed quiteproud of such relations; he patted Sir Ratcliffe on his back, asked athousand questions about his darling Constance, and hugged and slobberedover Ferdinand as if he were a child of five years old. He informedall his guests daily (and the house was full) that Lady Armine was hisfavourite daughter, and Sir Ratcliffe his favourite son-in-law, andFerdinand especially his favourite grandchild. He insisted upon SirRatcliffe always sitting at the head of his table, and always placedFerdinand on his own right hand. He asked his butler aloud at dinner whyhe had not given a particular kind of Burgundy, because Sir RatcliffeArmine was here. 

'Darbois, ' said the old nobleman, 'have not I told you that Closde Vougeot is always to be kept for Sir Ratcliffe Armine? It is hisfavourite wine. Clos de Vougeot directly to Sir Ratcliffe Armine. I donot think, my dear madam [turning to a fair neighbour], that I haveyet had the pleasure of introducing you to my son-in-law, my favouriteson-in-law, Sir Ratcliffe Armine. He married my daughter Constance, myfavourite daughter, Constance. Only here for a few days, a very, veryfew days indeed. Quite a flying visit. I wish I could see the wholefamily 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 isin the Fusileers, the Royal Fusileers. Very difficult, my dear madam, inthese days to obtain a commission, especially a commission in the RoyalFusileers. Very great interest required, very great interest, indeed. But the Armines are a most ancient family, very highly connected, veryhighly connected; and, between you and me, the Duke of-----would doanything for them. 

Come, come, Captain Armine, take a glass of wine with your oldgrandfather. '

'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 favouritegrandson. '

In short, the old gentleman at last got so excited by the universaladmiration lavished on his favourite grandson, that he finally insistedon seeing the young hero in his regimentals; and when Ferdinand took hisleave, after a great many whimpering blessings, his domestic feelingswere worked up to such a pitch of enthusiasm, that he absolutelypresented his grandson with a hundred-pound note. 

'Thank you, my dear grandpapa, ' said the astonished Ferdinand, whoreally did not expect more than fifty, perhaps even a moiety of thatmore moderate sum; 'thank you, my dear grandpapa; I am very much obligedto 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, myfavourite grandson, my dear favourite daughter's only child. And you arean officer in his Majesty's service, an officer in the Royal Fusiliers, only think of that! It is the most unexpected thing that ever happenedto me. To see you so well and so unexpectedly provided for, my dearchild, has taken a very great load off my mind; it has indeed. Youhave no idea of a parent's anxiety in these matters, especially of agrandfather. You will some day, I warrant you, ' continued the noblegrandfather, with an expression between a giggle and a leer; 'but donot be wild, my dear Ferdinand, do not be too wild at least. Young bloodmust 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 seriousscrapes; and whatever happens to you, ' and here his lordship assumedeven a solemn tone, 'remember you have friends; remember, my dearboy, you have a grandfather, and that you, my dear Ferdinand, are hisfavourite grandson. '

This passing visit to Grandison rather rallied the spirits of ourtravellers. When they arrived at Falmouth, they found, however, that thepacket, which waited for government despatches, was not yet to sail. SirRatcliffe scarcely knew whether he ought to grieve or to rejoice at thereprieve; but he determined to be gay. So Ferdinand and himself passedtheir mornings in visiting the mines, Pendennis Castle, and the otherlions of the neighbourhood; and returned in the evening to theircheerful hotel, with good appetites for their agreeable banquet, themutton of Dartmoor and the cream of Devon. 

At length, however, the hour of separation approached; a messageawaited them at the inn, on their return from one of their rambles, thatFerdinand must be on board at an early hour on the morrow. That eveningthe conversation between Sir Ratcliffe and his son was of a gravernature than they usually indulged in. He spoke to him in confidenceof his affairs. Dark hints, indeed, had before reached Ferdinand; nor, although his parents had ever spared his feelings, could his intelligentmind have altogether refrained from guessing much that had neverbeen formally communicated. Yet the truth was worse even than he hadanticipated. Ferdinand, however, was young and sanguine. He encouragedhis father with his hopes, and supported him by his sympathy. Heexpressed to Sir Ratcliffe his confidence that the generosity of hisgrandfather would prevent him at present from becoming a burden tohis own parent, and he inwardly resolved that no possible circumstanceshould ever induce him to abuse the benevolence of Sir Ratcliffe. 

The moment of separation arrived. Sir Ratcliffe pressed to his bosom hisonly, his loving, and his beloved child. He poured over Ferdinand thedeepest, 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 subjectof our last chapter and the recall to England of the regiment in whichCaptain Armine now commanded a company. This period of time had passedaway not unfruitful of events in the experience of that family, inwhose fate and feelings I have attempted to interest the reader. In thisinterval Ferdinand Armine had paid one short visit to his native land;a visit which had certainly been accelerated, if not absolutelyoccasioned, by the untimely death of his cousin Augustus, thepresumptive heir of Grandison. This unforeseen event produced a greatrevolution in the prospects of the family of Armine; for although thetitle and an entailed estate devolved to a distant branch, the absoluteproperty of the old lord was of great amount; and, as he had no maleheir now living, conjectures as to its probable disposition werenow rife among all those who could possibly become interested in it. Whatever arrangement the old lord might decide upon, it seemed nearlycertain that the Armine family must be greatly benefited. Some personseven went so far as to express their conviction that everything would beleft to Mr. Armine, who everybody now discovered to have always been aparticular favourite with his grandfather. At all events, Sir Ratcliffe, who ever maintained upon the subject a becoming silence, thought itas well that his son should remind his grandfather personally of hisexistence; and it was at his father's suggestion that Ferdinand hadobtained a short leave of absence, at the first opportunity, to pay ahurried visit to Grandison and his grandfather. 

The old lord yielded him a reception which might have flattered themost daring hopes. He embraced Ferdinand, and pressed him to his heart athousand times; he gave him his blessing in the most formal manner everymorning and evening; and assured everybody that he now was not only hisfavourite but his only grandson. He did not even hesitate to affect agrowing dislike for his own seat, because it was not in his power toleave it to Ferdinand; and he endeavoured to console that fortunateyouth for his indispensable deprivation by mysterious intimations thathe would, perhaps, find quite enough to do with his money in completingArmine Castle, and maintaining its becoming splendour. The sanguineFerdinand returned to Malta with the conviction that he was hisgrandfather's heir; and even Sir Ratcliffe was almost disposed tobelieve that his son's expectations were not without some show ofprobability, when he found that Lord Grandison had absolutely furnishedhim with the funds for the purchase of his company. 

Ferdinand was fond of his profession. He had entered it under favourablecircumstances. He had joined a crack regiment in a crack garrison. Maltais certainly a delightful station. Its city, Valetta, equals in itsnoble architecture, if it even do not excel, any capital in Europe;and although it must be confessed that the surrounding region is littlebetter than a rock, the vicinity, nevertheless, of Barbary, of Italy, and of Sicily, presents exhaustless resources to the lovers of thehighest order of natural beauty. If that fair Valetta, with its streetsof palaces, its picturesque forts and magnificent church, only crownedsome green and azure island of the Ionian Sea, Corfu for instance, Ireally think that the ideal of landscape would be realised. 

To Ferdinand, who was inexperienced in the world, the dissipationof Malta, too, was delightful. It must be confessed that, under allcircumstances, the first burst of emancipation from domestic routinehath in it something fascinating. However you may be indulged at home, it is impossible to break the chain of childish associations; it isimpossible to escape from the feeling of dependence and the habit ofsubmission. Charming hour when you first order your own servants, andride your own horses, instead of your father's! It is delightful evento kick about your own furniture; and there is something manly andmagnanimous in paying our own taxes. Young, lively, kind, accomplished, good-looking, and well-bred, Ferdinand Armine had in him all theelements of popularity; and the novelty of popularity quite intoxicateda youth who had passed his life in a rural seclusion, where he had beenappreciated, but not huzzaed. Ferdinand was not only popular, but proudof being popular. He was popular with the Governor, he was popular withhis Colonel, he was popular with his mess, he was popular throughout thegarrison. Never was a person so popular as Ferdinand Armine. He was thebest rider among them, and the deadliest shot; and he soon became anoracle at the billiard-table, and a hero in the racquet-court. Hisrefined education, however, fortunately preserved him from the fateof many other lively youths: he did not degenerate into a mere hero ofsports and brawls, the genius of male revels, the arbiter of roisteringsuppers, and the Comus of a club. His boyish feelings had their play; hesoon exuded the wanton heat of which a public school would have servedas a safety-valve. He returned to his books, his music, and his pencil. He became more quiet, but he was not less liked. If he lost somecompanions, he gained many friends; and, on the whole, the mostboisterous wassailers were proud of the accomplishments of theircomrade; and often an invitation to a mess dinner was accompanied by ahint that Armine dined there, and that there was a chance of hearing himsing. Ferdinand now became as popular with the Governor's lady as withthe Governor himself, was idolised by his Colonel's wife, while not aparty throughout the island was considered perfect without the presenceof Mr. Armine. 

Excited by his situation, Ferdinand was soon tempted to incur expenseswhich his income did not justify. The facility of credit afforded himnot a moment to pause; everything he wanted was furnished him; and untilthe regiment quitted the garrison he was well aware that a settlementof accounts was never even desired. Amid this imprudence he was firm, however, in his resolution never to trespass on the resources of hisfather. It was with difficulty that he even brought himself to draw forthe allowance which Sir Ratcliffe insisted on making him; and he wouldgladly have saved his father from making even this advance, by vagueintimations of the bounty of Lord Grandison, had he not feared thisconduct might have led to suspicious and disagreeable enquiries. Itcannot be denied that his debts occasionally caused him anxiety, butthey were not considerable; he quieted his conscience by the beliefthat, if he were pressed, his grandfather could scarcely refuse todischarge a few hundred pounds for his favourite grandson; and, at allevents, he felt that the ultimate resource of selling his commissionwas still reserved for him. If these vague prospects did not drive awaycompunction, the qualms of conscience were generally allayed in theevening assembly, in which his vanity was gratified. At length he paidhis first visit to England. That was a happy meeting. His kind father, his dear, dear mother, and the faithful Glastonbury, experienced some ofthe most transporting moments of their existence, when they beheld, with admiring gaze, the hero who returned to them. Their eyes were neversatiated with beholding him; they hung upon his accents. Then came thetriumphant visit to Grandison; and then Ferdinand returned to Malta, inthe full conviction that he was the heir to fifteen thousand a year. 

Among many other, there is one characteristic of capitals in whichValetta is not deficient: the facility with which young heirs apparent, presumptive, or expectant, can obtain any accommodation they desire. Theterms; never mind the terms, who ever thinks of them? As for FerdinandArmine, who, as the only son of an old baronet, and the supposed futureinheritor of Armine Park, had always been looked upon by tradesmen witha gracious eye, he found that his popularity in this respect was not atall diminished by his visit to England, and its supposed consequences;slight expressions, uttered on his return in the confidence ofconvivial companionship, were repeated, misrepresented, exaggerated, andcirculated in all quarters. We like those whom we love to be fortunate. Everybody rejoices in the good luck of a popular character; and soon itwas generally understood that Ferdinand Armine had become next in theentail to thirty thousand a year and a peerage. Moreover, he was notlong to wait for his inheritance. The usurers pricked up their ears, andsuch numerous proffers of accommodation and assistance were made to thefortunate Mr. Armine, that he really found it quite impossible to refusethem, or to reject the loans that were almost forced on his acceptance. 

Ferdinand Armine had passed the Rubicon. He was in debt. If youth butknew the fatal misery that they are entailing on themselves the momentthey accept a pecuniary credit to which they are not entitled, how theywould start in their career! how pale they would turn! how they wouldtremble, and clasp their hands in agony at the precipice on which theyare disporting! Debt is the prolific mother of folly and of crime;it taints the course of life in all its dreams. Hence so many unhappymarriages, so many prostituted pens, and venal politicians! It hath asmall beginning, but a giant's growth and strength. When we make themonster we make our master, who haunts us at all hours, and shakes hiswhip of scorpions for ever in our sight. The slave hath no overseer sosevere. Faustus, when he signed the bond with blood, did not secure adoom more terrific. But when we are young we must enjoy ourselves. True;and there are few things more gloomy than the recollection of a youththat has not been enjoyed. What prosperity of manhood, what splendourof old age, can compensate for it? Wealth is power; and in youth, of allseasons of life, we require power, because we can enjoy everything thatwe can command. What, then, is to be done? I leave the question tothe schoolmen, because I am convinced that to moralise with theinexperienced availeth nothing. 

The conduct of men depends upon their temperament, not upon a bunch ofmusty maxims. No one had been educated with more care than FerdinandArmine; in no heart had stricter precepts of moral conduct ever beeninstilled. But he was lively and impetuous, with a fiery imagination, violent passions, and a daring soul. Sanguine he was as the day; hecould not believe in the night of sorrow, and the impenetrable gloomthat attends a career that has failed. The world was all before him; andhe dashed at it like a young charger in his first strife, confident thathe must rush to victory, and never dreaming of death. 

Thus would I attempt to account for the extreme imprudence of hisconduct on his return from England. He was confident in his futurefortunes; he was excited by the applause of the men, and the admirationof the women; he determined to gratify, even to satiety, his restlessvanity; he broke into profuse expenditure; he purchased a yacht; heengaged a villa; his racing-horses and his servants exceeded all otherestablishments, except the Governor's, in breeding, in splendour, and innumber. Occasionally wearied with the monotony of Malta, he obtained ashort leave of absence, and passed a few weeks at Naples, Palermo, andRome, where he glittered in brilliant circles, and whence he returnedladen with choice specimens of art and luxury, and followed by thereport of strange and flattering adventures. Finally, he was the primepatron of the Maltese opera, and brought over a celebrated Prima Donnafrom San Carlo in his own vessel. 

In the midst of his career, Ferdinand received intelligence of the deathof Lord Grandison. Fortunately, when he received it he was alone; therewas no one, therefore, to witness his blank dismay when he discoveredthat, after all, he was not his grandfather's heir! After a vast numberof trifling legacies to his daughters, and their husbands, and theirchildren, and all his favourite friends, Lord Grandison left the wholeof his property to his grand-daughter Katherine, the only remainingchild of his son, who had died early in life, and the sister of thelately deceased Augustus. 

What was to be done now? His mother's sanguine mind, for Lady Arminebroke to him the fatal intelligence, already seemed to anticipatethe only remedy for this 'unjust will. ' It was a remedy delicatelyintimated, but the intention fell upon a fine and ready ear. Yes! hemust marry; he must marry his cousin; he must marry Katherine Grandison. Ferdinand looked around him at his magnificent rooms; the damaskhangings of Tunis, the tall mirrors from Marseilles, the inlaid tables, the marble statues, and the alabaster vases that he had purchased atFlorence and at Rome, and the delicate mats that he had himself importedfrom Algiers. He looked around and he shrugged his shoulders: 'All thismust be paid for, ' thought he; 'and, alas! how much more!' And then cameacross his mind a recollection of his father and his cares, and innocentArmine, and dear Glastonbury, and his sacrifice. Ferdinand shook hishead and sighed. 

'How have I repaid them, ' thought he. 'Thank God, they know nothing. Thank God, they have only to bear their own disappointments and theirown privations; but it is in vain to moralise. The future, not thepast, must be my motto. To retreat is impossible; I may yet advance andconquer. Katherine Grandison: only think of my little cousin Kate fora wife! They say that it is not the easiest task in the world to fana lively flame in the bosom of a cousin. The love of cousins isproverbially not of a very romantic character. 'Tis well I have notseen her much in my life, and very little of late. Familiarity breedscontempt, they say. Will she dare to despise me?' He glanced at themirror. The inspection was not unsatisfactory. Plunged in profoundmeditation, he paced the room. 

CHAPTER II. 

 _In Which Captain Armine Achieves with Rapidity a Result Which Always Requires Great Deliberation_. 

It so happened that the regiment in which Captain Armine had the honourof commanding a company was at this time under orders of immediaterecall to England; and within a month of his receipt of the fatalintelligence of his being, as he styled it, disinherited, he was on hisway to his native land, This speedy departure was fortunate, becauseit permitted him to retire before the death of Lord Grandison becamegenerally known, and consequently commented upon and enquired into. Previous to quitting the garrison, Ferdinand had settled his affairs forthe time without the slightest difficulty, as he was still able to raiseany money that he required. 

On arriving at Falmouth, Ferdinand learnt that his father and motherwere at Bath, on a visit to his maiden aunt, Miss Grandison, with whomhis cousin now resided. As the regiment was quartered at Exeter, he wasenabled in a very few days to obtain leave of absence and join them. Inthe first rapture of meeting all disappointment was forgotten, and inthe course of a day or two, when this sentiment had somewhat subsided, Ferdinand perceived that the shock which his parents must havenecessarily experienced was already considerably softened bythe prospect in which they secretly indulged, and which variouscircumstances combined in inducing them to believe was by no means avisionary one. 

His cousin Katherine was about his own age; mild, elegant, and pretty. Being fair, she looked extremely well in her deep mourning. She wasnot remarkable for the liveliness of her mind, yet not devoid ofobservation, although easily influenced by those whom she loved, andwith whom she lived. Her maiden aunt evidently exercised a powerfulcontrol over her conduct and opinions; and Lady Armine was a favouritesister of this maiden aunt. Without, therefore, apparently directingher will, there was no lack of effort from this quarter to predisposeKatherine in favour of her cousin. She heard so much of her cousinFerdinand, of his beauty, and his goodness, and his accomplishments, that she had looked forward to his arrival with feelings of no ordinaryinterest. And, indeed, if the opinions and sentiments of those withwhom she lived could influence, there was no need of any artifice topredispose her in favour of her cousin. Sir Ratcliffe and Lady Arminewere wrapped up in their son. They seemed scarcely to have another idea, feeling, or thought in the world, but his existence and his felicity;and although their good sense had ever preserved them from the sillyhabit of uttering his panegyric in his presence, they amply compensatedfor this painful restraint when he was away. Then he was ever, the handsomest, the cleverest, the most accomplished, and the mostkind-hearted and virtuous of his sex. Fortunate the parents blessed withsuch a son! thrice fortunate the wife blessed with such a husband!

It was therefore with no ordinary emotion that Katherine Grandison heardthat this perfect cousin Ferdinand had at length arrived. She had seenlittle of him even in his boyish days, and even then he was rather ahero in their Lilliputian circle. 

Ferdinand Armine was always looked up to at Grandison, and always spokenof by her grandfather as a very fine fellow indeed; a wonderfullyfine fellow, his favourite grandson, Ferdinand Armine: and now he hadarrived. His knock was heard at the door, his step was on the stairs, the door opened, and certainly his first appearance did not disappointhis cousin Kate. So handsome, so easy, so gentle, and so cordial; theywere all the best friends in a moment. Then he embraced his father withsuch fervour, and kissed his mother with such fondness: it was evidentthat he had an excellent heart. His arrival indeed, was a revolution. Their mourning days seemed at once to disappear; and although they ofcourse entered society very little, and never frequented any publicamusement, it seemed to Katherine that all of a sudden she lived in around of delightful gaiety. Ferdinand was so amusing and soaccomplished! He sang with her, he played with her; he was alwaysprojecting long summer rides and long summer walks. Then hisconversation was so different from everything to which she had everlistened. He had seen so many things and so many persons; everythingthat was strange, and everybody that was famous. His opinions were sooriginal, his illustrations so apt and lively, his anecdotes soinexhaustible and sparkling! Poor inexperienced, innocent Katherine! Hercousin in four-and-twenty hours found it quite impossible to fall inlove with her; and so he determined to make her fall in love with him. He quite succeeded. She adored him. She did not believe that there wasanyone in the world so handsome, so good, and so clever. No one, indeed, who knew Ferdinand Armine could deny that he was a rare being; but, hadthere been any acute and unprejudiced observers who had known him in hisyounger and happier hours, they would perhaps have remarked somedifference in his character and conduct, and not a favourable one. Hewas indeed more brilliant, but not quite so interesting as in old days;far more dazzling, but not quite so apt to charm. No one could deny hislively talents and his perfect breeding, but there was a restlessnessabout him, an excited and exaggerated style, which might have made somesuspect that his demeanour was an effort, and that under a superficialglitter, by which so many are deceived, there was no little deficiencyof the genuine and sincere. Katherine Grandison, however, was not one ofthose profound observers. She was easily captivated. Ferdinand, whoreally did not feel sufficient emotion to venture upon a scene, made hisproposals to her when they were riding in a green lane: the sun justsetting, and the evening star glittering through a vista. The ladyblushed, and wept, and sobbed, and hid her fair and streaming face; butthe result was as satisfactory as our hero could desire. The youngequestrians kept their friends in the crescent at least two hours fordinner, and then had no appetite for the repast when they had arrived. 

Nevertheless the maiden aunt, although a very particular personage, madethis day no complaint, and was evidently far from being dissatisfiedwith anybody or anything. As for Ferdinand, he called for a tumbler ofchampagne, and secretly drank his own health, as the luckiest fellow ofhis acquaintance, with a pretty, amiable, and high-bred wife, with allhis debts paid, and the house of Armine restored. 

CHAPTER III. 

 _Which Ferdinand Returns to Armine_. 

IT WAS settled that a year must elapse from the death of Lord Grandisonbefore the young couple could be united: a reprieve which did notoccasion Ferdinand acute grief. In the meantime the Grandisons wereto pass at least the autumn at Armine, and thither the united familiesproposed soon to direct their progress. Ferdinand, who had been nearlytwo months at Bath, and was a little wearied of courtship, contrived toquit that city before his friends, on the plea of visiting London, toarrange about selling his commission; for it was agreed that he shouldquit the army. 

On his arrival in London, having spoken to his agent, and finding townquite empty, he set off immediately for Armine, in order that he mighthave the pleasure of being there a few days without the society of hisintended; celebrate the impending first of September; and, especially, embrace his dear Glastonbury. For it must not be supposed that Ferdinandhad forgotten for a moment this invaluable friend; on the contrary, hehad written to him several times since his arrival: always assuring himthat nothing but important business could prevent him from instantlypaying him his respects. 

It was with feelings of no common emotion, even of agitation, thatFerdinand beheld the woods of his ancient home rise in the distance, andsoon the towers and turrets of Armine Castle. Those venerable bowers, that proud and lordly house, were not then to pass away from their oldand famous line? He had redeemed the heritage of his great ancestry; helooked with unmingled complacency on the magnificent landscape, onceto him a source of as much anxiety as affection. What a change inthe destiny of the Armines! Their glory restored; his own devoted anddomestic hearth, once the prey of so much care and gloom, crowned withease and happiness and joy; on all sides a career of splendour andfelicity. And _he_ had done all this! What a prophet was his mother!She had ever indulged the fond conviction that her beloved, son wouldbe their restorer. How wise and pious was the undeviating confidence ofkind old Glastonbury in their fate! With what pure, what heart-feltdelight, would that faithful friend listen to his extraordinarycommunication!

His carriage dashed through the park gates as if the driver weresensible of his master's pride and exultation. Glastonbury was ready towelcome him, standing in the flower-garden, which he had made so richand beautiful, and which had been the charm and consolation of many oftheir humbler hours. 

'My dear, dear father!' exclaimed Ferdinand, embracing him, for thus heever styled his old tutor. 

But Glastonbury could not speak; the tears quivered in his eyes andtrickled down his faded cheek. Ferdinand led him into the house. 

'How well you look, dear father!' continued Ferdinand; 'you really lookyounger and heartier than ever. You received all my letters, I am sure;and yours, how kind of you to remember and to write to me! I neverforgot you, my dear, dear friend. I never could forget you. Do you knowI am the happiest fellow in the world? I have the greatest news in theworld to tell my Glastonbury--and we owe everything to you, everything. What would Sir Ratcliffe have been without you? what should I have been?Fancy the best news you can, dear friend, and it is not so good as Ihave got to tell. You will rejoice, you will be delighted! We shallfurnish a castle! by Jove we shall furnish a castle! We shall indeed, and you shall build it! No more gloom; no more care. The Armines shallhold their heads up again, by Jove they shall! Dearest of men, I daresay you think me mad. I am mad with joy. How that Virginian creeper hasgrown! I have brought you so many plants, my father! a complete SicilianHortus Siccus. Ah, John, good John, how is your wife? Take care of mypistol-case. Ask Louis; he knows all about everything. Well, dearGlastonbury, and how have you been? How is the old tower? How are theold books, and the old staff, and the old arms, and the old everything?Dear, dear Glastonbury!'

While the carriage was unpacking, and the dinner-table prepared, thefriends walked in the garden, and from thence strolled towards thetower, where they remained some time pacing up and down the beechenavenue. It was evident, on their return, that Ferdinand had communicatedhis great intelligence. The countenance of Glastonbury was radiant withdelight. 

Indeed, although he had dined, he accepted with readiness Ferdinand'sinvitation to repeat the ceremony; nay, he quaffed more than one glassof wine; and, I believe, even drank the health of every member ofthe united families of Armine and Grandison. It was late before thecompanions parted, and retired for the night; and I think, beforethey bade each other good night, they must have talked over everycircumstance that had occurred in their experience since the birth ofFerdinand. 

CHAPTER IV. 

 _In Which Some Light Is Thrown on the Title of This Work_. 

HOW delicious after a long absence to wake on a sunny morning and findourselves at home! Ferdinand could scarcely credit that he was reallyagain at Armine. He started up in his bed, and rubbed his eyes andstared at the unaccustomed, yet familiar sights, and for a moment Maltaand the Royal Fusiliers, Bath and his betrothed, were all a dream; andthen he remembered the visit of his dear mother to this very room on theeve of his first departure. He had returned; in safety had he returned, and in happiness, to accomplish all her hopes and to reward her for allher solicitude. Never felt anyone more content than Ferdinand Armine, more content and more grateful. 

He rose and opened the casement; a rich and exhilarating perfume filledthe chamber; he looked with a feeling of delight and pride over thebroad and beautiful park; the tall trees rising and flinging theirtaller shadows over the bright and dewy turf, and the last mistsclearing away from the distant woods and blending with the spotless sky. Everything was sweet and still, save, indeed, the carol of the birds, orthe tinkle of some restless bellwether. It was a rich autumnal morn. Andyet with all the excitement of his new views in life, and the blissfulconsciousness of the happiness of those he loved, he could not but feelthat a great change had come over his spirit since the days he was wontto ramble in this old haunt of his boyhood. His innocence was gone. Lifewas no longer that deep unbroken trance of duty and of love from whichhe had been roused to so much care; and if not remorse, at least toso much compunction. He had no secrets then. Existence was not then asubterfuge, but a calm and candid state of serene enjoyment. Feelingsthen were not compromised for interests; and then it was the excellentthat was studied, not the expedient. 'Yet such I suppose is life, 'murmured Ferdinand; 'we moralise when it is too late; nor is thereanything more silly than to regret. One event makes another: what weanticipate seldom occurs; what we least expected generally happens; andtime can only prove which is most for our advantage. And surely I amthe last person who should look grave. Our ancient house rises fromits ruins; the beings I love most in the world are not only happy, butindebted to me for their happiness; and I, I myself, with every giftof fortune suddenly thrown at my feet, what more can I desire? Am Inot satisfied? Why do I even ask the question? I am sure I know not. Itrises like a devil in my thoughts, and spoils everything. The girl isyoung, noble, and fair, and loves me. And her? I love her, at least Isuppose I love her. I love her at any rate as much as I love, or everdid love, woman. There is no great sacrifice, then, on my part; thereshould be none; there is none; unless indeed it be that a man doesnot like to give up without a struggle all his chance of romance andrapture. 

'I know not how it is, but there are moments I almost wish that I had nofather and no mother; ay! not a single friend or relative in the world, and that Armine were sunk into the very centre of the earth. If I stoodalone in the world methinks I might find the place that suits me; noweverything seems ordained for me, as it were, beforehand. My spirit hashad no play. Something whispers me that, with all its flush prosperity, this is neither wise nor well. God knows I am not heartless, and wouldbe grateful; and yet if life can afford me no deeper sympathy than Ihave yet experienced, I cannot but hold it, even with all its sweetreflections, as little better than a dull delusion. '

While Ferdinand was thus moralising at the casement, Glastonburyappeared beneath; and his appearance dissipated this gathering gloom. 'Let us breakfast together, ' proposed Ferdinand. 'I have breakfastedthese two hours, ' replied the hermit of the gate. 'I hope that on thefirst night of your return to Armine you have proved auspicious dreams. '

'My bed and I are old companions, ' said Ferdinand, 'and we agreedvery well. I tell you what, my dear Glastonbury, we will have a strolltogether this morning and talk over our plans of last night. Go intothe library and look over my sketch-books: you will find them on mypistol-case, and I will be with you anon. '

In due time the friends commenced their ramble. Ferdinand soon becameexcited by Glastonbury's various suggestions for the completion ofthe castle; and as for the old man himself, between his architecturalcreation and the restoration of the family to which he had been so longdevoted, he was in a rapture of enthusiasm, which afforded an amusingcontrast to his usual meek and subdued demeanour. 

'Your grandfather was a great man, ' said Glastonbury, who in old daysseldom ventured to mention the name of the famous Sir Ferdinand: 'thereis no doubt he was a very great man. He had great ideas. How he wouldglory in our present prospects! 'Tis strange what a strong confidence Ihave ever had in the destiny of your house. I felt sure that Providencewould not desert us. There is no doubt we must have a portcullis. '

'Decidedly, a portcullis, ' said Ferdinand; 'you shall make all thedrawings yourself, my dear Glastonbury, and supervise everything. Wewill not have a single anachronism. It shall be perfect. '

'Perfect, ' echoed Glastonbury; 'really perfect. It shall be a perfectGothic castle. I have such treasures for the work. All the labours ofmy life have tended to this object. I have all the emblazonings of yourhouse since the Conquest. There shall be three hundred shields in thehall. I will paint them myself. Oh! there is no place in the world likeArmine!'

'Nothing, ' said Ferdinand; 'I have seen a great deal, but after allthere is nothing like Armine. '

'Had we been born to this splendour, ' said Glastonbury, 'we should havethought little of it. We have been mildly and wisely chastened. I cannotsufficiently admire the wisdom of Providence, which has tempered, bysuch a wise dispensation, the too-eager blood of your race. '

'I should be sorry to pull down the old place, ' said Ferdinand. 

'It must not be, ' said Glastonbury; 'we have lived there happily, thoughhumbly. '

'I would we could move it to another part of the park, like the house ofLoretto, ' said Ferdinand with a smile. 

'We can cover it with ivy, ' observed Glastonbury, looking somewhatgrave. 

The morning stole away in these agreeable plans and prospects. Atlength the friends parted, agreeing to meet again at dinner. Glastonburyrepaired to his tower, and Ferdinand, taking his gun, sauntered into thesurrounding wilderness. 

But he felt no inclination for sport. The conversation with Glastonburyhad raised a thousand thoughts over which he longed to brood. Hislife had been a scene of such constant excitement since his return toEngland, that he had enjoyed little opportunity of indulging in calmself-communion; and now that he was at Armine, and alone, the contrastbetween his past and his present situation struck him so forcibly thathe could not refrain from falling into a reverie upon his fortunes. Itwas wonderful, all wonderful, very, very wonderful. There seemed indeed, as Glastonbury affirmed, a providential dispensation in the wholetransaction. The fall of his family, the heroic, and, as it nowappeared, prescient firmness with which his father had clung, in alltheir deprivations, to his unproductive patrimony, his own education, the extinction of his mother's house, his very follies, once to him acause of so much unhappiness, but which it now seemed were all the timecompelling him, as it were, to his prosperity; all these and a thousandother traits and circumstances flitted over his mind, and were each inturn the subject of his manifold meditation. Willing was he to creditthat destiny had reserved for him the character of restorer; that dutyindeed he had accepted, and yet----

He looked around him as if to see what devil was whispering in hisear. He was alone. No one was there or near. Around him rose thesilent bowers, and scarcely the voice of a bird or the hum of an insectdisturbed the deep tranquillity. But a cloud seemed to rest on the fairand pensive brow of Ferdinand Armine. He threw himself on the turf, leaning his head on one hand, and with the other plucking the wildflowers, which he as hastily, almost as fretfully, flung away. 

'Conceal it as I will, ' he exclaimed, 'I am a victim; disguise them asI may, all the considerations are worldly. There is, there must be, something better in this world than power and wealth and rank; andsurely there must be felicity more rapturous even than securing thehappiness of a parent. Ah! dreams in which I have so oft and so fondlyindulged, are ye, indeed, after all, but fantastical and airy visions?Is love indeed a delusion, or am I marked out from men alone to beexempted from its delicious bondage? It must be a delusion. All laughat it, all jest about it, all agree in stigmatising it the vanity ofvanities. And does my experience contradict this harsh but common fame?Alas! what have I seen or known to give the lie to this ill report?No one, nothing. Some women I have met more beautiful, assuredly, thanKate, and many, many less fair; and some have crossed my path with awild and brilliant grace, that has for a moment dazzled my sight, andperhaps for a moment lured me from my way. But these shooting starshave but glittered transiently in my heaven, and only made me, by theirevanescent brilliancy, more sensible of its gloom. Let me believe then, oh! let me of all men then believe, that the forms that inspirethe sculptor and the painter have no models in nature; that thatcombination of beauty and grace, of fascinating intelligence andfond devotion, over which men brood in the soft hours of their youngloneliness, is but the promise of a better world, and not the charm ofthis one. 

'But, what terror in that truth! what despair! what madness! Yes!at this moment of severest scrutiny, how profoundly I feel that lifewithout love is worse than death! How vain and void, how flat andfruitless, appear all those splendid accidents of existence for whichmen struggle, without this essential and pervading charm! What a worldwithout a sun! Yes! without this transcendent sympathy, riches and rank, and even power and fame, seem to me at best but jewels set in a coronetof lead!

'And who knows whether that extraordinary being, of whose magnificentyet ruinous career this castle is in truth a fitting emblem--I say, whoknows whether the secret of his wild and restless course is not hiddenin this same sad lack of love? Perhaps while the world, the silly, superficial world, marvelled and moralised at his wanton life, andpoured forth its anathemas against his heartless selfishness, perchancehe all the time was sighing for some soft bosom whereon to pour hisoverwhelming passion, even as I am!

'O Nature! why art thou beautiful? My heart requires not, imaginationcannot paint, a sweeter or a fairer scene than these surrounding bowers. This azazure vault of heaven, this golden sunshine, this deep andblending shade, these rare and fragrant shrubs, yon grove of green andtallest pines, and the bright gliding of this swan-crowned lake; mysoul is charmed with all this beauty and this sweetness; I feel nodisappointment here; my mind does not here outrun reality; here thereis no cause to mourn over ungratified hopes and fanciful desires. Is itthen my destiny that I am to be baffled only in the dearest desires ofmy heart?'

At this moment the loud and agitated barking of his dogs at some littledistance roused Ferdinand from his reverie. He called them to him, and soon one of them obeyed his summons, but instantly returned to hiscompanion with such significant gestures, panting and yelping, thatFerdinand supposed that Basto was caught, perhaps, in some trap: so, taking up his gun, he proceeded to the dog's rescue. 

To his surprise, as he was about to emerge from a berceau on to a plotof turf, in the centre of which grew a large cedar, he beheld a ladyin a riding-habit standing before the tree, and evidently admiring itsbeautiful proportions. 

[Illustration: page094. Jpg]

Her countenance was raised and motionless. It seemed to him that it wasmore radiant than the sunshine. He gazed with rapture on the dazzlingbrilliancy of her complexion, the delicate regularity of her features, and the large violet-tinted eyes, fringed with the longest and thedarkest lashes that he had ever beheld. From her position her hat hadfallen back, revealing her lofty and pellucid brow, and the dark andlustrous locks that were braided over her temples. The whole countenancecombined that brilliant health and that classic beauty which weassociate with the idea of some nymph tripping over the dew-bespangledmeads of Ida, or glancing amid the hallowed groves of Greece. Althoughthe lady could scarcely have seen eighteen summers, her stature wasabove the common height; but language cannot describe the startlingsymmetry of her superb figure. 

There is no love but love at first sight. This is the transcendent andsurpassing offspring of sheer and unpolluted sympathy. All other is theillegitimate result of observation, of reflection, of compromise, ofcomparison, of expediency. The passions that endure flash like thelightning: they scorch the soul, but it is warmed for ever. Miserableman whose love rises by degrees upon the frigid morning of his mind!Some hours indeed of warmth and lustre may perchance fall to his lot;some moments of meridian splendour, in which he basks in what he deemseternal sunshine. But then how often overcast by the clouds of care, howoften dusked by the blight of misery and misfortune! And certain as thegradual rise of such affection is its gradual decline and melancholysetting. Then, in the chill, dim twilight of his soul, he execratescustom; because he has madly expected that feelings could be habitualthat were not homogeneous, and because he has been guided by theobservation of sense, and not by the inspiration of sympathy. 

Amid the gloom and travail of existence suddenly to behold a beautifulbeing, and as instantaneously to feel an overwhelming conviction thatwith that fair form for ever our destiny must be entwined; that there isno more joy but in her joy, no sorrow but when she grieves; that in hersigh of love, in her smile of fondness, hereafter all is bliss; tofeel our flaunty ambition fade away like a shrivelled gourd before hervision; to feel fame a juggle and posterity a lie; and to be prepared atonce, for this great object, to forfeit and fling away all former hopes, ties, schemes, views; to violate in her favour every duty of society;this is a lover, and this is love! Magnificent, sublime, divinesentiment! An immortal flame burns in the breast of that man who adoresand is adored. He is an ethereal being. The accidents of earth touch himnot. Revolutions of empire, changes of creed, mutations of opinion, are to him but the clouds and meteors of a stormy sky. The schemes andstruggles of mankind are, in his thinking, but the anxieties of pigmiesand the fantastical achievements of apes. Nothing can subdue him. Helaughs alike at loss of fortune, loss of friends, loss of character. Thedeeds and thoughts of men are tor him equally indifferent. He does notmingle in their paths of callous bustle, or hold himself responsible tothe airy impostures before which they bow down. He is a mariner who, onthe sea of life, keeps his gaze fixedly on a single star; and if that donot shine, he lets go the rudder, and glories when his barque descendsinto the bottomless gulf. 

Yes! it was this mighty passion that now raged in the heart of FerdinandArmine, as, pale and trembling, he withdrew a few paces from theoverwhelming spectacle, and leant against a tree in a chaos of emotion. What had he seen? What ravishing vision had risen upon his sight? Whatdid he feel? What wild, what delicious, what maddening impulse nowpervaded his frame? A storm seemed raging in his soul, a mighty winddispelling in its course the sullen clouds and vapours of long years. Silent he was indeed, for he was speechless; though the big drop thatquivered on his brow and the slight foam that played upon his lip provedthe difficult triumph of passion over expression. But, as the windclears the heaven, passion eventually tranquillises the soul. The tumultof his mind gradually subsided; the flitting memories, the scuddingthoughts, that for a moment had coursed about in such wild order, vanished and melted away, and a feeling of bright serenity succeeded, asense of beauty and of joy, and of hovering and circumambient happiness. 

He advanced, and gazed again; the lady was still there. Changed indeedher position; she had gathered a flower and was examining its beauty. 

'Henrietta!' exclaimed a manly voice from the adjoining wood. Beforeshe could answer, a stranger came forward, a man of middle age but ofan appearance remarkably prepossessing. He was tall and dignified, fair, with an aquiline nose. One of Ferdinand's dogs followed him barking. 

'I cannot find the gardener anywhere, ' said the stranger; 'I think wehad better remount. '

'Ah, me! what a pity!' exclaimed the lady. 

'Let me be your guide, ' said Ferdinand, advancing. 

The lady rather started; the gentleman, not at all discomposed, courteously welcomed Ferdinand, and said, 'I feel that we areintruders, sir. But we were informed by the woman at the lodge that thefamily were not here at present, and that we should find her husband inthe grounds. '

'The family are not at Armine, ' replied Ferdinand; 'I am sure, however, Sir Ratcliffe would be most happy for you to walk about the grounds asmuch as you please; and as I am well acquainted with them, I should feeldelighted to be your guide. '

'You are really too courteous, sir, ' replied the gentleman; and hisbeautiful companion rewarded Ferdinand with a smile like a sunbeam, thatplayed about her countenance till it finally settled into two exquisitedimples, and revealed to him teeth that, for a moment, he believed to beeven the most beautiful feature of that surpassing visage. 

They sauntered along, every step developing new beauties in theirprogress and eliciting from his companions renewed expressions ofrapture. The dim bowers, the shining glades, the tall rare trees, theluxuriant shrubs, the silent and sequestered lake, in turn enchantedthem, until at length, Ferdinand, who had led them with experiencedtaste through all the most striking points of the pleasaunce, broughtthem before the walls of the castle. 

'And here is Armine Castle, ' he said; 'it is little better than a shell, and yet contains something which you might like to see. '

'Oh! by all means, ' exclaimed the lady. 

'But we are spoiling your sport, ' suggested the gentleman. 

'I can always kill partridges, ' replied Ferdinand, laying down his gun;'but I cannot always find agreeable companions. '

So saying, he opened the massy portal of the castle and they enteredthe hall. It was a lofty chamber, of dimensions large enough to feasta thousand vassals, with a dais and a rich Gothic screen, and a galleryfor the musicians. The walls were hung with arms and armour admirablyarranged; but the parti-coloured marble floor was so covered withpiled-up cases of furniture that the general effect of the scene, wasnot only greatly marred, but it was even difficult in some parts totrace a path. 

'Here, ' said Ferdinand, jumping upon a huge case and running to thewall, 'here is the standard of Ralph d'Ermyn, who came over with theConqueror, and founded the family in England. Here is the sword ofWilliam d'Armyn, who signed Magna Carta. Here is the complete coatarmour of the second Ralph, who died before Ascalon. This case containsa diamond-hilted sword, given by the Empress to the great Sir Ferdinandfor defeating the Turks; and here is a Mameluke sabre, given to the sameSir Ferdinand by the Sultan for defeating the Empress. '

'Oh! I have heard so much of that great Sir Ferdinand, ' said the lady. 'He must have been the most interesting character. '

'He was a marvellous being, ' answered her guide, with a peculiar look, 'and yet I know not whether his descendants have not cause to rue hisgenius. '

'Oh! never, never!' said the lady; 'what is wealth to genius? How muchprouder, were I an Armine, should I be of such an ancestor than of athousand others, even if they had left me this castle as complete as hewished it to be!'

'Well, as to that, ' replied Ferdinand, 'I believe I am somewhat of youropinion; though I fear he lived in too late an age for such order ofminds. It would have been better for him perhaps if he had succeeded inbecoming King of Poland. '

'I hope there is a portrait of him, ' said the lady; 'there is nothing Ilong so much to see. '

'I rather think there is a portrait, ' replied her companion, somewhatdrily. 'We will try to find it out. Do not you think I make not a badcicerone?'

'Indeed, most excellent, ' replied the lady. 

'I perceive you are a master of your subject, ' replied the gentleman, thus affording Ferdinand an easy opportunity of telling them who he was. The hint, however, was not accepted. 

'And now, ' said Ferdinand, 'we will ascend the staircase. '

Accordingly they mounted a large spiral staircase which filled the spaceof a round tower, and was lighted from the top by a lantern of rich, coloured glass on which were emblazoned the arms of the family. Thenthey entered the vestibule, an apartment spacious enough for a salon;which, however, was not fitted up in the Gothic style, but of which thepainted ceiling, the gilded panels, and inlaid floor were more suitableto a French palace. The brilliant doors of this vestibule opened in manydirections upon long suites of state chambers, which indeed merited thedescription of shells. They were nothing more; of many the flooring wasnot even laid down; the walls of all were rough and plastered. 

'Ah!' said the lady, 'what a pity it is not finished!'

'It is indeed desolate, ' observed Ferdinand; 'but here perhaps issomething more to your taste. ' So saying, he opened another door andushered them into the picture gallery. 

It was a superb chamber nearly two hundred feet in length, and containedonly portraits of the family, or pictures of their achievements. It wasof a pale green colour, lighted from the top; and the floor, of oak andebony, was partially covered with a single Persian carpet, of fancifulpattern and brilliant dye, a present from the Sultan to the great SirFerdinand. The earlier annals of the family were illustrated by a seriesof paintings by modern masters, representing the battle of Hastings, the siege of Ascalon, the meeting at Runnymede, the various invasionsof France, and some of the most striking incidents in the Wars of theRoses, in all of which a valiant Armyn prominently figured. At lengththey stood before the first contemporary portrait of the Armyn family, one of Cardinal Stephen Armyn, by an Italian master. This greatdignitary was legate of the Pope in the time of the seventh Henry, and in his scarlet robes and ivory chair looked a papal Jupiter, notunworthy himself of wielding the thunder of the Vatican. From him theseries of family portraits was unbroken; and it was very interesting totrace, in this excellently arranged collection, the history of nationalcostume. Holbein had commemorated the Lords Tewkesbury, rich in velvet, and golden chains, and jewels. The statesmen of Elizabeth and James, and their beautiful and gorgeous dames, followed; and then came manya gallant cavalier, by Vandyke. One admirable picture contained LordArmine and his brave brothers, seated together in a tent round a drum, on which his lordship was apparently planning the operations of thecampaign. Then followed a long series of un-memorable baronets, andtheir more interesting wives and daughters, touched by the pencil ofKneller, of Lely, or of Hudson; squires in wigs and scarlet jackets, and powdered dames in hoops and farthingales. 

They stood before the crowning effort of the gallery, the masterpieceof Reynolds. It represented a full-length portrait of a young man, apparently just past his minority. The side of the figure was aloneexhibited, and the face glanced at the spectator over the shoulder, ina favourite attitude of Vandyke. It was a countenance of ideal beauty. Aprofusion of dark brown curls was dashed aside from a lofty forehead ofdazzling brilliancy. The face was perfectly oval; the nose, thoughsmall was high and aquiline, and exhibited a remarkable dilation of thenostril; the curling lip was shaded by a very delicate mustache; andthe general expression, indeed, of the mouth and of the large greyeyes would have been perhaps arrogant and imperious, had not theextraordinary beauty of the whole countenance rendered it fascinating. 

It was indeed a picture to gaze upon and to return to; one of thosevisages which, after having once beheld, haunt us at all hours and flitacross our mind's eye unexpected and unbidden. So great was the effectthat it produced upon the present visitors to the gallery, that theystood before it for some minutes in silence; the scrutinising glanceof the gentleman was more than once diverted from the portrait to thecountenance of his conductor, and the silence was eventually broken byour hero. 

'And what think you, ' he enquired, 'of the famous Sir Ferdinand?'

The lady started, looked at him, withdrew her glance, and appearedsomewhat confused. Her companion replied, 'I think, sir, I cannot err inbelieving that I am indebted for much courtesy to his descendant?'

'I believe, ' said Ferdinand, 'that I should not have much trouble inproving my pedigree. I am generally considered an ugly likeness of mygrandfather. '

The gentleman smiled, and then said, 'I hardly know whether I can stylemyself your neighbour, for I live nearly ten miles distant. It would, however, afford me sincere gratification to see you at Ducie Bower. I cannot welcome you in a castle. My name is Temple, ' he continued, offering his card to Ferdinand. 'I need not now introduce you to mydaughter. I was not unaware that Sir Ratcliffe Armine had a son, but Ihad understood he was abroad. '

'I have returned to England within these two months, ' replied Ferdinand, 'and to Armine within these two days. I deem it fortunate that my returnhas afforded me an opportunity of welcoming you and Miss Temple. But youmust not talk of our castle, for that you know is our folly. Pray comenow and visit our older and humbler dwelling, and take some refreshmentafter your long ride. '

This offer was declined, but with great courtesy. They quitted thecastle, and Mr. Temple was about to direct his steps towards the lodge, where he had left his own and his daughter's horses; but Ferdinandpersuaded them to return through the park, which he proved to them verysatisfactorily must be the nearest way. He even asked permission toaccompany them; and while his groom was saddling his horse he led themto the old Place and the flower-garden. 

'You must be very fatigued, Miss Temple. I wish that I could persuadeyou to enter and rest yourself. '

'Indeed, no: I love flowers too much to leave them. '

'Here is one that has the recommendation of novelty as well as beauty, 'said Ferdinand, plucking a strange rose, and presenting it to her. 'Isent it to my mother from Barbary. '

'You live amidst beauty. '

'I think that I never remember Armine looking so well as to-day. '

'A sylvan scene requires sunshine, ' replied Miss Temple. 'We have beenmost fortunate in our visit. '

'It is something brighter than the sunshine that makes it so fair, 'replied Ferdinand; but at this moment the horses appeared. 

CHAPTER V. 

 _In Which Captain Armine Is Very Absent during Dinner_. 

YOU are well mounted, ' said Mr. Temple to Ferdinand. 

''Tis a barb. I brought it over with me. '

''Tis a beautiful creature, ' said Miss Temple. 

'Hear that, Selim, ' said Ferdinand; 'prick up thine ears, my steed. Iperceive that you are an accomplished horsewoman, Miss Temple. You knowour country, I dare say, well?'

'I wish to know it better. This is only the second summer that we havepassed at Ducie. '

'By-the-bye, I suppose you know my landlord, Captain Armine?' said Mr. Temple. 

'No, ' said Ferdinand; 'I do not know a single person in the county. Ihave myself scarcely been at Armine for these five years, and my fatherand mother do not visit anyone. '

'What a beautiful oak!' exclaimed Miss Temple, desirous of turning theconversation. 

'It has the reputation of being planted by Sir Francis Walsingham, ' saidFerdinand. 'An ancestor of mine married his daughter. He was the fatherof Sir Walsingham, the portrait in the gallery with the white stick. Youremember it?'

'Perfectly: that beautiful portrait! It must be, at all events, a veryold tree. '

'There are few things more pleasing to me than an ancient place, ' saidMr. Temple. 

'Doubly pleasing when in the possession of an ancient family, ' added hisdaughter. 

'I fear such feelings are fast wearing away, ' said Ferdinand. 

'There will be a reaction, ' said Mr. Temple. 

'They cannot destroy the poetry of time, ' said the lady. 

'I hope I have no very inveterate prejudices, ' said Ferdinand; 'butI should be sorry to see Armine in any other hands than our own, Iconfess. '

'I never would enter the park again, ' said Miss Temple. 

'So far as worldly considerations are concerned, ' continued Ferdinand, 'it would perhaps be much better for us if we were to part with it. '

'It must, indeed, be a costly place to keep up, ' said Mr. Temple. 

'Why, as for that, ' said Ferdinand, 'we let the kine rove and the sheepbrowse where our fathers hunted the stag and flew their falcons. I thinkif they were to rise from their graves they would be ashamed of us. '

'Nay!' said Miss Temple, 'I think yonder cattle are very picturesque. But the truth is, anything would look well in such a park as this. Thereis such a variety of prospect. '

The park of Armine indeed differed materially from those vamped-upsheep-walks and ambitious paddocks which are now honoured with thetitle. It was, in truth, the old chase, and little shorn of its originalproportions. It was many miles in circumference, abounding in hill anddale, and offering much variety of appearance. Sometimes it was studdedwith ancient timber, single trees of extraordinary growth, and richclumps that seemed coeval with the foundation of the family. Tracts ofwild champaign succeeded these, covered with gorse and fern. Then camestately avenues of sycamore or Spanish chestnut, fragments of statelywoods, that in old days doubtless reached the vicinity of the mansionhouse; and these were in turn succeeded by modern coverts. 

At length our party reached the gate whence Ferdinand had calculatedthat they should quit the park. He would willingly have accompaniedthem. He bade them farewell with regret, which was softened by the hopeexpressed by all of a speedy meeting. 

'I wish, Captain Armine, ' said Miss Temple, 'we had your turf to canterhome upon. '

'By-the-bye, Captain Armine, ' said Mr. Temple, 'ceremony should scarcelysubsist between country neighbours, and certainly we have given you nocause to complain of our reserve. As you are alone at Armine, perhapsyou would come over and dine with us to-morrow. If you can manage tocome early, we will see whether we may not contrive to kill a birdtogether; and pray remember we can give you a bed, which I think, allthings considered, it would be but wise to accept. '

'I accept everything, ' said Ferdinand, smiling; 'all your offers. Goodmorning, my dearest sir; good morning, Miss Temple. '

'Miss Temple, indeed!' exclaimed Ferdinand, when he had watched themout of sight. 'Exquisite, enchanting, adored being! Without thee what isexistence? How dull, how blank does everything even now seem! It is asif the sun had just set! Oh! that form! that radiant countenance! thatmusical and thrilling voice! Those tones still vibrate on my ear, or Ishould deem it all a vision! Will to-morrow ever come? Oh! that Icould express to you my love, my overwhelming, my absorbing, my burningpassion! Beautiful Henrietta! Thou hast a name, methinks, I ever loved. Where am I? what do I say? what wild, what maddening words are these? AmI not Ferdinand Armine, the betrothed, the victim? Even now, methinks, Ihear the chariot-wheels of my bride. God! if she be there; if she indeedbe at Armine on my return: I'll not see her; I'll not speak to them;I'll fly. I'll cast to the winds all ties and duties; I will not bedragged to the altar, a miserable sacrifice, to redeem, by my forfeitedfelicity, the worldly fortunes of my race. O Armine, Armine! she wouldnot enter thy walls again if other blood but mine swayed thy fairdemesne: and I, shall I give thee another mistress, Armine? It wouldindeed be treason! Without her I cannot live. Without her form boundsover this turf and glances in these arbours I never wish to view them. All the inducements to make the wretched sacrifice once meditated thenvanish; for Armine, without her, is a desert, a tomb, a hell. I am free, then. Excellent logician! But this woman: I am bound to her. Bound? Theword makes me tremble. I shiver: I hear the clank of my fetters. Am Iindeed bound? Ay! in honour. Honour and love! A contest! Pah! The Idolmust yield to the Divinity!'

With these wild words and wilder thoughts bursting from his lips anddashing through his mind; his course as irregular and as reckless ashis fancies; now fiercely galloping, now pulling up into a sudden halt, Ferdinand at length arrived home; and his quick eye perceived in amoment that the dreaded arrival had not taken place. Glastonbury was inthe flower-garden on one knee before a vase, over which he was traininga creeper. He looked up as he heard the approach of Ferdinand. Hispresence and benignant smile in some degree stilled the fierce emotionsof his pupil. Ferdinand felt that the system of dissimulation must nowcommence; besides, he was always careful to be most kind to Glastonbury. He would not allow that any attack of spleen, or even illness, couldever justify a careless look or expression to that dear friend. 

'I hope, my dear father, ' said Ferdinand, 'I am punctual to our hour?'

'The sun-dial tells me, ' said Glastonbury, 'that you have arrived tothe moment; and I rather think that yonder approaches a summons to ourrepast. I hope you have passed your morning agreeably?'

'If all days would pass as sweet, my father, I should indeed beblessed. '

'I, too, have had a fine morning of it. You must come to-morrow and seemy grand emblazonry of the Ratcliffe and Armine coats; I mean it for thegallery. ' With these words they entered the Place. 

'You do not eat, my child, ' said Glastonbury to his companion. 

'I have taken too long a ride, perhaps, ' said Ferdinand: who indeed wasmuch too excited to have an appetite, and so abstracted that anyone butGlastonbury would have long before detected his absence. 

'I have changed my hour to-day, ' continued Glastonbury, 'for thepleasure of dining with you, and I think to-morrow you had better changeyour hour and dine with me. '

'By-the-bye, my dear father, you, who know everything, do you happen toknow a gentleman of the name of Temple in this neighbourhood?'

'I think I heard that Mr. Ducie had let the Bower to a gentleman of thatname. '

'Do you know who he is?'

'I never asked; for I feel no interest except about proprietors, becausethey enter into my County History. But I think I once heard that thisMr. Temple had been our minister at some foreign court. You give me afine dinner and eat nothing yourself. This pigeon is savoury. '

'I will trouble you. I think there once was a Henrietta Armine, myfather?'

'The beautiful creature!' said Glastonbury, laying down his knife andfork; 'she died young. She was a daughter of Lord Armine; and the Queen, Henrietta Maria, was her godmother. It grieves me much that we have noportrait of her. She was very fair, her eyes of a sweet light blue. '

'Oh! no; dark, my father; dark and deep as the violet. '

'My child, the letter-writer, who mentions her death, describes them aslight blue. I know of no other record of her beauty. '

'I wish they had been dark, ' said Ferdinand recovering himself;'however, I am glad there was a Henrietta Armine; 'tis a beautifulname. '

'I think that Armine makes any name sound well, ' said Glastonbury. 'Nomore wine indeed, my child. Nay! if I must, ' continued he, with a mostbenevolent smile, 'I will drink to the health of Miss Grandison!'

'Ah!' exclaimed Ferdinand. 

'My child, what is the matter?' inquired Glastonbury. 

'A gnat, a fly, a wasp! something stung me, ' said Ferdinand. 

'Let me fetch my oil of lilies, ' said Glastonbury; ''tis a specific'

'Oh, no! 'tis nothing, only a fly: sharp at the moment; nothing more. '

The dinner was over; they retired to the library. Ferdinand walkedabout the room restless and moody; at length he bethought himself of thepiano, and, affecting an anxiety to hear some old favourite compositionsof Glastonbury, he contrived to occupy his companion. In time, however, his old tutor invited him to take his violoncello and join him in aconcerto. Ferdinand of course complied with his invitation, but theresult was not satisfactory. After a series of blunders, which were thenatural result of his thoughts being occupied on other subjects, he wasobliged to plead a headache, and was glad when he could escape to hischamber. 

Rest, however, no longer awaited him on his old pillow. It was at firstdelightful to escape from the restraint upon his reverie which he hadlately experienced. He leant for an hour over his empty fireplace inmute abstraction. The cold, however, in time drove him to bed, buthe could not sleep; his eyes indeed were closed, but the vision ofHenrietta Temple was not less apparent to him. He recalled every featureof her countenance, every trait of her conduct, every word that she hadexpressed. The whole series of her observations, from the moment hehad first seen her until the moment they had parted, were accuratelyrepeated, her very tones considered, and her very attitudes ponderedover. Many were the hours that he heard strike; he grew restless andfeverish. Sleep would not be commanded; he jumped out of bed, he openedthe casement, he beheld in the moonlight the Barbary rose-tree of whichhe had presented her a flower. This consoling spectacle assured him thathe had not been, as he had almost imagined, the victim of a dream. Heknelt down and invoked all heavenly and earthly blessings on HenriettaTemple and his love. The night air and the earnest invocation togethercooled his brain, and Nature soon delivered him, exhausted, to repose. 

CHAPTER VI. 

 _In Which Captain Armine Pays His First Visit to Ducie_. 

YES! it is the morning. Is it possible? Shall he again behold her? Thatform of surpassing beauty: that bright, that dazzling countenance; againare they to bless his entranced vision? Shall he speak to her again?That musical and thrilling voice, shall it again sound and echo in hisenraptured ear?

Ferdinand had reached Armine so many days before his calculated arrival, that he did not expect his family and the Grandisons to arrive for atleast a week. What a respite did he not now feel this delay! if ever hecould venture to think of the subject at all. He drove it indeedfrom his thoughts; the fascinating present completely engrossed hisexistence. He waited until the post arrived; it brought no letters, letters now so dreaded! He jumped upon his horse and galloped towardsDucie. 

Mr. Temple was the younger son of a younger branch of a noble family. Inheriting no patrimony, he had been educated for the diplomaticservice, and the influence of his family had early obtained himdistinguished appointments. He was envoy to a German court when a changeof ministry occasioned his recall, and he retired, after a long careerof able and assiduous service, comforted by a pension and glorified by aprivy-councillorship. He was an acute and accomplished man, practisedin the world, with great self-control, yet devoted to his daughter, theonly offspring of a wife whom he had lost early and loved much. 

Deprived at a tender age of that parent of whom she would have becomepeculiarly the charge, Henrietta Temple found in the devotion of herfather all that consolation of which her forlorn state was susceptible. She was not delivered over to the custody of a governess, or to the evenless sympathetic supervision of relations. Mr. Temple never permittedhis daughter to be separated from him; he cherished her life, and hedirected her education. Resident in a city which arrogates to itself, not without justice, the title of the German Athens, his pupil availedherself of all those advantages which were offered to her by theinstruction of the most skilful professors. Few persons were moreaccomplished than Henrietta Temple even at an early age; but her rareaccomplishments were not her most remarkable characteristics. Nature, which had accorded to her that extraordinary beauty we have attemptedto describe, had endowed her with great talents and a soul of sublimetemper. 

It was often remarked of Henrietta Temple (and the circumstance maydoubtless be in some degree accounted for by the little interferenceand influence of women in her education) that she never was a girl. Sheexpanded at once from a charming child into a magnificent woman. She hadentered life very early, and had presided at her father's table for ayear before his recall from his mission. Few women in so short a periodhad received so much homage; but she listened to compliments with acareless though courteous ear, and received more ardent aspirations witha smile. The men, who were puzzled, voted her cold and heartless;but men should remember that fineness of taste, as well as apathy oftemperament, may account for an unsuccessful suit. Assuredly HenriettaTemple was not deficient in feeling; she entertained for her fathersentiments almost of idolatry, and those more intimate or dependentacquaintances best qualified to form an opinion of her character spokeof her always as a soul of infinite tenderness. 

Notwithstanding their mutual devotion to each other, there were notmany points of resemblance between the characters of Mr. Temple andhis daughter; she was remarkable for a frankness of demeanour and asimplicity yet strength of thought which contrasted with the artificialmanners and the conventional opinions and conversation of her sire. Amind at once thoughtful and energetic permitted Henrietta Temple to formher own judgments; and an artless candour, which her father never coulderadicate from her habit, generally impelled her to express them. Itwas indeed impossible even for him long to find fault with theseebullitions, however the diplomatist might deplore them; for Nature hadso imbued the existence of this being with that indefinable charm whichwe call grace, that it was not in your power to behold her a momentwithout being enchanted. A glance, a movement, a sunny smile, a word ofthrilling music, and all that was left to you was to adore. There wasindeed in Henrietta Temple that rare and extraordinary combination ofintellectual strength and physical softness which marks out the womancapable of exercising an irresistible influence over mankind. In thegood old days she might have occasioned a siege of Troy or a battle ofActium. She was one of those women who make nations mad, and for whom aman of genius would willingly peril the empire of the world. 

So at least deemed Ferdinand Armine, as he cantered through the park, talking to himself, apostrophising the woods, and shouting his passionto the winds. It was scarcely noon when he reached Ducie Bower. This wasa Palladian pavilion, situated in the midst of beautiful gardens, andsurrounded by green hills. The sun shone brightly, the sky was withouta cloud; it appeared to him that he had never beheld a more gracefulscene. It was a temple worthy of the divinity it enshrined. A façade offour Ionic columns fronted an octagon hall, adorned with statues, whichled into a salon of considerable size and fine proportion. Ferdinandthought that he had never in his life entered so brilliant a chamber. The lofty walls were covered with an Indian paper of vivid fancy, andadorned with several pictures which his practised eye assured him wereof great merit. The room, without being inconveniently crowded, wasamply stored with furniture, every article of which bespoke a refinedand luxurious taste: easy chairs of all descriptions, most invitingcouches, cabinets of choice inlay, and grotesque tables covered witharticles of vertu; all those charming infinite nothings, which a personof taste might some time back have easily collected during a longresidence on the continent. A large lamp of Dresden china was suspendedfrom the painted and gilded ceiling. The three tall windows opened onthe gardens, and admitted a perfume so rich and various, that Ferdinandcould easily believe the fair mistress, as she told him, was indeed alover of flowers. A light bridge in the distant wood, that bounded thefurthest lawn, indicated that a stream was at hand. What with the beautyof the chamber, the richness of the exterior scene, and the brightsun that painted every object with its magical colouring, and madeeverything appear even more fair and brilliant, Ferdinand stood for somemoments quite entranced. A door opened, and Mr. Temple came forward andwelcomed him with cordiality. 

After they had passed a half-hour in looking at the pictures andin conversation to which they gave rise, Mr. Temple, proposing anadjournment to luncheon, conducted Ferdinand into a dining-room, ofwhich the suitable decorations wonderfully pleased his taste. A subduedtint pervaded every part of the chamber: the ceiling was painted ingrey tinted frescoes of a classical and festive character, and the sidetable, which stood in a recess supported by four magnificent columns, was adorned with choice Etruscan vases. The air of repose andstillness which distinguished this apartment was heightened by the vastconservatory into which it led, blazing with light and beauty, groupsof exotic trees, plants of radiant tint, the sound of a fountain, andgorgeous forms of tropic birds. 

'How beautiful!' exclaimed Ferdinand. 

''Tis pretty, ' said Mr. Temple, carving a pasty, 'but we are very humblepeople, and cannot vie with the lords of Gothic castles. '

'It appears to me, ' said Ferdinand, 'that Ducie Bower is the mostexquisite place I ever beheld. '

'If you had seen it two years ago you would have thought differently, 'said Mr. Temple; 'I assure you I dreaded becoming its tenant. Henriettais entitled to all the praise, as she took upon herself the wholeresponsibility. There is not on the banks of the Brenta a more dingy anddesolate villa than Ducie appeared when we first came; and as for thegardens, they were a perfect wilderness. She made everything. It wasone vast, desolate, and neglected lawn, used as a sheep-walk when wearrived. As for the ceilings, I was almost tempted to whitewash them, and yet you see they have cleaned wonderfully; and, after all, it onlyrequired a little taste and labour. I have not laid out much money here. I built the conservatory, to be sure. Henrietta could not live without aconservatory. '

'Miss Temple is quite right, ' pronounced Ferdinand. 'It is impossible tolive without a conservatory. '

At this moment the heroine of their conversation entered the room, andFerdinand turned pale. She extended to him her hand with a gracefulsmile; as he touched it, he trembled from head to foot. 

'You were not fatigued, I hope, by your ride, Miss Temple?' at length hecontrived to say. 

'Not in the least! I am an experienced horsewoman. Papa and I take verylong rides together. '

As for eating, with Henrietta Temple in the room, Ferdinand foundthat quite impossible. The moment she appeared, his appetite vanished. Anxious to speak, yet deprived of his accustomed fluency, he began topraise Ducie. 

'You must see it, ' said Miss Temple: 'shall we walk round the grounds?'

'My dear Henrietta, ' said her father, 'I dare say Captain Armine is atthis moment sufficiently tired; besides, when he moves, he will likeperhaps to take his gun; you forget he is a sportsman, and that hecannot waste his morning in talking to ladies and picking flowers. '

'Indeed, sir, I assure you, ' said Ferdinand, 'there is nothing I like somuch as talking to ladies and picking flowers; that is to say, whenthe ladies have as fine taste as Miss Temple, and the flowers are asbeautiful as those at Ducie. '

'Well, you shall see my conservatory, Captain Armine, ' said Miss Temple, 'and you shall go and kill partridges afterwards. ' So saying, sheentered the conservatory, and Ferdinand followed her, leaving Mr. Templeto his pasty. 

'These orange groves remind me of Palmero, ' said Ferdinand. 

'Ah!' said Miss Temple, 'I have never been in the sweet south. '

'You seem to me a person born to live in a Sicilian palace, ' saidFerdinand, 'to wander in perfumed groves, and to glance in a moonlightwarmer than this sun. '

'I see you pay compliments, ' said Miss Temple, looking at him archly, and meeting a glance serious and soft. 

'Believe me, not to you. '

'What do you think of this flower?' said Miss Temple, turning awayrather quickly and pointing to a strange plant. 'It is the most singularthing in the world: but if it be tended by any other person than myselfit withers. Is it not droll?'

'I think not, ' said Ferdinand. 

'I excuse you for your incredulity; no one does believe it; no one can;and yet it is quite true. Our gardener gave it up in despair. I wonderwhat it can be. '

'I think it must be some enchanted prince, ' said Ferdinand. 

'If I thought so, how I should long for a wand to emancipate him!' saidMiss Temple. 

'I would break your wand, if you had one, ' said Ferdinand. 

'Why?' said Miss Temple. 

'Oh! I don't know, ' said Ferdinand; 'I suppose because I believe you aresufficiently enchanting without one. '

'I am bound to consider that most excellent logic, ' said Miss Temple. 

'Do you admire my fountain and my birds?' she continued, after a shortpause. 'After Armine, Ducie appears a little tawdry toy. '

'Ducie is Paradise, ' said Ferdinand. 'I should like to pass my life inthis conservatory. '

'As an enchanted prince, I suppose?' said Miss Temple. 

'Exactly, ' said Captain Armine; 'I would willingly this instant become aflower, if I were sure that Miss Temple would cherish my existence. '

'Cut off your tendrils and drown you with a watering-pot, ' said MissTemple; 'you really are very Sicilian in your conversation, CaptainArmine. '

'Come, ' said Mr. Temple, who now joined them, 'if you really should liketo take a stroll round the grounds, I will order the keeper to meet usat the cottage. '

'A very good proposition, ' said Miss Temple. 

'But you must get a bonnet, Henrietta; I must forbid your going outuncovered. '

'No, papa, this will do, ' said Miss Temple, taking a handkerchief, twisting it round her head, and tying it under her chin. 

'You look like an old woman, Henrietta, ' said her father, smiling. 

'I shall not say what you look like, Miss Temple, ' said Captain Armine, with a glance of admiration, 'lest you should think that I was this timeeven talking Sicilian. '

'I reward you for your forbearance with a rose, ' said Miss Temple, plucking a flower. 'It is a return for your beautiful present ofyesterday. '

Ferdinand pressed the gift to his lips. 

They went forth; they stepped into a Paradise, where the sweetestflowers seemed grouped in every combination of the choicest forms;baskets, and vases, and beds of infinite fancy. A thousand bees andbutterflies filled the air with their glancing shapes and cheerfulmusic, and the birds from the neighbouring groves joined in the chorusof melody. The wood walks through which they now rambled admitted atintervals glimpses of the ornate landscape, and occasionally the viewextended beyond the enclosed limits, and exhibited the clustering andembowered roofs of the neighbouring village, or some woody hill studdedwith a farmhouse, or a distant spire. As for Ferdinand, he strolledalong, full of beautiful thoughts and thrilling fancies, in a dreamystate which had banished all recollection or consciousness but of thepresent. He was happy; positively, perfectly, supremely happy. He washappy for the first time in his life, He had no conception that lifecould afford such bliss as now filled his being. What a chain ofmiserable, tame, factitious sensations seemed the whole course of hispast existence. Even the joys of yesterday were nothing to these;Armine was associated with too much of the commonplace and the gloomyto realise the ideal in which he now revelled. But now all circumstancescontributed to enchant him. The novelty, the beauty of the scene, harmoniously blended with his passion. The sun seemed to him a morebrilliant sun than the orb that illumined Armine; the sky more clear, more pure, more odorous. There seemed a magic sympathy in the trees, andevery flower reminded him of his mistress. And then he looked around andbeheld her. Was he positively awake? Was he in England? Was he in thesame globe in which he had hitherto moved and acted? What was thisentrancing form that moved before him? Was it indeed a woman?

 _O dea certè!_

That voice, too, now wilder than the wildest bird, now low and hushed, yet always sweet; where was he, what did he listen to, what did hebehold, what did he feel? The presence of her father alone restrainedhim from falling on his knees and expressing to her his adoration. 

At length our friends arrived at a picturesque and ivy-grown cottage, where the keeper, with their guns and dogs, awaited Mr. Temple and hisguest. Ferdinand, although a keen sportsman, beheld the spectacle withdismay. He execrated, at the same time, the existence of partridges andthe invention of gunpowder. To resist his fate, however, was impossible;he took his gun and turned to bid his hostess adieu. 

'I do not like to quit Paradise at all, ' he said in a low voice: 'must Igo?'

'Oh! certainly, ' said Miss Temple. 'It will do you a great deal ofgood. '

Never did anyone at first shoot more wildly. In time, however, Ferdinandsufficiently rallied to recover his reputation with the keeper, who, from his first observation, began to wink his eye to his son, anattendant bush-beater, and occasionally even thrust his tongue insidehis cheek, a significant gesture perfectly understood by the imp. 'Forthe life of me, Sam, ' he afterwards profoundly observed, 'I couldn'tmake out this here Captain by no manner of means whatsomever. At firstI thought as how he was going to put the muzzle to his shoulder. Hang meif ever I see sich a gentleman. He missed everything; and at last if hedidn't hit the longest flying shots without taking aim. Hang me if everI see sich a gentleman. He hit everything. That ere Captain puzzled me, surely. '

The party at dinner was increased by a neighbouring squire and his wife, and the rector of the parish. Ferdinand was placed at the right hand ofMiss Temple. The more he beheld her the more beautiful she seemed. Hedetected every moment some charm before unobserved. It seemed to himthat he never was in such agreeable society, though, sooth to say, theconversation was not of a very brilliant character. Mr. Temple recountedthe sport of the morning to the squire, whose ears kindled at acongenial subject, and every preserve in the county was then discussed, with some episodes on poaching. The rector, an old gentleman, who haddined in old days at Armine Place, reminded Ferdinand of the agreeablecircumstance, sanguine perhaps that the invitation might lead to arenewal of his acquaintance with that hospitable board. He was painfullyprofuse in his description of the public days of the famous SirFerdinand. From the service of plate to the thirty servants in livery, nothing was omitted. 

'Our friend deals in Arabian tales, ' whispered Ferdinand to Miss Temple;'you can be a witness that we live quietly enough now. '

'I shall certainly never forget my visit to Armine, ' replied MissTemple; 'it was one of the agreeable days of life. '

'And that is saying a great deal, for I think your life must haveabounded in agreeable days. '

'I cannot indeed lay any claim to that misery which makes many peopleinteresting, ' said Miss Temple; 'I am a very commonplace person, for Ihave been always happy. '

When the ladies withdrew there appeared but little inclination on thepart of the squire and the rector to follow their example; and CaptainArmine, therefore, soon left Mr. Temple to his fate, and escaped tothe drawing-room. He glided to a seat on an ottoman, by the side ofhis hostess, and listened in silence to the conversation. What aconversation! At any other time, under any other circumstances, Ferdinand would have been teased and wearied with its commonplacecurrent: all the dull detail of county tattle, in which the squire'slady was a proficient, and with which Miss Temple was too highly brednot to appear to sympathise; and yet the conversation, to Ferdinand, appeared quite charming. Every accent of Henrietta's sounded likewit; and when she bent her head in assent to her companion's obviousdeductions, there was about each movement a grace so ineffable, thatFerdinand could have sat in silence and listened, entranced, for ever:and occasionally, too, she turned to Captain Armine, and appealed onsome point to his knowledge or his taste. It seemed to him that he hadnever listened to sounds so sweetly thrilling as her voice. It was abirdlike burst of music, that well became the sparkling sunshine of herviolet eyes. 

His late companions entered. Ferdinand rose from his seat; the windowsof the salon were open; he stepped forth into the garden. He felt thenecessity of being a moment alone. He proceeded a few paces beyond theken of man, and then leaning on a statue, and burying his face in hisarm, he gave way to irresistible emotion. What wild thoughts dashedthrough his impetuous soul at that instant, it is difficult toconjecture. Perhaps it was passion that inspired that convulsivereverie; perchance it might have been remorse. Did he abandon himselfto those novel sentiments which in a few brief hours had changed all hisaspirations and coloured his whole existence; or was he tortured by thatdark and perplexing future, from which his imagination in vain struggledto extricate him?

He was roused from his reverie, brief but tumultuous, by the note ofmusic, and then by the sound of a human voice. The stag detecting thehuntsman's horn could not have started with more wild emotion. But onefair organ could send forth that voice. He approached, he listened; thevoice of Henrietta Temple floated to him on the air, breathing with athousand odours. In a moment he was at her side, the squire's lady wasstanding by her; the gentlemen, for a moment arrested from a politicaldiscussion, formed a group in a distant part of the room, the rectoroccasionally venturing in a practised whisper to enforce a disturbedargument. Ferdinand glided in unobserved by the fair performer. MissTemple not only possessed a voice of rare tone and compass, butthis delightful gift of nature had been cultivated with refined art. Ferdinand, himself a musician, and passionately devoted to vocal melody, listened with unexaggerated rapture. 

'Oh! beautiful!' exclaimed he, as the songstress ceased. 

'Captain Armine!' cried Miss Temple, looking round with a wild, bewitching smile. 'I thought you were meditating in the twilight. '

'Your voice summoned me. '

'You care for music?'

'For little else. '

'You sing?'

'I hum. '

'Try this. '

'With you?'

Ferdinand Armine was not unworthy of singing with Henrietta Temple. Hismother had been his able instructress in the art even in his childhood, and his frequent residence at Naples and other parts of the south hadafforded him ample opportunities of perfecting a talent thus earlycultivated. But to-night the love of something beyond his art inspiredthe voice of Ferdinand. Singing with Henrietta Temple, he poured forthto her in safety all the passion which raged in his soul. The squire'slady looked confused; Henrietta herself grew pale; the politiciansceased even to whisper, and advanced from their corner to theinstrument; and when the duet was terminated, Mr. Temple offered hissincere congratulations to his guest. Henrietta also turned withsome words of commendation to Ferdinand; but the words were faintand confused, and finally requesting Captain Armine to favour them bysinging alone, she rose and vacated her seat. 

Ferdinand took up the guitar, and accompanied himself to a Neapolitanair. It was gay and festive, a _Ritornella_ which might summon yourmistress to dance in the moonlight. And then, amid many congratulations, he offered the guitar to Miss Temple. 

'No one will listen to a simple melody after anything so brilliant, 'said Miss Temple, as she touched a string, and, after a slight prelude, sang these words:--

 THE DESERTED. 

 I. 

 Yes, weeping is madness, Away with this tear, Let no sign of sadness Betray the wild anguish I fear. When we meet him to-night, Be mute then my heart! And my smile be as bright, As if we were never to part. 

 II. 

 Girl! give me the mirror That said I was fair; Alas! fatal error, This picture reveals my despair. Smiles no longer can pass O'er this faded brow, And I shiver this glass, Like his love and his fragile vow!

'The music, ' said Ferdinand, full of enthusiasm, 'is-----'

'Henrietta's, ' replied her father. 

'And the words?'

'Were found in my canary's cage, ' said Henrietta Temple, rising andputting an end to the conversation. 

CHAPTER VII. 

 _In Which Captain Armine Indulges in a Reverie_. 

THE squire's carriage was announced, and then came his lady's shawl. Howhappy was Ferdinand when he recollected that he was to remain at Ducie. Remain at Ducie!

Remain under the same roof as Henrietta Temple. What bliss! whatravishing bliss! All his life, and his had not been a monotonous one; itseemed that all his life could not afford a situation so adventurous andso sweet as this. Now they have gone. The squire and his lady, and theworthy rector who recollected Armine so well; they have all departed, all the adieus are uttered; after this little and unavoidable bustle, silence reigns in the salon of Ducie. Ferdinand walked to the window. The moon was up; the air was sweet and hushed; the landscape clear, though soft. Oh! what would he not have given to have strolled in thatgarden with Henrietta Temple, to have poured forth his whole soul toher, to have told her how wondrous fair she was, how wildly bewitching, and how he loved her, how he sighed to bind his fate with hers, and livefor ever in the brilliant atmosphere of her grace and beauty. 

'Good night, Captain Armine, ' said Henrietta Temple. 

He turned hastily round, he blushed, he grew pale. There she stood, inone hand a light, the other extended to her father's guest. He pressedher hand, he sighed, he looked confused; then suddenly letting go herhand, he walked quickly towards the door of the salon, which he openedthat she might retire. 

'The happiest day of my life has ended, ' he muttered. 

'You are so easily content then, that I think you must always be happy. '

'I fear I am not so easily content as you imagine. '

She has gone. Hours, many and long hours, must elapse before he sees heragain, before he again listens to that music, watches that airy grace, and meets the bright flashing of that fascinating eye. What misery wasthere in this idea? How little had he seemed hitherto to prize the joyof being her companion. He cursed the hours which had been wasted awayfrom her in the morning's sport; he blamed himself that he had not evensooner quitted the dining-room, or that he had left the salon for amoment, to commune with his own thoughts in the garden. With difficultyhe restrained himself from reopening the door, to listen for the distantsound of her footsteps, or catch, perhaps, along some corridor, thefading echo of her voice. But Ferdinand was not alone; Mr. Temple stillremained. That gentleman raised his face from the newspaper as CaptainArmine advanced to him; and, after some observations about the day'ssport, and a hope that he would repeat his trial of the manor to-morrow, proposed their retirement. Ferdinand of course assented, and in a momenthe was ascending with his host the noble and Italian staircase: and hethen was ushered from the vestibule into his room. 

His previous visit to the chamber had been so hurried, that he hadonly made a general observation on its appearance. Little inclined toslumber, he now examined it more critically. In a recess was a Frenchbed of simple furniture. On the walls, which were covered with a rusticpaper, were suspended several drawings, representing views in theSaxon Switzerland. They were so bold and spirited that they arrestedattention; but the quick eye of Ferdinand instantly detected theinitials of the artist in the corner. They were letters that made hisheart tremble, as he gazed with admiring fondness on her performances. Before a sofa, covered with a chintz of a corresponding pattern withthe paper of the walls, was placed a small French table, on whichwere writing materials; and his toilet-table and his mantelpiece wereprofusely ornamented with rare flowers; on all sides were symptoms offemale taste and feminine consideration. 

Ferdinand carefully withdrew from his coat the flower that Henrietta hadgiven him in the morning, and which he had worn the whole day. He kissedit, he kissed it more than once; he pressed its somewhat faded form tohis lips with cautious delicacy; then tending it with the utmost care, he placed it in a vase of water, which holding in his hand, he threwhimself into an easy chair, with his eyes fixed on the gift he mostvalued in the world. 

An hour passed, and Ferdinand Armine remained fixed in the sameposition. But no one who beheld that beautiful and pensive countenance, and the dreamy softness of that large grey eye, could for a momentconceive that his thoughts were less sweet than the object on which theyappeared to gaze. No distant recollections disturbed him now, no memoryof the past, no fear of the future. The delicious present monopolisedhis existence. The ties of duty, the claims of domestic affection, theworldly considerations that by a cruel dispensation had seemed, as itwere, to taint even his innocent and careless boyhood, even the urgentappeals of his critical and perilous situation; all, all were forgottenin one intense delirium of absorbing love. 

Anon he rose from his seat, and paced his room for some minutes, withhis eyes fixed on the ground. Then throwing off his clothes, and takingthe flower from the vase, which he had previously placed on the table, he deposited it in his bosom. 'Beautiful, beloved flower, ' exclaimedhe; 'thus, thus will I win and wear your mistress!'

CHAPTER VIII. 

 _A Strange Dream_. 

RESTLESS are the dreams of the lover that is young. Ferdinand Arminestarted awake from the agony of a terrible slumber. He had been walkingin a garden with Henrietta Temple, her hand was clasped in his, hereyes fixed on the ground, as he whispered delicious words. His facewas flushed, his speech panting and low. Gently he wound his vacant armround her graceful form; she looked up, her speaking eyes met his, andtheir trembling lips seemed about to cling into a------

When lo! the splendour of the garden faded, and all seemed changed anddim; instead of the beautiful arched walks, in which a moment beforethey appeared to wander, it was beneath the vaulted roof of some templethat they now moved; instead of the bed of glowing flowers from whichhe was about to pluck an offering for her bosom, an altar rose, from thecentre of which upsprang a quick and lurid tongue of fire. The dreamergazed upon his companion, and her form was tinted with the dusky hue ofthe flame, and she held to her countenance a scarf, as if pressed by theunnatural heat. Great fear suddenly came over him. With haste, yetwith tenderness, he himself withdrew the scarf from the face of hiscompanion, and this movement revealed the visage of Miss Grandison. 

Ferdinand Armine awoke and started up in his bed. Before him stillappeared the unexpected figure. He jumped out of bed, he gazed upon theform with staring eyes and open mouth. She was there, assuredly she wasthere; it was Katherine, Katherine his betrothed, sad and reproachful. The figure faded before him; he advanced with outstretched hand; in hisdesperation he determined to clutch the escaping form: and he foundin his grasp his dressing-gown, which he had thrown over the back of achair. 

'A dream, and but a dream, after all, ' he muttered to himself; 'and yeta strange one. '

His brow was heated; he opened the casement. It was still night; themoon had vanished, but the stars were still shining. He recalled with aneffort the scene with which he had become acquainted yesterday for thefirst time. Before him, serene and still, rose the bowers of Ducie. And their mistress? That angelic form whose hand he had clasped in hisdream, was not then merely a shadow. She breathed, she lived, and underthe same roof. Henrietta Temple was at this moment under the same roofas himself: and what were her slumbers? Were they wild as his own, orsweet and innocent as herself? Did his form flit over her closed visionat this charmed hour, as hers had visited his? Had it been scared awayby an apparition as awful? Bore anyone to her the same relation asKatherine Grandison to him? A fearful surmise, that had occurred to himnow for the first time, and which it seemed could never again quit hisbrain. The stars faded away, the breath of morn was abroad, the chantof birds arose. Exhausted in body and in mind, Ferdinand Armine flunghimself upon his bed, and soon was lost in slumbers undisturbed as thetomb. 

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. 

CHAPTER X. 

 _Evening Stroll_. 

IN SPITE of his perilous situation, an indefinable sensation ofhappiness pervaded the soul of Ferdinand Armine, as he made his hurriedtoilet, and hastened to the domestic board of Ducie, where he was nowthe solitary guest. His eye caught Miss Temple's as he entered the room. It seemed to beam upon him with interest and kindness. His courteousand agreeable host welcomed him with polished warmth. It seemed that afeeling of intimacy was already established among them, and he fanciedhimself already looked upon as an habitual member of their circle. All dark thoughts were driven away. He was gay and pleasant, and dulymaintained with Mr. Temple that conversation in which his host excelled. Miss Temple spoke little, but listened with evident interest to herfather and Ferdinand. She seemed to delight in their society, and to begratified by Captain Armine's evident sense of her father's agreeablequalities. When dinner was over they all rose together and repaired tothe salon. 

'I wish Mr. Glastonbury were here, ' said Miss Temple, as Ferdinandopened the instrument. 'You must bring him some day, and then ourconcert will be perfect. '

Ferdinand smiled, but the name of Glastonbury made him shudder. Hiscountenance changed at the future plans of Miss Temple. 'Some day, 'indeed, when he might also take the opportunity of introducing hisbetrothed! But the voice of Henrietta Temple drove all care from hisbosom; he abandoned himself to the intoxicating present. She sang alone;and then they sang together; and as he arranged her books, or selectedher theme, a thousand instances of the interest with which she inspiredhim developed themselves. Once he touched her hand, and he pressed hisown, unseen, to his lips. 

Though the room was lit up, the windows were open and admitted themoonlight. The beautiful salon was full of fragrance and of melody;the fairest of women dazzled Ferdinand with her presence; his heart wasfull, his senses ravished, his hopes were high. Could there be such ademon as care in such a paradise? Could sorrow ever enter here? Was itpossible that these bright halls and odorous bowers could be pollutedby the miserable considerations that reigned too often supreme in hisunhappy breast? An enchanted scene had suddenly risen from the earthfor his delight and fascination. Could he be unhappy? Why, if all wentdarker even than he sometimes feared, that man had not lived in vain whohad beheld Henrietta Temple! All the troubles of the world were follyhere; this was fairy-land, and he some knight who had fallen from agloomy globe upon some starry region flashing with perennial lustre. 

The hours flew on; the servants brought in that light banquet whoseentrance in the country seems the only method of reminding our gueststhat there is a morrow. 

[Illustration: frontis-page146. Jpg]

''Tis the last night, ' said Ferdinand, smiling, with a sigh. 'One moresong; only one more. Mr. Temple, be indulgent; it is the last night. Ifeel, ' he added in a lower tone to Henrietta, 'I feel exactly as I didwhen I left Armine for the first time. '

'Because you are going to return to it? That is wilful. '

'Wilful or not, I would that I might never see it again. '

'For my part, Armine is to me the very land of romance. '

'It is strange. '

'No spot on earth ever impressed me more. It is the finest combinationof art and nature and poetical associations I know; it is indeedunique. '

'I do not like to differ with you on any subject. '

'We should be dull companions, I fear, if we agreed upon everything. '

'I cannot think it. '

'Papa, ' said Miss Temple, 'one little stroll upon the lawn; one little, little stroll. The moon is so bright; and autumn, this year, has broughtus as yet no dew. ' And as she spoke, she took up her scarf and woundit round her head. 'There, ' she said, 'I look like the portrait of theTurkish page in Armine Gallery. '

There was a playful grace about Henrietta Temple, a wild and brilliantsimplicity, which was the more charming because it was blended withpeculiarly high breeding. No person in ordinary society was more calm, or enjoyed a more complete self-possession, yet no one in the moreintimate relations of life indulged more in those little unstudiedbursts of nature, which seemed almost to remind one of the playful childrather than the polished woman; and which, under such circumstances, are infinitely captivating. As for Ferdinand Armine, he looked upon theTurkish page with a countenance beaming with admiration; he wished itwas Turkey wherein he then beheld her, or any other strange land, wherehe could have placed her on his courser, and galloped away in pursuit ofa fortune wild as his soul. 

Though the year was in decay, summer had lent this night to autumn, itwas so soft and sweet. The moonbeam fell brightly upon Ducie Bower, andthe illumined salon contrasted effectively with the natural splendourof the exterior scene. Mr. Temple reminded Henrietta of a brilliant fêtewhich had been given at a Saxon palace, and which some circumstances ofsimilarity recalled to his recollection. Ferdinand could not speak, but found himself unconsciously pressing Henrietta Temple's arm to hisheart. The Saxon palace brought back to Miss Temple a wild melody whichhad been sung in the gardens on that night. She asked her father if herecollected it, and hummed the air as she made the enquiry. Her gentlemurmur soon expanded into song. It was one of those wild and naturallyrics that spring up in mountainous countries, and which seem to mimicthe prolonged echoes that in such regions greet the ear of the pastorand the huntsman. 

Oh! why did this night ever have an end!

CHAPTER XI. 

 _A Morning Walk_. 

IT WAS solitude that brought despair to Ferdinand Armine. The moment hewas alone his real situation thrust itself upon him; the moment hehad quitted the presence of Henrietta Temple he was as a man under theinfluence of music when the orchestra suddenly stops. The source of allhis inspiration failed him; this last night at Ducie was dreadful. Sleepwas out of the question; he did not affect even the mimicry of retiring, but paced up and down his room the whole night, or flung himself, whenexhausted, upon a restless sofa. Occasionally he varied these monotonousoccupations, by pressing his lips to the drawings which bore hername; then relapsing into a profound reverie, he sought some solace inrecalling the scenes of the morning, all her movements, every wordshe had uttered, every look which had illumined his soul. In vain heendeavoured to find consolation in the fond belief that he was notaltogether without interest in her eyes. Even the conviction that hispassion was returned, in the situation in which he was plunged, would, however flattering, be rather a source of fresh anxiety and perplexity. He took a volume from the single shelf of books that was slung againstthe wall; it was a volume of Corinne. The fervid eloquence of thepoetess sublimated his passion; and without disturbing the tone ofhis excited mind, relieved in some degree its tension, by busying hisimagination with other, though similar emotions. As he read, his mindbecame more calm and his feelings deeper, and by the time his lamp grewghastly in the purple light of morning that now entered his chamber, hissoul seemed so stilled that he closed the volume, and, though sleep wasimpossible, he remained nevertheless calm and absorbed. 

When the first sounds assured him that some were stirring in the house, he quitted his room, and after some difficulty found a maid-servant, bywhose aid he succeeded in getting into the garden. He took his way tothe common where he had observed the preceding day, a fine sheet ofwater. The sun had not risen more than an hour; it was a fresh and ruddymorn. The cottagers were just abroad. The air of the plain invigoratedhim, and the singing of the birds, and all those rural sounds that risewith the husbandman, brought to his mind a wonderful degree of freshnessand serenity. Occasionally he heard the gun of an early sportsman, tohim at all times an animating sound; but when he had plunged into thewater, and found himself struggling with that inspiring element, allsorrow seemed to leave him. His heated brow became cool and clear, hisaching limbs vigorous and elastic, his jaded soul full of hope and joy. He lingered in the liquid and vivifying world, playing with the stream, for he was an expert and practised swimmer; and often, after nights ofsouthern dissipation, had recurred to this natural bath for health andrenovation. 

The sun had now risen far above the horizon; the village clock had longstruck seven; Ferdinand was three miles from Ducie Bower. It was timeto return, yet he loitered on his way, the air was so sweet andfresh, the scene so pretty, and his mind, in comparison with his recentfeelings, so calm, and even happy. Just as he emerged from the woods, and entered the grounds of Ducie, he met Miss Temple. She stared, andshe had cause. Ferdinand indeed presented rather an unusual figure; hishead uncovered, his hair matted, and his countenance glowing with hisexercise, but his figure clothed with the identical evening dress inwhich he had bid her a tender good night. 

'Captain Armine!' exclaimed Miss Temple, 'you are an early riser, Isee. '

Ferdinand looked a little confused. 'The truth is, ' he replied, 'I havenot risen at all. I could not sleep; why, I know not: the evening, Isuppose, was too happy for so commonplace a termination; so I escapedfrom my room as soon as I could do so without disturbing your household;and I have been bathing, which refreshes me always more than slumber. '

'Well, I could not resign my sleep, were it only for the sake of mydreams. '

'Pleasant I trust they were. "Rosy dreams and slumbers light" are forladies as fair as you. '

'I am grateful that I always fulfil the poet's wish; and what is more, Iwake only to gather roses: see here!'

She extended to him a flower. 

'I deserve it, ' said Ferdinand, 'for I have not neglected your firstgift;' and he offered her the rose she had given him the first day ofhis visit. ''Tis shrivelled, ' he added, 'but still very sweet, at leastto me. '

'It is mine now, ' said Henrietta Temple. 

'Ah! you will throw it away. '

'Do you think me, then, so insensible?'

'It cannot be to you what it is to me, ' replied Ferdinand. 

'It is a memorial, ' said Miss Temple. 

'Of what, and of whom?' enquired Ferdinand. 

'Of friendship and a friend. '

''Tis something to be Miss Temple's friend. '

'I am glad you think so. I believe I am very vain, but certainly I liketo be-----liked. '

'Then you can always gain your wish without an effort. '

'Now I think we are very good friends, ' said Miss Temple, 'consideringwe have known each other so short a time. But then papa likes you somuch. '

'I am honoured as well as gratified by the kindly dispositions of soagreeable a person as Mr. Temple. I can assure his daughter that thefeeling is mutual. Your father's opinion influences you?'

'In everything. He has been so kind a father, that it would be worsethan ingratitude to be less than devoted to him. '

'Mr. Temple is a very enviable person. '

'But Captain Armine knows the delight of a parent who loves him. I lovemy father as you love your mother. '

'I have, however, lived to feel that no person's opinion could influenceme in everything; I have lived to find that even filial love, and Godknows mine was powerful enough, is, after all, but a pallid moonlightbeam, compared with------'

'See! my father kisses his hand to us from the window. Let us run andmeet him. '

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 greater 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. 

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 downand 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 gift, 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. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

 _Containing an Incident Which Is the Termination of Most Tales, though Almost the Beginning of the Present. _

IT WAS about two hours before sunset that Captain Armine summoned upcourage to call at Ducie Bower. He enquired for Mr. Temple, and learnedto his surprise that Mr. Temple had quitted Ducie yesterday morning forScotland. 'And Miss Temple?' said Ferdinand. 'Is at home, Sir, ' repliedthe servant. Ferdinand was ushered into the salon. She was not there. Our hero was very nervous; he had been bold enough in the course ofhis walk from the farmhouse, and indulged in a thousand imaginaryconversations with his mistress; but, now that he was really about tomeet her, all his fire and fancy deserted him. Everything occurred tohim inauspicious to his suit; his own situation, the short time she hadknown him, his uncertainty of the state of her affections. How did heknow she was not engaged to another? why should she not be betrothed aswell as himself? This contingency had occurred to him before, and yethe had driven it from his thoughts. He began to be jealous; he began tothink himself a very great fool; at any rate, he resolved not to exposehimself any further. He was clearly premature; he would call to-morrowor next day: to speak to her now was certainly impossible. 

The door opened; she entered, radiant as the day! What a smile! whatdazzling teeth! what ravishing dimples! her eyes flashed like summerlightning; she extended to him a hand white and soft as one of thosedoves that had played about him in the morning. Surely never was anyoneendued with such an imperial presence. So stately, so majestic, and yetwithal so simply gracious; full of such airy artlessness, at one momentshe seemed an empress, and then only a beautiful child; and the hand andarm that seemed fashioned to wave a sceptre, in an instant appeared onlyfit to fondle a gazelle, or pluck a flower. 

'How do you do?' she said; and he really fancied she was going to sing. He was not yet accustomed to that marvellous voice. It broke upon thesilence, like a silver bell just touched by the summer air. 'It is kindof you to come and see a lone maiden, ' she continued; 'papa has desertedme, and without any preparation. I cannot endure to be separatedfrom him, and this is almost the only time that he has refused mysolicitation to accompany him. But he must travel far and quickly. Myuncle has sent for him; he is very unwell, and papa is his trustee. There is business; I do not know what it is, but I dare say not veryagreeable. By-the-bye, I hope Lady Armine is well?'

'My papa has deserted me, ' said Ferdinand with a smile. 'They have notyet arrived, and some days may yet elapse before they reach Armine. '

'Indeed! I hope they are well. '

'Yes; they are well. '

'Did you ride here?'

'No. '

'You did not walk?'

'I hardly know how I came; I believe I walked. '

'You must be very tired; and you are standing! pray sit down; sit inthat chair; you know that is your favourite chair. '

And Ferdinand seated himself in the very chair in which he had watchedher the preceding night. 

'This is certainly my favourite chair, ' he said; 'I know no seat in theworld I prefer to this. '

'Will you take some refreshment? I am sure you will; you must be verytired. Take some hock; papa always takes hock and soda water. I shallorder some hock and soda water for you. ' She rose and rang the bell inspite of his remonstrance. 

'And have you been walking, Miss Temple?' enquired Ferdinand. 

'I was thinking of strolling now, ' she replied, 'but I am glad that youhave called, for I wanted an excuse to be idle. '

An hour passed away, nor was the conversation on either side verybrilliantly supported. Ferdinand seemed dull, but, indeed, was onlymoody, revolving in his mind many strange incidents and feelings, andthen turning for consolation in his perplexities to the enchantingvision on which he still could gaze. Nor was Miss Temple either in herusually sparkling vein; her liveliness seemed an effort; she was moreconstrained, she was less fluent than before. Ferdinand, indeed, rosemore than once to depart; yet still he remained. He lost his cap;he looked for his cap; and then again seated himself. Again he rose, restless and disquieted, wandered about the room, looked at a picture, plucked a flower, pulled the flower to pieces. 

'Miss Temple, ' he at length observed, 'I am afraid I am very stupid!'

'Because you are silent?'

'Is not that a sufficient reason?'

'Nay! I think not; I think I am rather fond of silent people myself; Icannot bear to live with a person who feels bound to talk because heis my companion. The whole day passes sometimes without papa and myselfexchanging fifty words; yet I am very happy; I do not feel that we aredull:' and Miss Temple pursued her work which she had previously takenup. 

'Ah! but I am not your papa; when we are very intimate with people, when they interest us, we are engaged with their feelings, we do notperpetually require their ideas. But an acquaintance, as I am, only anacquaintance, a miserable acquaintance, unless I speak or listen, Ihave no business to be here; unless I in some degree contribute to theamusement or the convenience of my companion, I degenerate into a bore. '

'I think you are very amusing, and you may be useful if you like, very;'and she offered him a skein of silk, which she requested him to hold. 

It was a beautiful hand that was extended to him; a beautiful hand isan excellent thing in woman; it is a charm that never palls, and betterthan all, it is a means of fascination that never disappears. Womencarry a beautiful hand with them to the grave, when a beautiful facehas long ago vanished, or ceased to enchant. The expression of thehand, too, is inexhaustible; and when the eyes we may have worshipped nolonger flash or sparkle, the ringlets with which we may have played arecovered with a cap, or worse, a turban, and the symmetrical presencewhich in our sonnets has reminded us so oft of antelopes and wildgazelles, have all, all vanished, the hand, the immortal hand, defyingalike time and care, still vanquishes, and still triumphs; and small, soft, and fair, by an airy attitude, a gentle pressure, or a new ring, renews with untiring grace the spell that bound our enamoured andadoring youth!

But in the present instance there were eyes as bright as the hand, locksmore glossy and luxuriant than Helen's of Troy, a cheek pink as a shell, and breaking into dimples like a May morning into sunshine, and lipsfrom which stole forth a perfume sweeter than the whole conservatory. Ferdinand sat down on a chair opposite Miss Temple, with the extendedskein. 

'Now this is better than doing nothing!' she said, catching his eye witha glance half-kind, half-arch. 'I suspect, Captain Armine, that yourmelancholy originates in idleness. '

'Ah! if I could only be employed every day in this manner!' ejaculatedFerdinand. 

'Nay! not with a distaff; but you must do something. You must get intoparliament. '

'You forget that I am a Catholic, ' said Ferdinand. 

Miss Temple slightly blushed, and talked rather quickly about her work;but her companion would not relinquish the subject. 

'I hope you are not prejudiced against my faith, ' said Ferdinand. 

'Prejudiced! Dear Captain Armine, do not make me repent too seriously agiddy word. I feel it is wrong that matters of taste should mingle withmatters of belief; but, to speak the truth, I am not quite sure thata Howard, or an Armine, who was a Protestant, like myself, would quiteplease my fancy so much as in their present position, which, if a littleinconvenient, is very picturesque. '

Ferdinand smiled. 'My great grandmother was a Protestant, ' saidFerdinand, 'Margaret Armine. Do you think Margaret a pretty name?'

'Queen Margaret! yes, a fine name, I think; barring its abbreviation. '

'I wish my great grandmother's name had not been Margaret, ' saidFerdinand, very seriously. 

'Now, why should that respectable dame's baptism disturb your fancy?'enquired Miss Temple. 

'I wish her name had been Henrietta, ' replied Ferdinand. 'HenriettaArmine. You know there was a Henrietta Armine once?'

'Was there?' said Miss Temple, rising. 'Our skein is finished. You havebeen very good. I must go and see my flowers. Come. ' And as she saidthis little word, she turned her fair and finely-finished neck, andlooked over her shoulder at Ferdinand with an arch expression ofcountenance peculiar to her. That winning look, indeed, that clear, sweet voice, and that quick graceful attitude, blended into a spellwhich was irresistible. His heart yearned for Henrietta Temple, and roseat the bidding of her voice. 

From the conservatory they stepped into the garden. It was a deliciousafternoon; the sun had sunk behind the grove, and the air, which hadbeen throughout the day somewhat oppressive, was now warm, but mild. AtDucie there was a fine old terrace facing the western hills, that boundthe valley in which the Bower was situate. These hills, a ridge ofmoderate elevation, but of picturesque form, parted just oppositethe terrace, as if on purpose to admit the setting sun, like inferiorexistences that had, as it were, made way before the splendour of somemighty lord or conqueror. The lofty and sloping bank which this terracecrowned was covered with rare shrubs, and occasionally a group of talltrees sprang up among them, and broke the view with an interferencewhich was far from ungraceful, while plants, spreading forth from largemarble vases, had extended over their trunks, and sometimes, in theirplay, had touched even their topmost branches. Between the terraceand the distant hills extended a tract of pasture-land, green andwell-wooded by its rich hedgerows; not a roof was visible, though manyfarms and hamlets were at hand; and, in the heart of a rich and populousland, here was a region where the shepherd or the herdsman was the onlyevidence of human existence. It was thither, a grateful spot at such anhour, that Miss Temple and her companion directed their steps. The lastbeam of the sun flashed across the flaming horizon as they gained theterrace; the hills, well wooded, or presenting a bare and acute outlineto the sky, rose sharply defined in form; while in another directionsome more distant elevations were pervaded with a rich purple tint, touched sometimes with a rosy blaze of soft and flickering light. Thewhole scene, indeed, from the humble pasture-land that was soon tocreep into darkness, to the proud hills whose sparkling crests were yettouched by the living beam, was bathed with lucid beauty and luminoussoftness, and blended with the glowing canopy of the lustrous sky. Buton the terrace and the groves that rose beyond it, and on the glades andvistas into which they opened, fell the full glory of the sunset. Eachmoment a new shadow, now rosy, now golden, now blending in its shiftingtints all the glory of the iris, fell over the rich pleasure-grounds, their groups of rare and noble trees, and their dim or glitteringavenues. 

The vespers of the birds were faintly dying away, the last low of thereturning kine sounded over the lea, the tinkle of the sheep-bellwas heard no more, the thin white moon began to gleam, and Hesperusglittered in the fading sky. It was the twilight hour!

That delicious hour that softens the heart of man, what is its magic?Not merely its beauty; it is not more beautiful than the sunrise. It isits repose. Our tumultuous passions sink with the sun, there is afine sympathy between us and our world, and the stillness of Nature isresponded to by the serenity of the soul. 

At this sacred hour our hearts are pure. All worldly cares, all thosevulgar anxieties and aspirations that at other seasons hover likevultures over our existence, vanish from the serene atmosphere of oursusceptibility. A sense of beauty and a sentiment of love pervade ourbeing. But if at such a moment solitude is full of joy, if, even whenalone, our native sensibility suffices to entrance us with a tranquilyet thrilling bliss, how doubly sweet, how multiplied must be our fineemotions, when the most delicate influence of human sympathy combineswith the power and purity of material and moral nature, and completesthe exquisite and enchanting spell!

Ferdinand Armine turned from the beautiful world around him to gazeupon a countenance sweeter than the summer air, softer than the gleamingmoon, brighter than the evening star. The shadowy light of purpleeve fell upon the still and solemn presence of Henrietta Temple. Irresistible emotion impelled him; softly he took her gentle hand, and, bending his head, he murmured to her, 'Most beautiful, I love thee!'

As, in the oppressive stillness of some tropic night, a single drop isthe refreshing harbinger of a slower that clears the heavens, so eventhis slight expression relieved in an instant the intensity of hisover-burthened feelings, and warm, quick, and gushing flowed the wordsthat breathed his fervid adoration. 'Yes!' he continued, 'in this fairscene, oh! let me turn to something fairer still. Beautiful, belovedHenrietta, I can repress no longer the emotions that, since I firstbeheld you, have vanquished my existence. I love you, I adore you; lifein your society is heaven; without you I cannot live. Deem me, oh! deemme not too bold, sweet lady; I am not worthy of you, yet let me love!I am not worthy of you, but who can be? Ah! if I dared but venture tooffer you my heart, if that humblest of all possessions might indeed beyours, if my adoration, if my devotion, if the consecration of my lifeto you, might in some degree compensate for its little worth, if I mightlive even but to hope------

'You do not speak. Miss Temple, Henrietta, admirable Henrietta, have Ioffended you? Am I indeed the victim of hopes too high and fancies toosupreme? Oh! pardon me, most beautiful, I pray your pardon. Is it acrime to feel, perchance too keenly, the sense of beauty like to thine, dear lady? Ah! tell me I am forgiven; tell me indeed you do not hate me. I will be silent, I will never speak again. Yet, let me walk with you. Cease not to be my companion because I have been too bold. Pity me, pityme, dearest, dearest Henrietta. If you but knew how I have suffered, ifyou but knew the nights that brought no sleep, the days of fever thathave been mine since first we met, if you but knew how I have fed butupon one sweet idea, one sacred image of absorbing life, since firstI gazed on your transcendent form, indeed I think that you would pity, that you would pardon, that you might even------

'Tell me, is it my fault that you are beautiful! Oh! how beautiful, mywretched and exhausted soul too surely feels! Is it my fault those eyesare like the dawn, that thy sweet voice thrills through my frame, andbut the slightest touch of that light hand falls like a spell on myentranced form! Ah! Henrietta, be merciful, be kind!'

He paused for a second, and yet she did not answer; but her cheek fellupon his shoulder, and the gentle pressure of her hand was more eloquentthan language. That slight, sweet signal was to him as the sunrise onthe misty earth. Full of hope, and joy, and confidence, he took her inhis arms, sealed her cold lips with a burning kiss, and vowed to her hiseternal and almighty love!

He bore her to an old stone bench placed on the terrace. Still she wassilent; but her hand clasped his, and her head rested on his bosom. Thegleaming moon now glittered, the hills and woods were silvered by itsbeam, and the far meads were bathed with its clear, fair light. Not asingle cloud curtained the splendour of the stars. What a rapturous soulwas Ferdinand Armine's as he sat that night on the old bench, onDucie Terrace, shrouding from the rising breeze the trembling form ofHenrietta Temple! And yet it was not cold that made her shiver. 

The clock of Ducie Church struck ten. She moved, saying, in a faintvoice, 'We must go home, my Ferdinand!'

BOOK III. 

CHAPTER I. 

 _In Which Captain Armine Proves Himself a Complete Tactician_. 

THE midnight moon flung its broad beams over the glades and avenues ofArmine, as Ferdinand, riding Miss Temple's horse, re-entered the park. His countenance was paler than the spectral light that guided him on hisway. He looked little like a pledged and triumphant lover; but in hiscontracted brow and compressed lip might be read the determinationof his soul. There was no longer a contest between poverty and pride, between the maintenance or destruction of his ancient house, between hisold engagement and his present passion; that was past. Henrietta Templewas the light in the pharos amid all his stormy fortunes; thither hedirected all the energies of his being; and to gain that port, or sink, was his unflinching resolution. 

It was deep in the night before he again beheld the towers and turretsof his castle, and the ivy-covered fragment of the old Place seemedto sleep in peace under its protecting influence. A wild and beautifulevent had happened since last he quitted those ancient walls. And whatwould be its influence upon them? But it is not for the passionate loverto moralise. For him, the regrets of the past and the chances of thefuture are alike lost in the ravishing and absorbing present. For alover that has but just secured the object of his long and tumultuoushopes is as a diver who has just plucked a jewel from the bed of somerare sea. Panting and wild he lies upon the beach, and the gem that heclutches is the sole idea that engrosses his existence. 

Ferdinand is within his little chamber, that little chamber where hismother had bid him so passionate a farewell. Ah! he loves another womanbetter than his mother now. Nay, even a feeling of embarrassment andpain is associated with the recollection of that fond and elegant being, whom he had recognised once as the model of all feminine perfection, andwho had been to him so gentle and so devoted. He drives his mother fromhis thoughts. It is of another voice that he now muses; it is thememory of another's glance that touches his eager heart. He falls intoa reverie; the passionate past is acted again before him; in hisglittering eye and the rapid play of his features may be traced thetumult of his soul. A doubt crosses his brow. Is he indeed so happy;is it not all a dream? He takes from his bosom the handkerchief ofHenrietta Temple. He recognises upon it her magical initials, worked inher own fine dark hair. A smile of triumphant certainty irradiateshis countenance, as he rapidly presses the memorial to his lips, andimprints upon it a thousand kisses: and holding this cherished testimonyof his felicity to his heart, sleep at length descended upon theexhausted frame of Ferdinand Armine. 

But the night that brought dreams to Ferdinand Armine brought him notvisions more marvellous and magical than his waking life. He who loveslives in an ecstatic trance. The world that surrounds him is not theworld of working man: it is fairy land. He is not of the same order asthe labouring myriads on which he seems to tread. They are to him but aswarm of humble-minded and humble-mannered insects. For him, the humanspecies is represented by a single individual, and of her he makes anidol. All that is bright and rare is but invented and devised to adornand please her. Flowers for her were made so sweet and birds so musical. All nature seems to bear an intimate relation to the being we adore; andas to us life would now appear intolerable, a burthen of insupportableand wearying toil, without this transcendent sympathy, so we cannothelp fancying that were its sweet and subtle origin herself to quitthis inspired scene, the universe itself would not be unconscious of itsdeprivation, and somewhat of the world's lustre might be missed even bythe most callous. 

The morning burst as beautiful as such love. A rosy tint suffused thesoft and tremulous sky, and tinted with a delicate hue the tall treesand the wide lawns, freshened with the light and vanishing dew. The airwas vocal with a thousand songs; all was bright and clear, cheerful andgolden. Ferdinand awoke from delicious dreams, and gazed upon the scenethat responded to his own bright and glad emotions, and inhaled thebalmy air, ethereal as his own soul. Love, that can illumine the darkhovel and the dismal garret, that sheds a ray of enchanting lightover the close and busy city, seems to mount with a lighter and moreglittering pinion in an atmosphere as brilliant as its own plumes. Fortunate the youth, the romance of whose existence is placed in a scenebefitting its fair and marvellous career; fortunate the passion that isbreathed in palaces, amid the ennobling creations of surrounding art, and greets the object of its fond solicitude amid perfumed gardens, and in the shade of green and silent woods! Whatever may be the harshercourse of his career, however the cold world may cast its dark shadowsupon his future path, he may yet consider himself thrice blessed to whomthis graceful destiny has fallen, and amid the storms and troubles ofafter-life may look back to these hours, fair as the dawn, beautiful asthe twilight, with solace and satisfaction. Disappointment may witherup his energies, oppression may bruise his spirit; but baulked, daunted, deserted, crushed, lone where once all was sympathy, gloomy where allwas light, still he has not lived in vain. 

Business, however, rises with the sun. The morning brings cares, andalthough with rebraced energies and renovated strength, then is theseason that we are best qualified to struggle with the harassing brood, still Ferdinand Armine, the involved son of a ruined race, seldom rosefrom his couch, seldom recalled consciousness after repose, without apang. Nor was there indeed magic withal, in the sweet spell that nowbound him, to preserve him, from this black invasion. Anxiety was oneof the ingredients of the charm. He might have forgotten his own brokenfortunes, his audacious and sanguine spirit might have built up manya castle for the future, as brave as that of Armine; but the veryinspiring recollection of Henrietta Temple, the very remembrance ofthe past and triumphant eve, only the more forced upon his memory theconviction that he was, at this moment, engaged also to another, andbound to be married to two women. 

Something must be done; Miss Grandison might arrive this very day. Itwas an improbable incident, but still it might occur. While he wasthus musing, his servant brought him his letters, which had arrived thepreceding day, letters from his mother and Katherine, _his_ Katherine. They brought present relief. The invalid had not amended; theirmovements were still uncertain. Katherine, 'his own Kate, ' expressedeven a faint fond wish that he would return. His resolution was taken inan instant. He decided with the prescient promptitude of one who hashis dearest interests at stake. He wrote to Katherine that he wouldinstantly fly to her, only that he daily expected his attendance wouldbe required in town, on military business of urgent importance to theirhappiness. This might, this must, necessarily delay their meeting. Themoment he received his summons to attend the Horse Guards, he shouldhurry off. In the meantime, she was to write to him here; and at allevents not to quit Bath for Armine, without giving him a notice ofseveral days. Having despatched this letter and another to his mother, Ferdinand repaired to the tower to communicate to Glastonbury thenecessity of his immediate departure for London, but he also assuredthat good old man of his brief visit to that city. The pang of thisunexpected departure was softened by the positive promise of returningin a very few days, and returning with his family. 

Having made these arrangements, Ferdinand now felt that, come whatmight, he had at least secured for himself a certain period of unbrokenbliss. He had a faithful servant, an Italian, in whose discretion hehad justly unlimited confidence. To him Ferdinand intrusted the duty ofbringing, each day, his letters to his retreat, which he had fixed uponshould be that same picturesque farm-house, in whose friendly porch hehad found the preceding day such a hospitable shelter, and where hehad experienced that charming adventure which now rather delighted thanperplexed him. 

CHAPTER II. 

 _A Day of Love_. 

MEANWHILE the beautiful Henrietta sat in her bower, her music neglected, her drawing thrown aside. Even her birds were forgotten, and her flowersuntended. A soft tumult filled her frame: now rapt in reverie, sheleaned her head upon her fair hand in charmed abstraction; now risingfrom her restless seat, she paced the chamber, and thought of his quickcoming. What was this mighty revolution that a few short days, a fewbrief hours had occasioned? How mysterious, yet how irresistible, howoverwhelming! Her father was absent, that father on whose fond idea shehad alone lived; from whom the slightest separation had once beenpain; and now that father claims not even her thoughts. Another, and astranger's, image is throned in her soul. She who had moved in the worldso variously, who had received so much homage and been accustomed fromher childhood to all that is considered accomplished and fascinating inman, and had passed through the ordeal with a calm clear spirit; behold, she is no longer the mistress of her thoughts or feelings; she hadfallen before a glance, and yielded in an instant to a burning word!

But could she blame herself? Did she repent the rapid and ravishingpast? Did regret mingle with her wonder? Was there a pang of remorse, however slight, blending its sharp tooth with all her bliss? No! Herlove was perfect, and her joy was full. She offered her vows to thatHeaven that had accorded her happiness so supreme; she felt onlyunworthy of a destiny so complete. She marvelled, in the meekness andpurity of her spirit, why one so gifted had been reserved for her, and what he could recognise in her imperfect and inferior qualities todevote to them the fondness of his rare existence. 

Ferdinand Armine! Did there indeed ever breathe, had the wit of poetever yet devised, a being so choice? So young, so beautiful, so livelyand accomplished, so deeply and variously interesting! Was that sweetvoice, indeed, only to sound in her enchanted ear, that graceful formto move only for the pleasure of her watchful eye? That quick and airyfancy but to create for her delight, and that soft, gentle heart to ownno solicitude but for her will and infinite gratification? And could itbe possible that he loved her, that she was indeed his pledged bride, that the accents of his adoration still echoed in her ear, and his fondembrace still clung to her mute and trembling lips! Would he always loveher? Would he always be so fond? Would he be as faithful as he was nowdevoted? Ah! she would not lose him. That heart should never escape her. Her life should be one long vigilant device to enchain his being. 

What was she five days past? Is it possible that she lived before shemet him? Of what did she think, what do? Could there be pursuits withoutthis companion, plans or feelings without this sweet friend? Lifemust have been a blank, vapid and dull and weary. She could not recallherself before that morning ride to Armine. How rolled away the day!How heavy must have been the hours! All that had been uttered before shelistened to Ferdinand seemed without point; all that was done before helingered at her side, aimless and without an object. 

O Love! in vain they moralise; in vain they teach us thou art adelusion; in vain they dissect thine inspiring sentiment, and wouldmortify us into misery by its degrading analysis. The sage may announcethat gratified vanity is thine aim and end; but the lover glances withcontempt at his cold-blooded philosophy. Nature assures him thou art abeautiful and sublime emotion; and, he answers, canst thou deprive thesun of its heat because its ray may be decomposed; or does the diamondblaze with less splendour because thou canst analyse its effulgence?

A gentle rustling sounded at the window: Henrietta looked up, but thesight deserted her fading vision, as Ferdinand seized with softness hersofter hand, and pressed it to his lips. 

A moment since, and she had longed for his presence as the infant forits mother; a moment since, and she had murmured that so much of themorn had passed without his society; a moment since, and it had seemedthat no time could exhaust the expression of her feelings. How she hadsighed for his coming! How she had hoped that this day she might conveyto him what last night she had so weakly, so imperfectly attempted!And now she sat trembling and silent, with downcast eyes and changingcountenance!

'My Henrietta!' exclaimed Ferdinand, 'my beautiful Henrietta, it seemedwe never should meet again, and yet I rose almost with the sun. '

'My Ferdinand, ' replied Miss Temple, scarcely daring to meet his glance, 'I cannot speak; I am so happy that I cannot speak. '

'Ah! tell me, have you thought of me? Did you observe I stole yourhandkerchief last night? See! here it is; when I slept, I kissed it andwore it next my heart. '

'Ah! give it me, ' she faintly murmured, extending her hand; and then sheadded, in a firmer and livelier tone, 'and did you really wear it nearyour heart!'

'Near thine; for thine it is, love! Sweet, you look so beautiful to-day!It seems to me you never yet looked half so fair. Those eyes are sobrilliant, so very blue, so like the violet! There is nothing like youreyes!'

'Except your own. '

'You have taken away your hand. Give me back my hand, my Henrietta. Iwill not quit it. The whole day it shall be clasped in mine. Ah! what ahand! so soft, so very soft! There is nothing like your hand. '

'Yours is as soft, dear Ferdinand. '

'O Henrietta! I do love you so! I wish that I could tell you how I loveyou! As I rode home last night it seemed that I had not conveyed to youa tithe, nay, a thousandth part of what I feel. '

'You cannot love me, Ferdinand, more than I love you. '

'Say so again! Tell me very often, tell me a thousand times, how muchyou love me. Unless you tell me a thousand times, Henrietta, I never canbelieve that I am so blessed. '

They went forth into the garden. Nature, with the splendid sky and thesweet breeze, seemed to smile upon their passion. Henrietta plucked themost beautiful flowers and placed them in his breast. 

'Do you remember the rose at Armine?' said Ferdinand, with a fond smile. 

'Ah! who would have believed that it would have led to this?' saidHenrietta, with downcast eyes. 

'I am not more in love now than I was then, ' said Ferdinand. 

'I dare not speak of my feelings, ' said Miss Temple. 'Is it possiblethat it can be but five days back since we first met! It seems anotherera. '

'I have no recollection of anything that occurred before I sawyou beneath the cedar, ' replied Ferdinand: 'that is the date of myexistence. I saw you, and I loved. My love was at once complete; I haveno confidence in any other; I have no confidence in the love that isthe creature of observation, and reflection, and comparison, andcalculation. Love, in my opinion, should spring from innate sympathy; itshould be superior to all situations, all ties, all circumstances. '

'Such, then, we must believe is ours, ' replied Henrietta, in a somewhatgrave and musing tone: 'I would willingly embrace your creed. I know notwhy I should be ashamed of my feelings. They are natural, and they arepure. And yet I tremble. But so long as you do not think lightly of me, Ferdinand, for whom should I care?'

'My Henrietta! my angel! my adored and beautiful! I worship you, Ireverence you. Ah! my Henrietta, if you only knew how I dote upon you, you would not speak thus. Come, let us ramble in our woods. '

So saying, he withdrew her from the more public situation in which theywere then placed, and entered, by a winding walk, those beautiful bowersthat had given so fair and fitting a name to Ducie. Ah! that was aramble of rich delight, as, winding his arm round her light waist, hepoured into her palpitating ear all the eloquence of his passion. Eachhour that they had known each other was analysed, and the feelingsof each moment were compared. What sweet and thrilling confessions!Eventually it was settled, to the complete satisfaction of both, that both had fallen in love at the same time, and that they had beenmutually and unceasingly thinking of each other from the first instantof their meeting. 

The conversation of lovers is inexhaustible. Hour glided away afterhour, as Ferdinand alternately expressed his passion and detailed thehistory of his past life. For the curiosity of woman, lively at alltimes, is never so keen, so exacting, and so interested, as in heranxiety to become acquainted with the previous career of her lover. Sheis jealous of all that he has done before she knew him; of every personto whom he has spoken. She will be assured a thousand times that henever loved before, yet she credits the first affirmation. She enviesthe mother who knew him as a child, even the nurse who may have rockedhis cradle. She insists upon a minute and finished portraiture of hischaracter and life. 

Why did he not give it? More than once it was upon his lips to revealall; more than once he was about to pour forth all his sorrows, all theentanglements of his painful situation; more than once he was aboutto make the full and mortifying confession, that, though his heart washers, there existed another, who even at that moment might claim thehand that Henrietta clasped with so much tenderness. But he checkedhimself. He would not break the charm that surrounded him; he would notdisturb the clear and brilliant stream in which his life was at thismoment flowing; he had not courage to change by a worldly word the sceneof celestial enchantment in which he now moved and breathed. Let usadd, in some degree for his justification, that he was not altogetherunmindful of the feelings of Miss Grandison. Sufficient misery remained, at all events, for her, without adding the misery of making herrival cognizant of her mortification. The deed must be done, and donepromptly; but, at least, there should be no unnecessary witnesses to itsharrowing achievement. 

So he looked upon the radiant brow of his Henrietta, wreathed withsmiles of innocent triumph, sparkling with unalloyed felicity, andbeaming with unbroken devotion. Should the shade of a dark passion fora moment cloud that heaven, so bright and so serene? Should even amomentary pang of jealousy or distrust pain that pure and unsulliedbreast? In the midst of contending emotions, he pressed her to his heartwith renewed energy, and, bending down his head, imprinted an embraceupon her blushing forehead. 

They seated themselves on a bank, which, it would seem, Nature hadcreated for the convenience of lovers. The softest moss, and thebrightest flowers decked its elastic and fragrant side. A spreadingbeech tree shaded their heads from the sun, which now was on thedecline; and occasionally its wide branches rustled with the soft breezethat passed over them in renovating and gentle gusts. The woods widenedbefore them, and at the termination of a well-contrived avenue, theycaught the roofs of the village and the tall grey tower of Ducie Church. They had wandered for hours without weariness, yet the repose wasgrateful, while they listened to the birds, and plucked wildflowers. 

'Ah! I remember, ' said Ferdinand, 'that it was not far from here, whileslumbering indeed in the porch of my pretty farm-house, that the fairyof the spot dropped on my breast these beautiful flowers that I nowwear. Did you not observe them, my sweet Henrietta? Do you know thatI am rather mortified, that they have not made you at least a littlejealous?'

'I am not jealous of fairies, dear Ferdinand. '

'And yet I half believe that you are a fairy, my Henrietta. '

'A very substantial one, I fear, my Ferdinand. Is this a compliment tomy form?'

'Well, then, a sylvan nymph, much more, I assure you, to my fancy;perhaps the rosy Dryad of this fair tree; rambling in woods, andbounding over commons, scattering beautiful flowers, and dreams asbright. '

'And were your dreams bright yesterday morning?'

'I dreamed of you. '

'And when you awoke?'

'I hastened to the source of my inspiration. '

'And if you had not dreamt of me?'

'I should have come to have enquired the reason why. '

Miss Temple looked upon the ground; a blended expression of mirth andsentiment played over her features, and then looking up with a smilecontending with her tearful eye, she hid her face in his breast andmurmured, 'I watched him sleeping. Did he indeed dream of me?'

'Darling of my existence!' exclaimed the enraptured Ferdinand, 'exquisite, enchanting being! Why am I so happy? What have I doneto deserve bliss so ineffable? But tell me, beauty, tell me how youcontrived to appear and vanish without witnesses? For my enquirieswere severe, and these good people must have been less artless than Iimagined to have withstood them successfully. '

'I came, ' said Miss Temple, 'to pay them a visit, with me not uncommon. When I entered the porch I beheld my Ferdinand asleep. I looked uponhim for a moment, but I was frightened and stole away unperceived. But Ileft the flowers, more fortunate than your Henrietta. '

'Sweet love!'

'Never did I return home, ' continued Miss Temple, 'more sad and moredispirited. A thousand times I wished that I was a flower, that I mightbe gathered and worn upon your heart. You smile, my Ferdinand. Indeed Ifeel I am very foolish, yet I know not why, I am now neither ashamed norafraid to tell you anything. I was so miserable when I arrived home, myFerdinand, that I went to my room and wept. And he then came! Oh! whatheaven was mine! I wiped the tears from my face and came down to seehim. He looked so beautiful and happy!'

'And you, sweet child, oh! who could have believed, at that moment, thata tear had escaped from those bright eyes!'

'Love makes us hypocrites, I fear, my Ferdinand; for, a moment before, I was so wearied that I was lying on my sofa quite wretched. And then, when I saw him, I pretended that I had not been out, and was justthinking of a stroll. Oh, my Ferdinand! will you pardon me?'

'It seems to me that I never loved you until this moment. Is it possiblethat human beings ever loved each other as we do?'

Now came the hour of twilight. While in this fond strain the loversinterchanged their hearts, the sun had sunk, the birds grown silent, andthe star of evening twinkled over the tower of Ducie. The bat and thebeetle warned them to return. They rose reluctantly and retraced theirsteps to Ducie, with hearts softer even than the melting hour. 

'Must we then part?' exclaimed Ferdinand. 'Oh! must we part! How canI exist even an instant without your presence, without at least theconsciousness of existing under the same roof? Oh! would I were one ofyour serving-men, to listen to your footstep, to obey your bell, andever and anon to catch your voice! Oh! now I wish indeed Mr. Temple werehere, and then I might be your guest. '

'My father!' exclaimed Miss Temple, in a somewhat serious tone. 'I oughtto have written to him to-day! Oh! talk not of my father, speak only ofyourself. '

They stood in silence as they were about to emerge upon the lawn, andthen Miss Temple said, 'Dear Ferdinand, you must go; indeed you must. Press me not to enter. If you love me, now let us part. I shall retireimmediately, that the morning may sooner come. God bless you, myFerdinand. May He guard over you, and keep you for ever and ever. Youweep! Indeed you must not; you so distress me. Ferdinand, be good, bekind; for my sake do not this. I love you; what can I do more? The timewill come we will not part, but now we must. Good night, my Ferdinand. Nay, if you will, these lips indeed are yours. Promise me you willnot remain here. Well then, when the light is out in my chamber, leaveDucie. Promise me this, and early tomorrow, earlier than you think, Iwill pay a visit to your cottage. Now be good, and to-morrow we willbreakfast together. There now!' she added in a gay tone, 'you seewoman's wit has the advantage. ' And so without another word she ranaway. 

CHAPTER III. 

 _Which on the Whole Is Found Very Consoling_. 

THE separation of lovers, even with an immediate prospect of union, involves a sentiment of deep melancholy. The reaction of our solitaryemotions, after a social impulse of such peculiar excitement, very muchdisheartens and depresses us. Mutual passion is complete sympathy. Undersuch an influence there is no feeling so strong, no fancy so delicate, that it is not instantly responded to. Our heart has no secrets, thoughour life may. Under such an influence, each unconsciously labours toenchant the other; each struggles to maintain the reality of that idealwhich has been reached in a moment of happy inspiration. Then is theseason when the voice is ever soft, the eye ever bright, and everymovement of the frame airy and picturesque; each accent is full oftenderness; each glance, of affection; each gesture, of grace. We livein a heaven of our own creation. All happens that can contribute to ourperfect satisfaction, and can ensure our complete self-complacency. Wegive and we receive felicity. We adore and we are adored. Love is theMay-day of the heart. 

But a cloud nevertheless will dim the genial lustre of that soft andbrilliant sky when we are alone; when the soft voice no longer sighs, and the bright eye no longer beams, and the form we worship no longermoves before our enraptured vision. Our happiness becomes too much theresult of reflection. Our faith is not less devout, but it is not sofervent. We believe in the miracle, but we no longer witness it. 

And as the light was extinguished in the chamber of Henrietta Temple, Ferdinand Armine felt for a moment as if his sun had set for ever. Thereseemed to be now no evidence of her existence. Would tomorrow ever come?And if it came, would the rosy hours indeed bring her in their radiantcar? What if this night she died? He shuddered at this wild imagination. Yet it might be; such dire calamities had been. And now he felt hislife was involved in hers, and that under such circumstances his instantdeath must complete the catastrophe. There was then much at stake. Hadit been yet his glorious privilege that her fair cheek should havefound a pillow on his heart; could he have been permitted to have restedwithout her door but as her guard; even if the same roof at any distancehad screened both their heads; such dark conceptions would not perhapshave risen up to torture him; but as it was, they haunted him like evilspirits as he took his lonely way over the common to gain his new abode. 

Ah! the morning came, and such a morn! Bright as his love! Ferdinand hadpassed a dreamy night, and when he woke he could not at first recognisethe locality. It was not Armine. Could it be Ducie? As he stretched hislimbs and rubbed his eyes, he might be excused for a moment fancyingthat all the happiness of yesterday was indeed a vision. He was, intruth, sorely perplexed as he looked around the neat but humble chamber, and caught the first beam of the sun struggling through a casementshadowed by the jessamine. But on his heart there rested a curl of darkand flowing hair, and held together by that very turquoise of which hefancied he had been dreaming. Happy, happy Ferdinand! Why shouldst thouhave cares? And may not the course even of thy true love run smooth?

He recks not of the future. What is the future to one so blessed? Thesun is up, the lark is singing, the sky is bluer than the love-jewelat his heart. She will be here soon. No gloomy images disturb him now. Cheerfulness is the dowry of the dawn. 

Will she indeed be here? Will Henrietta Temple indeed come to visit him?Will that consummate being before whom, but a few days back, he stoodentranced; to whose mind the very idea of his existence had not theneven occurred; will she be here anon to visit him? to visit her beloved!What has he done to be so happy? What fairy has touched him and hisdark fortunes with her wand? What talisman does he grasp to call upsuch bright adventures of existence? He does not err. He is an enchantedbeing; a spell indeed pervades his frame; he moves in truth in a worldof marvels and miracles. For what fairy has a wand like love, whattalisman can achieve the deeds of passion?

He quitted the rustic porch, and strolled up the lane that led to Ducie. He started at a sound: it was but the spring of a wandering bird. Thenthe murmur of a distant wheel turned him pale; and he stopped and leanton a neighbouring gate with a panting heart. Was she at hand? There isnot a moment when the heart palpitates with such delicate suspense aswhen a lover awaits his mistress in the spring days of his passion. Manwatching the sun rise from a mountain awaits not an incident to him morebeautiful, more genial, and more impressive. With her presence it wouldseem that both light and heat fall at the same time upon his heart: hisemotions are warm and sunny, that a moment ago seemed dim and frigid; athrilling sense of joy pervades his frame; the air is sweeter, and hisears seem to echo with the music of a thousand birds. 

The sound of the approaching wheel became more audible; it drew near, nearer; but lost the delicacy that distance lent it. Alas! it did notpropel the car of a fairy, or the chariot of a heroine, but a cart, whose taxed springs bowed beneath the portly form of an honest yeomanwho gave Captain Armine a cheerful good-morrow as he jogged by, andflanked his jolly whip with unmerciful dexterity. The loudness of theunexpected salute, the crack of the echoing thong, shook the fine nervesof a fanciful lover, and Ferdinand looked so confused, that if thehonest yeoman had only stopped to observe him, the passenger might havereally been excused for mistaking him for a poacher, at the least, byhis guilty countenance. 

This little worldly interruption broke the wings of Ferdinand's soaringfancy. He fell to earth. Doubt came over him whether Henrietta wouldindeed come. He was disappointed, and so he became distrustful. Hestrolled on, however, in the direction of Ducie, yet slowly, asthere was more than one road, and to miss each other would have beenmortifying. 

His quick eye was in every quarter; his watchful ear listened in everydirection: still she was not seen, and not a sound was heard except thehum of day. He became nervous, agitated, and began to conjure up acrowd of unfortunate incidents. Perhaps she was ill; that was verybad. Perhaps her father had suddenly returned. Was that worse? Perhapssomething strange had happened. Perhaps------

Why! why does his face turn so pale, and why is his step so suddenlyarrested? Ah! Ferdinand Armine, is not thy conscience clear? That pangwas sharp. No, no, it is impossible; clearly, absolutely impossible;this is weak indeed. See! he smiles! He smiles at his weakness. Hewaves his arm as if in contempt. He casts away, with defiance, his idleapprehensions. His step is more assured, and the colour returns tohis cheek. And yet her father must return. Was he prepared for thatoccurrence? This was a searching question. It induced a long, darktrain of harassing recollections. He stopped to ponder. In what a webof circumstances was he now involved! Howsoever he might act, self-extrication appeared impossible. Perfect candour to Miss Templemight be the destruction of her love; even modified to her father, wouldcertainly produce his banishment from Ducie. As the betrothed of MissGrandison, Miss Temple would abjure him; as the lover of Miss Temple, under any circumstances, Mr. Temple would reject him. In what lightwould he appear to Henrietta were he to dare to reveal the truth? Wouldshe not look upon him as the unresisting libertine of the hour, engagingin levity her heart as he had already trifled with another's? For thatabsorbing and overwhelming passion, pure, primitive, and profound, towhich she now responded with an enthusiasm as fresh, as ardent, and asimmaculate, she would only recognise the fleeting fancy of a vainand worldly spirit, eager to add another triumph to a long list ofconquests, and proud of another evidence of his irresistible influence. What security was there for her that she too should not in turn beforgotten for another? that another eye should not shine brighter thanhers, and another voice sound to his ear with a sweeter tone?

Oh, no! he dared not disturb and sully the bright flow of his presentexistence; he shrank from the fatal word that would dissolve the spellthat enchanted them, and introduce all the calculating cares of a harshworld into the thoughtless Eden in which they now wandered. And, for herfather, even if the sad engagement with Miss Grandison did not exist, with what front could Ferdinand solicit the hand of his daughter?What prospect could he hold out of worldly prosperity to the anxiousconsideration of a parent? Was he himself independent? Was he not worsethan a beggar? Could he refer Mr. Temple to Sir Ratcliffe? Alas! itwould be an insult to both! In the meantime, every hour Mr. Templemight return, or something reach the ear of Henrietta fatal to all hisaspirations. Armine with all its cares, Bath with all its hopes; hismelancholy father, his fond and sanguine mother, the tender-heartedKatherine, the devoted Glastonbury, all rose up before him, and crowdedon his tortured imagination. In the agony of his mind he wished himselfalone in the world: he sighed for some earthquake to swallow up Armineand all its fatal fortunes; and as for those parents, so affectionateand virtuous, and to whom he had hitherto been so dutiful and devoted, he turned from their idea with a sensation of weariness, almost ofdislike. 

He sat down on the trunk of a tree and buried his face in his hands. His reverie had lasted some time, when a gentle sound disturbed him. He looked up; it was Henrietta. She had driven over the common in herpony-chair and unattended. She was but a few steps from him; and as helooked up, he caught her fond smile. He sprang from his seat; he was ather side in an instant; his heart beat so tumultuously that he couldnot speak; all dark thoughts were forgotten; he seized with a tremblingtouch her extended hand, and gazed upon her with a glance of ecstasy. For, indeed, she looked so beautiful that it seemed to him he had neverbefore done justice to her surpassing loveliness. There was a bloomupon her cheek, as upon some choice and delicate fruit; her violet eyessparkled like gems; while the dimples played and quivered on her cheeks, as you may sometimes watch the sunbeam on the pure surface of fairwater. Her countenance, indeed, was wreathed with smiles. She seemed thehappiest thing on earth; the very personification of a poetic spring;lively, and fresh, and innocent; sparkling, and sweet, and soft. When hebeheld her, Ferdinand was reminded of some gay bird, or airy antelope;she looked so bright and joyous!

'He is to get in, ' said Henrietta with a smile, and drive her to theircottage. Have I not managed well to come alone? We shall have such acharming drive to-day. '

'You are so beautiful!' murmured Ferdinand. 

'I am content if you but think so. You did not hear me approach? Whatwere you doing? Plunged in meditation? Now tell me truly, were youthinking of her?'

'Indeed, I have no other thought. Oh, my Henrietta! you are so beautifulto-day. I cannot talk of anything but your beauty. '

'And how did you sleep? Are you comfortable? I have brought you someflowers to make your room look pretty. '

They soon reached the farm-house. The good-wife seemed a littlesurprised when she observed her guest driving Miss Temple, but far morepleased. Henrietta ran into the house to see the children, spokesome kind words to the little maiden, and asked if their guest hadbreakfasted. Then, turning to Ferdinand, she said, 'Have you forgottenthat you are to give me a breakfast? It shall be in the porch. Is itnot sweet and pretty? See, here are your flowers, and I have brought yousome fruit. '

The breakfast was arranged. 'But you do not play your part, sweetHenrietta, ' he said; 'I cannot breakfast alone. '

She affected to share his repast, that he might partake of it; but, in truth, she only busied herself in arranging the flowers. Yetshe conducted herself with so much dexterity, that Ferdinand had anopportunity of gratifying his appetite, without being placed in aposition, awkward at all times, insufferable for a lover, that of eatingin the presence of others who do not join you in the occupation. 

'Now, ' she suddenly said, sitting by his side, and placing a rose inhis dress, 'I have a little plan today, which I think will be quitedelightful. You shall drive me to Armine. '

Ferdinand started. He thought of Glastonbury. 

His miserable situation recurred to him. This was the bitter drop inthe cup; yes! in the very plenitude of his rare felicity he expressed apang. His confusion was not unobserved by Miss Temple; for she was veryquick in her perception; but she could not comprehend it. It didnot rest on her mind, particularly when Ferdinand assented to herproposition, but added, 'I forgot that Armine is more interesting toyou than to me. All my associations with Armine are painful. Ducie is mydelight. '

'Ah! my romance is at Armine; yours at Ducie. What we live among, wedo not always value. And yet I love my home, ' she added, in a somewhatsubdued, even serious tone; 'all my associations with Ducie are sweetand pleasant. Will they always be so?'

She hit upon a key to which the passing thoughts of Ferdinand toocompletely responded, but he restrained the mood of his mind. As shegrew grave, he affected cheerfulness. 'My Henrietta must always behappy, ' 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'ssilence, she said, 'My Ferdinand must not be low-spirited about dearArmine. I have confidence in our destiny; I see a happy, a very happyfuture. '

Who could resist so fair a prophet? Not the sanguine mind of theenamoured Ferdinand Armine. He drank inspiration from her smiles, anddwelt with delight on the tender accents of her animating sympathy. 'I never shall be low-spirited with you, ' he replied; 'you are my goodgenius. O Henrietta! what heaven it is to be together!'

'I bless you for these words. We will not go to Armine to-day. Let uswalk. And to speak the truth, for I am not ashamed of saying anythingto you, it would be hardly discreet, perhaps, to be driving about thecountry 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 creaturestook 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, andyet 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 itthe fulfilment of a happy destiny. For all that I have sighed for now Imeet, and more, much more than my imagination could ever hope for. '

'Only think of that morning drive, ' resumed Henrietta, 'such a littletime ago, and yet it seems an age! Let us believe in destiny, dearFerdinand, or you must think of me, I fear, that which I would notwish. '

'My own Henrietta, I can think of you only as the noblest and thesweetest 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 Ihave met many persons, and seen something more, much more than falls tothe lot of women of my age. Believe me, indeed, my eye has hitherto beenundazzled, and my heart untouched. ' He pressed her hand. 

'And then, ' she resumed, 'in a moment; but it seemed not like commonlife. 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 ifmy life and lot were bound up, as it were, with that strange and silentscene. And then he came forward, and I beheld him, so unlike all othermen, 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, andsweetest, and loveliest of women, your Ferdinand, at that moment, wasnot less moved than you were. Speechless and pale I had watched myHenrietta, and I felt that I beheld the being to whom I must dedicate myexistence. '

'I shall never forget the moment when I stood before the portrait ofSir Ferdinand. Do you know my heart was prophetic; I wanted not thatconfirmation 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 lovedthem for their glory, and for their lordly sorrows. '

'Ah! my Henrietta, 'tis that alone which galls me. It is bitter tointroduce my bride to our house of cares. '

'You shall never think it so, ' she replied with animation. 'I willprove a true Armine. Happier in the honour of that name, than in themost rich possessions! You do not know me yet. Your wife shall notdisgrace 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 willwrestle together with all our cares; and my Ferdinand, animated by hisHenrietta, shall restore the house. '

'Alas! my noble-minded girl, I fear a severe trial awaits us. I canoffer you only love. '

'Is there anything else in this world?'

'But, to bear you from a roof of luxury, where you have been cherishedfrom your cradle, with all that ministers to the delicate delightsof woman, to--oh! my Henrietta, you know not the disheartening anddepressing burthen of domestic cares. ' His voice faltered as he recalledhis 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 myfather, the best and kindest parent that ever loved his child; yet, whatare fathers to you, my Ferdinand? and, if I could assist him, what may Inot do for-----'

'Alas! my Henrietta, we have no theatre for action. You forget ourcreed. '

'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, ifthe choice were in my power now to select a life most grateful to myviews and feelings, choose some delightful solitude, even as Armine, and pass existence with no other aim but to delight you. But we werespeaking of other circumstances. Such happiness, it is said, is not forus. And I wished to show you that I have a spirit that can struggle withadversity, and a soul prescient of overwhelming it. '

'You have a spirit I reverence, and a soul I worship, nor is there ahappier being in the world this moment than Ferdinand Armine. With sucha woman as you every fate must be a triumph. You have touched upon achord of my heart that has sounded before, though in solitude. It wasbut the wind that played on it before; but now that tone rings with apurpose. 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 destinyworthy 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 justnoticed may convey an intimation, produced an inspiriting effect on themind of Ferdinand. Love is inspiration; it encourages to great deeds, and develops the creative faculty of our nature. Few great men haveflourished who, were they candid, would not acknowledge the vastadvantages they have experienced in the earlier years of their careerfrom the spirit and sympathy of woman. It is woman whose prescientadmiration strings the lyre of the desponding poet whose genius isafterwards to be recognised by his race, and which often embalmsthe memory of the gentle mistress whose kindness solaced him in lessglorious hours. How many an official portfolio would never have beencarried, had it not been for her sanguine spirit and assiduous love! Howmany a depressed and despairing advocate has clutched the Great Seal, and taken his precedence before princes, borne onward by the breezeof her inspiring hope, and illumined by the sunshine of her propheticsmile! A female friend, amiable, clever, and devoted, is a possessionmore valuable than parks and palaces; and, without such a muse, few mencan succeed in life, none be content. 

The plans and aspirations of Henrietta had relieved Ferdinand froma depressing burthen. Inspired by her creative sympathy, a new sceneopened to him, adorned by a magnificent perspective. His sanguineimagination sought refuge in a triumphant future. That love for whichhe had hitherto schooled his mind to sacrifice every worldly advantageappeared suddenly to be transformed into the very source of earthlysuccess. 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, asit were, by a beautiful retribution, to be already rewarded for havingdevoted, with such unhesitating readiness, his heart upon the altarof disinterested affection. Lying on his cottage-couch, he indulgedin dazzling visions; he wandered in strange lands with his beautifulcompanion, and offered at her feet the quick rewards of his unparalleledachievements. 

Recurring to his immediate situation, he resolved to lose no time inbringing his affairs to a crisis. He was even working himself up to hisinstant departure, solaced by the certainty of his immediate return, when the arrival of his servant announced to him that Glastonbury hadquitted Armine on one of those antiquarian rambles to which he wasaccustomed. Gratified that it was now in his power to comply with thewish of Henrietta to visit his home, and perhaps, in truth, notvery much mortified that so reasonable an excuse had arisen for thepostponement of his intended departure, Ferdinand instantly rose, and asspeedily as possible took his way to Ducie. 

He found Henrietta in the garden. He had arrived, perhaps, earlier thanhe was expected; yet what joy to see him! And when he himself proposedan excursion to Armine, her grateful smile melted his very heart. Indeed, Ferdinand this morning was so gay and light-hearted, that hisexcessive merriment might almost have been as suspicious as his passinggloom the previous day. Not less tender and fond than before, hissportive fancy indulged in infinite expressions of playful humourand delicate pranks of love. When he first recognised her gatheringa nosegay, too, for him, himself unobserved, he stole behind her ontiptoe, and suddenly clasping her delicate waist, and raising her gentlyin the air, 'Well, lady-bird, ' he exclaimed, 'I, too, will pluck aflower!'

Ah! when she turned round her beautiful face, full of charmingconfusion, and uttered a faint cry of fond astonishment, as she caughthis bright glance, what happiness was Ferdinand Armine's, as he feltthis enchanting creature was his, and pressed to his bosom her noble andthrobbing form!

'Perhaps this time next year, we may be travelling on mules, ' saidFerdinand, as he flourished his whip, and the little pony trotted along. Henrietta smiled. 'And then, ' continued he, 'we shall remember ourpony-chair that we turn up our noses at now. Donna Henrietta, jogged todeath over dull vegas, and picking her way across rocky sierras, willbe a very different person from Miss Temple, of Ducie Bower. I hope youwill not be very irritable, my child; and pray vent your spleen uponyour 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 broughtme here, " it will be: "Ungrateful man, is this your love? not evenpost-horses!"'

'As for that, ' said Henrietta, 'perhaps we shall have to walk. I canfancy ourselves, you with an Andalusian jacket, a long gun, and, I fear, a cigar; and I with all the baggage. '

'Children and all, ' added Ferdinand. 

Miss Temple looked somewhat demure, turned away her face a little, butsaid nothing. 

'But what think you of Vienna, sweetest?' enquired Ferdinand in a moreserious tone; 'upon my honour, I think we might do great things there. Aregiment and a chamberlainship at the least!'

'In mountains or in cities I shall be alike content, provided you be mycompanion, ' replied Miss Temple. 

Ferdinand let go the reins, and dropped his whip. 'My Henrietta, ' heexclaimed, looking in her face, 'what an angel you are!'

This visit to Armine was so delightful to Miss Temple; she experiencedso much gratification in wandering about the park and over the oldcastle, and gazing on Glastonbury's tower, and wondering when she shouldsee him, and talking to her Ferdinand about every member of his family, that Captain Armine, unable to withstand the irresistible current, postponed from day to day his decisive visit to Bath, and, confidentin the future, would not permit his soul to be the least daunted by anypossible conjuncture of ill fortune. A week, a whole happy week glidedaway, and spent almost entirely at Armine. Their presence there wasscarcely noticed by the single female servant who remained; and, if hercuriosity had been excited, she possessed no power of communicating itinto Somersetshire. Besides, she was unaware that her young master wasnominally in London. Sometimes an hour was snatched by Henrietta fromroaming in the pleasaunce, and interchanging vows of mutual love andadmiration, to the picture-gallery, where she had already commenced aminiature copy of the portrait of the great Sir Ferdinand. As thesun set they departed in their little equipage. Ferdinand wrapped hisHenrietta in his fur cloak, for the autumn dews began to rise, and, thusprotected, the journey of ten miles was ever found too short. It is thehabit of lovers, however innocent their passion, to grow every day lessdiscreet; for every day their almost constant companionship becomes morea necessity. Miss Temple had almost unconsciously contrived at firstthat Captain Armine, in the absence of her father, should not beobserved too often at Ducie; but now Ferdinand drove her home everyevening, and drank tea at the Bower, and the evening closed with musicand song. Each night he crossed over the common to his farmhouse morefondly and devotedly in love. 

One morning at Armine, Henrietta being alone in the gallery busied withher drawing, Ferdinand having left her for a moment to execute someslight commission for her, she heard some one enter, and, looking upto catch his glance of love, she beheld a venerable man, of a mild andbenignant appearance, and dressed in black, standing, as if a littlesurprised, at some distance. Herself not less confused, she neverthelessbowed, and the gentleman advanced with hesitation, and with a faintblush returned her salute, and apologised for his intrusion. 'He thoughtCaptain Armine might be there. '

'He was here but this moment, ' replied Miss Temple; 'and doubtless willinstantly return. ' Then she turned to her drawing with a trembling hand. 

'I perceive, madam, ' said the gentleman, advancing and speaking in asoft and engaging tone, while looking at her labour with a mingled airof diffidence and admiration, 'that you are a fine artist. '

'My wish to excel may have assisted my performance, ' replied MissTemple. 

'You are copying the portrait of a very extraordinary personage, ' saidthe stranger. 

'Do you think that it is like Captain Armine?' enquired Miss Temple withsome hesitation. 

'It is always so considered, ' replied the stranger. Henrietta's handfaltered; she looked at the door of the gallery, then at the portrait;never was she yet so anxious for the reappearance of Ferdinand. Therewas a silence which she was compelled to break, for the stranger wasboth mute and motionless, and scarcely more assured than herself. 

'Captain Armine will be here immediately, I have no doubt. '

The stranger bowed. 'If I might presume to criticise so finished aperformance, ' he remarked, 'I should say that you had conveyed, madam, amore youthful character than the original presents. '

Henrietta did not venture to confess that such was her intention. She looked again at the door, mixed some colour, and then cleared itimmediately off her palette. 'What a beautiful gallery is this!' sheexclaimed, as she changed her brush, which was, however, without afault. 

'It is worthy of Armine, ' said the stranger. 

'Indeed there is no place so interesting, ' said Miss Temple. 

'It pleases me to hear it praised, ' said the stranger. 

'You are well acquainted with it?' enquired Miss Temple. 

'I have the happiness to live here, ' said the stranger. 

'I am not then mistaken in believing that I speak to Mr. Glastonbury. '

'Indeed, madam, that is my name, ' replied the gentleman; 'I fancy wehave often heard of each other. This a most unexpected meeting, madam, but for that reason not less delightful. I have myself just returnedfrom a ramble of some days, and entered the gallery little aware thatthe family had arrived. You met, I suppose, my Ferdinand on the road. Ah! you wonder, perhaps, at my familiar expression, madam. He has beenmy Ferdinand so many years, that I cannot easily school myself no longerto style him so. But I am aware that there are now other claims------'

'My dearest Glastonbury, ' exclaimed Ferdinand Armine, starting as here-entered the gallery, and truly in as great a fright as a man couldwell be, who perhaps, but a few hours ago, was to conquer in Spain orGermany. At the same time, pale and eager, and talking with excitedrapidity, he embraced his tutor, and scrutinised the countenance ofHenrietta to ascertain whether his fatal secret had been discovered. 

That countenance was fond, and, if not calm, not more confused than theunexpected appearance under the circumstances might account for. 'Youhave often heard me mention Mr. Glastonbury, ' he said, addressinghimself to Henrietta. 'Let me now have the pleasure of making youacquainted. My oldest, my best friend, my second father; an admirableartist, too, I can assure you. He is qualified to decide even upon yourskill. And when did you arrive, my dearest friend? and where have youbeen? Our old haunts? Many sketches? What abbey have you explored, whatantique treasures have you discovered? I have such a fine addition foryour herbal! The Barbary cactus, just what you wanted; I found it inmy volume of Shelley; and beautifully dried, beautifully; it will quitecharm you. What do you think of this drawing? Is it not beautiful? quitethe character, is it not?' Ferdinand paused for lack of breath. 

'I was just observing as you entered, ' said Glastonbury, very quietly, 'to Miss------'

'I have several letters for you, ' said Ferdinand, interrupting him, andtrembling from head to foot lest he might say Miss _Grandison_. 'Doyou know you are just the person I wanted to see? How fortunate that youshould just arrive! I was annoyed to find you were away. I cannot tellyou how much I was annoyed!'

'Your dear parents?' enquired Glastonbury. 

'Are quite well, ' said Ferdinand, 'perfectly well. They will be soglad to see you, so very glad. They do so long to see you, my dearestGlastonbury. You cannot imagine how they long to see you. '

'I shall find them within, think you?' enquired Glastonbury. 

'Oh! they are not here, ' said Ferdinand; 'they have not yet arrived. I expect them every day. Every day I expect them. I have preparedeverything for them, everything. What a wonderful autumn it has been!'

And Glastonbury fell into the lure and talked about the weather, for hewas learned in the seasons, and prophesied by many circumstances a hardwinter. While he was thus conversing, Ferdinand extracted from Henriettathat Glastonbury had not been in the gallery more than a very fewminutes; and he felt assured that nothing fatal had transpired. Allthis time Ferdinand was reviewing his painful situation with desperaterapidity and prescience. All that he aspired to now was that Henriettashould quit Armine in as happy ignorance as she had arrived: as forGlastonbury, Ferdinand cared not what he might suspect, or ultimatelydiscover. These were future evils that subsided into insignificancecompared with any discovery on the part of Miss Temple. 

Comparatively composed, Ferdinand now suggested to Henrietta to quither drawing, which indeed was so advanced that it might be finished atDucie; and, never leaving her side, and watching every look, and hangingon every accent of his old tutor, he even ventured to suggest thatthey should visit the tower. The proposal, he thought, might lull anysuspicion that might have been excited on the part of Miss Temple. Glastonbury expressed his gratification at the suggestion, and theyquitted the gallery, and entered the avenue of beech trees. 

'I have heard so much of your tower, Mr. Glastonbury, ' said Miss Temple, 'I am sensible, I assure you, of the honour of being admitted. '

The extreme delicacy that was a characteristic of Glastonbury preservedFerdinand Armine from the dreaded danger. It never for an instantentered Glastonbury's mind that Henrietta was not Miss Grandi-He thoughtit a little extraordinary, indeed, that she should arrive at Armineonly in the company of Ferdinand; but much might be allowed to plightedlovers; besides, there might be some female companion, some aunt orcousin, for aught he knew, at the Place. It was only his parents thatFerdinand had said had not yet arrived. At all events, he felt at thismoment that Ferdinand, perhaps, even because he was alone withhis intended bride, had no desire that any formal introduction orcongratulations should take place; and only pleased that the intendedwife of his pupil should be one so beautiful, so gifted, and sogracious, one apparently so worthy in every way of his choice and herlot, Glastonbury relapsed into his accustomed ease and simplicity, and exerted himself to amuse the young lady with whom he had become sounexpectedly acquainted, and with whom, in all probability, it washis destiny in future to be so intimate. As for Henrietta, nothing hadoccurred in any way to give rise to the slightest suspicion in her mind. The agitation of Ferdinand at this unexpected meeting between his tutorand his betrothed was in every respect natural. Their engagement, asshe knew, was at present a secret to all; and although, under suchcircumstances, she herself at first was disposed not to feel very muchat her ease, still she was so well acquainted with Mr. Glastonbury fromreport, and he was so unlike the common characters of the censoriousworld, that she was, from the first, far less annoyed than she otherwisewould have been, and soon regained her usual composure, and was evengratified and amused with the adventure. 

A load, however, fell from the heart of Ferdinand, when he and hisbeloved bade Glastonbury a good afternoon. This accidental and almostfatal interview terribly reminded him of his difficult and dangerousposition; it seemed the commencement of a series of misconceptions, mortifications, and misfortunes, which it was absolutely necessary toprevent by instantly arresting them with the utmost energy and decision. It was bitter to quit Armine and all his joys, but in truth the arrivalof his family was very doubtful: and, until the confession of his realsituation was made, every day might bring some disastrous discovery. Some ominous clouds in the horizon formed a capital excuse for hurryingHenrietta off to Ducie. They quitted Armine at an unusually early hour. As they drove along, Ferdinand revolved in his mind the adventure ofthe morning, and endeavoured to stimulate himself to the exertion ofinstantly repairing to Bath. But he had not courage to confide hispurpose to Henrietta. When, however, they arrived at Ducie, they werewelcomed with intelligence which rendered the decision, on his part, absolutely necessary. But we will reserve this for the next chapter. 

CHAPTER V. 

 _Which Contains Something Very Unexpected_. 

MISS TEMPLE had run up stairs to take off her bonnet; Ferdinand stoodbefore the wood fire in the salon. Its clear, fragrant flame wasagreeable after the cloudy sky of their somewhat chill drive. Hewas musing over the charms of his Henrietta, and longing for herreappearance, when she entered; but her entrance filled him with alarm. She was pale, her lips nearly as white as her forehead. An expression ofdread was impressed on her agitated countenance. Ere he could speak sheheld forth her hand to his extended grasp. It was cold, it trembled. 

'Good God! you are ill!' he exclaimed. 'No!' she faintly murmured, 'notill. ' And then she paused, as if stifled, leaning down her head witheyes fixed upon the ground. 

The conscience of Ferdinand pricked him. Had she heard------

But he was reassured by her accents of kindness. 'Pardon me, dearest, 'she said; 'I am agitated; I shall soon be better. '

He held her hand with firmness while she leant upon his shoulder. Aftera few minutes of harrowing silence, she said in a smothered voice, 'Papareturns to-morrow. '

Ferdinand turned as pale as she; the blood fled to his heart, his frametrembled, his knees tottered, his passive hand scarcely retained hers;he could not speak. All the possible results of this return flashedacross his mind, and presented themselves in terrible array to hisalarmed imagination. He could not meet Mr. Temple; that was out of thequestion. Some explanation must immediately and inevitably ensue, andthat must precipitate the fatal discovery. The great object was toprevent any communication between Mr. Temple and Sir Ratcliffe beforeFerdinand had broken his situation to his father. How he now wished hehad not postponed his departure for Bath! Had he only quitted Arminewhen first convinced of the hard necessity, the harrowing future wouldnow have been the past, the impending scenes, however dreadful, wouldhave ensued; perhaps he might have been at Ducie at this moment, witha clear conscience and a frank purpose, and with no difficulties toovercome but those which must necessarily arise from Mr. Temple'snatural consideration for the welfare of his child. These, howeverdifficult to combat, seemed light in comparison with the perplexitiesof his involved situation. Ferdinand bore Henrietta to a seat, and hungover her in agitated silence, which she ascribed only to his sympathyfor her distress, but which, in truth, was rather to be attributed tohis own uncertain purpose, and to the confusion of an invention which henow ransacked for desperate expedients. 

While he was thus revolving in his mind the course which he must nowpursue, he sat down on the ottoman on which her feet rested, and pressedher hand to his lips while he summoned to his aid all the resourcesof his imagination. It at length appeared to him that the only modeby which he could now gain time, and secure himself from dangerousexplanations, was to involve Henrietta in a secret engagement. Therewas great difficulty, he was aware, in accomplishing this purpose. MissTemple was devoted to her father; and though for a moment led away, bythe omnipotent influence of an irresistible passion, to enter into acompact without the sanction of her parent, her present agitation tooclearly indicated her keen sense that she had not conducted herselftowards him in her accustomed spirit of unswerving and immaculate duty;that, if not absolutely indelicate, her behaviour must appear to himvery inconsiderate, very rash, perhaps even unfeeling. Unfeeling! What, to that father, that fond and widowed father, of whom she was the onlyand cherished child! All his goodness, all his unceasing care, all hisanxiety, his ready sympathy, his watchfulness for her amusement, hercomfort, her happiness, his vigilance in her hours of sickness, hispride in her beauty, her accomplishments, her affection, the smilesand tears of long, long years, all passed before her, till at last shereleased herself with a quick movement from the hold of Ferdinand, and, clasping her hands together, burst into a sigh so bitter, so profound, so full of anguish, that Ferdinand started from his seat. 

[Illustration: page226. Jpg]

'Henrietta!' he exclaimed, 'my beloved Henrietta!'

'Leave me, ' she replied, in a tone almost of sternness. 

He rose and walked up and down the room, overpowered by contendingemotions. The severity of her voice, that voice that hitherto hadfallen upon his ear like the warble of a summer bird, filled him withconsternation. The idea of having offended her, of having seriouslyoffended her, of being to her, to Henrietta, to Henrietta, that divinityto whom his idolatrous fancy clung with such rapturous devotion, inwhose very smiles and accents it is no exaggeration to say he lived andhad his being, the idea of being to her, even for a transient moment, an object of repugnance, seemed something too terrible for thought, too intolerable for existence. All his troubles, all his cares, all hisimpending sorrows, vanished into thin air, compared with this unforeseenand sudden visitation. Oh! what was future evil, what was tomorrow, pregnant as it might be with misery, compared with the quick agonyof the instant? So long as she smiled, every difficulty appearedsurmountable; so long as he could listen to her accents of tenderness, there was no dispensation with which he could not struggle. Come whatmay, throned in the palace of her heart, he was a sovereign who mightdefy the world in arms; but, thrust from that great seat, he was afugitive without a hope, an aim, a desire; dull, timid, exhausted, broken-hearted!

And she had bid him leave her. Leave her! Henrietta Temple had bid himleave her! Did he live? Was this the same world in which a few hoursback he breathed, and blessed his God for breathing? What had happened?What strange event, what miracle had occurred, to work this awful, thisportentous change? Why, if she had known all, if she had suddenly sharedthat sharp and perpetual woe ever gnawing at his own secret heart, evenamid his joys; if he had revealed to her, if anyone had betrayed to herhis distressing secret, could she have said more? Why, it was to shunthis, it was to spare himself this horrible catastrophe, that he hadinvolved himself in his agonising, his inextricable difficulties. Inextricable they must be now; for where, now, was the inspiration thatbefore was to animate him to such great exploits? How could he struggleany longer with his fate? How could he now carve out a destiny? All thatremained for him now was to die; and, in the madness of his sensations, death seemed to him the most desirable consummation. 

The temper of a lover is exquisitely sensitive. Mortified and miserable, at any other time Ferdinand, in a fit of harassed love, might haveinstantly quitted the presence of a mistress who had treated him withsuch unexpected and such undeserved harshness. But the thought of themorrow, the mournful conviction that this was the last opportunity fortheir undisturbed communion, the recollection that, at all events, theirtemporary separation was impending; all these considerations had checkedhis first impulse. Besides, it must not be concealed that more than onceit occurred to him that it was utterly impossible to permit Henriettato meet her father in her present mood. With her determined spiritand strong emotions, and her difficulty of concealing her feelings;smarting, too, under the consciousness of having parted with Ferdinandin anger, and of having treated him with injustice; and, therefore, doubly anxious to bring affairs to a crisis, a scene in all probabilitywould instantly ensue; and Ferdinand recoiled at present from theconsequences of any explanations. 

Unhappy Ferdinand! It seemed to him that he had never known miserybefore. He wrung his hands in despair; his mind seemed to desert him. Suddenly he stopped; he looked at Henrietta; her face was still pale, her eyes fixed upon the decaying embers of the fire, her attitudeunchanged. Either she was unconscious of his presence, or she did notchoose to recognise it. What were her thoughts?

Still of her father? Perhaps she contrasted that fond and faithfulfriend of her existence, to whom she owed such an incalculable debt ofgratitude, with the acquaintance of the hour, to whom, in a moment ofinsanity, she had pledged the love that could alone repay it. Perhaps, in the spirit of self-torment, she conjured up against this toosuccessful stranger all the menacing spectres of suspicion, distrust, and deceit; recalled to her recollection the too just and too frequenttales of man's impurity and ingratitude; and tortured herself by herown apparition, the merited victim of his harshness, his neglect, or hisdesertion. And when she had at the same time both shocked and alarmedher fancy by these distressful and degrading images, exhausted by theseimaginary vexations, and eager for consolation in her dark despondency, she may have recurred to the yet innocent cause of her sorrow andapprehension, and perhaps accused herself of cruelty and injustice forvisiting on his head the mere consequences of her own fitful and morbidtemper. She may have recalled his unvarying tenderness, his unceasingadmiration; she may have recollected those impassioned accents thatthrilled her heart, those glances of rapturous affection that fixed hereye with fascination. She may have conjured up that form over which oflate she had mused in a trance of love, that form bright with so muchbeauty, beaming with so many graces, adorned with so much intelligence, and hallowed by every romantic association that could melt the heart ormould the spirit of woman; she may have conjured up this form, that wasthe god of her idolatry, and rushed again to the altar in an ecstasy ofdevotion. 

The shades of evening were fast descending, the curtains of the chamberwere not closed, the blaze of the fire had died away. The flickeringlight fell upon the solemn countenance of Henrietta Temple, now buriedin the shade, now transiently illumined by the fitful flame. 

On a sudden he advanced, with a step too light even to be heard, kneltat her side, and, not venturing to touch her hand, pressed his lips toher arm, and with streaming eyes, and in a tone of plaintive tenderness, murmured, 'What have I done?'

She turned, her eyes met his, a wild expression of fear, surprise, delight, played over hen countenance; then, bursting into tears, shethrew her arms round his neck, and hid her face upon his breast. 

He did not disturb this effusion of her suppressed emotions. Histhrobbing heart responded to her tumultuous soul. At length, when thestrength of her passionate affections had somewhat decreased, when theconvulsive sobs had subsided into gentle sighs, and ever and anon hefelt the pressure of her sweet lips sealing her remorseful love and hercharming repentance upon his bosom, he dared to say, 'Oh! my Henrietta, you did not doubt your Ferdinand?'

'Dearest Ferdinand, you are too good, too kind, too faultless, and I amvery wicked. '

Taking her hand and covering it with kisses, he said in a distinct, butvery low voice, 'Now tell me, why were you unhappy?'

'Papa, ' sighed Henrietta, 'dearest papa, that the day should come when Ishould grieve to meet him!'

'And why should my darling grieve?' said Ferdinand. 

'I know not; I ask myself, what have I done? what have I to fear? It isno crime to love; it may be a misfortune; God knows that I have almostfelt to-night that such it was. But no, I never will believe it can beeither wrong or unhappy to love you. '

'Bless you, for such sweet words, ' replied Ferdinand. 'If my heart canmake you happy, felicity shall be your lot. '

'It is my lot. I am happy, quite happy, and grateful for my happiness. '

'And your father-our father, let me call him [she pressed his hand whenhe said this]--he will be happy too?'

'So I would hope. '

'If the fulfilment of my duty can content him, ' continued Ferdinand, 'Mr. Temple shall not repent his son-in-law. '

'Oh! do not call him Mr. Temple; call him father. I love to hear youcall him father. '

'Then what alarms my child?'

'I hardly know, ' said Henrietta in a hesitating tone. 'I think--I thinkit is the suddenness of all this. He has gone, he comes again; he went, he returns; and all has happened. So short a time, too, Ferdinand. It isa life to us; to him, I fear, ' and she hid her face, 'it is only------afortnight. '

'We have seen more of each other, and known more of each other, in thisfortnight, than we might have in an acquaintance which had continued alife. '

'That's true, that's very true. We feel this, Ferdinand, because we knowit. But papa will not feel like us: we cannot expect him to feel likeus. He does not know my Ferdinand as I know him. Papa, too, thoughthe dearest, kindest, fondest father that ever lived, though he hasno thought but for my happiness and lives only for his daughter, papanaturally is not so young as we are. He is, too, what is called a man ofthe world. He has seen a great deal; he has formed his opinions of menand life. We cannot expect that he will change them in your, I mean inour favour. Men of the world are of the world, worldly. I do not thinkthey are always right; I do not myself believe in their infallibility. There is no person more clever and more judicious than papa. No personis more considerate. But there are characters so rare, that men of theworld do not admit them into their general calculations, and such isyours, Ferdinand. '

Here Ferdinand seemed plunged in thought, but he pressed her hand, though he said nothing. 

'He will think we have known each other too short a time, ' continuedMiss Temple. 'He will be mortified, perhaps alarmed, when I inform him Iam no longer his. '

'Then do not inform him, ' said Ferdinand. 

She started. 

'Let me inform him, ' continued Ferdinand, giving another turn to hismeaning, and watching her countenance with an unfaltering eye. 

'Dearest Ferdinand, always prepared to bear every burthen!' exclaimedMiss Temple. 'How generous and good you are! No, it would be better forme to speak first to my father. My soul, I will never have a secret fromyou, and you, I am sure, will never have one from your Henrietta. Thisis the truth; I do not repent the past, I glory in it; I am yours, andI am proud to be yours. Were the past to be again acted, I would notfalter. But I cannot conceal from myself that, so far as my father isconcerned, I have not conducted myself towards him with frankness, withrespect, or with kindness. There is no fault in loving you. Even were heto regret, he could not blame such an occurrence: but he will regret, hewill blame, he has a right both to regret and blame, my doing morethan love you--my engagement--without his advice, his sanction, hisknowledge, or even his suspicion!'

'You take too refined a view of our situation, ' replied Ferdinand. 'Whyshould you not spare your father the pain of such a communication, ifpainful it would be? What has passed is between ourselves, and ought tobe between ourselves. If I request his permission to offer you my hand, and he yields his consent, is not that ceremony enough?'

'I have never concealed anything from papa, ' said Henrietta, 'but I willbe guided by you. '

'Leave, then, all to me, ' said Ferdinand; 'be guided but by the judgmentof your own Ferdinand, my Henrietta, and believe me all will go right. I will break this intelligence to your father. So we will settle it?' hecontinued enquiringly. 

'It shall be so. '

'Then arises the question, ' said Ferdinand, 'when it would be mostadvisable for me to make the communication. Now your father, Henrietta, who is a man of the world, will of course expect that, when I domake it, I shall be prepared to speak definitely to him upon all mattersof business. He will think, otherwise, that I am trifling with him. Togo and request of a man like your father, a shrewd, experienced man ofthe world like Mr. Temple, permission to marry his daughter, withoutshowing to him that I am prepared with the means of maintaining afamily, is little short of madness. He would be offended with me, hewould be prejudiced against me. I must, therefore, settle somethingfirst with Sir Ratcliffe. 

Much, you know, unfortunately, I cannot offer your father; but still, sweet love, there must at least be an appearance of providence andmanagement. We must not disgust your father with our union. '

'Oh! how can he be disgusted?'

'Dear one! This, then, is what I propose; that, as to-morrow we mustcomparatively be separated, I should take advantage of the next fewdays, and get to Bath, and bring affairs to some arrangement. Until myreturn I would advise you to say nothing to your father. '

'How can I live under the same roof with him, under such circumstances?'exclaimed Miss Temple; 'how can I meet his eye, how can I speak to himwith the consciousness of a secret engagement, with the recollectionthat, all the time he is lavishing his affection upon me, my heartis yearning for another, and that, while he is laying plans of futurecompanionship, I am meditating, perhaps, an eternal separation!'

'Sweet Henrietta, listen to me one moment. Suppose I had quitted youlast night for Bath, merely for this purpose, as indeed we had oncethought of, and that your father had arrived at Ducie before I hadreturned to make my communication: would you style your silence, undersuch circumstances, a secret engagement? No, no, dear love; this isan abuse of terms. It would be a delicate consideration for a parent'sfeelings. '

'O Ferdinand! would we were united, and had no cares!'

'You would not consider our projected union a secret engagement, if, after passing to-morrow with your father, you expected me on thenext day to communicate to him our position. Is it any more a secretengagement because six or seven days are to elapse before thiscommunication takes place, instead of one? My Henrietta is indeedfighting with shadows!'

'Ferdinand, I cannot reason like you; but I feel unhappy when I think ofthis. '

'Dearest Henrietta! feel only that you are loved. Think, darling, theday will come when we shall smile at all these cares. All will flowsmoothly yet, and we shall all yet live at Armine, Mr. Temple and all. '

'Papa likes you so much too, Ferdinand, I should be miserable if youoffended him. '

'Which I certainly should do if I were not to speak to Sir Ratcliffefirst. '

'Do you, indeed, think so?'

'Indeed I am certain. '

'But cannot you write to Sir Ratcliffe, Ferdinand? Must you really go?Must we, indeed, be separated? I cannot believe it; it is inconceivable;it is impossible; I cannot endure it. '

'It is, indeed, terrible, ' said Ferdinand. 'This consideration alonereconciles me to the necessity: I know my father well; his only answerto a communication of this kind would be an immediate summons to hisside. Now, is it not better that this meeting should take place whenwe must necessarily be much less together than before, than at a laterperiod, when we may, perhaps, be constant companions with the sanctionof our parents?'

'O Ferdinand! you reason, I only feel. '

Such an observation from one's mistress is rather a reproach thana compliment. It was made, in the present instance, to a man whoseprincipal characteristic was, perhaps, a too dangerous susceptibility;a man of profound and violent passions, yet of a most sweet and tendertemper; capable of deep reflection, yet ever acting from the impulse ofsentiment, and ready at all times to sacrifice every consideration tohis heart. The prospect of separation from Henrietta, for however shorta period, was absolute agony to him; he found difficulty in conceivingexistence without the influence of her perpetual presence: their partingeven for the night was felt by him as an onerous deprivation. The onlyprocess, indeed, that could at present prepare and console him for theimpending sorrow would have been the frank indulgence of the feelingswhich it called forth. Yet behold him, behold this unhappy victim ofcircumstances, forced to deceive, even for her happiness, the being whomhe idolised; compelled, at this hour of anguish, to bridle his heart, lest he should lose for a fatal instant his command over his head; and, while he was himself conscious that not in the wide world, perhaps, existed a man who was sacrificing more for his mistress, obliged toendure, even from her lips, a remark which seemed to impute to him adeficiency of feeling. And yet it was too much; he covered his eyes withhis hand, and said, in a low and broken voice, 'Alas! my Henrietta, ifyou knew all, you would not say this!'

'My Ferdinand, ' she exclaimed, touched by that tender and melancholytone, 'why, what is this? you weep! What have I said, what done? DearestFerdinand, do not do this. ' And she threw herself on her knees beforehim, and looked up into his face with scrutinising affection. 

He bent down his head, and pressed his lips to her forehead. 'OHenrietta!' he exclaimed, 'we have been so happy!'

'And shall be so, my own. Doubt not my word, all will go right. I amso sorry, I am so miserable, that I made you unhappy to-night. I shallthink of it when you are gone. I shall remember how naughty I was. Itwas so wicked, so very, very wicked; and he was so good. '

'Gone! what a dreadful word! And shall we not be together to-morrow, Henrietta? Oh! what a morrow! Think of me, dearest. Do not let me for amoment escape from your memory. '

'Tell me exactly your road; let me know exactly where you will be atevery hour; write to me on the road; if it be only a line, only a littleword; only his dear name; only Ferdinand!'

'And how shall I write to you? Shall I direct to you here?'

Henrietta looked perplexed. 'Papa opens the bag every morning, and everymorning you must write, or I shall die. Ferdinand, what is to be done'?'

'I will direct to you at the post-office. You must send for yourletters. '

'I tremble. Believe me, it will be noticed. It will lookso--so--so--clandestine. '

'I will direct them to your maid. She must be our confidante. '

'Ferdinand!'

''Tis only for a week. '

'O Ferdinand! Love teaches us strange things. '

'My darling, believe me, it is wise and well. Think how desolate weshould be without constant correspondence. As for myself, I shall writeto you every hour, and, unless I hear from you as often, I shall believeonly in evil!'

'Let it be as you wish. God knows my heart is pure. I pretend no longerto regulate my destiny. I am yours, Ferdinand. Be you responsible forall that affects my honour or my heart. '

'A precious trust, my Henrietta, and dearer to me than all the glory ofmy ancestors. '

The clock sounded eleven. Miss Temple rose. 'It is so late, and wein darkness here! What will they think? Ferdinand, sweetest, rousethe fire. I ring the bell. Lights will come, and then------' Her voicefaltered. 

'And then------' echoed Ferdinand. He took up his guitar, but he couldnot command his voice. 

''Tis your guitar, ' said Henrietta; 'I am happy that it is left behind. '

The servant entered with lights, drew the curtains, renewed the fire, arranged the room, and withdrew. 

'Little knows he our misery, ' said Henrietta. 'It seemed strange, when Ifelt my own mind, that there could be anything so calm and mechanical inthe world. '

Ferdinand was silent. He felt that the hour of departure had indeedarrived, yet he had not courage to move. Henrietta, too, did notspeak. She reclined on the sofa, as it were, exhausted, and placed herhandkerchief over her face. Ferdinand leant over the fire. He was nearlytempted to give up his project, confess all to his father by letter, andawait his decision. Then he conjured up the dreadful scenes at Bath, andthen he remembered that, at all events, tomorrow he must not appear atDucie. 'Henrietta!' he at length said. 

'A minute, Ferdinand, yet a minute, ' she exclaimed in an excited tone;'do not speak, I am preparing myself. '

He remained in his leaning posture; and in a few moments Miss Templerose and said, 'Now, Ferdinand, I am ready. ' He looked round. Hercountenance was quite pale, but fixed and calm. 

'Let us embrace, ' she said, 'but let us say nothing. '

He pressed her to his arms. She trembled. He imprinted a thousand kisseson her cold lips; she received them with no return. Then she said in alow voice, 'Let me leave the room first;' and, giving him one kiss uponhis forehead, Henrietta Temple disappeared. 

When Ferdinand with a sinking heart and a staggering step quittedDucie, he found the night so dark that it was with extreme difficultyhe traced, or rather groped, his way through the grove. The absolutenecessity of watching every step he took in some degree diverted hismind from his painful meditations. The atmosphere of the wood was soclose, that he congratulated himself when he had gained its skirts; butjust as he was about to emerge upon the common, and was looking forwardto the light of some cottage as his guide in this gloomy wilderness, aflash of lightning that seemed to cut the sky in twain, and to descendlike a flight of fiery steps from the highest heavens to the lowestearth, revealed to him for a moment the whole broad bosom of the common, and showed to him that nature to-night was as disordered and perturbedas his own heart. A clap of thunder, that might have been the herald ofDoomsday, woke the cattle from their slumbers. They began to moan andlow to the rising wind, and cluster under the trees, that sent forthwith their wailing branches sounds scarcely less dolorous and wild. Avoiding the woods, and striking into the most open part of the country, Ferdinand watched the progress of the tempest. 

For the wind had now risen to such a height that the leaves and branchesof the trees were carried about in vast whirls and eddies, while thewaters of the lake, where in serener hours Ferdinand was accustomedto bathe, were lifted out of their bed, and inundated the neighbouringsettlements. Lights were now seen moving in the cottages, and then theforked lightning, pouring down at the same time from opposite quartersof the sky, exposed with an awful distinctness, and a fearful splendour, the wide-spreading scene of danger and devastation. 

Now descended the rain in such overwhelming torrents, that it was asif a waterspout had burst, and Ferdinand gasped for breath beneath itsoppressive power; while the blaze of the variegated lightning, thecrash of the thunder, and the roar of the wind, all simultaneouslyin movement, indicated the fulness of the storm. Succeeded then thatstrange lull that occurs in the heart of a tempest, when the unrulyand disordered elements pause, as it were, for breath, and seem toconcentrate their energies for an increased and final explosion. Itcame at last; and the very earth seemed to rock in the passage of thehurricane. 

Exposed to all the awful chances of the storm, one solitary being alonebeheld them without terror. The mind of Ferdinand Armine grew calm, as nature became more disturbed. He moralised amid the whirlwind. He contrasted the present tumult and distraction with the sweet andbeautiful serenity which the same scene had presented when, a short timeback, he first beheld it. His love, too, had commenced in stillness andin sunshine; was it, also, to end in storm and in destruction?

BOOK IV. 

CHAPTER I. 

 _Which Contains a Love-Letter_. 

LET us pause. We have endeavoured to trace, in the preceding portionof this history, the development of that passion which is at once theprinciple and end of our existence; that passion compared to whosedelights all the other gratifications of our nature--wealth, and power, and fame, sink into insignificance; and which, nevertheless, by theineffable beneficence of our Creator, is open to his creatures of allconditions, qualities, and climes. Whatever be the lot of man, howeverunfortunate, however oppressed, if he only love and be loved, he muststrike a balance in favour of existence; for love can illumine the darkroof of poverty, and can lighten the fetters of the slave. 

But, if the most miserable position of humanity be tolerable with itssupport, so also the most splendid situations of our life are wearisomewithout its inspiration. The golden palace requires a mistress asmagnificent; and the fairest garden, besides the song of birds and thebreath of flowers, calls for the sigh of sympathy. It is at the foot ofwoman that we lay the laurels that without her smile would never havebeen gained: it is her image that strings the lyre of the poet, thatanimates our voice in the blaze of eloquent faction, and guides ourbrain in the august toils of stately councils. 

But this passion, so charming in its nature, so equal in itsdispensation, so universal in its influence, never assumes a power sovast, or exerts an authority so captivating, as when it is experiencedfor the first time. Then it is truly irresistible and enchanting, fascinating and despotic; and, whatever may be the harsher feelings thatlife may develop, there is no one, however callous or constrained he mayhave become, whose brow will not grow pensive at the memory of _firstlove_. 

The magic of first love is our ignorance that it can ever end. It isthe dark conviction that feelings the most ardent may yet grow cold, andthat emotions the most constant and confirmed are, nevertheless, liableto change, that taints the feebler spell of our later passions, thoughthey may spring from a heart that has lost little of its originalfreshness, and be offered to one infinitely more worthy of the devotionthan was our first idol. To gaze upon a face, and to believe that forever we must behold it with the same adoration; that those eyes, inwhose light we live, will for ever meet ours with mutual glances ofrapture and devotedness; to be conscious that all conversation withothers sounds vapid and spiritless, compared with the endless expressionof our affection; to feel our heart rise at the favoured voice; and tobelieve that life must hereafter consist of a ramble through the world, pressing but one fond hand, and leaning but upon one faithful breast;oh! must this sweet credulity indeed be dissipated? Is there no hope forthem so full of hope? no pity for them so abounding with love?

And can it be possible that the hour can ever arrive when the formervotaries of a mutual passion so exquisite and engrossing can meet eachother with indifference, almost with unconsciousness, and recall withan effort their vanished scenes of felicity, that quick yet profoundsympathy, that ready yet boundless confidence, all that charmingabandonment of self, and that vigilant and prescient fondness thatanticipates all our wants and all our wishes? It makes the heart achebut to picture such vicissitudes to the imagination. They are imagesfull of distress, and misery, and gloom. The knowledge that such changescan occur flits over the mind like the thought of death, obscuringall our gay fancies with its bat-like wing, and tainting the healthyatmosphere of our happiness with its venomous expirations. It is not somuch ruined cities that were once the capital glories of the world, ormouldering temples breathing with oracles no more believed, or archesof triumph which have forgotten the heroic name they were piled up tocelebrate, that fill the mind with half so mournful an expression ofthe instability of human fortunes, as these sad spectacles of exhaustedaffections, and, as it were, traditionary fragments of expired passion. 

The morning, which broke sweet, and soft, and clear, brought Ferdinand, with its first glimmer, a letter from Henrietta. 

 _Henrietta to Ferdinand. _

Mine own! I have not lain down the whole night. What a terrible, whatan awful night! To think that he was in the heart of that fearful storm!What did, what could you do? How I longed to be with you! And I couldonly watch the tempest from my window, and strain my eyes at every flashof lightning, in the vain hope that it might reveal him! Is he well, ishe unhurt? Until my messenger return I can imagine only evil. How oftenI was on the point of sending out the household, and yet I thought itmust be useless, and might displease him! I knew not what to do. I beatabout my chamber like a silly bird in a cage. Tell me the truth, myFerdinand; conceal nothing. Do not think of moving to-day. If you feelthe least unwell, send immediately for advice. Write to me one line, only one line, to tell me you are well. I shall be in despair until Ihear from you. Do not keep the messenger an instant. He is on my pony. He promises to return in a very, very short time. I pray for you, as Iprayed for you the whole long night, that seemed as if it would neverend. God bless you, my Ferdinand! Write only one word to your own

Henrietta. 

 _Ferdinand to Henrietta_. 

Sweetest, dearest Henrietta!

I am quite well, and love you, if that could be, more than ever. Darling, to send to see after her Ferdinand! A wet jacket, and Iexperienced no greater evil, does not frighten me. The storm wasmagnificent; I would not have missed it for the world. But I regret itnow, because my Henrietta did not sleep. Sweetest love, let me come onto you! Your page is inexorable. He will not let me write another line. God bless you, my Henrietta, my beloved, my matchless Henrietta! Wordscannot tell you how I love you, how I dote upon you, my darling. Thy

Ferdinand. 

 _Henrietta to Ferdinand. _

No! you must not come here. It would be unwise, it would be silly. We could only be together a moment, and, though a moment with you isheaven, I cannot endure again the agony of parting. O Ferdinand! whathas that separation not cost me! Pangs that I could not conceive anyhuman misery could occasion. My Ferdinand, may we some day be happy! Itseems to me now that happiness can never come again. And yet I ought tobe grateful that he was uninjured last night. I dared not confess toyou before what evils I anticipated. Do you know I was so foolish thatI thought every flash of lightning must descend on your head. I darenot now own how foolish I was. God be praised that he is well. But is hesure that he is _quite_ well? If you have the slightest cold, dearest, do not move. Postpone that journey on which all our hopes are fixed. Colds bring fever. But you laugh at me; you are a man and a soldier; youlaugh at a woman's caution. 

Ohl my Ferdinand, I am so selfish that I should not care if you wereill, if I might only be your nurse. What happiness, what exquisitehappiness, would that be!

Do not be angry with your Henrietta, but I am nervous about concealingour engagement from papa. What I have promised I will perform, fear notthat; I will never deceive you, no, not even for your fancied benefit;but I feel the burthen of this secrecy more than I can express, morethan I wish to express. I do not like to say anything that can annoyyou, especially at this moment, when I feel from my own heart how youmust require all the support and solace of unbroken fondness. I havesuch confidence in your judgment, my Ferdinand, that I feel convincedyou have acted wisely; but come back as soon as you can. I know it mustbe more than a week; I know that that prospect was only held out byyour affection. Days must elapse before you can reach Bath; and I know, Ferdinand, I know your office is more difficult than you will confess. But come back, my own, as soon as you can, and write to me at thepost-office, as you settled. 

If you are well, as you say, leave the farm directly. The consciousnessthat you are so near makes me restless. Remember, in a few hours papawill be here. I wish to meet him with as much calmness as I can command. 

Ferdinand, I must bid you adieu! My tears are too evident. See, theyfall upon the page. Think of me always. Never let your Henrietta beabsent from your thoughts. If you knew how desolate this house is! Yourguitar is on the sofa; a ghost of departed joy!

Farewell, Ferdinand! I cannot write, I cannot restrain my tears. I knownot what to do. I almost wish papa would return, though I dread to seehim. I feel the desolation of this house, I am so accustomed to see youhere!

Heaven be with you, and guard over you, and cherish you, and bless you. Think always of me. Would that this pen could express the depth anddevotion of my feelings!

Henrietta. 

CHAPTER II. 

 _Which, Supposing the Reader Is Interested in the Correspondence, Pursues It_. 

DEAREST! A thousand, thousand thanks, a thousand, thousand blessings, for your letter from Armine, dear, dear Armine, where some day we shallbe so happy! It was such a darling letter, so long, so kind, and so_clear_. How could you for a moment fancy that your Henrietta would notbe able to decipher that dear, dear handwriting! Always cross, dearest:your handwriting is so beautiful that I never shall find the slightestdifficulty in making it out, if your letters were crossed a thousandtimes. Besides, to tell the truth, I should rather like to experiencea little difficulty in reading your letters, for I read them so often, over and over again, till I get them by heart, and it is such a delightevery now and then to find out some new expression that escaped me inthe first fever of perusal; and then it is sure to be some darling word, fonder than all the rest!

Oh! my Ferdinand, how shall I express to you my love? It seems to menow that I never loved you until this separation, that I have never beenhalf grateful enough to you for all your goodness. It makes me weep toremember all the soft things you have said, all the kind things you havedone for me, and to think that I have not conveyed to you at the timea tithe of my sense of all your gentle kindness. You are so gentle, Ferdinand! I think that is the greatest charm of your character. Mygentle, gentle love! so unlike all other persons that I have met with!Your voice is so sweet, your manner so tender, I am sure you have thekindest heart that ever existed: and then it is a daring spirit, too, and that I love!

Be of good cheer, my Ferdinand, all will go well. I am full of hope, and would be of joy, if you were here, and yet I am joyful, too, when Ithink of all your love. I can sit for hours and recall the past, it isso sweet. When I received your dear letter from Armine yesterday, andknew indeed that you had gone, I went and walked in our woods, and satdown on the very bank we loved so, and read your letter over and overagain; and then I thought of all you had said. It is so strange; I thinkI could repeat every word you have uttered since we first knew eachother. The morning that began so miserably wore away before I dreamed itcould be noon. 

Papa arrived about an hour before dinner. So kind and good! And whyshould he not be? I was ashamed of myself afterwards for seemingsurprised that he was the same as ever. He asked me if your family hadreturned to Armine. I said that you had expected them daily. Then heasked me if I had seen you. I said very often, but that you had nowgone to Bath, as their return had been prevented by the illness of arelative. Did I right in this? I looked as unconcerned as I could whenI spoke of you, but my heart throbbed, oh! how it throbbed! I hope, however, I did not change colour; I think not; for I had schooled myselffor this conversation. I knew it must ensue. Believe me, Ferdinand, papareally likes you, and is prepared to love you. He spoke of you in atone of genuine kindness. I gave him your message about the shooting atArmine; that you regretted his unexpected departure had prevented youfrom speaking before, but that it was at his entire command, only that, after Ducie, all you could hope was, that the extent of the land mightmake up for the thinness of the game. He was greatly pleased. Adieu! Allgood angels guard over you. I will write every day to the post-office, Bath. Think of me very much. Your own faithful

Henrietta. 

Letter II. 

 _Henrietta to Ferdinand_. 

O Ferdinand, what heaven it is to think of you, and to read yourletters! This morning brought me two; the one from London, and the fewlines you wrote me as the mail stopped on the road. Do you know, youwill think me very ungrateful, but those dear few lines, I believe Imust confess, I prefer them even to your beautiful long letter. It wasso kind, so tender, so sweetly considerate, so like my Ferdinand, tosnatch the few minutes that should have been given to rest and food towrite to his Henrietta. I love you for it a thousand times more thanever! I hope you are really well: I hope you tell me truth. This is agreat fatigue, even for you. It is worse than our mules that we oncetalked of. Does he recollect? Oh! what joyous spirits my Ferdinand wasin that happy day! I love him when he laughs, and yet I think he won myheart with those pensive eyes of his!

Papa is most kind, and suspects nothing. Yesterday I mentioned youfirst. I took up your guitar, and said to whom it belonged. I thought itmore natural not to be silent about you. Besides, dearest, papa reallylikes you, and I am sure will love you very much when he knows all, and it is such a pleasure to me to hear you praised and spoken of withkindness by those I love. I have, of course, little to say about myself. I visit my birds, tend my flowers, and pay particular attention to allthose I remember that you admired or touched. Sometimes I whisper tothem, and tell them that you will soon return, for, indeed, they seemto miss you, and to droop their heads like their poor mistress. Oh! myFerdinand, shall we ever again meet? Shall I, indeed, ever again listento that sweet voice, and will it tell me again that it loves me with thevery selfsame accents that ring even now in my fascinated ear?

O Ferdinand! this love is a fever, a fever of health. I cannot sleep; Ican scarcely countenance my father at his meals. I am wild and restless;but I am happy, happy in the consciousness of your fond devotion. To-morrow I purpose visiting our farm-house. I think papa will shootto-morrow. My heart will throb, I fancy, when I see our porch. God blessmy own love; the idol of his fond and happy

Henrietta. 

Letter III. 

 _Henrietta to Ferdinand_. 

Dearest! No letter since the few lines on the road, but I suppose it wasimpossible. To-morrow will bring me one, I suppose, from Bath. I knownot why I tremble when I write that word. All is well here, papa mostkind, the same as ever. He went a little on your land to-day, a verylittle, but it pleased me. He has killed an Armine hare! Oh! what amorning have I spent; so happy, so sorrowful, so full of tears andsmiles! I hardly know whether I laughed or wept most. That dear, dear farm-house! And then they all talked of you. How they do love myFerdinand! But so must everyone. The poor woman has lost her heart toyou, I suspect, and I am half inclined to be a little jealous. She didso praise you! So kind, so gentle, giving such little trouble, and, as Ifear, so much too generous! Exactly like my Ferdinand; but, really, thiswas unnecessary. Pardon me, love, but I am learning prudence. 

Do you know, I went into your room? I contrived to ascend alone; thegood woman followed me, but I was there alone a moment, and, and, and, what do you think I did? I pressed my lips to your pillow. I could nothelp it; when I thought that his dear head had rested there so often andso lately, I could not refrain from pressing my lips to that favouredresting-place, and I am afraid I shed a tear besides. 

When mine own love receives this he will be at Bath. How I pray thatyou may find all your family well and happy! I hope they will love me. Ialready love them, and dear, dear Armine. I shall never have courage togo there again until your return. It is night, and I am writing thisin my own room. Perhaps the hour may have its influence, but I feeldepressed. Oh, that I were at your side! This house is so desolatewithout you. Everything reminds me of the past. My Ferdinand, how canI express to you what I feel--the affection, the love, the rapture, the passionate joy, with which your image inspires me? I will not bemiserable, I will be grateful to Heaven that I am loved by one so rareand gifted. Your portrait is before me; I call it yours; it is so like!'Tis a great consolation. My heart is with you. Think of me as I thinkof you. Awake or asleep my thoughts are alike yours, and now I am goingto pray for you. Thine own

Henrietta. 

*****

Letter IX. 

My best beloved! The week is long past, but you say nothing ofreturning. Oh! my Ferdinand, your Henrietta is not happy. I read yourdear letters over and over again. They ought to make me happy. I feelin the consciousness of your affection that I ought to be the happiestperson in the world, and yet, I know not why, I am very depressed. Yousay that all is going well; but why do you not enter into detail? Thereare difficulties; I am prepared for them. Believe me, my Ferdinand, thatyour Henrietta can endure as well as enjoy. Your father, he frowns uponour affection? Tell me, tell me all, only do not leave me in suspense. I am entitled to your confidence, Ferdinand. It makes me hate myselfto think that I do not share your cares as well as your delights. I amjealous of your sorrows, Ferdinand, if I may not share them. 

Do not let your brow be clouded when you read this. I could kill myselfif I thought I could increase your difficulties. I love you; Godknows how I love you. I will be patient; and yet, my Ferdinand, I feelwretched when I think that all is concealed from papa, and my lips aresealed until you give me permission to open them. 

Pray write to me, and tell me really how affairs are. Be not afraid totell your Henrietta everything. There is no misery so long as we love;so long as your heart is mine, there is nothing which I cannot face, nothing which, I am persuaded, we cannot overcome. God bless you, Ferdinand. Words cannot express my love. Henrietta. 

Letter X. 

Mine own! I wrote to you yesterday a letter of complaints. I am sosorry, for your dear letter has come to-day, and it is so kind, so fond, so affectionate, that it makes me miserable that I should occasion youeven a shade of annoyance. Dearest, how I long to prove my love! Thereis nothing that I would not do, nothing that I would not endure, toconvince you of my devotion! I will do all that you wish. I will becalm, I will be patient, I will try to be content. You say that you aresure all will go right; but you tell me nothing. What said your dearfather? your mother? Be not afraid to speak. 

You bid me tell you all that I am doing. Oh! my Ferdinand, life is ablank without you. I have seen no one, I have spoken to no one, savepapa. He is very kind, and yet somehow or other I dread to be with him. This house seems so desolate, so very desolate. It seems a desertedplace since your departure, a spot that some good genius has quitted, and all the glory has gone. I never care for my birds or flowers now. They have lost their music and their sweetness. And the woods, I cannotwalk in them, and the garden reminds me only of the happy past. Ihave never been to the farm-house again. I could not go now, dearestFerdinand; it would only make me weep. I think only of the morning, forit brings me your letters. I feed upon them, I live upon them. Theyare my only joy and solace, and yet------ but no complaints to-day, nocomplaints, dearest Ferdinand; let me only express my devoted love. Oh!that my weak pen could express a tithe of my fond devotion. Ferdinand, I love you with all my heart, and all my soul, and all my spirit'sstrength. I have no thought but for you, I exist only on your idea. Write, write; tell me that you love me, tell me that you are unchanged. It is so long since I heard that voice, so long since I beheld thatfond, soft eye! Pity me, my Ferdinand. This is captivity. A thousand, thousand loves. Your devoted

Henrietta. 

Letter XI. 

Ferdinand, dearest Ferdinand, the post to-day has brought me no letter. I cannot credit my senses. I think the postmaster must have thought memad. No letter! I could not believe his denial. I was annoyed, too, at the expression of his countenance. This mode of correspondence, Ferdinand, I wish not to murmur, but when I consented to thisclandestine method of communication, it was for a few days, a few, fewdays, and then----- But I cannot write. I am quite overwhelmed. Oh! willto-morrow ever come?

Henrietta. 

Letter XII. 

Dearest Ferdinand, I wish to be calm. Your letter occasions me veryserious uneasiness. I quarrel not with its tone of affection. It isfond, very fond, and there were moments when I could have meltedover such expressions; but, Ferdinand, it is not candid. Why are weseparated? For a purpose. Is that purpose effected? Were I to judge onlyfrom your letters, I should even suppose that you had not spoken to yourfather; but that is, of course, impossible. Your father disapproves ofour union. I feel it; I know it; I was even prepared for it. Come, then, and speak to my father. It is due to me not to leave him any more in thedark; it will be better, believe me, for yourself, that he should shareour confidence. Papa is not a rich man, but he loves his daughter. Letus make him our friend. Ah! why did I ever conceal anything from one sokind and good? In this moment of desolation, I feel, I keenly feel, myfolly, my wickedness. I have no one to speak to, no one to consoleme. This constant struggle to conceal my feelings will kill me. It waspainful when all was joy, but now, O Ferdinand! I can endure this lifeno longer. My brain is weak, my spirit perplexed and broken. I willnot say if you love; but, Ferdinand, if you pity me, write, and writedefinitely, to your unhappy

Henrietta. 

*****

Letter XVIII. 

You tell me that, in compliance with my wishes, you will writedefinitely. You tell me that circumstances have occurred, since yourarrival at Bath, of a very perplexing and annoying nature, and thatthey retard that settlement with your father that you had projected andpartly arranged; that it is impossible to enter into detail in letters;and assuring me of your love, you add that you have been anxious topreserve me from sharing your anxiety. O Ferdinand! what anxiety can youwithhold like that you have occasioned me? Dearest, dearest Ferdinand, I will, I must still believe that you are faultless; but, believe me, awant of candour in our situation, and, I believe, in every situation, isa want of common sense. Never conceal anything from your Henrietta. 

I now take it for granted that your father has forbidden our union;indeed this is the only conclusion that I can draw from your letter. Ferdinand, I can bear this, even this. Sustained by your affection, Iwill trust to time, to events, to the kindness of my friends, and tothat overruling Providence, which will not desert affections so pure asours, to bring about sooner or later some happier result. Confident inyour love, I can live in solitude, and devote myself to your memory, I------

O Ferdinand! kneel to your father, kneel to your kind mother; tell themall, tell them how I love you, how I will love them; tell them yourHenrietta will have no thought but for their happiness; tell them shewill be as dutiful to them as she is devoted to you. Ask not for ourunion, ask them only to permit you to cherish our acquaintance. Let themreturn to Armine; let them cultivate our friendship; let them know papa;let them know me; let them know me as I am, with all my faults, I trustnot worldly, not selfish, not quite insignificant, not quite unpreparedto act the part that awaits a member of their family, either in itssplendour or its proud humility; and, if not worthy of their son (as whocan be?), yet conscious, deeply conscious of the value and blessing ofhis affection, and prepared to prove it by the devotion of my being. Dothis, my Ferdinand, and happiness will yet come. 

But, my gentle love, on whatever course you may decide, rememberyour Henrietta. I do not reproach you; never will I reproach you; butremember the situation in which you have placed me. All my happy lifeI have never had a secret from my father; and now I am involved in aprivate engagement and a clandestine correspondence. Be just to him;be just to your Henrietta! Return, I beseech you on my knees; returninstantly to Ducie; reveal everything. He will be kind and gracious; hewill be our best friend; in his hand and bosom we shall find solace andsupport. God bless you, Ferdinand! All will yet go well, mine own, ownlove. I smile amid my tears when I think that we shall so soon meet. Oh!what misery can there be in this world if we may but share it together?

Thy fond, thy faithful, thy devoted

Henrietta. 

CHAPTER III. 

 _Containing the Arrival at Ducie of a Distinguished Guest_. 

IT WAS about three weeks after Ferdinand Armine had quitted Ducie thatMr. Temple entered the breakfast-room one morning, with an open note inhis hand, and told Henrietta to prepare for visitors, as her old friend, Lady Bellair, had written to apprise him of her intention to rest thenight at Ducie, on her way to the North. 

'She brings with her also the most charming woman in the world, ' addedMr. Temple, with a smile. 

'I have little doubt Lady Bellair deems her companion so at present, 'said Miss Temple, 'whoever she may be; but, at any rate, I shall be gladto see her ladyship, who is certainly one of the most amusing women inthe world. '

This announcement of the speedy arrival of Lady Bellair made some bustlein the household of Ducie Bower; for her ladyship was in every respect amemorable character, and the butler who had remembered her visits to Mr. Temple before his residence at Ducie, very much interested thecuriosity of his fellow-servants by his intimations of her ladyship'seccentricities. 

'You will have to take care of the parrot, Mary, ' said the butler;'and you, Susan, must look after the page. We shall all be wellcross-examined as to the state of the establishment; and so I advise youto be prepared. Her ladyship is a rum one, and that's the truth. '

In due course of time, a handsome travelling chariot, emblazoned with aviscount's coronet, and carrying on the seat behind a portly man-servantand a lady's maid, arrived at Ducie. They immediately descended, andassisted the assembled household of the Bower to disembark the contentsof the chariot; but Mr. Temple and his daughter were too well acquaintedwith Lady Bellair's character to appear at this critical moment. First came forth a stately dame, of ample proportions and exceedinglymagnificent attire, being dressed in the extreme of gorgeous fashion, and who, after being landed on the marble steps, was for some momentsabsorbed in the fluttering arrangement of her plumage; smoothing hermaroon pelisse, shaking the golden riband of her emerald bonnet, andadjusting the glittering pelerine of point device, that shaded the fallof her broad but well-formed shoulders. In one hand the stately damelightly swung a bag that was worthy of holding the Great Seal itself, so rich and so elaborate were its materials and embroidery; and in theother she at length took a glass which was suspended from her neck bya chain-cable of gold, and glanced with a flashing eye, as dark as herebon curls and as brilliant as her well-rouged cheek, at the surroundingscene. 

The green parrot, in its sparkling cage, followed next, and then cameforth the prettiest, liveliest, smallest, best-dressed, and, strangerthan all, oldest little lady in the world. Lady Bellair was of childlikestature, and quite erect, though ninety years of age; the tastefulsimplicity of her costume, her little plain white silk bonnet, her greysilk dress, her apron, her grey mittens, and her Cinderella shoes, all admirably contrasted with the vast and flaunting splendour ofher companion, not less than her ladyship's small yet exquisitelyproportioned form, her highly-finished extremities, and her keensarcastic grey eye. The expression of her countenance now, however, wassomewhat serious. An arrival was an important moment that required allher practised circumspection; there was so much to arrange, so much toremember, and so much to observe. 

The portly serving-man had advanced, and, taking his little mistress inhis arms, as he would a child, had planted her on the steps. And thenher ladyship's clear, shrill, and now rather fretful voice was heard. 

'Here! where's the butler? I don't want you, stupid [addressing herown servant], but the butler of the house, Mister's butler; what is hisname, Mr. Twoshoes' butler? I cannot remember names. Oh! you are there, are you? I don't want you. How is your master? How is your charminglady? Where is the parrot? I don't want it. Where's the lady? Why don'tyou answer? Why do you stare so? Miss Temple! no! not Miss Temple! Thelady, my lady, my charming friend, Mrs. Floyd! To be sure so; why didnot you say so before? But she has got two names. Why don't you sayboth names? My dear, ' continued Lady Bellair, addressing her travellingcompanion, 'I don't know your name. Tell all these good people yourname; your two names! I like people with two names. Tell them, my dear, tell them; tell them your name, Mrs. Thingabob, or whatever it is, Mrs. Thingabob Twoshoes. '

Mrs. Montgomery Floyd, though rather annoyed by this appeal, stillcontrived to comply with the request in the most dignified manner; andall the servants bowed to Mrs. Montgomery Floyd. 

To the great satisfaction of this stately dame, Lady Bellair, afterscanning everything and everybody with the utmost scrutiny, indicatedsome intention of entering, when suddenly she turned round:

'Man, there's something wanting. I had three things to take charge of. The parrot and my charming friend; that is only two. There is a third. What is it? You don't know! Here, you man, who are you? Mr. Temple'sservant. I knew your master when he was not as high as that cage. Whatdo you think of that?' continued her ladyship, with a triumphant smile. 'What do you laugh at, sir? Did you ever see a woman ninety yearsold before? That I would wager you have not. What do I want? I wantsomething. Why do you tease me by not remembering what I want? Now, Iknew a gentleman who made his fortune by once remembering what a verygreat man wanted. But then the great man was a minister of state. I daresay if I were a minister of state, instead of an old woman ninety yearsof age, you would contrive somehow or other to find out what I wanted. Never mind, never mind. Come, my charming friend, let me take yourarm. Now I will introduce you to the prettiest, the dearest, the mostinnocent and charming lady in the world. She is my greatest favourite. She is always my favourite. You are my favourite, too; but you are onlymy favourite for the moment. I always have two favourites: one for themoment, and one that I never change, and that is my sweet HenriettaTemple. You see I can remember her name, though I couldn't yours. Butyou are a good creature, a dear good soul, though you live in a badset, my dear, a very bad set indeed; vulgar people, my dear; they maybe rich, but they have no _ton_. This is a fine place. Stop, stop, ' LadyBellair exclaimed, stamping her little foot and shaking her little arm, 'Don't drive away; I remember what it was. Gregory! run, Gregory! It isthe page! There was no room for him behind, and I told him to lie underthe seat. Poor dear boy! He must be smothered. I hope he is not dead. Oh! there he is. Has Miss Temple got a page? Does her page wear afeather? My page has not got a feather, but he shall have one, becausehe was not smothered. Here! woman, who are you? The housemaid. I thoughtso. I always know a housemaid. You shall take care of my page. Take himat once, and give him some milk and water; and, page, be very good, andnever leave this good young woman, unless I send for you. And, woman, good young woman, perhaps you may find an old feather of Miss Temple'spage. Give it to this good little boy, because he was not smothered. '

CHAPTER IV. 

 _Containing Some Account of the Viscountess Dowager Bellair_. 

THE Viscountess Dowager Bellair was the last remaining link between thetwo centuries. Herself born of a noble family, and distinguished bothfor her beauty and her wit, she had reigned for a quarter of a centurythe favourite subject of Sir Joshua; had flirted with Lord Carlisle, and chatted with Dr. Johnson. But the most remarkable quality of herladyship's destiny was her preservation. Time, that had rolled on nearlya century since her birth, had spared alike her physical and mentalpowers. She was almost as active in body, and quite as lively in mind, as when seventy years before she skipped in Marylebone Gardens, orpuzzled the gentlemen of the Tuesday Night Club at Mrs. Cornely'smasquerades. These wonderful seventy years indeed had passed to LadyBellair like one of those very masked balls in which she had formerlysparkled; she had lived in a perpetual crowd of strange and brilliantcharacters. All that had been famous for beauty, rank, fashion, wit, genius, had been gathered round her throne; and at this very houra fresh and admiring generation, distinguished for these qualities, cheerfully acknowledged her supremacy, and paid to her their homage. Theheroes and heroines of her youth, her middle life, even of her old age, had vanished; brilliant orators, profound statesmen, inspired bards, ripe scholars, illustrious warriors; beauties whose dazzling charmshad turned the world mad; choice spirits, whose flying words or whosefanciful manners made every saloon smile or wonder--all had disappeared. She had witnessed revolutions in every country in the world; sheremembered Brighton a fishing-town, and Manchester a village; she hadshared the pomp of nabobs and the profusion of loan-mongers; she hadstimulated the early ambition of Charles Fox, and had sympathised withthe last aspirations of George Canning; she had been the confidant ofthe loves alike of Byron and Alfieri; had worn mourning for GeneralWolfe, and given a festival to the Duke of Wellington; had laughed withGeorge Selwyn, and smiled at Lord Alvanley; had known the firstmacaroni and the last dandy; remembered the Gunnings, and introduced theSheridans! But she herself was unchanged; still restless for novelty, still eager for amusement; still anxiously watching the entrance on thestage of some new stream of characters, and indefatigable inattracting the notice of everyone whose talents might contribute to herentertainment, or whose attention might gratify her vanity. And, really, when one recollected Lady Bel-lair's long career, and witnessed at thesame time her diminutive form and her unrivalled vitality, he mightalmost be tempted to believe, that if not absolutely immortal, it was atleast her strange destiny not so much vulgarly to die, as to grow likethe heroine of the fairy tale, each year smaller and smaller, 'Fine by degrees, and beautifully less, '

until her ladyship might at length subside into airy nothingness, and sorather vanish than expire. 

It was the fashion to say that her ladyship had no heart; in mostinstances an unmeaning phrase; in her case certainly an unjust one. Ninety years of experience had assuredly not been thrown away on a mindof remarkable acuteness; but Lady Bellair's feelings were still quickand warm, and could be even profound. Her fancy was so lively, that herattention was soon engaged; her taste so refined, that her affectionwas not so easily obtained. Hence she acquired a character for caprice, because she repented at leisure those first impressions which with herwere irresistible; for, in truth, Lady Bellair, though she had nearlycompleted her century, and had passed her whole life in the mostartificial circles, was the very creature of impulse. Her first homageshe always declared was paid to talent, her second to beauty, her thirdto blood. The favoured individual who might combine these three splendidqualifications, was, with Lady Bellair, a nymph, or a demi-god. As formere wealth, she really despised it, though she liked her favourites tobe rich. 

Her knowledge of human nature, which was considerable, her acquaintancewith human weaknesses, which was unrivalled, were not thrown away uponLady Bellair. Her ladyship's perception of character was fine and quick, and nothing delighted her so much as making a person a tool. Capable, where her heart was touched, of the finest sympathy and the mostgenerous actions, where her feelings were not engaged she experienced nocompunction in turning her companions to account, or, indeed, sometimesin honouring them with her intimacy for that purpose. But if you hadthe skill to detect her plots, and the courage to make her aware of yourconsciousness of them, you never displeased her, and often gained herfriendship. For Lady Bellair had a fine taste for humour, and when shechose to be candid, an indulgence which was not rare with her, shecould dissect her own character and conduct with equal spirit andimpartiality. In her own instance it cannot be denied that she comprisedthe three great qualifications she so much prized: for she was verywitty; had blood in her veins, to use her own expression; and was theprettiest woman in the world, for her years. For the rest, though noperson was more highly bred, she could be very impertinent; but if youtreated her with servility, she absolutely loathed you. 

Lady Bellair, after the London season, always spent two or threemonths at Bath, and then proceeded to her great grandson's, the presentviscount's, seat in the North, where she remained until London wasagain attractive. Part of her domestic diplomacy was employed each year, during her Bath visit, in discovering some old friend, or making somenew acquaintance, who would bear her in safety, and save her harmlessfrom all expenses and dangers of the road, to Northumberland; and shedisplayed often in these arrangements talents which Talleyrand mighthave envied. During the present season, Mrs. Montgomery Floyd, the widowof a rich East Indian, whose intention it was to proceed to her estatein Scotland at the end of the autumn, had been presented to Lady Bellairby a friend well acquainted with her ladyship's desired arrangements. What an invaluable acquaintance at such a moment for Lady Bellair! Mrs. Montgomery Floyd, very rich and very anxious to be fashionable, was intoxicated with the flattering condescension and anticipatedcompanionship of Lady Bellair. At first Lady Bellair had quietlysuggested that they should travel together to Northumberland. Mrs. Montgomery Floyd was enchanted with the proposal. Then Lady Bellairregretted that her servant was very ill, and that she must send her totown immediately in her own carriage; and then Mrs. Montgomery Floydinsisted, in spite of the offers of Lady Bellair, that her ladyshipshould take a seat in her carriage, and would not for an instant hearof Lady Bellair defraying, under such circumstances, any portion of theexpense. Lady Bellair held out to the dazzled vision of Mrs. MontgomeryFloyd a brilliant perspective of the noble lords and wealthy squireswhose splendid seats, under the auspices of Lady Bellair, they wereto make their resting-places during their progress; and in time LadyBellair, who had a particular fancy for her own carriage, proposedthat her servants should travel in that of Mrs. Montgomery Floyd. Mrs. Montgomery Floyd smiled a too willing assent. It ended by Mrs. Montgomery Floyd's servants travelling to Lord Bellair's, where theirmistress was to meet them, in that lady's own carriage, and Lady Bellairtravelling in her own chariot with her own servants, and Mrs. MontgomeryFloyd defraying the expenditure of both expeditions. 

CHAPTER V. 

 _In Which Lady Bellair Gives Some Account of Some of Her Friends_. 

LADY BELLAIR really loved Henrietta Temple. She was her prime and herpermanent favourite, and she was always lamenting that Henrietta wouldnot come and stay with her in London, and marry a duke. Lady Bellairwas a great matchmaker. When, therefore, she was welcomed by the fairmistress of Ducie Bower, Lady Bellair was as genuine as she was profusein her kind phrases. 'My sweet, sweet young friend, ' she said, asHenrietta bowed her head and offered her lips to the little old lady, 'it is something to have such a friend as you. What old woman has such asweet friend as I have! Now let me look at you. It does my heart good tosee you. I feel younger. You are handsomer than ever, I declare you are. Why will you not come and stay with me, and let me find you a husband?There is the Duke of Derandale, he is in love with you already; for Ido nothing but talk of you. No, you should not marry him, he is not goodenough. He is not good enough. He is not refined. I love a duke, but Ilove a duke that is refined more. You shall marry Lord Fitzwarrene. 

He is my favourite; he is worthy of you. You laugh; I love to seeyou laugh. You are so fresh and innocent! There is your worthy fathertalking to my friend Mrs. Twoshoes; a very good creature, my love, avery worthy soul, but no _ton_; I hate French words, but what other canI use? And she will wear gold chains, which I detest. You never weargold chains, I am sure. The Duke of------would not have me, so I cameto you, ' continued her ladyship, returning the salutation of Mr. Temple. 'Don't ask me if I am tired; I am never tired. There is nothing I hateso much as being asked whether I am well; I am always well. There, Ihave brought you a charming friend; give her your arm; and you shallgive me yours, ' said the old lady, smiling, to Henrietta. 'We make agood contrast; I like a good contrast, but not an ugly one. I cannotbear anything that is ugly; unless it is a very ugly man indeed, who isa genius and very fashionable. I liked Wilkes, and I liked Curran; butthey were famous, the best company in the world. When I was as youngas you, Lady Lavington and I always hunted in couples, because she wastall, and I was called the Queen of the Fairies. Pretty women, my sweetchild, should never be alone. Not that I was very pretty, but I wasalways with pretty women, and at last the men began to think that I waspretty too. '

'A superbly pretty place, ' simpered the magnificent Mrs. MontgomeryFloyd to Mr. Temple, 'and of all the sweetly pretty persons I ever met, I assure you I think Miss Temple the most charming. Such a favourite toowith Lady Bellair! You know she calls Miss Temple her real favourite, 'added the lady, with a playful smile. 

The ladies were ushered to their apartments by Henrietta, for the hourof dinner was at hand, and Mrs. Montgomery Floyd indicated some anxietynot to be hurried in her toilet. Indeed, when she reappeared, it mighthave been matter of marvel how she could have effected such a completetransformation in so short a period. Except a train, she was splendidenough for a birthday at St. James's, and wore so many brilliantsthat she glittered like a chandelier. However, as Lady Bellair loved acontrast, this was perhaps not unfortunate; for certainly her ladyship, in her simple costume which had only been altered by the substitutionof a cap that should have been immortalised by Mieris or Gerard Douw, afforded one not a little startling to her sumptuous fellow-traveller. 

'Your dinner is very good, ' said Lady Bellair to Mr. Temple. 'I eatvery little and very plainly, but I hate a bad dinner; it dissatisfieseverybody else, and they are all dull. The best dinners now are a newman's; I forget his name; the man who is so very rich. You never heardof him, and she (pointing with her fork to Mrs. Montgomery) knowsnobody. What is his name? Gregory, what is the name of the gentlemanI dine with so often? the gentleman I send to when I have no otherengagement, and he always gives me a dinner, but who never dines withme. He is only rich, and I hate people who are only rich; but I must askhim next year. I ask him to my evening parties, mind; I don't careabout them; but I will not have stupid people, who are only rich, at mydinners. Gregory, what is his name?'

'Mr. Million de Stockville, my lady. '

'Yes, that is the man, good Gregory. You have no deer, have you?'enquired her ladyship of Mr. Temple. 'I thought not. I wish you haddeer. You should send a haunch in my name to Mr. Million de Stockville, and that would be as good as a dinner to him. If your neighbour, theduke, had received me, I should have sent it from thence. I will tellyou what I will do; I will write a note from this place to the duke, andget him to do it for me. He will do anything for me. He loves me, theduke, and I love him; but his wife hates me. '

'And you have had a gay season in town this year, Lady Bellair?'enquired Miss Temple. 'My dear, I always have a gay season. ' 'Whathappiness!' softly exclaimed Mrs. Montgomery Floyd. 'I think nothing ismore delightful than gaiety. '

'And how is our friend Mr. Bonmot this year?' said Mr. Temple. 

'My dear, Bonmot is growing very old. He tells the same stories overagain, and therefore I never see him. I cannot bear wits that have runto seed: I cannot ask Bonmot to my dinners, and I told him the reasonwhy; but I said I was at home every morning from two till six, and thathe might come then, for he does not go out to evening parties, and he ishuffy, and so we have quarrelled. '

'Poor Mr. Bonmot, ' said Miss Temple. 

'My dear, there is the most wonderful man in the world, I forget hisname, but everybody is mad to have him. He is quite the fashion. I havehim to my parties instead of Bonmot, and it is much better. Everybodyhas Bonmot; but my man is new, and I love something new. Lady FrederickBerrington brought him to me. Do you know Lady Frederick Berrington?Oh! I forgot, poor dear, you are buried alive in the country; I mustintroduce you to Lady Frederick. She is charming, she will taste you, she will be your friend; and you cannot have a better friend, my dear, for she is very pretty, very witty, and has got blood in her veins. Iwon't introduce you to Lady Frederick, ' continued Lady Bellair to. Mrs. Montgomery Floyd; 'she is not in your way. I shall introduce you to LadySplash and Dashaway; she is to be your friend. '

Mrs. Montgomery Floyd seemed consoled by the splendid future of beingthe friend of Lady Splash and Dashaway, and easily to endure, with sucha compensation, the somewhat annoying remarks of her noble patroness. 

'But as for Bonmot, ' continued Lady Bellair, 'I will have nothing todo with him. General Faneville, he is a dear good man, and gives medinners. I love dinners: I never dine at home, except when I havecompany. General Faneville not only gives me dinners, but lets mealways choose my own party. And he said to me the other day, "Now, LadyBellair, fix your day, and name your party. " I said directly, "General, anybody but Bonmot. " You know Bonmot is his particular friend. '

'But surely that is cruel, ' said Henrietta Temple, smiling. 

'I am cruel, ' said Lady Bellair, 'when I hate a person I am very cruel, and I hate Bonmot. Mr. Fox wrote me a copy of verses once, and calledme "cruel fair;" but I was not cruel to him, for I dearly loved CharlesFox; and I love you, and I love your father. The first party your fatherever was at, was at my house. There, what do you think of that? AndI love my grandchildren; I call them all my grand-children. I thinkgreat-grandchildren sounds silly; I am so happy that they have marriedso well. My dear Selina is a countess; you shall be a countess, too, 'added Lady Bellair, laughing. 'I must see you a countess before I die. Mrs. Grenville is not a countess, and is rather poor; but they will berich some day; and Grenville is a good name: it sounds well. That is agreat thing. I hate a name that does not sound well. '

CHAPTER VI. 

 _Containing a Conversation Not Quite so Amusing as the Last_. 

IN THE evening Henrietta amused her guests with music. Mrs. MontgomeryFloyd was enthusiastically fond of music, and very proud of her intimatefriendship with Pasta. 'Oh! you know her, do you?' 'Very well; you shallbring her to my house. She shall sing at all my parties; I love music atmy evenings, but I never pay for it, never. If she will not come in theevening, I will try to ask her to dinner, once at least. I do not likesingers and tumblers at dinner, but she is very fashionable, and youngmen like her; and what I want at my dinners are young men, young men ofvery great fashion. I rather want young men at my dinners. I have some;Lord Languid always comes to me, and he is very fine, you know, veryfine indeed. He goes to very few places, but he always comes to me. 'Mrs. Montgomery Floyd quitted the piano, and seated herself by Mr. Temple. Mr. Temple was gallant, and Mrs. Montgomery Floyd anxious toobtain the notice of a gentleman whom Lady Bellair had assured her wasof the first _ton_. Her ladyship herself beckoned Henrietta Templeto join her on the sofa, and, taking her hand very affectionately, explained to her all the tactics by which she intended to bring-abouta match between her and Lord Fitzwarrene, very much regretting, at thesame time, that her dear grandson, Lord Bellair, was married; for he, after all, was the only person worthy of her. 'He would taste you, mydear; he would understand you. Dear Bellair! he is so very handsome, andso very witty. Why did he go and marry? And yet I love his wife. Do youknow her? Oh! she is charming: so very pretty, so very witty, and suchgood blood in her veins. I made the match. Why were you not in England?If you had only come to England a year sooner, you should have marriedBellair. How provoking!'

'But, really, dear Lady Bellair, your grandson is very happy. What morecan you wish?'

'Well, my dear, it shall be Lord Fitzwarrene, then. I shall give aseries of parties this year, and ask Lord Fitzwarrene to every one. Notthat it is very easy to get him, my child. There is nobody so difficultas Lord Fitzwarrene. That is quite right. Men should always bedifficult. I cannot bear men who come and dine with you when you wantthem. '

'What a charming place is Ducie!' sighed Mrs. Montgomery Floyd to Mr. Temple. 'The country is so delightful. '

'But you would not like to live in the country only, ' said Mr. Temple. 

'Ah! you do not know me!' sighed the sentimental Mrs. Montgomery Floyd. 'If you only knew how I love flowers! I wish you could but see myconservatory in Park-lane!'

'And how did you find Bath this year, Lady Bellair?' enquired MissTemple. 

'Oh! my dear, I met a charming man there, I forget his name, but themost distinguished person I ever met; so very handsome, so very witty, and with blood in his veins, only I forget his name, and it is a verygood name, too. My dear, ' addressing herself to Mrs. Montgomery Floyd, 'tell me the name of my favourite. '

Mrs. Montgomery Floyd looked a little puzzled: 'My great favourite!'exclaimed the irritated Lady Bellair, rapping her fan against the sofa. 'Oh! why do you not remember names! I love people who remember names. Myfavourite, my Bath favourite. What is his name? He is to dine with mein town. What is the name of my Bath favourite who is certainly to dinewith me in town?'

'Do you mean Captain Armine?' enquired Mrs. Montgomery Floyd. MissTemple turned pale. 'That is the man, ' said Lady Bellair. 'Oh! such acharming man. You shall marry him, my dear; you shall not marry LordFitzwarrene. '

'But you forget he is going to be married, ' said Mrs. Montgomery Floyd. 

Miss Temple tried to rise, but she could not. She held down herhead. She felt the fever in her cheek. 'Is our engagement, then, sonotorious?' she thought to herself. 

'Ah! yes, I forgot he was going to be married, ' said Lady Bellair. 'Well, then, it must be Lord Fitzwarrene. Besides, Captain Armine is notrich, but he has got a very fine place though, and I will go and stopthere some day. And, besides, he is over head-and-ears in debt, so theysay. However, he is going to marry a very rich woman, and so all will beright. I like old families in decay to get round again. '

Henrietta dreaded that her father should observe her confusion; she hadrecourse to every art to prevent it. 'Dear Ferdinand, ' she thought toherself, 'thy very rich wife will bring thee, I fear, but a poor dower. Ah! would he were here!'

'Whom is Captain Armine going to marry?' enquired Mr. Temple. 

'Oh! a very proper person, ' said Lady Bellair. 'I forget her name. MissTwoshoes, or something. What is her name, my dear?'

'You mean Miss Grandison, madam?' responded Mrs. Montgomery Floyd. 

'To be sure, Miss Grandison, the great heiress. The only one left of theGrandisons. I knew her grandfather. He was my son's schoolfellow. '

'Captain Armine is a near neighbour of ours, ' said Mr. Temple. 

'Oh! you know him, ' said Lady Bellair. 'Is not he charming?'

'Are you certain he is going to be married to Miss Grandison?' enquiredMr. Temple. 

'Oh! there is no doubt in the world, ' said Mrs. Montgomery Floyd. 'Everything is quite settled. My most particular friend, Lady JuliaHarteville, is to be one of the bridesmaids. I have seen all thepresents. Both the families are at Bath at this very moment. I saw thehappy pair together every day. They are related, you know. It is anexcellent match, for the Armines have great estates, mortgaged tothe very last acre. I have heard that Sir Ratcliffe Armine has not athousand a year he can call his own. We are all so pleased, ' added Mrs. Montgomery Floyd, as if she were quite one of the family. 'Is it notdelightful?'

'They are to be married next month, ' said Lady Bellair. 'I did not quitemake the match, but I did something. I love the Grandisons, because LordGrandison was my son's friend fifty years ago. '

'I never knew a person so pleased as Lady Armine is, ' continued Mrs. Montgomery Floyd. 'The truth is, Captain Armine has been wild, very wildindeed; a little of a _roue_; but then such a fine young man, so veryhandsome, so truly distinguished, as Lady Bellair says, what could youexpect? But he has sown his wild oats now. They have been engaged thesesix months; ever since he came from abroad. He has been at Bath all thetime, except for a fortnight or so, when he went to his Place to makethe necessary preparations. We all so missed him. Captain Armine wasquite the life of Bath I am almost ashamed to repeat what was said ofhim, ' added Mrs. Montgomery Floyd, blushing through her rouge; 'but theysaid every woman was in love with him. '

'Fortunate man!' said Mr. Temple, bowing, but with a grave expression. 

'And he says, he is only going to marry because he is wearied ofconquests, ' continued Mrs. Montgomery Floyd; 'how impertinent, is itnot? But Captain Armine says such things! He is quite a privilegedperson at Bath!'

Miss Temple rose and left the room. When the hour of general retirementhad arrived, she had not returned. Her maid brought a message thather mistress was not very well, and offered her excuses for not againdescending. 

CHAPTER VII. 

 _In Which Mr. Temple Pays a Visit to His Daughter's Chamber_. 

HENRIETTA, when she quitted the room, never stopped until she had gainedher own chamber. She had no light but a straggling moonbeam revealedsufficient. 

She threw herself upon her bed, choked with emotion. She was incapableof thought; a chaos of wild images flitted over her brain. Thus had sheremained, perchance an hour, with scarcely self-consciousness, when herservant entered with a light to arrange her chamber, and nearly shriekedwhen, on turning round, she beheld her mistress. 

This intrusion impressed upon Miss Temple the absolute necessity ofsome exertion, if only to preserve herself at this moment from renewedinterruptions. She remembered where she was, she called back with aneffort some recollection of her guests, and she sent that message to herfather which we have already noticed. Then she was again alone. How shewished at that moment that she might ever be alone; that the form andshape of human being should no more cross her vision; that she mightremain in this dark chamber until she died! There was no more joy forher; her sun was set, the lustre of her life was gone; the lute had lostits tone, the flower its perfume, the bird its airy wing. What a fleet, as well as fatal, tragedy! How swift upon her improvidence had come herheart-breaking pang! There was an end of faith, for he was faithless;there was an end of love, for love had betrayed her; there was an endof beauty, for beauty had been her bane. All that hitherto made lifedelightful, all the fine emotions, all the bright hopes, and the rareaccomplishments of our nature, were dark delusions now, cruel mockeries, and false and cheating phantoms! What humiliation! what despair! Andhe had seemed so true, so pure, so fond, so gifted! What! could it be, could it be that a few short weeks back this man had knelt to her, hadadored her? And she had hung upon his accents, and lived in the light ofhis enraptured eyes, and pledged to him her heart, dedicated to himher life, devoted to him all her innocent and passionate affections, worshipped him as an idol! Why, what was life that it could bring uponits swift wing such dark, such agonising vicissitudes as these? It wasnot life; it was frenzy!

Some one knocked gently at her door. She did not answer, she feignedsleep. Yet the door opened, she felt, though her eyes were shut andher back turned, that there was a light in the room. A tender stepapproached her bed. It could be but one person, that person whom she hadherself deceived. She knew it was her father. 

Mr. Temple seated himself by her bedside; he bent his head and pressedhis lips upon her forehead. In her desolation some one still lovedher. She could not resist the impulse; she held forth her hand withoutopening her eyes, her father held it clasped in his. 

'Henrietta, ' he at length said, in a tone of peculiar sweetness. 

'Oh! do not speak, my father. Do not speak. You alone have cause toreproach me. Spare me; spare your child. '

'I came to console, not to reproach, ' said Mr. Temple. 'But if it pleaseyou, I will not speak; let me, however, remain. '

'Father, we must speak. It relieves me even to confess my indiscretion, my fatal folly. Father, I feel, yet why, I know not, I feel that youknow all!'

'I know much, my Henrietta, but I do not know all. '

'And if you knew all, you would not hate me?'

'Hate you, my Henrietta! These are strange words to use to a father; toa father, I would add, like me. No one can love you, Henrietta, as yourfather loves you; yet speak to me not merely as a father; speak to me asyour earliest, your best, your fondest, your most faithful friend. '

She pressed his hand, but answer, that she could not. 

'Henrietta, dearest, dearest Henrietta, answer me one question. '

'I tremble, sir. '

'Then we will speak to-morrow. '

'Oh! no, to-night. To-morrow may never come. There is no night for me;I cannot sleep. I should go mad if it were not for you. I will speak; Iwill answer any questions. My conscience is quite clear except to you;no one, no power on earth or heaven, can reproach me, except my father. '

'He never will. But, dearest, tell me; summon up your courage to meet myquestion. Are you engaged to this person?'

'I was. '

'Positively engaged?'

'Long ere this I had supposed we should have claimed your sanction. Heleft me only to speak to his father. '

'This may be the idle tattle of women?'

'No, no, ' said Henrietta, in a voice of deep melancholy; 'my fears hadforeseen this dark reality. This week has been a week of terror to me;and yet I hoped, and hoped, and hoped. Oh! what a fool have I been. '

'I know this person was your constant companion in my absence; that youhave corresponded with him. Has he written very recently?'

'Within two days. '

'And his letters?'

'Have been of late most vague. Oh! my father, indeed, indeed I havenot conducted myself so ill as you perhaps imagine. I shrunk fromthis secret engagement; I opposed by every argument in my power, thisclandestine correspondence; but it was only for a week, a single week;and reasons, plausible and specious reasons, were plentiful. Alas! alas!all is explained now. All that was strange, mysterious, perplexed in hisviews and conduct, and which, when it crossed my mind, I dismissed withcontempt, --all is now too clear. '

'Henrietta, he is unworthy of you. '

'Hush! hush! dear father. An hour ago I loved him. Spare him, if youonly wish to spare me. '

'Cling to my heart, my child. A father's love has comfort. Is it notso?'

'I feel it is; I feel calmer since you came and we have spoken. I nevercan be happy again; my spirit is quite broken. And yet, I feel I havea heart now, which I thought I had not before you came. Dear, dearfather, ' she said, rising and putting her arms round Mr. Temple's neckand leaning on his bosom, and speaking in a sweet yet very mournfulvoice, 'henceforth your happiness shall be mine. I will not disgraceyou; you shall not see me grieve; I will atone, I will endeavour toatone, for my great sins, for sins they were towards you. '

'My child, the time will come when we shall remember this bitternessonly as a lesson. But I know the human heart too well to endeavour tostem your sorrow now; I only came to soothe it. My blessing is upon you, my child. Let us talk no more. Henrietta, I will send your maid to you. Try to sleep; try to compose yourself. '

'These people--to-morrow--what shall I do?'

'Leave all to me. Keep your chamber until they have gone. You needappear no more. '

'Oh! that no human being might again see me!'

'Hush! that is not a wise wish. Be calm; we shall yet be happy. To-morrow we will talk; and so good night, my child; good night, my ownHenrietta. '

Mr. Temple left the room. He bade the maid go to her mistress, in ascalm a tone as if indeed her complaint had been only a headache; andthen he entered his own apartment. Over the mantel-piece was a portraitof his daughter, gay and smiling as the spring; the room was adornedwith her drawings. He drew the chair near the fire, and gazed for sometime abstracted upon the flame, and then hid his weeping countenance inhis hands. He sobbed convulsively. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

 _In Which Glastonbury Is Very Much Astonished_. 

IT WAS a gusty autumnal night; Glastonbury sat alone in his tower; everynow and then the wind, amid a chorus of groaning branches and hissingrain, dashed against his window; then its power seemed gradually lulled, and perfect stillness succeeded, until a low moan was heard again inthe distance, which gradually swelled into storm. The countenance ofthe good old man was not so serene as usual. Occasionally his thoughtsseemed to wander from the folio opened before him, and he fell intofits of reverie which impressed upon his visage an expression rather ofanxiety than study. 

The old man looked up to the portrait of the unhappy Lady Armine, andheaved a deep sigh. Were his thoughts of her or of her child? He closedhis book, he replaced it upon its shelf, and, taking from a cabinet anancient crucifix of carved ivory, he bent down before the image of hisRedeemer. 

Even while he was buried in his devotions, praying perchance for thesoul of that sinning yet sainted lady whose memory was never absent fromhis thoughts, or the prosperity of that family to whom he had dedicatedhis faithful life, the noise of ascending footsteps was heard in thesudden stillness, and immediately a loud knocking at the door of hisouter chamber. 

Surprised at this unaccustomed interruption, Glastonbury rose, andenquired the object of his yet unseen visitor; but, on hearing awell-known voice, the door was instantly unbarred, and FerdinandArmine, pale as a ghost and deluged to the skin, appeared before him. Glastonbury ushered his guest into his cell, replenished the fire, retrimmed the lamp, and placed Ferdinand in his own easy seat. 

'You are wet; I fear thoroughly?'

'It matters not, ' said Captain Armine, in a hollow voice. 

'From Bath?' enquired Glastonbury. 

But his companion did not reply. At length he said, in a voice of utterwretchedness, 'Glastonbury, you see before you the most miserable ofhuman beings. '

The good father started. 

'Yes!' continued Ferdinand; 'this is the end of all your care, all youraffection, all your hopes, all your sacrifices. It is over; our house isfated; my life draws to an end. '

'Speak, my Ferdinand, ' said Glastonbury, for his pupil seemed to haverelapsed into moody silence, 'speak to your friend and father. Disburdenyour mind of the weight that presses on it. Life is never without hope, and, while this remains, ' pointing to the crucifix, 'never withoutconsolation. '

'I cannot speak; I know not what to say. My brain sinks under theeffort. It is a wild, a complicated tale; it relates to feelingswith which you cannot sympathise, thoughts that you cannot share. OGlastonbury! there is no hope; there is no solace. '

'Calm yourself, my Ferdinand; not merely as your friend, but as a priestof our holy church, I call upon you to speak to me. Even to me, thehumblest of its ministers, is given a power that can sustain the fallingand make whole the broken in spirit. Speak, and speak fearlessly; norshrink from exposing the very inmost recesses of your breast; for I cansympathise with your passions, be they even as wild as I believe them. '

Ferdinand turned his eyes from the fire on which he was gazing, andshot a scrutinising glance at his kind confessor, but the countenance ofGlastonbury was placid, though serious. 

'You remember, ' Ferdinand at length murmured, 'that we met, we metunexpectedly, some six weeks back. '

'I have not forgotten it, ' replied Glastonbury. 

'There was a lady, ' Ferdinand continued in a hesitating tone. 

'Whom I mistook for Miss Grandison, ' observed Glastonbury, 'but who, itturned out, bore another name. '

'You know it?'

'I know all; for her father has been here. '

'Where are they?' exclaimed Ferdinand eagerly, starting from his seatand seizing the hand of Glastonbury. 'Only tell me where they are, onlytell me where Henrietta is, and you will save me, Glastonbury. You willrestore me to life, to hope, to heaven. '

'I cannot, ' said Glastonbury, shaking his head. 'It is more than tendays ago that I saw this lady's father for a few brief and painfulmoments; for what purpose your conscience may inform you. From theunexpected interview between ourselves in the gallery, my consequentmisconception, and the conversation which it occasioned, I was not sounprepared for this interview with him as I otherwise might have been. Believe me, Ferdinand, I was as tender to your conduct as was consistentwith my duty to my God and to my neighbour. '

'You betrayed me, then, ' said Ferdinand. 

'Ferdinand!' said Glastonbury reproachfully, 'I trust that I am freefrom deceit of any kind. In the present instance I had not even tocommunicate anything. Your own conduct had excited suspicion; somevisitors from Bath to this gentleman and his family had revealedeverything; and, in deference to the claims of an innocent lady, I couldnot refuse to confirm what was no secret to the world in general, whatwas already known to them in particular, what was not even doubted, andalas! not dubitable. '

'Oh! my father, pardon me, pardon me; pardon the only disrespectfulexpression that ever escaped the lips of your Ferdinand towards you;most humbly do I ask your forgiveness. But if you knew all------God!

God! my heart is breaking! You have seen her, Glastonbury; you haveseen her. Was there ever on earth a being like her? So beautiful, sohighly-gifted, with a heart as fresh, as fragrant as the dawn of Eden;and that heart mine; and all lost, all gone and lost! Oh! why am Ialive?' He threw himself back in his chair, and covered his face andwept. 

'I would that deed or labour of mine could restore you both to peace, 'said Glastonbury, with streaming eyes. 

'So innocent, so truly virtuous!' continued Ferdinand. 'It seemed to meI never knew what virtue was till I knew her. So frank, so generous! Ithink I see her now, with that dear smile of hers that never more maywelcome me!'

'My child, I know not what to say; I know not what advice to give;I know not what even to wish. Your situation is so complicated, somysterious, that it passes my comprehension. There are others whoseclaims, whose feelings should be considered. You are not, of course, married?'

Ferdinand shook his head. 

'Does Miss Grandison know all?'

'Nothing. '

'Your family?'

Ferdinand shook his head again. 

'What do you yourself wish? What object are you aiming at? What gamehave you yourself been playing? I speak not in harshness; but Ireally do not understand what you have been about. If you have yourgrandfather's passions, you have his brain too. I did not ever supposethat you were "infirm of purpose. "'

'I have only one wish, only one object. Since I first saw Henrietta, myheart and resolution have never for an instant faltered; and if I do notnow succeed in them I am determined not to live. '

'The God of all goodness have mercy on this distracted house!' exclaimedGlastonbury, as he piously lifted his hands to heaven. 

'You went to Bath to communicate this great change to your father, ' hecontinued. 'Why did you not? Painful as the explanation must be to MissGrandison, the injustice of your conduct towards her is aggravated bydelay. '

'There were reasons, ' said Ferdinand, 'reasons which I never intendedanyone to know; but now I have no secrets. Dear Glastonbury, even amidall this overwhelming misery, my cheek burns when I confess to you thatI have, and have had for years, private cares of my own of no slightnature. '

'Debts?' enquired Glastonbury. 

'Debts, ' replied Ferdinand, 'and considerable ones. '

'Poor child!' exclaimed Glastonbury. 'And this drove you to themarriage?'

'To that every worldly consideration impelled me: my heart was freethen; in fact, I did not know I had a heart; and I thought the marriagewould make all happy. But now, so far as I am myself concerned, oh! Iwould sooner be the commonest peasant in this county, with HenriettaTemple for the partner of my life, than live at Armine with all thesplendour of my ancestors. '

'Honour be to them; they were great men, ' exclaimed Glastonbury. 

'I am their victim, ' replied Ferdinand. 'I owe my ancestors nothing, nay, worse than nothing; I owe them------'

'Hush! hush!' said Glastonbury. 'If only for my sake, Ferdinand, besilent. '

'For yours, then, not for theirs. '

'But why did you remain at Bath?' enquired Glastonbury. 

'I had not been there more than a day or two, when my principal creditorcame down from town and menaced me. He had a power of attorney from anusurer at Malta, and talked of applying to the Horse Guards. The reportthat I was going to marry an heiress had kept these fellows quiet, butthe delay and my absence from Bath had excited his suspicion. Instead, therefore, of coming to an immediate explanation with Katherine, broughtabout as I had intended by my coldness and neglect, I was obliged tobe constantly seen with her in public, to prevent myself from beingarrested. Yet I wrote to Ducie daily. I had confidence in my energyand skill. I thought that Henrietta might be for a moment annoyed orsuspicious; I thought, however, she would be supported by the fervour ofmy love. I anticipated no other evil. Who could have supposed thatthese infernal visitors would have come at such a moment to this retiredspot?'

'And now, is all known now?' enquired Glastonbury. 

'Nothing, ' replied Ferdinand; 'the difficulty of my position was sogreat that I was about to cut the knot, by quitting Bath and leaving aletter addressed to Katherine, confessing all. But the sudden silence ofHenrietta drove me mad. Day after day elapsed; two, three, four, five, six days, and I heard nothing. The moon was bright; the mail was justgoing off. I yielded to an irresistible impulse. I bid adieu to no one. I jumped in. I was in London only ten minutes. I dashed to Ducie. Itwas deserted. An old woman told me the family had gone, had utterlydeparted; she knew not where, but she thought for foreign parts. I sankdown; I tottered to a seat in that hall where I had been so happy. Thenit flashed across my mind that I might discover their course and pursuethem. I hurried to the nearest posting town. I found out their route. I lost it for ever at the next stage. The clue was gone; it wasmarket-day, and in a great city, where horses are changed every minute, there is so much confusion that my enquiries were utterly baffled. Andhere I am, Mr. Glastonbury, ' added Ferdinand, with a kind of mad smile. 'I have travelled four days, I have not slept a wink, I have tasted nofood; but I have drunk, I have drunk well. Here I am, and I have halfa mind to set fire to that accursed pile called Armine Castle for myfuneral pyre. '

'Ferdinand, you are not well, ' said Mr. Glastonbury, grasping his hand. 'You need rest. You must retire; indeed you must. I must be obeyed. Mybed is yours. '

'No! let me go to my own room, ' murmured Ferdinand, in a faint voice. 'That room where my mother said the day would come--oh! what did mymother say? Would there were only mother's love, and then I should notbe here or thus. '

'I pray you, my child, rest here. '

'No! let us to the Place, for an hour; I shall not sleep more than anhour. I am off again directly the storm is over. If it had not been forthis cursed rain I should have caught them. And yet, perhaps, they arein countries where there is no rain. Ah! who would believe what happensin this world? Not I, for one. Now, give me your arm. Good Glastonbury!you are always the same. You seem to me the only thing in the world thatis unchanged. '

Glastonbury, with an air of great tenderness and anxiety, led his formerpupil down the stairs. The weather was more calm. There were some darkblue rifts in the black sky which revealed a star or two. Ferdinand saidnothing in their progress to the Place except once, when he looked up tothe sky, and said, as it were to himself, 'She loved the stars. '

Glastonbury had some difficulty in rousing the man and his wife, who were the inmates of the Place; but it was not very late, and, fortunately, they had not retired for the night. Lights were broughtinto Lady Armine's drawing-room. Glastonbury led Ferdinand to a sofa, on which he rather permitted others to place him than seated himself. He took no notice of anything that was going on, but remained with hiseyes open, gazing feebly with a rather vacant air. 

Then the good Glastonbury looked to the arrangement of hissleeping-room, drawing the curtains, seeing that the bed was wellaired and warmed, and himself adding blocks to the wood fire which soonkindled. Nor did he forget to prepare, with the aid of the good woman, some hot potion that might soothe and comfort his stricken and exhaustedcharge, who in this moment of distress and desolation had come, as itwere, and thrown himself on the bosom of his earliest friend. Whenall was arranged Glastonbury descended to Ferdinand, whom he found inexactly the same position as that in which he left him. He offered noresistance to the invitation of Glastonbury to retire to his chamber. He neither moved nor spoke, and yet seemed aware of all they were doing. Glastonbury and the stout serving-man bore him to his chamber, relievedhim from his wet garments, and placed him in his earliest bed. WhenGlastonbury bade him good night, Ferdinand faintly pressed his hand, butdid not speak; and it was remarkable, that while he passively submittedto their undressing him, and seemed incapable of affording them theslightest aid, yet he thrust forth his hand to guard a lock of dark hairthat was placed next to his heart. 

CHAPTER IX. 

 _In Which Glastonbury Finds That a Serene Temper Does Not Always Bring a Serene Life_. 

THOSE quiet slumbers, that the regular life and innocent heart of thegood Glastonbury generally ensured, were sadly broken this night, ashe lay awake meditating over the distracted fortunes of the of Arminehouse. They seemed now to be most turbulent and clouded; and thatbrilliant and happy future, in which of late he had so fondly indulged, offered nothing but gloom and disquietude. Nor was it the menaceddisruption of those ties whose consummation was to restore the greatnessand splendour of the family, and all the pain and disappointment andmortification and misery that must be its consequence, that alone madehim sorrowful. Glastonbury had a reverence for that passion which shedssuch a lustre over existence, and is the pure and prolific source ofmuch of our better conduct; the time had been when he, too, had loved, and with a religious sanctity worthy of his character and office; he hadbeen for a long life the silent and hopeless votary of a passion almostideal, yet happy, though 'he never told his love;' and, indeed, althoughthe unconscious mistress of his affections had been long removed fromthat world where his fidelity was almost her only comfort, that passionhad not waned, and the feelings that had been inspired by her presencewere now cherished by her memory. His tender and romantic nature, whichhis venerable grey hairs had neither dulled nor hardened, made himdeeply sympathise with his unhappy pupil; the radiant image of HenriettaTemple, too, vividly impressed on his memory as it was, rose up beforehim; he recollected his joy that the chosen partner of his Ferdinand'sbosom should be worthy of her destiny; he thought of this fair creature, perchance in solitude and sickness, a prey to the most mortifying andmiserable emotions, with all her fine and generous feelings thrown backupon herself; deeming herself deceived, deserted, outraged, where shehad looked for nothing but fidelity, and fondness, and support; losingall confidence in the world and the world's ways; but recently so livelywith expectation and airy with enjoyment, and now aimless, hopeless, wretched, perhaps broken-hearted. The tears trickled down the pale cheekof Glastonbury as he revolved in his mind these mournful thoughts; andalmost unconsciously he wrung his hands as he felt his utter want ofpower to remedy these sad and piteous circumstances. Yet he was notabsolutely hopeless. There was ever open to the pious Glastonbury oneperennial source of trust and consolation. This was a fountain that wasever fresh and sweet, and he took refuge from the world's harsh coursesand exhausting cares in its salutary flow and its refreshing shade, when, kneeling before his crucifix, he commended the unhappy Ferdinandand his family to the superintending care of a merciful Omnipotence. 

The morning brought fresh anxieties. Glastonbury was at the Place atan early hour, and found Ferdinand in a high state of fever. He had notslept an instant, was very excited, talked of departing immediately, andrambled in his discourse. Glastonbury blamed himself for having left hima moment, and resolved to do so no more. He endeavoured to soothe him;assured him that if he would be calm all would yet go well; that theywould consult together what was best to be done; and that he would makeenquiries after the Temple family. In the meantime he despatched theservant for the most eminent physician of the county; but as hoursmust necessarily elapse before his arrival, the difficulty of keepingFerdinand still was very great. Talk he would, and of nothing butHenrietta. It was really agonising to listen to his frantic appealsto Glastonbury to exert himself to discover her abode; yet Glastonburynever left his side; and with promises, expressions of confidence, andthe sway of an affected calmness, for in truth dear Glastonbury wasscarcely less agitated than his patient, Ferdinand was prevented fromrising, and the physician at length arrived. 

After examining Ferdinand, with whom he remained a very short space, this gentleman invited Glastonbury to descend, and they left the patientin charge of a servant. 

'This is a bad case, ' said the physician. 

'Almighty God preserve him!' exclaimed the agitated Glastonbury. 'Tellme the worst!'

'Where are Sir Ratcliffe and Lady Armine?'

'At Bath. '

'They must be sent for instantly. '

'Is there any hope?'

'There is hope; that is all. I shall now bleed him copiously, and thenblister; but I can do little. We must trust to nature. I am afraid ofthe brain. I cannot account for his state by his getting wet or hisrapid travelling. Has he anything on his mind?'

'Much, ' said Glastonbury. 

The physician shook his head. 

'It is a precious life!' said Glastonbury, seizing his arm. 'My deardoctor, you must not leave us. '

They returned to the bedchamber. 

'Captain Armine, ' said the physician, taking his hand and seatinghimself on the bed, 'you have a bad cold and some fever; I think youshould lose a little blood. '

'Can I leave Armine to-day, if I am bled?' enquired Ferdinand, eagerly, 'for go I must!'

'I would not move to-day, ' said the physician. 

'I must, indeed I must. Mr. Glastonbury will tell you I must. '

'If you set off early to-morrow you will get over as much ground infour-and-twenty hours as if you went this evening, ' said the physician, fixing the bandage on the arm as he spoke, and nodding to Mr. Glastonbury to prepare the basin. 

'To-morrow morning?' said Ferdinand. 

'Yes, to-morrow, ' said the physician, opening his lancet. 

'Are you sure that I shall be able to set off tomorrow?' said Ferdinand. 

'Quite, ' said the physician, opening the vein. 

The dark blood flowed sullenly; the physician exchanged an anxiousglance with Glastonbury; at length the arm was bandaged up, a composingdraught, with which the physician had been prepared, given to hispatient, and the doctor and Glastonbury withdrew. The former now leftArmine for three hours, and Glastonbury prepared himself for his painfuloffice of communicating to the parents the imminent danger of their onlychild. 

Never had a more difficult task devolved upon an individual than thatwhich now fell to the lot of the good Glastonbury, in conducting theaffairs of a family labouring under such remarkable misconceptions as tothe position and views of its various members. It immediately occurredto him, that it was highly probable that Miss Grandison, at such acrisis, would choose to accompany the parents of her intended husband. What incident, under the present circumstances, could be more awkwardand more painful? Yet how to prevent its occurrence? How crude tocommunicate the real state of such affairs at any time by letter! Howimpossible at the moment he was preparing the parents for the alarming, perhaps fatal illness of their child, to enter on such subjects at all, much more when the very revelation, at a moment which required alltheir energy and promptitude, would only be occasioning at Bath scenesscarcely less distracting and disastrous than those occurring at Armine. It was clearly impossible to enter into any details at present; and yetGlastonbury, while he penned the sorrowful lines, and softened thesad communication with his sympathy, added a somewhat sly postscript, wherein he impressed upon Lady Armine the advisability, for variousreasons, that she should only be accompanied by her husband. 

CHAPTER X. 

 _In Which Ferdinand Armine Is Much Concerned_. 

THE contingency which Glastonbury feared, surely happened; MissGrandison insisted upon immediately rushing to her Ferdinand; and asthe maiden aunt was still an invalid, and was incapable of enduring thefatigues of a rapid and anxious journey, she was left behind. Within afew hours of the receipt of Glastonbury's letter, Sir Ratcliffe andLady Armine, and their niece, were on their way. They found letters fromGlastonbury in London, which made them travel to Armine even through thenight. 

In spite of all his remedies, the brain fever which the physicianforesaw had occurred; and when his family arrived, the life of Ferdinandwas not only in danger but desperate. It was impossible that even theparents could see their child, and no one was allowed to enter hischamber but his nurse, the physician, and occasionally Glastonbury; forthis name, with others less familiar to the household, sounded so oftenon the frenzied lips of the sufferer, that it was recommended thatGlastonbury should often be at his bedside. Yet he must leave it, toreceive the wretched Sir Ratcliffe and his wife and their disconsolatecompanion. Never was so much unhappiness congregated together under oneroof; and yet, perhaps Glastonbury, though the only one who retainedthe least command over himself, was, with his sad secret, the mostwoe-begone of the tribe. 

As for Lady Armine, she sat without the door of her son's chamber thewhole day and night, clasping a crucifix in her hands, and absorbedin silent prayer. Sir Ratcliffe remained below prostrate. The unhappyKatherine in vain offered the consolation she herself so needed; andwould have wandered about that Armine of which she had heard so much, and where she was to have been so happy, a forlorn and solitary being, had it not been for the attentions of the considerate Glastonbury, whoembraced every opportunity of being her companion. His patience, hisheavenly resignation, his pious hope, his vigilant care, his spiritualconsolation, occasionally even the gleams of agreeable converse withwhich he attempted to divert her mind, consoled and maintained her. Howoften did she look at his benignant countenance, and not wonder that theArmines were so attached to this engaging and devoted friend?

For three days did the unhappy family expect in terrible anticipationthat each moment would witness the last event in the life of their son. His distracted voice caught too often the vigilant and agonised ear ofhis mother; yet she gave no evidence of the pang, except by clasping hercrucifix with increased energy. She had promised the physician that shewould command herself, that no sound should escape her lips, and sherigidly fulfilled the contract on which she was permitted to remain. 

On the eve of the fourth day Ferdinand, who had never yet closed hiseyes, but who had become during the last twelve hours somewhat morecomposed, fell into a slumber. The physician lightly dropped the handwhich he had scarcely ever quitted, and, stealing out of the room, beckoned, his finger pressed to his lips, to Lady Armine to follow him. Assured by the symbol that the worst had not yet happened, she followedthe physician to the end of the gallery, and he then told her thatimmediate danger was past. 

'And now, my dear madam, ' said the physician to her, 'you must breathesome fresh air. Oblige me by descending. '

Lady Armine no longer refused; she repaired with a slow step to SirRatcliffe; she leant upon her husband's breast as she murmured to himher hopes. They went forth together. Katherine and Glastonbury were inthe garden. The appearance of Lady Armine gave them hopes. There was afaint smile on her face which needed not words to explain it. Katherinesprang forward, and threw her arms round her aunt's neck. 

'He may be saved! he may be saved, ' whispered the mother; for in thishushed house of impending death they had lost almost the power as wellas the habit, of speaking in any other tone. 

'He sleeps, ' said the physician; 'all present danger is past. '

'It is too great joy, ' murmured Katherine; and Glastonbury advanced andcaught in his arms her insensible form. 

CHAPTER XI. 

 _In Which Ferdinand Begins to Be a Little Troublesome_. 

FROM the moment of this happy slumber Ferdinand continued to improve. Each day the bulletin was more favourable, until his progress, thoughslow, was declared certain, and even relapse was no longer apprehended. But his physician would not allow him to see any one of his family. Itwas at night, and during his slumbers, that Lady Armine stole into hisroom to gaze upon her beloved child; and, if he moved in the slightestdegree, faithful to her promise and the injunction of the physician, sheinstantly glided behind his curtain, or a large Indian screen which shehad placed there purposely. Often, indeed, did she remain in this fondlurking-place, silent and trembling, when her child was even awake, listening to every breath, and envying the nurse that might gaze on himundisturbed; nor would she allow any sustenance that he was orderedto be prepared by any but her own fair, fond hands; and she brought itherself even to his door. For Ferdinand himself, though his replies tothe physician sufficiently attested the healthy calmness of his mind, heindeed otherwise never spoke, but lay on his bed without repining, and seemingly plunged in mild and pensive abstraction. At length, onemorning he enquired for Glastonbury, who, with the sanction of thephysician, immediately attended him. 

When he met the eye of that faithful friend he tried to extend his hand. It was so wan that Glastonbury trembled while he touched it. 

'I have given you much trouble, ' he said, in a faint voice. 

'I think only of the happiness of your recovery, ' said Glastonbury. 

'Yes, I am recovered, ' murmured Ferdinand; 'it was not my wish. '

'Oh! be grateful to God for this great mercy, my Ferdinand. '

'You have heard nothing?' enquired Ferdinand. 

Glastonbury shook his head. 

'Fear not to speak; I can struggle no more. I am resigned. I am verymuch changed. '

'You will be happy, dear Ferdinand, ' said Glastonbury, to whom this moodgave hopes. 

'Never, ' he said, in a more energetic tone; 'never. '

'There are so many that love you, ' said Glastonbury, leading histhoughts to his family. 

'Love!' exclaimed Ferdinand, with a sigh, and in a tone almostreproachful. 

'Your dear mother, ' said Glastonbury. 

'Yes! my dear mother, ' replied Ferdinand, musingly. Then in a quickertone, 'Does she know of my illness? Did you write to them?'

'She knows of it. '

'She will be coming, then. I dread her coming. I can bear to see no one. You, dear Glastonbury, you; it is a consolation to see you, because youhave seen, ' and here his voice faltered, 'you have seen--her. '

'My Ferdinand, think only of your health; and happiness, believe me, will yet be yours. '

'If you could only find out where she is, ' continued Ferdinand, 'and goto her. Yes! my dear Glastonbury, good, dear, Glastonbury, go to her, 'he added in an imploring tone; 'she would believe you; everyone believesyou. I cannot go; I am powerless; and if I went, alas! she would notbelieve me. '

'It is my wish to do everything you desire, ' said Glastonbury, 'I shouldbe content to be ever labouring for your happiness. But I can do nothingunless you are calm. '

'I am calm; I will be calm; I will act entirely as you wish; only Ibeseech you see her. '

'On that head let us at present say no more, ' replied Glastonbury, whofeared that excitement might lead to relapse; yet anxious to soothehim, he added, 'Trust in my humble services ever, and in the bounty of amerciful Providence. '

'I have had frightful dreams, ' said Ferdinand. 'I thought I was in afarm-house; everything was so clear, so vivid. Night after night sheseemed to me sitting on this bed. I touched her; her hand was in mine;it was so burning hot! Once, oh! once, once I thought she had forgivenme!'

'Hush! hush! hush!'

'No more: we will speak of her no more. When comes my mother?'

'You may see her to-morrow, or the day after. '

'Ah! Glastonbury, she is here. '

'She is. '

'Is she alone?'

'Your father is with her. '

'My mother and my father. It is well. ' Then, after a minute's pause, headded with some earnestness, 'Do not deceive me, Glastonbury; see whatdeceit has brought me to. Are you sure that they are quite alone?'

'There are none here but your dearest friends; none whose presenceshould give you the slightest care. '

'There is one, ' said Ferdinand. 

'Dear Ferdinand, let me now leave you, or sit by your side in silence. To-morrow you will see your mother. '

'To-morrow! Ah! to-morrow. Once to me tomorrow was brighter even thanto-day. ' He turned his back and spoke no more. Glastonbury glided out ofthe room. 

CHAPTER XII. 

 _Containing the Intimation of a Somewhat Mysterious Adventure_. 

IT WAS absolutely necessary that Lady Armine's interview with her sonbe confined merely to observations about his health. Any allusion tothe past might not only produce a relapse of his fever, but occasionexplanations, at all times most painful, but at the present full ofdifficulty and danger. It was therefore with feelings of no commonanxiety that Glastonbury prepared the mother for this first visit toher son, and impressed upon her the absolute necessity of not making anyallusion at present to Miss Grandison, and especially to her presence inthe house. He even made for this purpose a sort of half-confidant of thephysician, who, in truth, had heard enough during the fever to excitehis suspicions; but this is a class of men essentially discreet, and itis well, for few are the family secrets ultimately concealed from them. 

The interview occurred without any disagreeable results. The next day, Ferdinand saw his father for a few minutes. In a short time, Lady Arminewas established as nurse to her son; Sir Ratcliffe, easy in mind, amused himself with his sports; and Glastonbury devoted himself to MissGrandison. The intimacy, indeed, between the tutor of Ferdinand and hisintended bride became daily more complete, and Glastonbury was almosther inseparable companion. She found him a very interesting one. Hewas the most agreeable guide amid all the haunts of Armine and itsneighbourhood, and drove her delightfully in Lady Armine's pony phaeton. He could share, too, all her pursuits, and open to her many new ones. Though time had stolen something of its force from the voice of AdrianGlastonbury, it still was wondrous sweet; his musical accomplishmentswere complete; and he could guide the pencil or prepare the herbal, andindite fair stanzas in his fine Italian handwriting in a lady's album. All his collections, too, were at Miss Grandison's service. She handledwith rising curiosity his medals, copied his choice drawings, and evenbegan to study heraldry. His interesting conversation, his mild andbenignant manners, his captivating simplicity, and the elegant purity ofhis mind, secured her confidence and won her heart. She loved him as afather, and he soon exercised over her an influence almost irresistible. 

Every morning as soon as he awoke, every evening before he composedhimself again for the night's repose, Ferdinand sent for Glastonbury, and always saw him alone. At first he requested his mother to leavethe room, but Lady Armine, who attributed these regular visits to aspiritual cause, scarcely needed the expression of this desire. Hisfirst questions to Glastonbury were ever the same. 'Had he heardanything? Were there any letters? He thought there might be a letter, was he sure? Had he sent to Bath; to London, for his letters?' When hewas answered in the negative, he usually dwelt no more upon the subject. One morning he said to Glastonbury, 'I know Katherine is in the house. '

'Miss Grandison _is_ here, ' replied Glastonbury. 

'Why don't they mention her? Is all known?'

'Nothing is known, ' said Glastonbury. 

'Why don't they mention her, then? Are you sure all is not known?'

'At my suggestion, her name has not been mentioned. I was unaware howyou might receive the intelligence; but the true cause of my suggestionis still a secret. '

'I must see her, ' said Ferdinand, 'I must speak to her. '

'You can see her when you please, ' replied Glastonbury; 'but I would notspeak upon the great subject at present. '

'But she is existing all this time under a delusion. Every day makes myconduct to her more infamous. '

'Miss Grandison is a wise and most admirable young lady, ' saidGlastonbury. 'I love her from the bottom of my heart; I would recommendno conduct that could injure her, assuredly none that can disgrace you. '

'Dear Glastonbury, what shall I do?'

'Be silent; the time will come when you may speak. At present, howeveranxious she may be to see you, there are plausible reasons for your notmeeting. Be patient, my Ferdinand. '

'Good Glastonbury, good, dear Glastonbury, I am too quick and fretful. Pardon me, dear friend. You know not what I feel. Thank God, you do not;but my heart is broken. '

When Glastonbury returned to the library, he found Sir Ratcliffe playingwith his dogs, and Miss Grandison copying a drawing. 

'How is Ferdinand?' enquired the father. 

'He mends daily, ' replied Glastonbury. 'If only May-day were at handinstead of Christmas, he would soon be himself again; but I dread thewinter. '

'And yet the sun shines. ' said Miss Grandison. 

Glastonbury went to the window and looked at the sky. 'I think, my dearlady, we might almost venture upon our promised excursion to the Abbeytoday. Such a day as this may not quickly be repeated. We might take oursketch-book. '

'It would be delightful, ' said Miss Grandison; 'but before I go, I mustpick some flowers for Ferdinand. ' So saying, she sprang from her seat, and ran out into the garden. 

'Kate is a sweet creature, ' said Sir Ratcliffe to Glastonbury. 'Ah!my dear Glastonbury, you know not what happiness I experience in thethought that she will soon be my daughter. '

Glastonbury could not refrain from sighing. He took up the pencil andtouched her drawing. 

'Do you know, dear Glastonbury, ' resumed Sir Ratcliffe, 'I had littlehope in our late visitation. I cannot say I had prepared myself forthe worst, but I anticipated it. We have had so much unhappiness in ourfamily, that I could not persuade myself that the cup was not going tobe dashed from our lips. '

'God is merciful, ' said Glastonbury. 

'You are his minister, dear Glastonbury, and a worthy one. I know notwhat we should have done without you in this awful trial; but, indeed, what could I have done throughout life without you?'

'Let us hope that everything is for the best, ' said Glastonbury. 

'And his mother, his poor mother, what would have become of her? Shenever could have survived his loss. As for myself, I would have quittedEngland for ever, and gone into a monastery. '

'Let us only remember that he lives, ' said Glastonbury. 

'And that we shall soon all be happy, ' said Sir Ratcliffe, in a moreanimated tone. 'The future is, indeed, full of solace. But we must takecare of him; he is too rapid in his movements. He has my father's bloodin him, that is clear. I never could well make out why he left Bath sosuddenly, and rushed down in so strange a manner to this place. '

'Youth is impetuous, ' said Glastonbury. 

'It was lucky you were here, Glastonbury. '

'I thank God that I was, ' said Glastonbury, earnestly; then checkinghimself, he added, 'that I have been of any use. '

'You are always of use. What should we do without you? I should long agohave sunk. Ah! Glastonbury, God in his mercy sent you to us. '

'See here, ' said Katherine, entering, her fair cheek glowing withanimation, 'only dahlias, but they will look pretty, and enliven hisroom. Oh! that I might write him a little word, and tell him I am here!Do not you think I might, Mr. Glastonbury?'

'He will know that you are here to-day, ' said Glastonbury. 'To-morrow-----'

'Ah! you always postpone it, ' said Miss Grandison, in a tone halfplayful, half reproachful; 'and yet it is selfish to murmur. It is forhis good that I bear this bereavement, and that thought should consoleme. Heigho!'

Sir Ratcliffe stepped forward and kissed his niece. Glastonbury wasbusied on the drawing: he turned away his face. 

Sir Ratcliffe took up his gun. 'God bless you, dear Kate, ' he said; 'apleasant drive and a choice sketch. We shall meet at dinner. '

'At dinner, dear uncle; and better sport than yesterday. '

'Ha! ha!' said Sir Ratcliffe. 'But Armine is not like Grandison. IfI were in the old preserves, you should have no cause to jeer at mysportsmanship. '

Miss Grandison's good wishes were prophetic: Sir Ratcliffe foundexcellent sport, and returned home very late, and in capital spirits. Itwas the dinner-hour, and yet Katherine and Glastonbury had not returned. He was rather surprised. The shades of evening were fast descending, andthe distant lawns of Armine were already invisible; the low moan of therising wind might be just distinguished; and the coming night promisedto be raw and cloudy, perhaps tempestuous. Sir Ratcliffe stood beforethe crackling fire in the dining-room, otherwise in darkness, but theflame threw a bright yet glancing light upon the Snyders, so that thefigures seemed really to move in the shifting shades, the eye of theinfuriate boar almost to emit sparks of rage, and there wanted butthe shouts of the huntsmen and the panting of the dogs to complete thetumult of the chase. 

Just as Sir Ratcliffe was anticipating some mischance to his absentfriends, and was about to steal upon tip-toe to Lady Armine, who waswith Ferdinand, to consult her, the practised ear of a man who livedmuch in the air caught the distant sound of wheels, and he went out towelcome them. 

'Why, you are late, ' said Sir Ratcliffe, as the phaeton approached thehouse. 'All right, I hope?'

He stepped forward to assist Miss Grandison. The darkness of the eveningprevented him from observing her swollen eyes and agitated countenance. She sprang out of the carriage in silence, and immediately ran up intoher room. As for Glastonbury, he only observed it was very cold, andentered the house with Sir Ratcliffe. 

'This fire is hearty, ' said Glastonbury, warming himself before it:'you have had good sport, I hope? We are not to wait dinner for MissGrandison, Sir Ratcliffe. She will not come down this evening; she isnot very well. '

'Not very well: ah! the cold, I fear. You have been imprudent in stayingso late. I must run and tell Lady Armine. '

'Oblige me, I pray, by not doing so, ' said Glastonbury; 'Miss Grandisonmost particularly requested that she should not be disturbed. '

It was with some difficulty that Glastonbury could contrive that MissGrandison's wishes should be complied with; but at length he succeededin getting Sir Ratcliffe to sit down to dinner, and affecting acheerfulness which was far from his spirit, the hour of ten at lengtharrived, and Glastonbury, before retiring to his tower, paid his eveningvisit to Ferdinand. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

 _In Which the Family Perplexities Rather Increase than Diminish_. 

IF EVER there were a man who deserved a serene and happy life it wasAdrian Glastonbury. He had pursued a long career without injuring oroffending a human being; his character and conduct were alike spotless;he was void of guile; he had never told a falsehood, never beenentangled in the slightest deceit; he was easy in his circumstances;he had no relations to prey upon his purse or his feelings; and, thoughalone in the world, was blessed with such a sweet and benignant temper, gifted with so many resources, and adorned with so many accomplishments, that he appeared to be always employed, amused, and contented. And yet, by a strange contrariety of events, it appeared that this excellentperson was now placed in a situation which is generally the consequenceof impetuous passions not very scrupulous in obtaining their ends. Thatbreast, which heretofore would have shrunk from being analysed onlyfrom the refined modesty of its nature, had now become the depository ofterrible secrets: the day could scarcely pass over without findinghim in a position which rendered equivocation on his part almosta necessity, while all the anxieties inseparable from pecuniaryembarrassments were forced upon his attention, and his feelings wereracked from sympathy with individuals who were bound to him by no othertie, but to whose welfare he felt himself engaged to sacrifice all hispursuits, and devote all his time and labour. And yet he did not murmur, although he had scarcely hope to animate him. In whatever light heviewed coming events, they appeared ominous only of evil. All thathe aimed at now was to soothe and support, and it was his unshakenconfidence in Providence that alone forbade him to despair. 

When he repaired to the Place in the morning he found everything inconfusion. Miss Grandison was very unwell; and Lady Armine, frightenedby the recent danger from which they had escaped, very alarmed. Shecould no longer conceal from Ferdinand that his Katherine was here, andperhaps Lady Armine was somewhat surprised at the calmness with whichher son received the intelligence. But Miss Grandison was not only veryunwell but very obstinate. She would not leave her room, but insistedthat no medical advice should be called in. Lady Armine protested, supplicated, adjured; Miss Grandison appealed to Mr. Glastonbury; andGlastonbury, who was somewhat of a physician, was called in, and wasobliged to assure Lady Armine that Miss Grandison was only sufferingfrom a cold and only required repose. A warm friendship subsistedbetween Lady Armine and her niece. She had always been Katherine'sfavourite aunt, and during the past year there had been urgent reasonswhy Lady Armine should have cherished this predisposition in her favour. Lady Armine was a fascinating person, and all her powers had beenemployed to obtain an influence over the heiress. They had been quitesuccessful. Miss Grandi-son looked forward almost with as much pleasureto being Lady Armine's daughter as her son's bride. The intendedmother-in-law was in turn as warmhearted as her niece was engaging; andeventually Lady Armine loved Katherine for herself alone. 

In a few days, however, Miss Grandison announced that she was quiterecovered, and Lady Armine again devoted her unbroken attention to herson, who was now about to rise for the first time from his bed. Butalthough Miss Grandison was no longer an invalid, it is quite certainthat if the attention of the other members of the family had not been soentirely engrossed, a very great change in her behaviour could not haveescaped their notice. Her flowers and drawings seemed to have lost theirrelish; her gaiety to have deserted her. She passed a great portionof the morning in her room; and although it was announced to her thatFerdinand was aware of her being an inmate of the Place, and that in aday or two they might meet, she scarcely evinced, at this prospect ofresuming his society, so much gratification as might have been expected;and though she daily took care that his chamber should still be providedwith flowers, it might have been remarked that the note she had been soanxious to send him was never written. But how much, under the commonestcourse of circumstances, happens in all domestic circles that is neverobserved or never remarked till the observation is too late!

At length the day arrived when Lady Armine invited her niece to visither son. Miss Grandison expressed her readiness to accompany her aunt, but took an opportunity of requesting Glastonbury to join them; and allthree proceeded to the chamber of the invalid. 

The white curtain of the room was drawn; but though the light wassoftened, the apartment was by no means obscure. Ferdinand was sittingin an easy-chair, supported by pillows. A black handkerchief was justtwined round his forehead, for his head had been shaved, except a fewcurls on the side and front, which looked stark and lustreless. He wasso thin and pale, and his eyes and cheeks were so wan and hollow, thatit was scarcely credible that in so short a space of time a man couldhave become such a wreck. When he saw Katherine he involuntarily droppedhis eyes, but extended his hand to her with some effort of earnestness. She was almost as pale as he, but she took his hand. It was so light andcold, it felt so much like death, that the tears stole down her cheek. 

'You hardly know me, Katherine, ' said Ferdinand, feebly. 'This is goodof you to visit a sick man. '

Miss Grandison could not reply, and Lady Armine made an observation tobreak the awkward pause. 

'And how do you like Armine?' said Ferdinand. 'I wish I could be yourguide. But Glastonbury is so kind!'

A hundred times Miss Grandison tried to reply, to speak, to make thecommonest observation, but it was in vain. She grew paler every moment;her lips moved, but they sent forth no sound. 

'Kate is not well, ' said Lady Armine. 'She has been very unwell. Thisvisit, ' she added in a whisper to Ferdinand, 'is a little too much forher. '

Ferdinand sighed. 

'Mother, ' he at length said, 'you must ask Katherine to come and sithere with you; if indeed she will not feel the imprisonment. '

Miss Grandison turned in her chair, and hid her face with herhandkerchief. 

'My sweet child, ' said Lady Armine, rising and kissing her, 'this is toomuch for you. You really must restrain yourself. Ferdinand will soon behimself again; he will indeed. '

Miss Grandison sobbed aloud. Glastonbury was much distressed, butFerdinand avoided catching his eye; and yet, at last, Ferdinand saidwith an effort, and in a very kind voice, 'Dear Kate, come and sit byme. '

Miss Grandison went into hysterics; Ferdinand sprang from his chair andseized her hand; Lady Armine tried to restrain her son; Glastonbury heldthe agitated Katherine. 

'For God's sake, Ferdinand, be calm, ' exclaimed Lady Armine. 'This ismost unfortunate. Dear, dear Katherine, but she has such a heart! Allthe women have in our family, and none of the men, 'tis so odd. Mr. Glastonbury, water if you please, that glass of water; sal volatile;where is the sal volatile? My own, own Katherine, pray, pray restrainyourself! Ferdinand is here; remember, Ferdinand is here, and he willsoon be well; soon quite well. Believe me, he is already quite anotherthing. There, drink that, darling, drink that. You are better now?'

'I am so foolish, ' said Miss Grandison, in a mournful voice. 'I nevercan pardon myself for this. Let me go. '

Glastonbury bore her out of the room; Lady Armine turned to her son. He was lying back in his chair, his hands covering his eyes. The motherstole gently to him, and wiped tenderly his brow, on which hung thelight drops of perspiration, occasioned by his recent exertion. 

'We have done too much, my own dear Ferdinand. Yet who could haveexpected that dear girl would have been so affected? Glastonbury wasindeed right in preventing you so long from meeting. And yet it is ablessing to see that she has so fond a heart. You are fortunate, myFerdinand: you will indeed be happy with her. '

Ferdinand groaned. 

'I shall never be happy, ' he murmured. 

'Never happy, my Ferdinand! Oh! you must not be so low-spirited. Thinkhow much better you are; think, my Ferdinand, what a change there is forthe better. You will soon be well, dearest, and then, my love, you knowyou cannot help being happy. '

'Mother, ' said Ferdinand, 'you are deceived; you are all deceived:I--I------'

'No! Ferdinand, indeed we are not. I am confident, and I praise God forit, that you are getting better every day. But you have done too much, that is the truth. I will leave you now, love, and send the nurse, formy presence excites you. Try to sleep, love. ' And Lady Armine rang thebell, and quitted the room. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

 _In Which Some Light Is Thrown upon Some Circumstances Which Were Before Rather Mysterious_. 

LADY ARMINE now proposed that the family should meet in Ferdinand's roomafter dinner; but Glastonbury, whose opinion on most subjects generallyprevailed, scarcely approved of this suggestion. It was therefore butonce acted upon during the week that followed the scene described inour last chapter, and on that evening Miss Grandison had so severe aheadache, that it was quite impossible for her to join the circle. Atlength, however, Ferdinand made his appearance below, and establishedhimself in the library: it now, therefore, became absolutely necessarythat Miss Grandison should steel her nerves to the altered state ofher betrothed, which had at first apparently so much affected hersensibility, and, by the united influence of habit and Mr. Glastonbury, it is astonishing what progress she made. She even at last could socommand her feelings, that she apparently greatly contributed to hisamusement. She joined in the family concerts, once even read to him. 

Every morning, too, she brought him a flower, and often offered him herarm. And yet Ferdinand could not resist observing a great differencein her behaviour towards him since he had last quitted her at Bath. Far from conducting herself, as he had nervously apprehended, as ifher claim to be his companion were irresistible, her carriage, on thecontrary, indicated the most retiring disposition; she annoyed him withno expressions of fondness, and listened to the kind words which heoccasionally urged himself to bestow upon her with a sentiment of graveregard and placid silence, which almost filled him with astonishment. 

One morning, the weather being clear and fine, Ferdinand insisted thathis mother, who had as yet scarcely quitted his side, should drive outwith Sir Ratcliffe; and, as he would take no refusal, Lady Armine agreedto comply. The carriage was ordered, was at the door; and as Lady Arminebade him adieu, Ferdinand rose from his seat and took the arm ofMiss Grandison, who seemed on the point of retiring; for Glastonburyremained, and therefore Ferdinand was not without a companion. 

'I will see you go off, ' said Ferdinand. 

'Adieu!' said Lady Armine. 'Take care of him, dear Kate, ' and thephaeton was soon out of sight. 

'It is more like May than January, ' said Ferdinand to his cousin. 'Ifancy I should like to walk a little. '

'Shall I send for Mr. Glastonbury?' said Katherine. 

'Not if my arm be not too heavy for you, ' said Ferdinand. So theywalked slowly on, perhaps some fifty yards, until they arrived at agarden-seat, very near the rose-tree whose flowers Henrietta Temple somuch admired. It had no flowers now, but seemed as desolate as theirunhappy loves. 

[Illustration: page323. Jpg]

'A moment's rest, ' said Ferdinand, and sighed. 'Dear Kate, I wish tospeak to you. '

Miss Grandison turned pale. 

'I have something on my mind, Katherine, of which I would endeavour torelieve myself. '

Miss Grandison did not reply, but she trembled. 'It concerns you, Katherine. '

Still she was silent, and expressed no astonishment at this strangeaddress. 

'If I were anything now but an object of pity, a miserable andbroken-hearted man, ' continued Ferdinand, 'I might shrink from thiscommunication; I might delegate to another this office, humiliating asit then might be to me, painful as it must, under any circumstances, be to you. But, ' and here his voice faltered, 'but I am far beyond thepower of any mortification now. The world and the world's ways touch meno more. There is a duty to fulfil; I will fulfil it. I have offendedagainst you, my sweet and gentle cousin; grievously, bitterly, infamously offended. '

'No, no, no!' murmured Miss Grandison. 

'Katherine, I am unworthy of you; I have deceived you. It is neitherfor your honour nor your happiness that these ties which our friendsanticipate should occur between us. But, Katherine, you are avenged. '

'Oh! I want no vengeance!' muttered Miss Grandison, her face pale asmarble, her eyes convulsively closed. 'Cease, cease, Ferdinand; thisconversation is madness; you will be ill again. '

'No, Katherine, I am calm. Fear not for me. There is much to tell;it must be told, if only that you should not believe that I was asystematic villain, or that my feelings were engaged to another when Ibreathed to you those vows. '

'Oh! anything but that; speak of anything but that!'

Ferdinand took her hand. 

'Katherine, listen to me. I honour you, my gentle cousin, I admire, Iesteem you; I could die content if I could but see you happy. With yourcharms and virtues I thought that we might be happy. My intentions wereas sincere as my belief in our future felicity. Oh! no, dear Katherine, I could not trifle with so pure and gentle a bosom. '

'Have I accused you, Ferdinand?'

'But you will when you know all. '

'I do know all, ' said Miss Grandison, in a hollow voice. 

Her hand fell from the weak and trembling grasp of her cousin. 

'You do know all, ' he at length exclaimed. 'And can you, knowing all, live under the same roof with me? Can you see me? Can you listen to me?Is not my voice torture to you? Do you not hate and despise me?'

'It is not my nature to hate anything; least of all could I hate you. '

'And could you, knowing all, still minister to my wants and watch my sadnecessities? This gentle arm of yours; could you, knowing all, let melean upon it this morning? O Katherine! a happy lot be yours, for youdeserve one!'

'Ferdinand, I have acted as duty, religion, and it may be, some otherconsiderations prompted me. My feelings have not been so much consideredthat they need now be analysed. '

'Reproach me, Katherine, I deserve _your_ reproaches. '

'Mine may not be the only reproaches that you have deserved, Ferdinand;but permit me to remark, from me you have received none. I pity you, Isincerely pity you. '

'Glastonbury has told you?' said Ferdinand. 

'That communication is among the other good offices we owe him, ' repliedMiss Grandison. 

'He told you?' said Ferdinand enquiringly. 

'All that it was necessary I should know for your honour, or, as somemight think, for my own happiness; no more, I would listen to no more. I had no idle curiosity to gratify. It is enough that your heart isanother's; I seek not, I wish not, to know that person's name. '

'I cannot mention it, ' said Ferdinand; 'but there is no secret from you. Glastonbury may--should tell all. '

'Amid the wretched she is not the least miserable, ' said Miss Grandison. 

'O Katherine!' said Ferdinand, after a moment's pause, 'tell me that youdo not hate me; tell me that you pardon me; tell me that you think memore mad than wicked!'

'Ferdinand, ' said Miss Grandison, 'I think we are both unfortunate. '

'I am without hope, ' said Ferdinand; 'but you, Katherine, your life muststill be bright and fair. '

'I can never be happy, Ferdinand, if you are not. I am alone in theworld. Your family are my only relations; I cling to them. Your motheris my mother; I love her with the passion of a child. I looked upon ourunion only as the seal of that domestic feeling that had long bound usall. My happiness now entirely depends upon your family; theirs I feelis staked upon you. It is the conviction of the total desolation thatmust occur if our estrangement be suddenly made known to them, and you, who are so impetuous, decide upon any rash course, in consequence, thathas induced me to sustain the painful part that I now uphold. This isthe reason that I would not reproach you, Ferdinand, that I would notquarrel with you, that I would not desert them in this hour of theiraffliction. '

'Katherine, beloved Katherine!' exclaimed the distracted Ferdinand, 'whydid we ever part?'

'No! Ferdinand, let us not deceive ourselves. For me, that separation, however fruitful at the present moment in mortification and unhappiness, must not be considered altogether an event of unmingled misfortune. Inmy opinion, Ferdinand, it is better to be despised for a moment than tobe neglected for a life. '

'Despised! Katherine, for God's sake, spare me; for God's sake, do notuse such language! Despised! Katherine, at this moment I declare mostsolemnly all that I feel is, how thoroughly, how infamously unworthy Iam of you! Dearest Katherine, we cannot recall the past, we cannot amendit; but let me assure you that at this very hour there is no being onearth I more esteem, more reverence than yourself. '

'It is well, Ferdinand. I would not willingly believe that your feelingstowards me were otherwise than kind and generous. But let us understandeach other. I shall remain at present under this roof. Do notmisapprehend my views. I seek not to recall your affections. The pasthas proved to me that we are completely unfitted for each other. Ihave not those dazzling qualities that could enchain a fiery brain likeyours. I know myself; I know you; and there is nothing that would fillme with more terror now than our anticipated union. And now, afterthis frank conversation, let our future intercourse be cordial andunembarrassed; let us remember we are kinsfolk. The feelings between usshould by nature be amiable: no incident has occurred to disturb them, for I have not injured or offended you; and as for your conduct towardsme, from the bottom of my heart I pardon and forget it. '

'Katherine, ' said Ferdinand, with streaming eyes, 'kindest, mostgenerous of women! My heart is too moved, my spirit too broken, toexpress what I feel. We are kinsfolk; let us be more. You say my motheris your mother. Let me assert the privilege of that admission. Let me bea brother to you; you shall find me, if I live, a faithful one. '

CHAPTER XV. 

 _Which Leaves Affairs in General in a Scarcely More Satisfactory Position than the Former One_. 

FERDINAND felt much calmer in his mind after this conversation with hiscousin. Her affectionate attention to him now, instead of filling him asit did before with remorse, was really a source of consolation, if thatbe not too strong a phrase to describe the state of one so thoroughlywretched as Captain Armine; for his terrible illness and impending deathhad not in the slightest degree allayed or affected his profound passionfor Henrietta Temple. Her image unceasingly engaged his thoughts; hestill clung to the wild idea that she might yet be his. But his healthimproved so slowly, that there was faint hope of his speedily takingany steps to induce such a result. All his enquiries after her, andGlastonbury, at his suggestion, had not been idle, were quite fruitless. He made no doubt that she had quitted England. What might not happen, far away from him, and believing herself betrayed and deserted? Oftenwhen he brooded over these terrible contingencies, he regretted hisrecovery. 

Yet his family, thanks to the considerate conduct of his admirablecousin, were still contented and happy. His slow convalescence was nowtheir only source of anxiety. They regretted the unfavourable season ofthe year; they looked forward with hope to the genial influence of thecoming spring. That was to cure all their cares; and yet they mightwell suspect, when they watched his ever pensive, and often sufferingcountenance, that there were deeper causes than physical debility andbodily pain to account for that moody and woe-begone expression. Alas!how changed from that Ferdinand Armine, so full of hope, and courage, and youth, and beauty, that had burst on their enraptured vision on hisreturn from Malta. Where was that gaiety now that made all eyes sparkle, that vivacious spirit that kindled energy in every bosom? How miserableto see him crawling about with a wretched stick, with his thin, paleface, and tottering limbs, and scarcely any other pursuit than to creepabout the pleasaunce, where, when the day was fair, his servant wouldplace a camp-stool opposite the cedar tree where he had first beheldHenrietta Temple; and there he would sit, until the unkind winter breezewould make him shiver, gazing on vacancy; yet peopled to his mind's eyewith beautiful and fearful apparitions. 

And it is love, it is the most delightful of human passions, that canbring about such misery! Why will its true course never run smooth? Isthere a spell over our heart, that its finest emotions should lead onlyto despair? When Ferdinand Armine, in his reveries, dwelt upon the past;when he recalled the hour that he had first seen her, her first glance, the first sound of her voice, his visit to Ducie, all the passionatescenes to which it led, those sweet wanderings through its enchantedbowers, those bright mornings, so full of expectation that was neverbaulked, those soft eyes, so redolent of tenderness that could nevercease; when from the bright, and glowing, and gentle scenes his memoryconjured up, and all the transport and the thrill that surroundedthem like an atmosphere of love, he turned to his shattered andbroken-hearted self, the rigid heaven above, and what seemed to hisperhaps unwise and ungrateful spirit, the mechanical sympathy andcommon-place affection of his companions, it was as if he had wakenedfrom some too vivid and too glorious dream, or as if he had fallen fromsome brighter and more favoured planet upon our cold, dull earth. 

And yet it would seem the roof of Armine Place protected a family thatmight yield to few in the beauty and engaging qualities of its inmates, their happy accomplishments, their kind and cordial hearts. And all weredevoted to him. It was on him alone the noble spirit of his father dweltstill with pride and joy: it was to soothe and gratify him that hischarming mother exerted all her graceful care and all her engaginggifts. It was for him, and his sake, the generous heart of his cousinhad submitted to mortification without a murmur, or indulged herunhappiness only in solitude; and it was for him that Glastonburyexercised a devotion that might alone induce a man to think withcomplacency both of his species and himself. But the heart, the heart, the jealous and despotic heart! It rejects all substitutes, it spurnsall compromise, and it will have its purpose or it will break. 

BOOK V. 

CHAPTER I. 

 _Containing the Appearance on Our Stage of a New and Important Character_. 

THE Marquis of Montfort was the grandson of that nobleman who had beenGlastonbury's earliest patron. The old duke had been dead some years;his son had succeeded to his title, and Digby, that youth whom thereader may recollect was about the same age as Ferdinand Armine, and washis companion during the happy week in London which preceded his firstmilitary visit to the Mediterranean, now bore the second title of thefamily. 

The young marquis was an excellent specimen of a class inferior intalents, intelligence, and accomplishments, in public spirit andin private virtues, to none in the world, the English nobility. Hiscomplete education had been carefully conducted; and although hisreligious creed, for it will be remembered he was a Catholic, haddeprived him of the advantage of matriculating at an English university, the zeal of an able and learned tutor, and the resources of a GermanAlma Mater, had afforded every opportunity for the development of hisconsiderable talents. Nature had lavished upon him other gifts besideshis distinguished intelligence and his amiable temper: his personalbeauty was remarkable, and his natural grace was not less evident thanhis many acquired accomplishments. 

On quitting the University of Bonn, Lord Montfort had passed severalyears on the continent of Europe, and had visited and resided at most ofits courts and capitals, an admired and cherished guest; for, debarredat the period of our story from occupying the seat of his ancestors inthe senate, his native country offered no very urgent claims upon hispresence. He had ultimately fixed upon Rome as his principal residence, for he was devoted to the arts, and in his palace were collected some ofthe rarest specimens of ancient and modern invention. 

At Pisa, Lord Montfort had made the acquaintance of Mr. Temple, who wasresiding in that city for the benefit of his daughter's health, who, itwas feared by her physicians, was in a decline. I say the acquaintanceof Mr. Temple; for Lord Montfort was aware of the existence of hisdaughter only by the occasional mention of her name, as Miss Temple wasnever seen. The agreeable manners, varied information, and accomplishedmind of Mr. Temple, had attracted and won the attention of the youngnobleman, who shrank in general from the travelling English, and alltheir arrogant ignorance. Mr. Temple was in turn equally pleased witha companion alike refined, amiable, and enlightened; and theiracquaintance would have ripened into intimacy, had not the illnessof Henrietta and her repugnance to see a third person, and theunwillingness of her father that she should be alone, offered in somedegree a bar to its cultivation. 

Yet Henrietta was glad that her father had found a friend and wasamused, and impressed upon him not to think of her, but to accept LordMontfort's invitations to his villa. But Mr. Temple invariably declinedthem. 

'I am always uneasy when I am away from you, dearest, ' said Mr. Temple;'I wish you would go about a little. Believe me, it is not for myselfthat I make the suggestion, but I am sure you would derive benefit fromthe exertion. I wish you would go with me and see Lord Montfort's villa. There would be no one there but himself. He would not in the least annoyyou, he is so quiet; and he and I could stroll about and look at thebusts and talk to each other. You would hardly know he was present, heis such a very quiet person. '

Henrietta shook her head; and Mr. Temple could not urge the request. 

Fate, however, had decided that Lord Montfort and Henrietta Templeshould become acquainted. She had more than once expressed a wish tosee the Campo Santo; it was almost the only wish that she had expressedsince she left England. Her father, pleased to find that anything couldinterest her, was in the habit of reminding her of this desire, andsuggesting that she should gratify it. But there was ever an excuse forprocrastination. When the hour of exertion came, she would say, with afaint smile, 'Not to-day, dearest papa;' and then, arranging her shawl, as if even in this soft clime she shivered, composed herself upon thatsofa which now she scarcely ever quitted. 

And this was Henrietta Temple! That gay and glorious being, so full ofgraceful power and beautiful energy, that seemed born for a throne, and to command a nation of adoring subjects! What are those politicalrevolutions, whose strange and mighty vicissitudes we are ever dilatingon, compared with the moral mutations that are passing daily under ourown eye; uprooting the hearts of families, shattering to piecesdomestic circles, scattering to the winds the plans and prospects of ageneration, and blasting as with a mildew the ripening harvest of longcherished affection!

'It is here that I would be buried, ' said Henrietta Temple. 

They were standing, the father and the daughter, in the Campo Santo. Shehad been gayer that morning; her father had seized a happy moment, andshe had gone forth, to visit the dead. 

That vast and cloistered cemetery was silent and undisturbed; not ahuman being was there, save themselves and the keeper. The sun shonebrightly on the austere and ancient frescoes, and Henrietta stoodopposite that beautiful sarcophagus, that seemed prepared and fitting toreceive her destined ashes. 

'It is here that I would be buried, ' said she. 

Her father almost unconsciously turned his head to gaze upon thecountenance of his daughter, to see if there were indeed reason that sheshould talk of death. That countenance was changed since the momentwe first feebly attempted to picture it. That flashing eye had lostsomething of its brilliancy, that superb form something of its roundnessand its stag-like state; the crimson glory of that mantling cheek hadfaded like the fading eve; and yet it might be thought, it might besuffering, perhaps, the anticipation of approaching death, and as itwere the imaginary contact with a serener existence, but certainly therewas a more spiritual expression diffused over the whole appearance ofHenrietta Temple, and which by many might be preferred even to that morelively and glowing beauty which, in her happier hours, made her the veryqueen of flowers and sunshine. 

'It is strange, dear papa, ' she continued, 'that my first visit shouldbe to a cemetery. '

At this moment their attention was attracted by the sound of the distantgates of the cemetery opening, and several persons soon entered. Thisparty consisted of some of the authorities of the city and some porters, bearing on a slab of verd antique a magnificent cinerary vase, that wasabout to be placed in the Campo. In reply to his enquiries, Mr. Templelearned that the vase had been recently excavated in Catania, and thatit had been purchased and presented to the Campo by the Marquis ofMontfort. Henrietta would have hurried her father away, but with all herhaste they had not reached the gates before Lord Montfort appeared. 

Mr. Temple found it impossible, although Henrietta pressed his arm intoken of disapprobation, not to present Lord Montfort to his daughter. He then admired his lordship's urn, and then his lordship requested thathe might have the pleasure of showing it to them himself. They turned;Lord Montfort explained to them its rarity, and pointed out to themits beauty. His voice was soft and low, his manner simple but ratherreserved. While he paid that deference to Henrietta which her sexdemanded, he addressed himself chiefly to her father. She was not halfso much annoyed as she had imagined; she agreed with her father thathe was a very quiet man; she was even a little interested by hisconversation, which was refined and elegant; and she was pleased thathe did not seem to require her to play any part in the discourse, butappeared quite content in being her father's friend. Lord Montfortseemed to be attached to her father, and to appreciate him. And this wasalways a recommendation to Henrietta Temple. 

The cinerary urn led to a little controversy between Mr. Temple and hisfriend; and Lord Montfort wished that Mr. Temple would some day call onhim at his house in the Lung' Arno, and he would show him some specimenswhich he thought might influence his opinion. 'I hardly dare to ask youto come now, ' said his lordship, looking at Miss Temple; 'and yet MissTemple might like to rest. '

It was evident to Henrietta that her father would be pleased to go, andyet that he was about to refuse for her sake. She could not bear that heshould be deprived of so much and such refined amusement, and be doomedto an uninteresting morning at home, merely to gratify her humour. Shetried to speak, but could not at first command her voice; at lengthshe expressed her wish that Mr. Temple should avail himself of theinvitation. Lord Montfort bowed lowly, Mr. Temple seemed gratified, andthey all turned together and quitted the cemetery. 

As they walked along to the house, conversation did not flag. LordMontfort expressed his admiration of Pisa. 'Silence and art are twogreat charms, ' said his lordship. 

At length they arrived at his palace. A venerable Italian receivedthem. They passed through a vast hall, in which were statues, ascendeda magnificent double staircase, and entered a range of saloons. One ofthem was furnished with more attention to comfort than an Italian caresfor, and herein was the cabinet of urns and vases his lordship hadmentioned. 

'This is little more than a barrack, ' said Lord Montfort; 'but I canfind a sofa for Miss Temple. ' So saying, he arranged with great care thecushions of the couch, and, when she seated herself, placed a footstoolnear her. 'I wish you would allow me some day to welcome you at Rome, 'said the young marquis. 'It is there that I indeed reside. '

Lord Montfort and Mr. Temple examined the contents of the cabinet. Therewas one vase which Mr. Temple greatly admired for the elegance of itsform. His host immediately brought it and placed it on a small pedestalnear Miss Temple. Yet he scarcely addressed himself to her, andHenrietta experienced none of that troublesome attention from which, inthe present state of her health and mind, she shrank. While Mr. Templewas interested with his pursuit, Lord Montfort went to a small cabinetopposite, and brought forth a curious casket of antique gems. 'Perhaps, 'he said, placing it by Miss Temple, 'the contents of this casket mightamuse you;' and he walked away to her father. 

In the course of an hour a servant brought in some fruits and wine. 

'The grapes are from my villa, ' said Lord Montfort. 'I ventured to orderthem, because I have heard their salutary effects have been marvellous. Besides, at this season, even in Italy they are rare. At least \ youcannot accuse me of prescribing a disagreeable remedy, ' he added with aslight smile, as he handed a plate to Miss Temple. She moved to receivethem. Her cushions slipped from behind her, Lord Montfort immediatelyarranged them with skill and care. He was so kind that she really wishedto thank him; but before she could utter a word he was again conversingwith her father. 

At length Mr. Temple indicated his intention to retire, and spoke to hisdaughter. 

'This has been a great exertion for you, Henrietta, ' he said; 'this hasindeed been a busy day. '

'I am not wearied; and we have been much pleased. ' It was the firmesttone in which she had spoken for a long time. There was something inher manner which recalled to Mr. Temple her vanished animation. Theaffectionate father looked for a moment happy. The sweet music of thesesimple words dwelt on his ear. 

He went forward and assisted Henrietta to rise. She closed the casketwith care, and delivered it herself to her considerate host. Mr. Templebade him adieu; Henrietta bowed, and nearly extended her hand. LordMontfort attended them to the gate; a carriage was waiting there. 

'Ah! we have kept your lordship at home, ' said Mr. Temple. 

'I took the liberty of ordering the carriage for Miss Temple, ' hereplied. 'I feel a little responsible for her kind exertion to-day. '

CHAPTER II. 

 _In Which Lord Montfort Contrives That Miss Temple Should be Left Alone_. 

AND how do you like my friend, Henrietta?' said Mr. Temple, as theydrove home. 

'I like your friend much, papa. He is quite as quiet as you said; he isalmost the only person I have seen since I quitted England who has notjarred my nerves. I felt quite sorry that I had so long prevented youboth from cultivating each other's acquaintance. He does not interferewith me in the least. '

'I wish I had asked him to look in upon us in the evening, ' said Mr. Temple, rather enquiringly. 

'Not to-day, ' said Henrietta. 'Another day, dearest papa. '

The next day Lord Montfort sent a note to Mr. Temple, to enquire afterhis daughter, and to impress upon him the importance of her eatinghis grapes. His servant left a basket. The rest of the note was aboutcinerary urns. Mr. Temple, while he thanked him, assured him of thepleasure it would give both his daughter and himself to see him in theevening. 

This was the first invitation to his house that Mr. Temple had venturedto give him, though they had now known each other some time. 

In the evening Lord Montfort appeared. Henrietta was lying on her sofa, and her father would not let her rise. Lord Montfort had brought Mr. Temple some English journals, which he had received from Leghorn. The gentlemen talked a little on foreign politics; and discussed thecharacter of several of the most celebrated foreign ministers. LordMontfort gave an account of his visit to Prince Esterhazy. Henriettawas amused. German politics and society led to German literature. LordMontfort, on this subject, seemed completely informed. Henrietta couldnot refrain from joining in a conversation for which she was fullyqualified. She happened to deplore her want of books. Lord Montforthad a library; but it was at Rome: no matter; it seemed that he thoughtnothing of sending to Rome. He made a note very quietly of some booksthat Henrietta expressed a wish to see, and begged that Mr. Temple wouldsend the memorandum to his servant. 

'But surely to-morrow will do, ' said Mr. Temple. 'Rome is too far tosend to this evening. '

'That is an additional reason for instant departure, ' said his lordshipcalmly. 

Mr. Temple summoned a servant. 

'Send this note to my house, ' said his lordship. 'My courier will bringus the books in four days, ' he added, turning to Miss Temple. 'I amsorry you should have to wait, but at Pisa I really have nothing. '

From this day Lord Montfort passed every evening at Mr. Temple's house. His arrival never disturbed Miss Temple; she remained on the sofa. Ifshe spoke to him he was always ready to converse with her, yet he neverobtruded his society. He seemed perfectly contented with the company ofher father. Yet with all this calmness and reserve, there was no airof affected indifference, no intolerable nonchalance; he was alwaysattentive, always considerate, often kind. However apparently engagedwith her father, it seemed that his vigilance anticipated all her wants. If she moved, he was at her side; if she required anything, it wouldappear that he read her thoughts, for it was always offered. She foundher sofa arranged as if by magic. And if a shawl were for a momentmissing, Lord Montfort always knew where it had been placed. In themeantime, every morning brought something for the amusement of Mr. Temple and his daughter; books, prints, drawings, newspapers, journalsof all countries, and caricatures from Paris and London, were mingledwith engravings of Henrietta's favourite Campo Santo. 

One evening Mr. Temple and his guest were speaking of a celebratedProfessor of the University. Lord Montfort described his extraordinaryacquirements and discoveries, and his rare simplicity. He was one ofthose eccentric geniuses that are sometimes found in decayed citieswith ancient institutions of learning. Henrietta was interested in hisdescription. Almost without thought she expressed a wish to see him. 

'He shall come to-morrow, ' said Lord Montfort, 'if you please. Believeme, ' he added, in a tone of great kindness, 'that if you could prevailupon yourself to cultivate Italian society a little, it would repayyou. '

The professor was brought. Miss Temple was much entertained. In a fewdays he came again, and introduced a friend scarcely less distinguished. The society was so easy, that even Henrietta found it no burthen. Sheremained upon her sofa; the gentlemen drank their coffee and conversed. One morning Lord Montfort had prevailed upon her to visit the studioof a celebrated sculptor. The artist was full of enthusiasm for hispursuit, and showed them with pride his great work, a Diana that mighthave made one envy Endymion. The sculptor declared it was the perfectresemblance of Miss Temple, and appealed to her father. Mr. Temple couldnot deny the striking likeness. Miss Temple smiled; she looked almostherself again; even the reserved Lord Montfort was in raptures. 

'Oh! it is very like, ' said his lordship. 'Yes! now it is exactly like. Miss Temple does not often smile; but now one would believe she reallywas the model. '

They were bidding the sculptor farewell. 

'Do you like him?' whispered Lord Montfort of Miss Temple. 

'Extremely; he is full of ideas. '

'Shall I ask him to come to you this evening?'

'Yes, do!'

And so it turned out that in time Henrietta found herself the centre ofa little circle of eminent and accomplished men. Her health improvedas she brooded less over her sorrows. It gratified her to witnessthe pleasure of her father. She was not always on her sofa now. LordMontfort had sent her an English chair, which suited her delightfully. 

They even began to take drives with him in the country an hour or sobefore sunset. The country around Pisa is rich as well as picturesque;and their companion always contrived that there should be an object intheir brief excursions. He spoke, too, the dialect of the country; andthey paid, under his auspices, a visit to a Tuscan farmer. All this wasagreeable; even Henrietta was persuaded that it was better than stayingat home. The variety of pleasing objects diverted her mind in spite ofherself. She had some duties to perform in this world yet remaining. There was her father: her father who had been so devoted to her, who hadnever uttered a single reproach to her for all her faults and follies, and who, in her hour of tribulation, had clung to her with suchfidelity. Was it not some source of satisfaction to see him againcomparatively happy? How selfish for her to mar this graceful andinnocent enjoyment! She exerted herself to contribute to the amusementof her father and his kind friend, as well as to share it. The colourreturned a little to her cheek; sometimes she burst for a moment intosomething like her old gaiety; and though these ebullitions were oftenfollowed by a gloom and moodiness, against which she found it in vain tocontend, still, on the whole, the change for the better was decided, andMr. Temple yet hoped that in time his sight might again be blessed andhis life illustrated by his own brilliant Henrietta. 

CHAPTER III. 

 _In Which Mr. Temple and His Daughter, with Their New Friend, Make an Unexpected Excursion_. 

ONE delicious morning, remarkable even in the south, Lord Montfortcalled upon them in his carriage, and proposed a little excursion. Mr. Temple looked at his daughter, and was charmed that Henrietta consented. She rose from her seat, indeed, with unwonted animation, and the threefriends had soon quitted the city and entered its agreeable environs. 

'It was wise to pass the winter in Italy, ' said Lord Montfort, 'but tosee Tuscany in perfection I should choose the autumn. I know nothingmore picturesque than the carts laden with grapes, and drawn bymilk-white steers. '

They drove gaily along at the foot of green hills, crowned ever andanon by a convent or a beautiful stone-pine. The landscape attracted theadmiration of Miss Temple. A palladian villa rose from the bosom of agentle elevation, crowned with these picturesque trees. A broad terraceof marble extended in front of the villa, on which were ranged orangetrees. On either side spread an olive-grove. The sky was withouta cloud, and deeply blue; bright beams of the sun illuminated thebuilding. The road had wound so curiously into this last branch of theApennines, that the party found themselves in a circus of hills, clothedwith Spanish chestnuts and olive trees, from which there was apparentlyno outlet. A soft breeze, which it was evident had passed over the wildflowers of the mountains, refreshed and charmed their senses. 

'Could you believe we were only two hours' drive from a city?' said LordMontfort. 

'Indeed, ' said Henrietta, 'if there be peace in this world, one wouldthink that the dweller in that beautiful villa enjoyed it. '

'He has little to disturb him, ' said Lord Montfort: 'thanks to hisdestiny and his temper. '

'I believe we make our miseries, ' said Henrietta, with a sigh. 'Afterall, nature always offers us consolation. But who lives here?'

'I sometimes steal to this spot, ' replied his lordship. 

'Oh! this, then, is your villa? Ah! you have surprised us!'

'I only aimed to amuse you. '

'You are very kind, Lord Montfort, ' said Mr. Temple; 'and we owe youmuch. '

They stopped, they ascended the terrace, they entered the villa. A fewrooms only were furnished, but their appearance indicated the taste andpursuits of its occupier. Busts and books were scattered about; a tablewas covered with the implements of art; and the principal apartmentopened into an English garden. 

'This is one of my native tastes, ' said Lord Montfort, 'that will, Ithink, never desert me. '

The memory of Henrietta was recalled to the flowers of Ducie and ofArmine. Amid all the sweets and sunshine she looked sad. She walked awayfrom her companions; she seated herself on the terrace; her eyes weresuffused with tears. Lord Montfort took the arm of Mr. Temple, and ledhim away to a bust of Germanicus. 

'Let me show it to Henrietta, ' said Mr. Temple; 'I must fetch her. '

Lord Montfort laid his hand gently on his companion. The emotion ofHenrietta had not escaped his quick eye. 

'Miss Temple has made a great exertion, ' he said. 'Do not think mepedantic, but I am something of a physician. I have long perceivedthat, although Miss Temple should be amused, she must sometimes be leftalone. '

Mr. Temple looked at his companion, but the countenance of Lord Montfortwas inscrutable. His lordship offered him a medal and then opened aportfolio of Marc Antonios. 

'These are very rare, ' said Lord Montfort; 'I bring them into thecountry with me, for really at Rome there is no time to study them. By-the-bye, I have a plan, ' continued his lordship, in a somewhathesitating tone; 'I wish I could induce you and Miss Temple to visit meat Rome. '

Mr. Temple shrugged his shoulders, and sighed. 

'I feel confident that a residence at Rome would benefit Miss Temple, 'said his lordship, in a voice a little less calm than usual. 'There ismuch to see, and I would take care that she should see it in a mannerwhich would not exhaust her. It is the most delightful climate, too, atthis period. The sun shines here to-day, but the air of these hills atthis season is sometimes treacherous. A calm life, with a variety ofobjects, is what she requires. Pisa is calm, but for her it is too dull. Believe me, there is something in the blended refinement and interestof Rome that she would find exceedingly beneficial. She would see no onebut ourselves; society shall be at her command if she desire it. '

'My dear lord, ' said Mr. Temple, 'I thank you from the bottom of myheart for all your considerate sympathy; but I cannot flatter myselfthat Henrietta could avail herself of your really friendly offer. Mydaughter is a great invalid. She------'

But here Miss Temple joined them. 

'We have a relic of a delicate temple here, ' said Lord Montfort, directing her gaze to another window. 'You see it now to advantage;the columns glitter in the sun. There, perhaps, was worshipped somewood-nymph, or some river-god. '

The first classic ruin that she had yet beheld attracted the attentionof Miss Temple. It was not far, and she acceded to the propositionof Lord Montfort to visit it. That little ramble was delightful. Thenovelty and the beauty of the object greatly interested her. It wascharming also to view it under the auspices of a guide so full ofinformation and feeling. 

'Ah!' said Lord Montfort, 'if I might only be your cicerone at Rome!'

'What say you, Henrietta?' said Mr. Temple, with a smile. 'Shall we goto Rome?'

The proposition did not alarm Miss Temple as much as her fatheranticipated. Lord Montfort pressed the suggestion with delicacy; hehinted at some expedients by which the journey might be rendered notvery laborious. But as she did not reply, his lordship did not press thesubject; sufficiently pleased, perhaps, that she had not met it with animmediate and decided negative. 

When they returned to the villa they found a collation prepared for themworthy of so elegant an abode. In his capacity of a host, Lord Montfortdeparted a little from that placid and even constrained demeanour whichgenerally characterised him. His manner was gay and flowing; and hepoured out a goblet of Monte Pulciano and presented it to Miss Temple. 

'You must pour a libation, ' he said, 'to the nymph of the fane. '

CHAPTER IV. 

 _Showing That It Is the First Step That Is Ever the Most Difficult_. 

ABOUT a week after this visit to the villa, Mr. Temple and his daughterwere absolutely induced to accompany Lord Montfort to Rome. It isimpossible to do justice to the tender solicitude with which he madeall the arrangements for the journey. Wherever they halted they foundpreparations for their reception; and so admirably had everything beenconcerted, that Miss Temple at length found herself in the Eternal Citywith almost as little fatigue as she had reached the Tuscan villa. 

The palace of Lord Montfort was in the most distinguished quarter of thecity, and situate in the midst of vast gardens full of walls of laurel, arches of ilex, and fountains of lions. They arrived at twilight, and the shadowy hour lent even additional space to the huge halls andgalleries. Yet in the suite of rooms intended for Mr. Temple and hisdaughter, every source of comfort seemed to have been collected. Themarble floors were covered with Indian mats and carpets, the windowswere well secured from the air which might have proved fatal to aninvalid, while every species of chair and couch, and sofa, courted thelanguid or capricious form of Miss Temple, and she was even favouredwith an English stove, and guarded by an Indian screen. The apartmentswere supplied with every book which it could have been supposed mightamuse her; there were guitars of the city and of Florence, and even anEnglish piano; a library of the choicest music; and all the materialsof art. The air of elegance and cheerful comfort that pervaded theseapartments, so unusual in this land, the bright blaze of the fire, evertthe pleasant wax-lights, all combined to deprive the moment of thatfeeling of gloom and exhaustion which attends an arrival at a strangeplace at a late hour, and Henrietta looked around her, and almostfancied she was once more at Ducie. Lord Montfort introduced hisfellow-travellers to their apartments, presented to them the servantwho was to assume the management of their little household, and thenreminding them of their mutual promises that they were to be entirelytheir own masters, and not trouble themselves about him any more thanif they were at Pisa, he shook them both by the hand, and bade themgood-night. 

It must be confessed that the acquaintance of Lord Montfort had affordedconsolation to Henrietta Temple. It was impossible to be insensible tothe sympathy and solicitude of one so highly gifted and so very amiable. Nor should it be denied that this homage, from one of his distinguishedrank, was entirely without its charm. To find ourselves, when deceivedand deserted, unexpectedly an object of regard and consideration, will bring balm to most bosoms; but to attract in such a situationthe friendship of an individual whose deferential notice under anycircumstances must be flattering, and to be admired by one whom alladmire, these are accidents of fortune which few could venture todespise. And Henrietta had now few opportunities to brood over the past;a stream of beautiful and sublime objects passed unceasingly beforeher vision. Her lively and refined taste, and her highly cultured mind, could not refrain from responding to these glorious spectacles. She sawbefore her all that she had long read of, all that she had long musedover. Her mind became each day more serene and harmonious as she gazedon these ideal creations, and dwelt on their beautiful repose. Hercompanion, too, exerted every art to prevent these amusements fromdegenerating into fatiguing expeditions. The Vatican was open to LordMontfort when it was open to none others. Short visits, but numerousones, was his system. Sometimes they entered merely to see a statue ora picture they were reading or conversing about the preceding eve; andthen they repaired to some modern studio, where their entrance alwaysmade the sculptor's eyes sparkle. At dinner there was always somedistinguished guest whom Henrietta wished to see; and as she thoroughlyunderstood the language, and spoke it with fluency and grace, she wastempted to enter into conversations, where all seemed delighted that sheplayed her part. Sometimes, indeed, Henrietta would fly to her chamberto sigh, but suddenly the palace resounded with tones of the finestharmony, or the human voice, with its most felicitous skill, stole uponher from the distant galleries. Although Lord Montfort was not himself amusician, and his voice could not pour forth those fatal sounds thathad ravished her soul from the lips of Ferdinand Armine, he was wellacquainted with the magic of music; and while he hated a formal concert, the most eminent performers were often at hand in his palace, tocontribute at the fitting moment to the delight of his guests. Who couldwithstand the soft influence of a life so elegant and serene, orrefuse to yield up the spirit to its gentle excitement and its milddistraction? The colour returned to Henrietta's cheek and the lustreto her languid eye: her form regained its airy spring of health; thesunshine of her smile burst forth once more. 

It would have been impossible for an indifferent person not to perceivethat Lord Montfort witnessed these changes with feelings of no slightemotion. Perhaps he prided himself upon his skill as a physician, buthe certainly watched the apparent convalescence of his friend's daughterwith zealous interest. And yet Henrietta herself was not aware that LordMontfort's demeanour to her differed in any degree from what it was atPisa. She had never been alone with him in her life; she certainly spokemore to him than she used, but then, she spoke more to everybody; andLord Montfort certainly seemed to think of nothing but her pleasure andconvenience and comfort; but he did and said everything so quietly, thatall this kindness and solicitude appeared to be the habitual impulse ofhis generous nature. He certainly was more intimate, much more intimate, than during the first week of their acquaintance, but scarcely morekind; for she remembered he had arranged her sofa the very first daythey met, though he did not even remain to receive her thanks. 

One day a discussion rose about Italian society between Mr. Temple andhis host. His lordship was a great admirer of the domestic character andprivate life of the Italians. He maintained that there was no existingpeople who more completely fulfilled the social duties than thismuch scandalised nation, respecting whom so many silly prejudicesare entertained by the English, whose travelling fellow-countrymen, by-the-bye, seldom enter into any society but that tainted circle thatmust exist in all capitals. 

'You have no idea, ' he said, turning to Henrietta, 'what amiable andaccomplished people are the better order of Italians. I wish you wouldlet me light up this dark house some night, and give you an Italianparty. '

'I should like it very much, ' said Mr. Temple. 

Whenever Henrietta did not enter her negative Lord Montfort alwaysimplied her assent, and it was resolved that the Italian party should begiven. 

All the best families in Rome were present, and not a single Englishperson. There were some perhaps, whom Lord Montfort might have wishedto invite, but Miss Temple had chanced to express a wish that no Englishmight be there, and he instantly acted upon her suggestion. 

The palace was magnificently illuminated. Henrietta had scarcely seenbefore its splendid treasures of art. Lord Montfort, in answer to hercuriosity, had always playfully depreciated them, and said that theymust be left for rainy days. The most splendid pictures and long rowsof graceful or solemn statues were suddenly revealed to her; rooms andgalleries were opened that had never been observed before; on all sidescabinets of vases, groups of imperial busts, rare bronzes, and vividmasses of tesselated pavement. Over all these choice and beautifulobjects a clear yet soft light was diffused, and Henrietta neverrecollected a spectacle more complete and effective. 

These rooms and galleries were soon filled with guests, and Henriettacould not be insensible to the graceful and engaging dignity with whichLord Montfort received the Roman world of fashion. That constraintwhich at first she had attributed to reserve, but which of late shehad ascribed to modesty, now entirely quitted him. Frank, yet alwaysdignified, smiling, apt, and ever felicitous, it seemed that he had apleasing word for every ear, and a particular smile for every face. Shestood at some distance leaning on her father's arm, and watching him. Suddenly he turned and looked around. It was they whom he wished tocatch. He came up to Henrietta and said, 'I wish to introduce you to thePrincess------. 

She is an old lady, but of the first distinction here. I would not askthis favour of you unless I thought you would be pleased. '

Henrietta could not refuse his request. Lord Montfort presented her andher father to the princess, the most agreeable and important person inRome; and having now provided for their immediate amusement, he had timeto attend to his guests in general. An admirable concert now, insome degree, hushed the general conversation. The voices of the mostbeautiful women in Rome echoed in those apartments. When the musicceased, the guests wandered about the galleries, and at length theprincipal saloons were filled with dancers. Lord Montfort approachedMiss Temple. 'There is one room in the palace you have never yetvisited, ' he said, 'my tribune; 'tis open to-night for the first time. '

Henrietta accepted his proffered arm. 'And how do you like theprincess?' he said, as they walked along. 'It is agreeable to live in acountry where your guests amuse themselves. '

At the end of the principal gallery, Henrietta perceived an open doorwhich admitted them into a small octagon chamber, of Ionic architecture. The walls were not hung with pictures, and one work of art alonesolicited their attention. Elevated on a pedestal of porphyry, surrounded by a rail of bronze arrows of the lightest workmanship, wasthat statue of Diana which they had so much admired at Pisa. The cheek, by an ancient process, the secret of which has been recently regained atRome, was tinted with a delicate glow. 

'Do you approve of it?' said Lord Montfort to the admiring Henrietta. 'Ah, dearest Miss Temple, ' he continued, 'it is my happiness that therose has also returned to a fairer cheek than this. '

CHAPTER V. 

 _Which Contains Some Rather Painful Explanations_. 

THE reader will not perhaps be much surprised that the Marquis ofMontfort soon became the declared admirer of Miss Temple. He made theimportant declaration after a very different fashion from the unhappyFerdinand Armine: he made it to the lady's father. Long persuaded thatMiss Temple's illness had its origin in the mind, and believing that inthat case the indisposition of the young lady had probably arisen, fromone cause or another, in the disappointment of her affections, LordMontfort resolved to spare her feelings, unprepared, the pain of apersonal appeal. The beauty, the talent, the engaging disposition, andthe languid melancholy of Miss Temple, had excited his admiration andpity, and had finally won a heart capable of deep affections, butgifted with great self-control. He did not conceal from Mr. Temple theconviction that impelled him to the course which he had thought properto pursue, and this delicate conduct relieved Mr. Temple greatly fromthe unavoidable embarrassment of his position. Mr. Temple contentedhimself with communicating to Lord Montfort that his daughter hadindeed entered into an engagement with one who was not worthy of heraffections, and that the moment her father had been convinced of thecharacter of the individual, he had quitted England with his daughter. He expressed his unqualified approbation of the overture of LordMontfort, to whom he was indeed sincerely attached, and which gratifiedall those worldly feelings from which Mr. Temple was naturally notexempt. In such an alliance Mr. Temple recognised the only mode by whichhis daughter's complete recovery could be secured. Lord Montfort inhimself offered everything which it would seem that the reasonable fancyof woman could desire. He was young, handsome, amiable, accomplished, sincere, and exceedingly clever; while, at the same time, as Mr. Temple was well aware, his great position would insure that reasonablegratification of vanity from which none are free, which is a fertilesource of happiness, and which would, at all times, subdue any bitterrecollections which might occasionally arise to cloud the retrospect ofhis daughter. 

It was Mr. Temple, who, exerting all the arts of his abandonedprofession, now indulging in intimations and now in panegyric, conveying to his daughter, with admirable skill, how much the intimateacquaintance with Lord Montfort contributed to his happiness, graduallyfanning the feeling of gratitude to so kind a friend, which already hadbeen excited in his daughter's heart, into one of zealous regard, andfinally seizing his opportunity with practised felicity, it was Mr. Temple who had at length ventured to communicate to his daughter theoverture which had been confided to him. 

Henrietta shook her head. 

'I have too great a regard for Lord Montfort to accede to his wishes, 'said Miss Temple. 'He deserves something better than a bruised spirit, if not a broken heart. '

'But, my dearest Henrietta, you really take a wrong, an impracticableview of affairs. Lord Montfort must be the best judge of what willcontribute to his own happiness. '

'Lord Montfort is acting under a delusion, ' replied Miss Temple. 'If heknew all that had occurred he would shrink from blending his life withmine. '

'Lord Montfort knows everything, ' said the father, 'that is, everythinghe should know. '

'Indeed!' said Miss Temple. 'I wonder he does not look upon me withcontempt; at the least, with pity. '

'He loves you, Henrietta, ' said her father. 

'Ah! love, love, love! name not love to me. No, Lord Montfort cannotlove me. It is not love that he feels. '

'You have gained his heart, and he offers you his hand. Are not theseproofs of love?'

'Generous, good young man!' exclaimed Henrietta; 'I respect, I admirehim; I might have loved him. But it is too late. '

'My beloved daughter, oh! do not say so! For my sake, do not say so, 'exclaimed Mr. Temple. 'I have no wish, I have had no wish, my child, butfor your happiness. Lean upon your father, listen to him, be guided byhis advice. Lord Montfort possesses every quality which can contributeto the happiness of woman. A man so rarely gifted I never met. There isnot a woman in the world, however exalted her rank, however admirableher beauty, however gifted her being, who might not feel happy andhonoured in the homage of such a man. Believe me, my dearest daughter, that this is an union which must lead to happiness. Indeed, were it tooccur, I could die content. I should have no more cares, no more hopes. All would then have happened that the most sanguine parent, even withsuch a child as you, could wish or imagine. We should be so happy! Forhis sake, for my sake, for all our sakes, dearest Henrietta, grant hiswish. Believe me, believe me, he is indeed worthy of you. '

'I am not worthy of him, ' said Henrietta, in a melancholy voice. 

'Ah, Henrietta, who is like you!' exclaimed the fond and excited father. 

At this moment a servant announced that Lord Montfort would, withtheir permission, wait upon them. Henrietta seemed plunged in thought. Suddenly she said, 'I cannot rest until this is settled. Papa, leave mewith him a few moments alone. ' Mr. Temple retired. 

A faint blush rose to the cheek of her visitor when he perceivedthat Miss Temple was alone. He seated himself at her side, but he wasunusually constrained. 

'My dear Lord Montfort, ' said Miss Temple, ' calmly, 'I have to speakupon a painful subject, but I have undergone so much suffering, that Ishall not shrink from this. Papa has informed me this morning that youhave been pleased to pay me the highest compliment that a man can pay awoman. I wish to thank you for it. I wish to acknowledge it in terms thestrongest and the warmest I can use. I am sensible of the honour, thehigh honour that you have intended me. It is indeed an honour of whichany woman might be proud. You have offered me a heart of which I knowthe worth. No one can appreciate the value of your character betterthan myself. I do justice, full justice, to your virtues, youraccomplishments, your commanding talents, and your generous soul. Exceptmy father, there is no one who holds so high a place in my affectionas yourself. You have been my kind and true friend; and a kind and truefriendship, faithful and sincere, I return you. More than friends wenever can be, for I have no heart to give. '

'Ah, dearest Miss Temple, ' said Lord Montfort, agitated, 'I ask nothingbut that friendship; but let me enjoy it in your constant society; letthe world recognise my right to be your consoler. '

'You deserve a better and a brighter fate. I should not be your friendif I could enter into such an engagement. '

'The only aim of my life is to make you happy, ' said Lord Montfort. 

'I am sure that I ought to be happy with such a friend, ' said HenriettaTemple, 'and I _am_ happy. How different is the world to me from whatit was before I knew you! Ah, why will you disturb this life ofconsolation? Why will you call me back to recollections that I wouldfain banish? Why------'

'Dearest Miss Temple, ' said Lord Montfort, 'do not reproach me! Youmake me wretched. Remember, dear lady, that I have not sought thisconversation; that if I were presumptuous in my plans and hopes, Iat least took precautions that I should be the only sufferer by theirnonfulfilment. '

'Best and most generous of men! I would not for the world be unkind toyou. Pardon my distracted words. But you know all? Has papa told youall? It is my wish. '

'It is not mine, ' replied Lord Montfort; 'I wish not to penetrate yoursorrows, but only to soothe them. '

'Oh, if we had but met earlier, ' said Henrietta Temple; 'if we had butknown each other a year ago! when I was, not worthy of you, but moreworthy of you. But now, with health shattered, the lightness of myspirit vanished, the freshness of my feelings gone, no, my kind friend, my dear and gentle friend! my affection for you is too sincere to accedeto your request; and a year hence Lord Montfort will thank me for mydenial. '

'I scarcely dare to speak, ' said Lord Montfort, in a low tone, as ifsuppressing his emotion, 'if I were to express my feelings, I mightagitate you. I will not then venture to reply to what you have urged;to tell you I think you the most beautiful and engaging being that everbreathed; or how I dote upon your pensive spirit, and can sit for hourstogether gazing on the language of those dark eyes. O Miss Temple, to meyou never could have been more beautiful, more fascinating. Alas! I maynot even breathe my love; I am unfortunate. And yet, sweet lady, pardonthis agitation I have occasioned you; try to love me yet; endure atleast my presence; and let me continue to cherish that intimacy thathas thrown over my existence a charm so inexpressible. ' So saying, heventured to take her hand, and pressed it with devotion to his lips. 

CHAPTER VI. 

 _Which Contains an Event Not Less Important Than the One Which Concluded Our Second Book_. 

LORD MONTFORT was scarcely disheartened by this interview with MissTemple. His lordship was a devout believer in the influence of time. Itwas unnatural to suppose that one so young and so gifted as Henriettacould ultimately maintain that her career was terminated because heraffections had been disappointed by an intimacy which was confessedly ofso recent an origin as the fatal one in question. Lord Montfort differedfrom most men in this respect, that the consciousness of this intimacydid not cost him even a pang. He preferred indeed to gain the heart ofa woman like Miss Temple, who, without having in the least degreeforfeited the innate purity of her nature and the native freshness ofher feelings, had yet learnt in some degree to penetrate the mystery ofthe passions, to one so untutored in the world's ways, that she mighthave bestowed upon him a heart less experienced indeed, but not moreinnocent. He was convinced that the affection of Henrietta, if onceobtained, might be relied on, and that the painful past would only makeher more finely appreciate his high-minded devotion, and amid all thedazzling characters and seducing spectacles of the world, cling tohim with a firmer gratitude and a more faithful fondness. And yet LordMontfort was a man of deep emotions, and of a very fastidious taste. He was a man of as romantic a temperament as Ferdinand Armine; butwith Lord Montfort, life was the romance of reason; with Ferdinand, the romance of imagination. The first was keenly alive to all theimperfections of our nature, but he also gave that nature credit forall its excellencies. He observed finely, he calculated nicely, andhis result was generally happiness. Ferdinand, on the contrary, neitherobserved nor calculated. His imagination created fantasies, and hisimpetuous passions struggled to realise them. 

Although Lord Montfort carefully abstained from pursuing the subjectwhich nevertheless engrossed his thoughts, he had a vigilant and skilfulally in Mr. Temple. That gentleman lost no opportunity of pleading hislordship's cause, while he appeared only to advocate his own; and thiswas the most skilful mode of controlling the judgment of his daughter. 

Henrietta Temple, the most affectionate and dutiful of children, left toreflect, sometimes asked herself whether she were justified, fromwhat she endeavoured to believe was a mere morbid feeling, in notaccomplishing the happiness of that parent who loved her so well? Therehad been no concealment of her situation, or of her sentiments. Therehad been no deception as to the past. Lord Montfort knew all. She toldhim that she could bestow only a broken spirit. Lord Montfort aspiredonly to console it. She was young. It was not probable that the deathwhich she had once sighed for would be accorded to her. Was she alwaysto lead this life? Was her father to pass the still long career whichprobably awaited him in ministering to the wearisome caprices of aquerulous invalid? This was a sad return for all his goodness: a gloomycatastrophe to all his bright hopes. And if she could ever consent toblend her life with another's, what individual could offer pretensionswhich might ensure her tranquillity, or even happiness, equal to thoseproffered by Lord Montfort? Ah! who was equal to him? so amiable, sogenerous, so interesting! It was in such a mood of mind that Henriettawould sometimes turn with a glance of tenderness and gratitude to thatbeing who seemed to breathe only for her solace and gratification. Ifit be agonising to be deserted, there is at least consolation in beingcherished. And who cherished her? One whom all admired; one to gainwhose admiration, or even attention, every woman sighed. What was shebefore she knew Montfort? If she had not known Montfort, what would shehave been even at this present? She recalled the hours of anguish, the long days of bitter mortification, the dull, the wearisome, thecheerless, hopeless, uneventful hours that were her lot when lying onher solitary sofa at Pisa, brooding over the romance of Armine and allits passion; the catastrophe of Ducie, and all its baseness. And nowthere was not a moment without kindness, without sympathy, withoutconsiderate attention and innocent amusement. If she were querulous, noone murmured; if she were capricious, everyone yielded to her fancies;but if she smiled, everyone was happy. Dear, noble Montfort, thinewas the magic that had worked this change! And for whom were all thesechoice exertions made? For one whom another had trifled with, deserted, betrayed! And Montfort knew it. He dedicated his life to the consolationof a despised woman. Leaning on the arm of Lord Montfort, HenriettaTemple might meet the eye of Ferdinand Armine and his rich bride, atleast without feeling herself an object of pity!

Time had flown. The Italian spring, with all its splendour, illuminedthe glittering palaces and purple shores of Naples. Lord Montfort andhis friends were returning from Capua in his galley. Miss Temple wasseated between her father and their host. The Ausonian clime, thebeautiful scene, the sweet society, had all combined to produce a day ofexquisite enjoyment. Henrietta Temple could not refrain from expressingher delight. Her eye sparkled like the star of eve that glittered overthe glowing mountains; her cheek was as radiant as the sunset. 

'Ah! what a happy day this has been!' she exclaimed. 

The gentle pressure of her hand reminded her of the delight herexclamation had afforded one of her companions. With a trembling heartLord Montfort leant back in the galley; and yet, ere the morning sunhad flung its flaming beams over the city, Henrietta Temple was hisbetrothed. 

BOOK VI. 

CHAPTER I. 

 _Which Contains a Remarkable Change of Fortune_. 

ALTHOUGH Lord Montfort was now the received and recognised admirerof Miss Temple, their intended union was not immediate. Henrietta washerself averse from such an arrangement, but it was not necessaryfor her to urge this somewhat ungracious desire, as Lord Montfortwas anxious that she should be introduced to his family before theirmarriage, and that the ceremony should be performed in his nativecountry. Their return to England, therefore, was now meditated. Theevent was hastened by an extraordinary occurrence. 

Good fortune in this world, they say, is seldom single. Mr. Temple atthis moment was perfectly content with his destiny. Easy in his owncircumstances, with his daughter's future prosperity about to beprovided for by an union with the heir to one of the richest peeragesin the kingdom, he had nothing to desire. His daughter was happy, heentertained the greatest esteem and affection for his future son-in-law, and the world went well with him in every respect. 

It was in this fulness of happiness that destiny, with its usual wildcaprice, resolved 'to gild refined gold and paint the lily;' and it wasdetermined that Mr. Temple should wake one morning among the wealthiestcommoners of England. 

There happened to be an old baronet, a great humourist, without any verynear relations, who had been a godson of Mr. Temple's grandfather. Hehad never invited or encouraged any intimacy or connection with theTemple family, but had always throughout life kept himself aloof fromany acquaintance with them. Mr. Temple indeed had only seen him once, but certainly under rather advantageous circumstances. It was when Mr. Temple was minister at the German Court, to which we have alluded, thatSir Temple Devereux was a visitor at the capital at which Mr. Templewas Resident. The minister had shown him some civilities, which was hisduty; and Henrietta had appeared to please him. But he had not remainedlong at this place; and refused at the time to be more than theirordinary guest; and had never, by any letter, message, or other mode ofcommunication, conveyed to them the slightest idea that the hospitableminister and his charming daughter had dwelt a moment on his memory. Andyet Sir Temple Devereux had now departed from the world, where it hadapparently been the principal object of his career to avoid ever makinga friend, and had left the whole of his large fortune to the RightHonourable Pelham Temple, by this bequest proprietor of one of thefinest estates in the county of York, and a very considerable personalproperty, the accumulated savings of a large rental and a long life. 

This was a great event. Mr. Temple had the most profound respect forproperty. It was impossible for the late baronet to have left his estateto an individual who could more thoroughly appreciate its possession. Even personal property was not without its charms; but a large landedestate, and a large landed estate in the county of York, and that largelanded estate flanked by a good round sum of Three per Cent. Consolsduly recorded in the Rotunda of Threadneedle Street, --it was acombination of wealth, power, consideration, and convenience whichexactly hit the ideal of Mr. Temple, and to the fascination of whichperhaps the taste of few men would be insensible. Mr. Temple being aman of family, had none of the awkward embarrassments of a parvenu tocontend with. 'It was the luckiest thing in the world, ' he would say, 'that poor Sir Temple was my grandfather's godson, not only because inall probability it obtained us his fortune, but because he bore the nameof Temple: we shall settle down in Yorkshire scarcely as strangers, weshall not be looked upon as a new family, and in a little time the wholeaffair will be considered rather one of inheritance than bequest. But, after all, what is it to me! It is only for your sake, Digby, that Irejoice. I think it will please your family. I will settle everythingimmediately on Henrietta. They shall have the gratification of knowingthat their son is about to marry the richest heiress in England. '

The richest heiress in England! Henrietta Temple the richest heiress inEngland! Ah! how many feelings with that thought arise! Strange to say, the announcement of this extraordinary event brought less joy than mighthave been supposed to the heiress herself. 

It was in her chamber and alone, that Henrietta Temple mused over thisfreak of destiny. It was in vain to conceal it, her thoughts recurredto Ferdinand. They might have been so happy! Why was he not true? Andperhaps he had sacrificed himself to his family, perhaps even personaldistress had driven him to the fatal deed. Her kind feminine fancyconjured up every possible extenuation of his dire offence. She grewvery sad. She could not believe that he was false at Ducie; oh, no! shenever could believe it! He must have been sincere, and if sincere, oh!what a heart was lost there! What would she not have given to havebeen the means of saving him from all his sorrows! She recalled hisoccasional melancholy, his desponding words, and how the gloom left hisbrow and his eye brightened when she fondly prophesied that she wouldrestore the house. She might restore it now; and now he was another's, and she, what was she? A slave like him. No longer her own mistress, atthe only moment she had the power to save him. Say what they like, thereis a pang in balked affection, for which no wealth, power, or place, watchful indulgence, or sedulous kindness, can compensate. Ah! theheart, the heart!

CHAPTER II. 

 _In Which the Reader Is Again Introduced to Captain Armine, during His Visit to London_. 

MISS GRANDISON had resolved upon taking a house in London for theseason, and had obtained a promise from her uncle and aunt to beher guests. Lady Armine's sister was to join them from Bath. As forFerdinand, the spring had gradually restored him to health, but not tohis former frame of mind. He remained moody and indolent, incapable ofexertion, and a prey to the darkest humours; circumstances, however, occurred which rendered some energy on his part absolutely necessary. His creditors grew importunate, and the arrangement of his affairs ordeparture from his native land was an alternative now inevitable. Themonth of April, which witnessed the arrival of the Temples and LordMontfort in England, welcomed also to London Miss Grandison and herguests. A few weeks after, Ferdinand, who had evaded the journey withhis family, and who would not on any account become a guest of hiscousin, settled himself down at a quiet hotel in the vicinity ofGrosvenor-square; but not quite alone, for almost at the last hourGlastonbury had requested permission to accompany him, and Ferdinand, who duly valued the society of the only person with whom he couldconverse about his broken fortunes and his blighted hopes withoutreserve, acceded to his wish with the greatest satisfaction. 

A sudden residence in a vast metropolis, after a life of ruralseclusion, has without doubt a very peculiar effect upon the mind. Theimmense population, the multiplicity of objects, the important interestshourly impressed upon the intelligence, the continually occurringevents, the noise, the bustle, the general and widely-spread excitement, all combine to make us keenly sensible of our individual insignificance;and those absorbing passions that in our solitude, fed by ourimagination, have assumed such gigantic and substantial shapes, rapidly subside, by an almost imperceptible process, into less colossalproportions, and seem invested, as it were, with a more shadowy aspect. As Ferdinand Armine jostled his way through the crowded streets ofLondon, urged on by his own harassing and inexorable affairs, andconscious of the impending peril of his career, while power and wealthdazzled his eyes in all directions, he began to look back upon thepassionate past with feelings of less keen sensation than heretofore, and almost to regret that a fatal destiny or his impetuous soul hadentailed upon him so much anxiety, and prompted him to reject theglittering cup of fortune that had been proffered to him so opportunely. He sighed for enjoyment and repose; the memory of his recent sufferingsmade him shrink from that reckless indulgence of the passions, of whichthe consequences had been so severe. 

It was in this mood, exhausted by a visit to his lawyer, that hestepped into a military club and took up a newspaper. Caring little forpolitics, his eye wandered over, uninterested, its pugnacious leadingarticles and tedious parliamentary reports; and he was about to throwit down when a paragraph caught his notice which instantly engrossed allhis attention. It was in the 'Morning Post' that he thus read:

'The Marquis of Montfort, the eldest son of the Duke of------, whosereturn to England we recently noticed, has resided for several years inItaly. His lordship is considered one of the most accomplished noblemenof the day, and was celebrated at Rome for his patronage of the arts. Lord Montfort will shortly be united to the beautiful Miss Temple, theonly daughter of the Right Honourable Pelham Temple. Miss Temple isesteemed one of the richest heiresses in England, as she will doubtlessinherit the whole of the immense fortune to which her father sounexpectedly acceded. Mr. Temple is a widower, and has no son. Mr. Temple was formerly our minister at several of the German Courts, where he was distinguished by his abilities and his hospitality to histravelling countrymen. It is said that the rent-roll of the Yorkshireestates of the late Sir Temple Devereux is not less than 15, 000L. Perannum. The personal property is also very considerable. We understandthat Mr. Temple has purchased the mansion of the Duke of -----, inGrosvenor-square. Lord Montfort accompanied Mr. Temple and his amiabledaughter to this country. '

What a wild and fiery chaos was the mind of Ferdinand Armine when heread this paragraph. The wonders it revealed succeeded each otherwith such rapidity that for some time he was deprived of the power ofreflection. Henrietta Temple in England! Henrietta Temple one ofthe greatest heiresses in the country! Henrietta Temple about to beimmediately married to another! His Henrietta Temple, the HenriettaTemple whom he adored, and by whom he had been worshipped! The HenriettaTemple whose beautiful lock of hair was at this very moment on hisheart! The Henrietta Temple for whom he had forfeited fortune, family, power, almost life!

O Woman, Woman! Put not thy trust in woman! And yet, could he reproachher? Did she not believe herself trifled with by him, outraged, deceived, deluded, deserted? And did she, could she love another? Wasthere another to whom she had poured forth her heart as to him, and allthat beautiful flow of fascinating and unrivalled emotion? Was thereanother to whom she had pledged her pure and passionate soul? Ah, no!he would not, he could not believe it. Light and false Henrietta couldnever be. She had been seen, she had been admired, she had been loved:who that saw her would not admire and love? and he was the victim of herpique, perhaps of her despair. 

But she was not yet married. They were, according to these lines, to besoon united. It appeared they had travelled together; that thought gavehim a pang. Could he not see her? Could he not explain all? Could he notprove that his heart had ever been true and fond? Could he not tell herall that had happened, all that he had suffered, all the madness of hismisery; and could she resist that voice whose accents had once been herjoy, that glance which had once filled her heart with rapture? And whenshe found that Ferdinand, her own Ferdinand, had indeed never deceivedher, was worthy of her choice affection, and suffering even at thismoment for her sweet sake, what were all the cold-blooded ties in whichshe had since involved herself? She was his by an older and more ardentbond. Should he not claim his right? Could she deny it?

Claim what? The hand of an heiress. Should it be said that an Arminecame crouching for lucre, where he ought to have commanded for love?Never! Whatever she might think, his conduct had been faultless to her. It was not for Henrietta to complain. She was not the victim, if oneindeed there might chance to be. He had loved her, she had returned hispassion; for her sake he had made the greatest of sacrifices, forfeiteda splendid inheritance, and a fond and faithful heart. When he hadthought of her before, pining perhaps in some foreign solitude, hehad never ceased reproaching himself for his conduct, and had accusedhimself of deception and cruelty; but now, in this moment of her flushprosperity, 'esteemed one of the richest heiresses in England' (heground his teeth as he recalled that phrase), and the affianced brideof a great noble (his old companion, Lord Montfort, too; what a strangething is life!), proud, smiling, and prosperous, while he was alone, with a broken heart and worse than desperate fortunes, and all for hersake, his soul became bitter: he reproached her with want of feeling;he pictured her as void of genuine sensibility; he dilated on herindifference since they had parted; her silence, so strange, now nolonger inexplicable; the total want of interest she had exhibited as tohis career; he sneered at the lightness of her temperament; he cursedher caprice; he denounced her infernal treachery; in the distortedphantom of his agonised imagination she became to him even an object ofhatred. 

Poor Ferdinand Armine! it was the first time he had experienced themaddening pangs of jealousy. 

Yet how he had loved this woman! How he had doated on her! And now theymight have been so happy! There is nothing that depresses a man so muchas the conviction of bad fortune. There seemed, in this sudden return, great wealth, and impending marriage of Henrietta Temple, such acombination, so far as Ferdinand Armine was concerned, of vexatiouscircumstances; it would appear that he had been so near perfecthappiness and missed it, that he felt quite weary of existence, andseriously meditated depriving himself of it. 

It so happened that he had promised this day to dine at his cousin's;for Glastonbury, who was usually his companion, had accepted aninvitation this day to dine with the noble widow of his old patron. Ferdinand, however, found himself quite incapable of entering intoany society, and he hurried to his hotel to send a note of excuse toBrook-street. As he arrived, Glastonbury was just about to step into ahackney-coach, so that Ferdinand had no opportunity of communicating hissorrows to his friend, even had he been inclined. 

CHAPTER III. 

 _In Which Glastonbury Meets the Very Last Person in the World He Expected, and the Strange Consequences_. 

WHEN Glastonbury arrived at the mansion of the good old duchess, hefound nobody in the drawing-room but a young man of distinguishedappearance, whose person was unknown to him, but who neverthelessgreeted him with remarkable cordiality. The good Glastonbury returned, with some confusion, his warm salutation. 

'It is many years since we last met, Mr. Glastonbury, ' said the youngman. 'I am not surprised you have forgotten me. I am Digby; perhaps yourecollect me?'

'My dear child! My dear lord! You have indeed changed! You are a man, and I am a very old one. ' 'Nay! my dear sir, I observe little change. Believe me, I have often recalled your image in my long absence, and Ifind now that my memory has not deceived me. '

Glastonbury and his companion fell into some conversation about thelatter's travels, and residence at Rome, in the midst of which theirhostess entered. 

'I have asked you, my dear sir, to meet our family circle, ' said herGrace, 'for I do not think I can well ask you to meet any who love youbetter. It is long since you have seen Digby. '

'Mr. Glastonbury did not recognise me, grandmamma, ' said Lord Montfort. 

'These sweet children have all grown out of your sight, Mr. Glastonbury, ' said the duchess; 'but they are very good. And as forDigby, I really think he comes to see his poor grandmother every day. '

The duke and duchess, and two young daughters, were now announced. 

'I was so sorry that I was not at home when you called, Glastonbury, 'said his Grace; 'but I thought I should soon hear of you atgrandmamma's. '

'And, dear Mr. Glastonbury, why did you not come up and see me?' saidthe younger duchess. 

'And, dear Mr. Glastonbury, do you remember me?' said one beautifuldaughter. 

'And me, Mr. Glastonbury, me? I am Isabella. '

Blushing, smiling, bowing, constrained from the novelty of hissituation, and yet every now and then quite at ease when his earrecalled a familiar voice, dear Mr. Glastonbury was gratified and happy. The duke took him aside, and they were soon engaged in conversation. 

'How is Henrietta to-day, Digby?' enquired Isabella. 

'I left her an hour ago; we have been riding, and expected to meet youall. She will be here immediately. '

There was a knock, and soon the drawing-room door opened, and MissTemple was announced. 

'I must make papa's apologies, ' said Henrietta, advancing and embracingthe old duchess. 'I hope he may get here in the evening: but he bademe remind your Grace that your kind invitation was only provisionallyaccepted. '

'He is quite right, ' said the old lady; 'and indeed I hardly expectedhim, for he told me there was a public dinner which he was obligedto attend. I am sure that our dinner is a very private one indeed, 'continued the old lady with a smile. 'It is really a family party, though there is one member of the family here whom you do not know, mydear Miss Temple, and whom, I am sure, you will love as much as all ofus do. Digby, where is------'

At this moment dinner was announced. Lord Montfort offered his arm toHenrietta. 'There, lead the way, ' said the old lady; 'the girls mustbeau themselves, for I have no young men to-day for them. I suppose manand wife must be parted, so I must take my son's arm; Mr. Glastonbury, you will hand down the duchess. ' But before Glastonbury's name wasmentioned Henrietta was half-way down stairs. 

The duke and his son presided at the dinner. Henrietta sat on one sideof Lord Montfort, his mother on the other. Glastonbury sat on the righthand of the duke, and opposite their hostess; the two young ladiesin the middle. All the guests had been seated without Glastonbury andHenrietta recognising each other; and, as he sat on the same side ofthe table as Miss Temple, it was not until Lord Montfort asked Mr. Glastonbury to take wine with him, that Henrietta heard a name thatmight well indeed turn her pale. 

Glastonbury! It never entered into her head at the moment that it wasthe Mr. Glastonbury whom she had known. Glastonbury! what a name! Whatdreadful associations did it not induce! She looked forward, she caughtthe well-remembered visage; she sunk back in her chair. But HenriettaTemple had a strong mind; this was surely an occasion to prove it. Mr. Glastonbury's attention was not attracted to her: he knew, indeed, thatthere was a lady at the table, called Henrietta, but he was engrossedwith his neighbours, and his eye never caught the daughter of Mr. Temple. It was not until the ladies rose to retire that Mr. Glastonburybeheld that form which he had not forgotten, and looked upon a ladywhose name was associated in his memory with the most disastrous andmournful moments of his life. Miss Temple followed the duchess out ofthe room, and Glastonbury, perplexed and agitated, resumed his seat. 

But Henrietta was the prey of emotions far more acute and distracting. It seemed to her that she had really been unacquainted with the stateof her heart until this sudden apparition of Glastonbury. How his imagerecalled the past! She had schooled herself to consider it all a dream;now it lived before her. Here was one of the principal performers inthat fatal tragedy of Armine. Glastonbury in the house, under the sameroof as she? Where was Ferdinand? There was one at hand who could tellher. Was he married? She had enjoyed no opportunity of ascertaining itsince her return: she had not dared to ask. Of course he was married;but was he happy? And Glastonbury, who, if he did not know all, knewso much. How strange it must be to Glastonbury to meet her! DearGlastonbury! She had not forgotten the days when she so fondly listenedto Ferdinand's charming narratives of all his amiable and simple life!Dear, dear Glastonbury, whom she was so to love! And she met him now, and did not speak to him, or looked upon him as a stranger; and he--hewould, perhaps, look upon her with pity, certainly with pain. O Life!what a heart-breaking thing is life! And our affections, our sweet andpure affections, fountains of such joy and solace, that nourish allthings, and make the most barren and rigid soil teem with life andbeauty, oh! why do we disturb the flow of their sweet waters, andpollute their immaculate and salutary source! Ferdinand, FerdinandArmine, why were you false?

The door opened. Mr. Glastonbury entered, followed by the duke and hisson. Henrietta was sitting in an easy chair, one of Lord Montfort'ssisters, seated on an ottoman at her side, held her hand. Henrietta'seye met Glastonbury's; she bowed to him. 

'How your hand trembles, Henrietta!' said the young lady. 

Glastonbury approached her with a hesitating step. He blushed faintly, he looked exceedingly perplexed. At length he reached her, and stoodbefore her, and said nothing. 

'You have forgotten me, Mr. Glastonbury, ' said Henrietta; for it wasabsolutely necessary that some one should break the awkward silence, andshe pointed to a chair at her side. 

'That would indeed be impossible, ' said Glastonbury. 

'Oh, you knew Mr. Glastonbury before, ' said the young lady. 'Grandmamma, only think, Henrietta knew Mr. Glastonbury before. '

'We were neighbours in Nottinghamshire, ' said Henrietta, in a quicktone. 

'Isabella, ' said her sister, who was seated at the piano, 'the harpawaits you. ' Isabella rose, Lord Montfort was approaching Henrietta, when the old duchess called to him. 

Henrietta and Glastonbury were alone. 

'This is a strange meeting, Mr. Glastonbury, ' said Henrietta. 

What could poor Glastonbury say? Something he murmured, but not verymuch to the purpose. 'Have you been in Nottinghamshire lately?' saidHenrietta. 

'I left it about ten days back with-----, ' and here Glastonbury stopped, 'with a friend, ' he concluded. 

'I trust all your friends are well, ' said Henrietta, in a tremulousvoice. 

'No; yes; that is, ' said Glastonbury, 'something better than they were. '

'I am sorry that my father is not here, ' said Miss Temple; 'he has alively remembrance of all your kindness. '

'Kindness, I fear, ' said Glastonbury, in a melancholy tone, 'that wasmost unfortunate. '

'We do not deem it so, sir, ' was the reply. 

'My dear young lady, ' said Glastonbury, but his voice faltered as headded, 'we have had great unhappiness. '

'I regret it, ' said Henrietta. 'You had a marriage, I believe, expectedin your family?'

'It has not occurred, ' said Glastonbury. 

'Indeed!'

'Alas! madam, ' said her companion, 'if I might venture indeed to speakof one whom I will not name, and yet-----'

'Pray speak, sir, ' said Miss Temple, in a kind, yet hushed voice. 

'The child of our affections, madam, is not what he was. God, in Hisinfinite mercy, has visited him with great afflictions. '

'You speak of Captain Armine, sir?'

'I speak indeed of my broken-hearted Ferdinand; I would I could sayyours. O Miss Temple, he is a wreck. ' 'Yes! yes!' said Henrietta in alow tone. 

'What he has endured, ' continued Glastonbury, 'passes all descriptionof mine. His life has indeed been spared, but under circumstances thatalmost make me regret he lives. '

'He has not married!' muttered Henrietta. 

'He came to Ducie to claim his bride, and she was gone, ' saidGlastonbury; 'his mind sunk under the terrible bereavement. For weekshe was a maniac; and, though Providence spared him again to us, andhis mind, thanks to God, is again whole, he is the victim of aprofound melancholy, that seems to defy alike medical skill and worldlyvicissitude. '

'Digby, Digby!' exclaimed Isabella, who was at the harp, 'Henrietta isfainting. ' Lord Montfort rushed forward just in time to seize her coldhand. 

'The room is too hot, ' said one sister. 

'The coffee is too strong, ' said the other. 

'Air, ' said the young duchess. 

Lord Montfort carried Henrietta into a distant room. There was a balconyopening into a garden. He seated her on a bench, and never quittedher side, but contrived to prevent anyone approaching her. The womenclustered together. 

'Sweet creature!' said the old duchess, 'she often makes me tremble;she has but just recovered, Mr. Glastonbury, from a long and terribleillness. '

'Indeed!' said Glastonbury. 

'Poor dear Digby, ' continued her grace, 'this will quite upset himagain. He was in such spirits about her health the other day. '

'Lord Montfort?' enquired Glastonbury. 

'Our Digby. You know that he is to be married to Henrietta next month. '

'Holy Virgin!' muttered Glastonbury; and, seizing advantage of theconfusion, he effected his escape. 

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BOOK VI. [CONTINUED]

CHAPTER IV. 

 _In Which Mr. Glastonbury Informs Captain Armine of His Meeting with Miss Temple_. 

IT WAS still an early hour when Mr. Glastonbury arrived at his hotel. He understood, however, that Captain Armine had already returned andretired. Glastonbury knocked gently at his door, and was invited toenter. The good man was pale and agitated. Ferdinand was already in bed. Glastonbury took a chair, and seated himself by his side. 

'My dear friend, what is the matter?' said Ferdinand. 

'I have seen her, I have seen her!' said Glastonbury. 

'Henrietta! seen Henrietta?' enquired Ferdinand. 

Glastonbury nodded assent, but with a most rueful expression ofcountenance. 

'What has happened? what did she say?' asked Ferdinand in a quick voice. 

'You are two innocent lambs, ' said Glastonbury, rubbing his hands. 

'Speak, speak, my Glastonbury. '

'I wish that my death could make you both happy, ' said Glastonbury; 'butI fear that would do you no good. '

'Is there any hope?' said Ferdinand. 'None!' said Glastonbury. 'Prepareyourself, my dear child, for the worst. '

'Is she married?' enquired Ferdinand. 

'No; but she is going to be. '

'I know it, ' said Ferdinand. 

Glastonbury stared. 

'You know it? what! to Digby?'

'Digby, or whatever his name may be; damn him!'

'Hush! hush!' said Glastonbury. 

'May all the curses------'

'God forbid, ' said Glastonbury, interrupting him. 

'Unfeeling, fickle, false, treacherous------'

'She is an angel, ' said Glastonbury, 'a very angel. She has fainted, andnearly in my arms. '

'Fainted! nearly in your arms! Oh, tell me all, tell me all, Glastonbury, ' exclaimed Ferdinand, starting up in his bed with an eagervoice and sparkling eyes. 'Does she love me?'

'I fear so, ' said Glastonbury. 'Fear!'

'Oh, how I pity her poor innocent heart!' said Glastonbury. 

'When I told her of all your sufferings------'

'Did you tell her? What then?'

'And she herself has barely recovered from a long and terrible illness. '

'My own Henrietta! Now I could die happy, ' said Ferdinand. 

'I thought it would break your heart, ' said Glastonbury. 

'It is the only happy moment I have known for months, ' said Ferdinand. 

'I was so overwhelmed that I lost my presence of mind, ' saidGlastonbury. 'I really never meant to tell you anything. I do not knowhow I came into your room. '

'Dear, dear Glastonbury, I am myself again. '

'Only think!' said Glastonbury; 'I never was so unhappy in my life. '

'I have endured for the last four hours the tortures of the damned, 'said Ferdinand, 'to think that she was going to be married, to bemarried to another; that she was happy, proud, prosperous, totallyregardless of me, perhaps utterly forgetful of the past; and that I wasdying like a dog in this cursed caravanserai! O Glastonbury! nothingthat I have ever endured has been equal to the hell of this day. And nowyou have come and made me comparatively happy. I shall get up directly. '

Glastonbury looked quite astonished; he could not comprehend how hisfatal intelligence could have produced effects so directly contrary fromthose he had anticipated. However, in answer to Ferdinand's reiteratedenquiries, he contrived to give a detailed account of everything thathad occurred, and Ferdinand's running commentary continued to be one ofconstant self-congratulation. 

'There is, however, one misfortune, ' said Ferdinand, 'with which you areunacquainted, my dear friend. '

'Indeed!' said Glastonbury, 'I thought I knew enough. '

'Alas! she has become a great heiress!'

'Is that it?' said Glastonbury. 

'There is the blow, ' said Ferdinand. 'Were it not for that, by the soulof my grandfather, I would tear her from the arms of this stripling. '

'Stripling!' said Glastonbury. 'I never saw a truer nobleman in mylife. '

'Ah!' exclaimed Ferdinand. 

'Nay, second scarcely to yourself! I could not believe my eyes, 'continued Glastonbury. 'He was but a child when I saw him last; but sowere you, Ferdinand. Believe me, he is no ordinary rival. '

'Good-looking?'

'Altogether of a most princely presence. I have rarely met a personageso highly accomplished, or who more quickly impressed you with his moraland intellectual excellence. '

'And they are positively engaged?'

'To be married next month, ' replied Glastonbury. 

'O Glastonbury! why do I live?' exclaimed Ferdinand; 'why did Irecover?'

'My dear child, but just now you were comparatively happy. '

'Happy! You cannot mean to insult me. Happy! Oh, is there in this worlda thing so deplorable as I am!'

'I thought I did wrong to say anything, ' said Glastonbury, speaking asit were to himself. 

Ferdinand made no observation. He turned himself in his bed, with hisface averted from Glastonbury. 

'Good night, ' said Glastonbury, after remaining some time in silence. 

'Good night, ' said Ferdinand, in a faint and mournful tone. 

CHAPTER V. 

 _Which, on the Whole, Is Perhaps as Remarkable a Chapter as Any in the Work_. 

WRETCHED as he was, the harsh business of life could not be neglected;Captain Armine was obliged to be in Lincoln's Inn by ten o'clock thenext morning. It was on his return from his lawyer, as he was about tocross Berkeley-square, that a carriage suddenly stopped in the middle ofthe road, and a female hand apparently beckoned to him from the window. He was at first very doubtful whether he were indeed the person towhom the signal was addressed, but as on looking around there was nota single human being in sight, he at length slowly approached theequipage, from which a white handkerchief now waved with considerableagitation. Somewhat perplexed by this incident, the mystery was, however, immediately explained by the voice of Lady Bellair. 

'You wicked man, ' said her little ladyship, in a great rage. 'Oh! how Ihate you! I could cut you up into minced meat; that I could. Here I havebeen giving parties every night, all for you too. And you have been intown, and never called on me. Tell me your name. How is your wife? Oh!you are not married. You should marry; I hate a _ci-devant jeune homme_. However, you can wait a little. Here, James, Thomas, Peter, what is yourname, open the door and let him in. There get in, get in; I have agreat deal to say to you. ' And Ferdinand found that it was absolutelynecessary to comply. 

'Now, where shall we go?' said her ladyship; 'I have got till twoo'clock. I make it a rule to be at home every day from two till six, toreceive my friends. You must come and call upon me. You may come everyday if you like. Do not leave your card. I hate people who leave cards. I never see them; I order all to be burnt. I cannot bear people wholeave bits of paper at my house. Do you want to go anywhere? You do not!Why do not you? How is your worthy father, Sir Peter? Is his name SirPeter or Sir Paul? Well, never mind, you know whom I mean. And yourcharming mother, my favourite friend? She is charming; she is quite oneof my favourites. And were not you to marry? Tell me, why have you not?Miss--Miss--you know whom I mean, whose grandfather was my son's friend. In town, are they? Where do they live? Brook-street! I will go and callupon them. There, pull the string, and tell him where they live. '

And so, in a few minutes, Lady Bellair's carriage stopped opposite thehouse of Miss Grandison. 

'Are they early risers?' said her ladyship; 'I get up every morning atsix. I dare say they will not receive me; but do you show yourself, andthen they cannot refuse. '

In consequence of this diplomatic movement Lady Bellair effected anentrance. Leaning on the arm of Ferdinand, her ladyship was ushered intothe morning-room, where she found Lady Armine and Katherine. 

'My dear lady, how do you do? And my sweet miss! Oh! your eyes are sobright, that it quite makes me young to look upon them! I quite loveyou, that I do. Your grandfather and my poor son were bosom friends. And, my dear lady, where have you been all this time? Here have I beengiving parties every night, and all for you; all for my Bath friends;telling everybody about you; talking of nothing else; everybody longingto see you; and you have never been near me. My dinner-parties are over;I shall not give any more dinners until June. But I have three eveningsyet; to-night, you must come to me to-night, and Thursday, and Saturday;you must come on all three nights. Oh! why did you not call upon me?I should have asked you to dinner. I would have asked you to meet LordColonnade and Lady Ionia! They would have just suited you; they wouldhave tasted you! But I tell you what I will do; I will come and dinewith you some day. Now, when will you have me? Let me see, when am I. Free?' So saying, her ladyship opened a little red book, which was herinseparable companion in London. 'All this week I am ticketed; Monday, the Derricourts, dull, but then he is a duke. Tuesday I dine withBonmot; we have made it up; he gives me a dinner. Wednesday, Wednesday, where is Wednesday? General Faneville, my own party. Thursday, theMaxburys, bad dinner, but good company. Friday, Waring Cutts, a famoushouse for eating; but that is not in my way; however, I must go, forhe sends me pines. And Saturday, I dine off a rabbit, by myself, at oneo'clock, to go and see my dear darling Lady St. Julians at Richmond. Soit cannot be this or next week. I will send you a note; I will tell youto-night. And now I must go, for it is five minutes to two, I am alwaysat home from two till six; I receive my friends; you may come everyday, and you must come to see my new squirrel; my darling, funny littlegrandson gave it me. And, my dear miss, where is that wicked LadyGrandison? Do you ever see her, or are you enemies? She has got theestate, has not she? She never calls upon me. Tell her she is one of mygreatest favourites. Oh! why does not she come? I should have asked herto dinner; and now all my dinners are over till June. Tell me where shelives, and I will call upon her to-morrow. '

So saying, and bidding them all farewell very cordially, her ladyshiptook Ferdinand's arm and retired. 

Captain Armine returned to his mother and cousin, and sat an hour withthem, until their carriage was announced. Just as he was going away, heobserved Lady Bellair's little red book, which she had left behind. 

'Poor Lady Bellair, what will she do?' said Miss Grandison; 'we musttake it to her immediately. '

'I will leave it, ' said Ferdinand, 'I shall pass her house. '

Bellair House was the prettiest mansion in May Fair. It was a longbuilding, in the Italian style, situate in the midst of gardens, which, though not very extensive, were laid out with so much art and taste, that it was very difficult to believe that you were in a great city. The house was furnished and adorned with all that taste for which LadyBellair was distinguished. All the reception rooms were on the groundfloor, and were all connected. Ferdinand, who remembered Lady Bellair'sinjunctions not to leave cards, attracted by the spot, and not knowingwhat to do with himself, determined to pay her ladyship a visit, and wasushered into an octagon library, lined with well-laden dwarf cases ofbrilliant volumes, crowned with no lack of marble busts, bronzes, andEtruscan vases. On each side opened a magnificent saloon, furnished inthat classic style which the late accomplished and ingenious Mr. Hopefirst rendered popular in this country. The wings, projecting far intothe gardens, comprised respectively a dining-room and a conservatory ofconsiderable dimensions. Isolated in the midst of the gardens was along building, called the summer-room, lined with Indian matting, andscreened on one side from the air merely by Venetian blinds. The wallsof this chamber were almost entirely covered with caricatures, andprints of the country seats of Lady Bellair's friends, all of whichshe took care to visit. Here also were her parrots, and some birds of asweeter voice, a monkey, and the famous squirrel. 

Lady Bellair was seated in a chair, the back of which was much higherthan her head; at her side was a little table with writing materials, on which also was placed a magnificent bell, by Benvenuto Cellini, withwhich her ladyship summoned her page, who, in the meantime, loitered inthe hall. 

'You have brought me my book!' she exclaimed, as Ferdinand entered withthe mystical volume. 'Give it me, give it me. Here I cannot tell Mrs. Fancourt what day I can dine with her. I am engaged all this week andall next, and I am to dine with your dear family when I like. But Mrs. Fancourt must choose her day, because they will keep. You do not knowthis gentleman, ' she said, turning to Mrs. Fan-court. 'Well, I shall notintroduce you; he will not suit you; he is a fine gentleman, and onlydines, with dukes. '

Mrs. Fancourt consequently looked very anxious for an introduction. 

'General Faneville, ' Lady Bellair continued, to a gentleman on her left, 'what day do I dine with you? Wednesday. Is our party full? You mustmake room for him; he is my greatest favourite. All the ladies are inlove with him. '

General Faneville expressed his deep sense of the high honour; Ferdinandprotested he was engaged on Wednesday; Mrs. Fancourt looked verydisappointed that she had thus lost another opportunity of learning thename of so distinguished a personage. 

There was another knock. Mrs. Fancourt departed. Lady Maxbury, and herdaughter, Lady Selina, were announced. 

'Have you got him?' asked Lady Bellair, very eagerly, as her newvisitors entered. 

'He has promised most positively, ' answered Lady Maxbury. 

'Dear, good creature!' exclaimed Lady Bellair, 'you are the dearestcreature that I know. And you are charming, ' she continued, addressingherself to Lady Selina; 'if I were a man, I would marry you directly. There now, he (turning to Ferdinand) cannot marry you, because he ismarried already; but he should, if he were not. And how will he come?'enquired Lady Bellair. 

'He will find his way, ' said Lady Maxbury. 

'And I am not to pay anything?' enquired Lady Bellair. 

'Not anything, ' said Lady Maxbury. 

'I cannot bear paying, ' said Lady Bellair. 'But will he dance, andwill he bring his bows and arrows? Lord Dorfield protests 'tis nothingwithout the bows and arrows. '

'What, the New Zealand chief, Lady Bellair?' enquired the general. 

'Have you seen him?' enquired Lady Bellair, eagerly. 

'Not yet, ' replied the gentleman. 

'Well, then, you will see him to-night, ' said Lady Bellair, with an airof triumph. 'He is coming to me to-night. '

Ferdinand rose, and was about to depart. 

'You must not go without seeing my squirrel, ' said her ladyship, 'thatmy dear funny grandson gave me: he is such a funny boy. You must see it, you must see it, ' added her ladyship, in a peremptory tone. 'There, go out of that door, and you will find your way to my summer-room, andthere you will find my squirrel. '

The restless Ferdinand was content to quit the library, even with thestipulation of first visiting the squirrel. He walked through a saloon, entered the conservatory, emerged into the garden, and at length foundhimself in the long summer-room. At the end of the room a lady wasseated, looking over a book of prints; as she heard a footstep sheraised her eyes, and Ferdinand beheld Henrietta Temple. 

He was speechless; he felt rooted to the ground; all power of thoughtand motion alike deserted him. 

There he stood, confounded and aghast. Nor indeed was his companionless disturbed. She remained with her eyes fixed on Ferdinand withan expression of fear, astonishment, and distress impressed upon herfeatures. At length Ferdinand in some degree rallied, and he followedthe first impulse of his mind, when mind indeed returned to him: hemoved to retire. 

He had retraced half his steps, when a voice, if human voice indeed itwere that sent forth tones so full of choking anguish, pronounced hisname. 

'Captain Armine!' said the voice. 

How he trembled, yet mechanically obedient to his first impulse, hestill proceeded to the door. 

'Ferdinand!' said the voice. 

He stopped, he turned, she waved her hand wildly, and then leaning herarm on the table, buried her face in it. Ferdinand walked to the tableat which she was sitting; she heard his footstep near her, yet sheneither looked up nor spoke. At length he said, in a still yet clearvoice, 'I am here. '

'I have seen Mr. Glastonbury, ' she muttered. 

'I know it, ' he replied. 

'Your illness has distressed me, ' she said, after a slight pause, herface still concealed, and speaking in a hushed tone. Ferdinand made noreply, and there was another pause, which Miss Temple broke. 

'I would that we were at least friends, ' she said. The tears came intoFerdinand's eyes when she said this, for her tone, though low, was nowsweet. It touched his heart. 

'Our mutual feelings now are of little consequence, ' he replied. 

She sighed, but made no reply. At length Ferdinand said, 'Farewell, MissTemple. '

She started, she looked up, her mournful countenance harrowed his heart. He knew not what to do; what to say. He could not bear her glance; he inhis turn averted his eyes. 

'Our misery is--has been great, ' she said in a firmer tone, 'but was itof my making?'

'The miserable can bear reproaches; do not spare me. My situation, however, proves my sincerity. I have erred certainly, ' said Ferdinand;'I could not believe that you could have doubted me. It was a mistake, 'he added, in a tone of great bitterness. 

Miss Temple again covered her face as she said, 'I cannot recall thepast: I wish not to dwell on it. I desire only to express to you theinterest I take in your welfare, my hope that you may yet be happy. Yes!you can be happy, Ferdinand; Ferdinand, for my sake you will be happy. '

'O Henrietta, if Henrietta I indeed may call you, this is worse thanthat death I curse myself for having escaped. '

'No, Ferdinand, say not that. Exert yourself, only exert yourself, bear up against irresistible fate. Your cousin, everyone says she is soamiable; surely------'

'Farewell, madam, I thank you for your counsel. '

'No, Ferdinand, you shall not go, you shall not go in anger. Pardon me, pity me, I spoke for your sake, I spoke for the best. '

'I, at least, will never be false, ' said Ferdinand with energy. 'Itshall not be said of me that I broke vows consecrated by the finestemotions of our nature. No, no, I have had my dream; it was but a dream:but while I live, I will live upon its sweet memory. '

'Ah! Ferdinand, why were you not frank; why did you conceal yoursituation from me?'

'No explanation of mine can change our respective situations, ' saidFerdinand; 'I content myself therefore by saying that it was not MissTemple who had occasion to criticise my conduct. '

'You are bitter. '

'The lady whom I injured, pardoned me. She is the most generous, themost amiable of her sex; if only in gratitude for all her surpassinggoodness, I would never affect to offer her a heart which never canbe hers. Katherine is indeed more than woman. Amid my many and almostunparalleled sorrows, one of my keenest pangs is the recollection thatI should have clouded the life, even for a moment, of that admirableperson. Alas! alas! that in all my misery the only woman who sympathiseswith my wretchedness is the woman I have injured. And so delicateas well as so generous! She would not even enquire the name of theindividual who had occasioned our mutual desolation. '

'Would that she knew all, ' murmured Henrietta; 'would that I knew her. '

'Your acquaintance could not influence affairs. My very affection for mycousin, the complete appreciation which I now possess of her character, before so little estimated and so feebly comprehended by me, is the verycircumstance that, with my feelings, would prevent our union. She may, I am confident she will, yet be happy. I can never make her so. Ourengagement in old days was rather the result of family arrangements thanof any sympathy. I love her far better now than I did then, and yetshe is the very last person in the world that I would marry. I trust, Ibelieve, that my conduct, if it have clouded for a moment her life, willnot ultimately, will not long obscure it; and she has every charm andvirtue and accident of fortune to attract the admiration and attentionof the most favoured. Her feelings towards me at any time could havebeen but mild and calm. It is a mere abuse of terms to style suchsentiments love. But, ' added he sarcastically, 'this is too delicate asubject for me to dilate on to Miss Temple. '

'For God's sake, do not be so bitter!' she exclaimed; and then sheadded, in a voice half of anguish, half of tenderness, 'Let me never betaunted by those lips! O Ferdinand, why cannot we be friends?'

'Because we are more than friends. To me such a word from your lips ismere mockery. Let us never meet. That alone remains for us. Little didI suppose that we ever should have met again. I go nowhere, I enterno single house; my visit here this morning was one of those whimsicalvagaries which cannot be counted on. This old lady indeed seems, somehowor other, connected with our destiny. I believe I am greatly indebted toher. '

The page entered the room. 'Miss Temple, ' said the lad, 'my lady bid mesay the duchess and Lord Montfort were here. '

Ferdinand started, and darting, almost unconsciously, a glance of fiercereproach at the miserable Henrietta, he rushed out of the room and madehis escape from Bellair House without re-entering the library. 

CHAPTER VI. 

 _Containing an Evening Assembly at Bellair House_. 

SEATED on an ottoman in the octagon library, occasionally throwing aglance at her illuminated and crowded saloons, or beckoning, with a fanalmost as long as herself, to a distant guest, Lady Bellair received theworld on the evening of the day that had witnessed the strange rencontrebetween Henrietta Temple and Ferdinand Armine. Her page, who stood atthe library-door in a new fancy dress, received the announcement ofthe company from the other servants, and himself communicated theinformation to his mistress. 

'Mr. Million de Stockville, my lady, ' said the page. 

'Hem!' said her ladyship, rather gruffly, as, with no very amiableexpression of countenance, she bowed, with her haughtiest dignity, to arather common-looking personage in a gorgeously-embroidered waistcoat. 

'Lady Ionia Colonnade, my lady. ' Lady Bellair bestowed a smiling nodon this fair and classic dame, and even indicated, by a movement of herfan, that she might take a seat on her ottoman. 

'Sir Ratcliffe and Lady Armine, my lady, and Miss Grandison. '

'Dear, good people!' exclaimed Lady Bellair, 'how late you are! andwhere is your wicked son? There, go into the next room, go, go, and seethe wonderful man. Lady Ionia, you must know Lady Armine; she islike you; she is one of my favourites. Now then, there all of you gotogether. I will not have anybody stay here except my niece. This is myniece, ' Lady Bellair added, pointing to a young lady seated by her side;'I give this party for her. ' 'General Faneville, my lady. ' 'You are verylate, ' said Lady Bellair. 'I dined at Lord Rochfort's, ' said the generalbowing. 

'Rochfort's! Oh! where are they? where are the Rochforts? they oughtto be here. I must, I will see them. Do you think Lady Rochfort wants anursery governess? Because I have a charming person who would just suither. Go and find her out, General, and enquire; and if she do not wantone, find out some one who does. Ask Lady Maxbury. There, go, go. '

'Mr. And Miss Temple, my lady. '

'Oh, my darling!' said Lady Bellair, 'my real darling! sit by me. I sentLady Ionia away, because I determined to keep this place for you. I givethis party entirely in your honour, so you ought to sit here. You are agood man, ' she continued, addressing Mr. Temple; 'but I can't love youso well as your daughter. '

'I should be too fortunate, ' said Mr. Temple, smiling. 

'I knew you when you ate pap, ' said Lady Bellair, laughing. 

'Mrs. Montgomery Floyd, my lady. '

Lady Bellair assumed her coldest and haughtiest glance. Mrs. Montgomeryappeared more gorgeous than ever. The splendour of her sweeping trainalmost required a page to support it; she held a bouquet which mighthave served for the centre-piece of a dinner-table. A slender youth, rather distinguished in appearance, simply dressed, with a rose-bud justtwisted into his black coat, but whose person distilled odours whoseessence might have exhausted a conservatory, lounged at her side. 

'May I have the honour to present to your ladyship Lord Catchimwhocan?'breathed forth Mrs. Montgomery, exulting in her companion, perhaps inher conquest. 

Lady Bellair gave a short and ungracious nod. Mrs. Montgomery recognisedMr. And Miss Temple. 'There, go, go, ' said Lady Bellair, interruptingher, 'nobody must stop here; go and see the wonderful man in the nextroom. '

'Lady Bellair is so strange, ' whimpered Mrs. Montgomery, in anapologetical whisper to Miss Temple, and she moved away, covering herretreat by the graceful person of Lord Catchimwhocan. 

'Some Irish guardsman, I suppose, ' said Lady Bellair. 'I never heard ofhim; I hate guardsmen. '

'Rather a distinguished-looking man, I think, ' said Mr. Temple. 

'Do you think so?' said Lady Bellair, who was always influenced by thelast word. 'I will ask him for Thursday and Saturday. I think I musthave known his grandfather. I must tell him not to go about with thathorrid woman. She is so very fine, and she uses musk; she puts mein mind of the Queen of Sheba, ' said the little lady, laughing, 'allprecious stones and frankincense. I quite hate her. '

'I thought she was quite one of your favourites, Lady Bellair?' saidHenrietta Temple rather maliciously. 

'A Bath favourite, my dear; a Bath favourite. I wear my old bonnets atBath, and use my new friends; but in town I have old friends and newdresses. '

'Lady Frederick Berrington, my lady. ' 'Oh! my dear Lady Frederick, nowI will give you a treat. I will introduce you to my sweet, sweet friend, whom I am always talking to you of. You deserve to know her; you willtaste her; there, sit down, sit by her, and talk to her, and make loveto her. '

'Lady Womandeville, my lady. '

'Ah! she will do for the lord; she loves a lord. My dear lady, you comeso late, and yet I am always so glad to see you. I have such a charmingfriend for you, the handsomest, most fashionable, witty person, quitecaptivating, and his grandfather was one of my dearest friends. What ishis name? what is his name? Lord Catchimwhocan. Mind, I introduce youto him, and ask him to your house very often. '

Lady Womandeville smiled, expressed her delight, and moved on. 

Lord Montfort, who had arrived before the Temples, approached theottoman. 

'Is the duchess here?' enquired Henrietta, as she shook hands with him. 

'And Isabella, ' he replied. Henrietta rose, and taking his arm, bidadieu to Lady Bellair. 

'God bless you, ' said her ladyship, with great emphasis. 'I will nothave you speak to that odious Mrs. Floyd, mind. '

When Lord Montfort and Henrietta succeeded in discovering the duchess, she was in the conservatory, which was gaily illuminated with colouredlamps among the shrubs. Her Grace was conversing with cordiality witha lady of very prepossessing appearance, in whom the traces of a beautyonce distinguished were indeed still considerable, and her companion, an extremely pretty person, in the very bloom of girlhood. Lord Montfortand Henrietta were immediately introduced to these ladies, as LadyArmine and Miss Grandison. After the scene of the morning, it was noteasy to deprive Miss Temple of her equanimity; after that shock, noincident connected with the Armine family could be surprising; shewas even desirous of becoming acquainted with Miss Grandison, and shecongratulated herself upon the opportunity which had so speedily offereditself to gratify her wishes. The duchess was perfectly delighted withLady Armine, whose manners were fascinating; between the families therewas some connection of blood, and Lady Armine, too, had always retaineda lively sense of the old duke's services to her son. Henrietta had evento listen to enquiries made after Ferdinand, and she learnt that he wasslowly recovering from an almost fatal illness, that he could not endurethe fatigues of society, and that he was even living at an hotel for thesake of quiet. Henrietta watched the countenance of Katherine, as LadyArmine gave this information. It was serious, but not disturbed. HerGrace did not separate from her new friends the whole of the evening, and they parted with a mutually expressed wish that they might speedilyand often meet. The duchess pronounced Lady Armine the most charmingperson she had ever met; while, on the other hand, Miss Grandison waswarm in her admiration of Henrietta Temple and Lord Montfort, whom shethought quite worthy even of so rare a prize. 

CHAPTER VII. 

 _Containing a Very Important Communication_. 

BETWEEN the unexpected meeting with Captain Armine in the morning andthe evening assembly at Bellair House, a communication had been made byMiss Temple to Lord Montfort, which ought not to be quite unnoticed. She had returned home with his mother and himself, and her silence anddepression had not escaped him. Soon after their arrival they were leftalone, and then Henrietta said, 'Digby, I wish to speak to you!'

'My own!' said Lord Montfort, as he seated himself by her on the sofa, and took her hand. 

Miss Temple was calm; but he would have been a light observer who hadnot detected her suppressed agitation. 

'Dearest Digby, ' she continued, 'you are so generous and so kind, thatI ought to feel no reluctance in speaking to you upon this subject; andyet it pains me very much. ' She hesitated. 

'I can only express my sympathy with any sorrow of yours, Henrietta, 'said Lord Montfort. 'Speak to me as you always do, with that franknesswhich so much delights me. '

'Let your thoughts recur to the most painful incident of my life, then, 'said Henrietta. 

'If you require it, ' said Lord Montfort, in a serious tone. 

'It is not my fault, dearest Digby, that a single circumstance connectedwith that unhappy event should be unknown to you. I wished originallythat you should know all. I have a thousand times since regrettedthat your consideration for my feelings should ever have occasioned animperfect confidence between us; and something has occurred to-day whichmakes me lament it bitterly. '

'No, no, dearest Henrietta; you feel too keenly, ' said Lord Montfort. 

'Indeed, Digby, it is so, ' said Henrietta very mournfully. 

'Speak, then, dearest Henrietta. '

'It is necessary that you should know the name of that person who onceexercised an influence over my feelings, which I never affected todisguise to you. '

'Is it indeed necessary?' enquired Lord Montfort. 

'It is for my happiness, ' replied Henrietta. 

'Then, indeed, I am anxious to learn it. '

'He is in this country, ' said Henrietta, 'he is in this town; he may bein the same room with you to-morrow; he has been in the same room withme even this day. '

'Indeed!' said Lord Montfort. 

'He bears a name not unknown to you, ' said Henrietta, 'a name, too, thatI must teach myself to mention, and yet------'

Lord Montfort rose and took a pencil and a sheet of paper from thetable, 'Write it, ' he said in a kind tone. 

Henrietta took the pencil, and wrote, 'Armine. '

'The son of Sir Ratcliffe?' said Lord Montfort. 

'The same, ' replied Henrietta. 

'You heard then of him last night?' enquired her companion. 

'Even so; of that, too, I was about to speak. '

'I am aware of the connection of Mr. Glastonbury with the Arminefamily, ' said Lord Montfort, quietly. 

[Illustration: frontis-page025. Jpg]

There was a dead pause. At length Lord Montfort said, 'Is there anythingyou wish me to do?'

'Much, ' said Henrietta. 'Dearest Digby, ' she continued, after a moment'shesitation, 'do not misinterpret me; my heart, if such a heart be worthpossessing, is yours. I can never forget who solaced me in my misery; Ican never forget all your delicate tenderness, Digby. Would that Icould make a return to you more worthy of all your goodness; but if thegrateful devotion of my life can repay you, you shall be satisfied. '

He took her hand and pressed it to his lips. 'It is of you, and of yourhappiness that I can alone think, ' he murmured. 

'Now let me tell you all, ' said Henrietta, with desperate firmness. 'Ihave done this person great injustice. '

'Hah!' said Lord Montfort. 

'It cuts me to the heart, ' said Henrietta. 

'You have then misconceived his conduct?' enquired Lord Montfort. 

'Utterly. '

'It is indeed a terrible situation for you, ' said Lord Montfort; 'forall of us, ' he added, in a lower tone. 

'No, Digby; not for all of us; not even for myself; for if you are happyI will be. But for him, yes! I will not conceal it from you, I feel forhim. '

'Your destiny is in your own hands, Henrietta. '

'No, no, Digby; do not say so, ' exclaimed Miss Temple, very earnestly;'do not speak in that tone of sacrifice. There is no need of sacrifice;there shall be none. I will not, I do not falter. Be you firm. Do notdesert me in this moment of trial. It is for support I speak; it is forconsolation. We are bound together by ties the purest, the holiest. Whoshall sever them? No! Digby, we will be happy; but I am interested inthe destiny of this unhappy person. You, you can assist me in renderingit more serene; in making him, perhaps, not less happy than ourselves. '

'I would spare no labour, ' said Lord Montfort. 

'Oh, that you would not!' exclaimed Miss Temple. 'You are so good, so noble! You would sympathise even with him. What other man in yoursituation would?'

'What can be done?'

'Listen: he was engaged to his cousin even on that fatal day when wefirst met; a lady with every charm and advantage that one would thinkcould make a man happy; young, noble, and beautiful; of a most amiableand generous disposition, as her subsequent conduct has proved; and ofgreat wealth. '

'Miss Grandison?' said Lord Montfort. 

'Yes: his parents looked forward to their union with delight, notaltogether unmixed with anxiety. 

The Armines, with all their princely possessions, are greatlyembarrassed from the conduct of the last head of their house. Ferdinandhimself has, I grieve to say, inherited too much of his grandfather'simprudent spirit; his affairs, I fear, are terribly involved. When Iknew him, papa was, as you are aware, a poor man. This marriage wouldhave cured all; my Digby, I wish it to take place. '

'How can we effect it?' asked Lord Montfort. 

'Become his friend, dear Digby. I always think you can do anything. Yes!my only trust is in you. Oh! my Digby, make us all happy. '

Lord Montfort rose and walked up and down the room, apparently inprofound meditation. At length he said, 'Rest assured, Henrietta, thatto secure your happiness nothing shall ever be wanting on my part. Iwill see Mr. Glastonbury on this subject. At present, dearest, let usthink of lighter things. '

CHAPTER VIII. 

 _Which Is Rather Strange_. 

IT WAS on the morning after the assembly at Bellair House that Ferdinandwas roused from his welcome slumbers, for he had passed an almostsleepless night, by his servant bringing him a note, and telling himthat it had been left by a lady in a carriage. He opened it, and read asfollows:--

'Silly, silly Captain Armine! why did you not come to my Vauxhall lastnight? I wanted to present you to the fairest damsel in the world, whohas a great fortune too; but that you don't care about. When are yougoing to be married? Miss Grandison looked charming, but disconsolatewithout her knight. Your mother is an angel, and the Duchess of-----isquite in love with her. Your father, too, is a worthy man. I love yourfamily very much. Come and call upon poor old doting bedridden H. B. , who is at home every day from two to six to receive her friends. Hascharming Lady Armine got a page? I have one that would just suit her. Heteases my poor squirrel so that I am obliged to turn him away; but he isa real treasure. That fine lady, Mrs. Montgomery Floyd, would give herears for him; but I love your mother much more, and so she shall havehim. He shall come to her to-night. All the world takes tea with H. B. On Thursday and Saturday. '

'One o'clock!' said Ferdinand. 'I may as well get up and call inBrook-street, and save my mother from this threatened infliction. Heigho! Day after day, and each more miserable than the other. How willthis end?'

When Ferdinand arrived in Brook-street, he went up stairs withoutbeing announced, and found in the drawing-room, besides his mother andKatherine, the duchess, Lord Montfort, and Henrietta Temple. 

The young ladies were in their riding-habits. Henrietta appeared beforehim, the same Henrietta whom he had met, for the first time, in thepleasaunce at Armine. Retreat was impossible. Her Grace receivedFerdinand cordially, and reminded him of old days. Henrietta bowed, butshe was sitting at some distance with Miss Grandison, looking at somework. Her occupation covered her confusion. Lord Montfort came forwardwith extended hand. 

'I have the pleasure of meeting an old friend, ' said his lordship. 

Ferdinand just touched his lordship's finger, and bowed rather stiffly;then, turning to his mother, he gave her Lady Bellair's note. 'Itconcerns you more than myself, ' he observed. 

'You were not at Lady Bellair's last night, Captain Armine, ' said herGrace. 

'I never go anywhere, ' was the answer. 

'He has been a great invalid, ' said Lady Armine. 

'Where is Glastonbury, Ferdinand?' said Lady Armine. 'He never comesnear us. '

'He goes every day to the British Museum. '

'I wish he would take me, ' said Katherine. 'I have never been there. Have you?' she enquired, turning to Henrietta. 

'I am ashamed to say never, ' replied Henrietta. 'It seems to me thatLondon is the only city of which I know nothing. '

'Ferdinand, ' said Katherine, 'I wish you would go with us to the Museumsome day. Miss Temple would like to go. You know Miss Temple, ' sheadded, as if she of course supposed he had not that pleasure. 

Ferdinand bowed; Lord Montfort came forward, and turned the conversationto Egyptian antiquities. When a quarter of an hour had passed, Ferdinandthought that he might now withdraw. 

'Do you dine at home, Katherine, to-day?' he enquired. 

Miss Grandison looked at Miss Temple; the young ladies whispered. 

'Ferdinand, ' said Katherine, 'what are you going to do?'

'Nothing particular. '

'We are going to ride, and Miss Temple wishes you would come with us. '

'I should be very happy, but I have some business to attend to. '

'Dear Ferdinand, that is what you always say. You really appear to me tobe the most busy person in the world. '

'Pray come, Captain Armine, ' said Lord Montfort. 

'Thank you; it is really not in my power. ' His hat was in his hand;he was begging her Grace to bear his compliments to the duke, whenHenrietta rose from her seat, and, coming up to him, said, 'Do, CaptainArmine, come with us; I ask you as a favour. '

That voice! Oh! it came o'er his ear 'like the sweet south;' it unmannedhim quite. He scarcely knew where he was. He trembled from head to foot. His colour deserted him, and the unlucky hat fell to the floor; and yetshe stood before him, awaiting his reply, calm, quite calm, serious, apparently a little anxious. The duchess was in earnest conversationwith his mother. Lord Montfort had walked up to Miss Grandison, and wasengaged in arranging a pattern for her. Ferdinand and Henriettawere quite unobserved. He looked up; he caught her eye; and then hewhispered, 'This is hardly fair. '

She stretched forth her hand, took his hat, and laid it on the table;then, turning to Katherine, she said, in a tone which seemed to admitno doubt, 'Captain Armine will ride with us;' and she seated herself byLady Armine. 

The expedition was a little delayed by Ferdinand having to send for hishorse; the others had, in the meantime, arrived. Yet this half-hour, by some contrivance, did at length disappear. Lord Montfort continuedtalking to Miss Grandison. Henrietta remained seated by Lady Armine. Ferdinand revolved a great question in, his mind, and it was this: WasLord Montfort aware of the intimate acquaintance between himself andMiss Temple? And what was the moving principle of her present conduct?He conjured up a thousand reasons, but none satisfied him. His curiositywas excited, and, instead of regretting his extracted promise to jointhe cavalcade, he rejoiced that an opportunity was thus afforded him ofperhaps solving a problem in the secret of which he now began to feelextremely interested. 

And yet in truth when Ferdinand found himself really mounted, and ridingby the side of Henrietta Temple once more, for Lord Montfort was veryimpartial in his attentions to his fair companions, and Ferdinandcontinually found himself next to Henrietta, he really began to thinkthe world was bewitched, and was almost sceptical whether he was or wasnot Ferdinand Armine. The identity of his companion too was so complete:Henrietta Temple in her riding-habit was the very image most keenlyimpressed upon his memory. He looked at her and stared at her witha face of curious perplexity. She did not, indeed, speak much; theconversation was always general, and chiefly maintained by LordMontfort, who, though usually silent and reserved, made on this occasionsuccessful efforts to be amusing. His attention to Ferdinand too wasremarkable; it was impossible to resist such genuine and unaffectedkindness. It smote Ferdinand's heart that he had received his lordship'sfirst advances so ungraciously. Compunction rendered him now doublycourteous; he was even once or twice almost gay. 

The day was as fine as a clear sky, a warm sun, and a western breezecould render it. Tempted by so much enjoyment, their ride was long. Itwas late, much later than they expected, when they returned home by thegreen lanes of pretty Willesden, and the Park was quite empty when theyemerged from the Edgware-road into Oxford-street. 

'Now the best thing we can all do is to dine in St. James'-square, ' saidLord Montfort. 'It is ten minutes past eight. We shall just be in time, and then we can send messages to Grosvenor-square and Brook-street. Whatsay you, Armine? You will come, of course?'

'Thank you, if you would excuse me. '

'No, no; why excuse you?' said Lord Montfort: 'I think it shabby todesert us now, after all our adventures. '

'Really you are very kind, but I never dine out. '

'Dine out! What a phrase! You will not meet a human being; perhaps noteven my father. If you will not come, it will spoil everything. '

'I cannot dine in a frock, ' said Ferdinand. 

'I shall, ' said Lord Montfort, 'and these ladies must dine in theirhabits, I suspect. '

'Oh! certainly, certainly, ' said the ladies. 

'Do come, Ferdinand, ' said Katherine. 

'I ask you as a favour, ' said Henrietta, turning to him and speaking ina low voice. 

'Well, ' said Ferdinand, with a sigh. 

'That is well, ' said Montfort; 'now let us trot through the Park, andthe groom can call in Grosvenor-square and Brook-street, and gallopafter us. This is amusing, is it not?'

CHAPTER IX. 

 _Which Is on the Whole Almost as Perplexing as the Preceding One_. 

WHEN Ferdinand found himself dining in St. James'-square, in the verysame room where he had passed so many gay hours during that boyish monthof glee which preceded his first joining his regiment, and then lookedopposite him and saw Henrietta Temple, it seemed to him that, by somemagical process or other, his life was acting over again, and the orderof the scenes and characters had, by some strange mismanagement, gotconfused. Yet he yielded himself up to the excitement which had sounexpectedly influenced him; he was inflamed by a species of wilddelight which he could not understand, nor stop to analyse; and when theduchess retired with the young ladies to their secret conclave in thedrawing-room, she said, 'I like Captain Armine very much; he is so fullof spirit and imagination. When we met him this morning, do you know, I thought him rather stiff and fine. I regretted the bright boyish flowthat I so well recollected, but I see I was mistaken. '

'Ferdinand is much changed, ' said Miss Grandison. 'He was once themost brilliant person, I think, that ever lived: almost too brilliant;everybody by him seemed so tame. But since his illness he has quitechanged. I have scarcely heard him speak or seen him smile these sixmonths. There is not in the whole world a person so wretchedly altered. He is quite a wreck. I do not know what is the matter with him to-day. He seemed once almost himself. '

'He indulged his feelings too much, perhaps, ' said Henrietta; 'he lived, perhaps, too much alone, after so severe an illness. '

'Oh, no! it is not that, ' said Miss Grandison, 'it is not exactlythat. Poor Ferdinand! he is to be pitied. I fear he will never be happyagain. '

'Miss Grandison should hardly say that, ' said the duchess, 'if reportspeaks truly. '

Katherine was about to reply, but checked herself. 

Henrietta rose from her seat rather suddenly, and asked Katherine totouch the piano. 

The duchess took up the 'Morning Post. '

'Poor Ferdinand! he used to sing once so beautifully, too!' saidKatherine to Miss Temple, in a hushed voice. 'He never sings now. '

'You must make him, ' said Henrietta. 

Miss Grandison shook her head. 

'You have influence with him; you should exert it, ' said Henrietta. 

'I neither have, nor desire to have, influence with him, ' said MissGrandison. 'Dearest Miss Temple, the world is in error with respect tomyself and my cousin; and yet I ought not to say to you what I have notthought proper to confess even to my aunt. '

Henrietta leant over and kissed her forehead. 'Say what you like, dearest Miss Grandison; you speak to a friend, who loves you, and willrespect your secret. '

The gentlemen at this moment entered the room, and interrupted thisinteresting conversation. 

'You must not quit the instrument, Miss Grandison, ' said Lord Montfort, seating himself by her side. Ferdinand fell into conversation with theduchess; and Miss Temple was the amiable victim of his Grace's passionfor écarté. 

'Captain Armine is a most agreeable person, ' said Lord Montfort. 

Miss Grandison rather stared. 'We were just speaking of Ferdinand, ' shereplied, 'and I was lamenting his sad change. '

'Severe illness, illness so severe as his, must for the moment changeanyone; we shall soon see him himself again. '

'Never, ' said Miss Grandison mournfully. 

'You must inspire him, ' said Lord Montfort. 'I perceive you have greatinfluence with him. '

'I give Lord Montfort credit for much acuter perception than that, ' saidMiss Grandison. 

Their eyes met: even Lord Montfort's dark vision shrank before thesearching glance of Miss Grandison. It conveyed to him that his purposewas not undiscovered. 

'But you can exert influence, if you please, ' said Lord Montfort. 

'But it may not please me, ' said Miss Grandison. 

At this moment Mr. Glastonbury was announced. He had a generalinvitation, and was frequently in the habit of paying an evening visitwhen the family were disengaged. When he found Ferdinand, Henrietta, and Katherine, all assembled together, and in so strange a garb, hisperplexity was wondrous. The tone of comparative ease, too, with whichMiss Temple addressed him, completed his confusion. He began to suspectthat some critical explanation had taken place. He looked around forinformation. 

'We have all been riding, ' said Lord Montfort. 

'So I perceive, ' said Glastonbury. 

'And as we were too late for dinner, took refuge here, ' continued hislordship. 

'I observe it, ' said Glastonbury. 

'Miss Grandison is an admirable musician, sir. '

'She is an admirable lady in every respect, ' said Glastonbury. 

'Perhaps you will join her in some canzonette; I am so stupid as not tobe able to sing. I wish I could induce Captain Armine. '

'He has left off singing, ' said Glastonbury, mournfully. 'But MissTemple?' added Glastonbury, bowing to that lady. 

'Miss Temple has left off singing, too, ' said Lord Montfort, quietly. 

'Come, Mr. Glastonbury, ' said the duchess, 'time was when you and I havesung together. Let us try to shame these young folks. ' So saying, her Grace seated herself at the piano, and the gratified Glastonburysummoned all his energies to accompany her. 

Lord Montfort seated himself by Ferdinand. 'You have been severely ill, I am sorry to hear. '

'Yes; I have been rather shaken. '

'This spring will bring you round. '

'So everyone tells me. I cannot say I feel its beneficial influence. '

'You should, ' said Lord Montfort. 'At our age we ought to rallyquickly. '

'Yes! Time is the great physician. I cannot say I have much more faithin him than in the spring. '

'Well, then, there is Hope; what think you of that?'

'I have no great faith, ' said Ferdinand, affecting to smile. 

'Believe, then, in optimism, ' said Henrietta Temple, without taking hereyes off the cards. 'Whatever is, is best. '

'That is not my creed, Miss Temple, ' said Ferdinand, and he rose and wasabout to retire. 

'Must you go? Let us all do something to-morrow!' said Lord Montfort, interchanging a glance with Henrietta. 'The British Museum; MissGrandison wishes to go to the British Museum. Pray come with us. '

'You are very good, but------'

'Well! I will write you a little note in the morning and tell you ourplans, ' said Lord Montfort. 'I hope you will not desert us. '

Ferdinand bowed and retired: he avoided catching the eye of Henrietta. 

The carriages of Miss Temple and Miss Grandison were soon announced, and, fatigued with their riding-dresses, these ladies did not longremain. 

'To-day has been a day of trial, ' said Henrietta, as she was about tobid Lord Montfort farewell. 'What do you think of affairs? I saw youspeaking to Katherine. What do you think?'

'I think Ferdinand Armine is a formidable rival. Do you know, I amrather jealous?'

'Digby! can you be ungenerous?'

'My sweet Henrietta, pardon my levity. I spoke in the merestplayfulness. Nay, ' he continued, for she seemed really hurt, 'say goodnight very sweetly. '

'Is there any hope?' said Henrietta. 

'All's well that ends well, ' said Lord Montfort, smiling; 'God blessyou. '

Glastonbury was about to retire, when Lord Montfort returned and askedhim to come up to his lordship's own apartments, as he wished to showhim a curious antique carving. 

'You seemed rather surprised at the guests you found here to-night, 'said Lord Montfort when they were alone. 

Glastonbury looked a little confused. 'It was certainly a curiousmeeting, all things considered, ' continued Lord Montfort: 'Henrietta hasnever concealed anything of the past from me, but I have always wishedto spare her details. I told her this morning I should speak to you uponthe subject, and that is the reason why I have asked you here. '

'It is a painful history, ' said Glastonbury. 

'As painful to me as anyone, ' said his lordship; 'nevertheless, it mustbe told. When did you first meet Miss Temple?'

'I shall never forget it, ' said Glastonbury, sighing and moving veryuneasily in his chair. 'I took her for Miss Grandison. ' And Glastonburynow entered into a complete history of everything that had occurred. 

'It is a strange, a wonderful story, ' said Lord Montfort, 'and youcommunicated everything to Miss Grandison?'

'Everything but the name of her rival. To that she would not listen. Itwas not just, she said, to one so unfortunate and so unhappy. '

'She seems an admirable person, that Miss Grandison, ' said LordMontfort. 

'She is indeed as near an angel as anything earthly can be, ' saidGlastonbury. 

'Then it is still a secret to the parents?'

'Thus she would have it, ' said Glastonbury. 'She clings to them, wholove her indeed as a daughter; and she shrank from the desolation thatwas preparing for them. '

'Poor girl!' said Lord Montfort, 'and poor Armine! By heavens, I pityhim from the bottom of my heart. '

'If you had seen him as I have, ' said Glastonbury, 'wilder than thewildest Bedlamite! It was an awful sight. '

'Ah! the heart, the heart, ' said Lord Montfort: 'it is a delicate organ, Mr. Glastonbury. And think you his father and mother suspect nothing?'

'I know not what they think, ' said Glastonbury, 'but they must soon knowall. ' And he seemed to shudder at the thought. 

'Why must they?' asked Lord Montfort. 

Glastonbury stared. 

'Is there no hope of softening and subduing all their sorrows?' saidLord Montfort; 'cannot we again bring together these young and partedspirits?'

'It is my only hope, ' said Glastonbury, 'and yet I sometimes deem it aforlorn one. '

'It is the sole desire of Henrietta, ' said Lord Montfort; 'cannot youassist us? Will you enter into this conspiracy of affection with us?'

'I want no spur to such a righteous work, ' said Glastonbury, 'but Icannot conceal from myself the extreme difficulty. Ferdinand is the mostimpetuous of human beings. His passions are a whirlwind; his volitionmore violent than becomes a suffering mortal. '

'You think, then, there is no difficulty but with him?'

'I know not what to say, ' said Glastonbury; 'calm as appears thetemperament of Miss Grandison, she has heroic qualities. Oh! what have Inot seen that admirable young lady endure! Alas! my Digby, my dearlord, few passages of this terrible story are engraven on my memory moredeeply than the day when I revealed to her the fatal secret. Yet, andchiefly for her sake, it was my duty. '

'It was at Armine?'

'At Armine. I seized an opportunity when we were alone together, andwithout fear of being disturbed. We had gone to view an old abbey in theneighbourhood. We were seated among its ruins, when I took her hand andendeavoured to prepare her for the fatal intelligence, "All is not rightwith Ferdinand, " she immediately said; "there is some mystery. I havelong suspected it. " She listened to my recital, softened as much as Icould for her sake, in silence. Yet her paleness I never can forget. Shelooked like a saint in a niche. When I had finished, she whispered me toleave her for some short time, and I walked away, out of sight indeed, but so near that she might easily summon me. I stood alone until it wastwilight, in a state of mournful suspense that I recall even now withanguish. At last I heard my name sounded, in a low yet distinct voice, and I looked round and she was there. She had been weeping. I took herhand and pressed it, and led her to the carriage. When I approached ourunhappy home, she begged me to make her excuses to the family, and fortwo or three days we saw her no more. At length she sent for me, andtold me she had been revolving all these sad circumstances in her mind, and she felt for others more even than for herself; that she forgaveFerdinand, and pitied him, and would act towards him as a sister; thather heart was distracted with the thoughts of the unhappy young lady, whose name she would never know, but that if by her assistance I couldeffect their union, means should not be wanting, though their sourcemust be concealed; that for the sake of her aunt, to whom she is indeedpassionately attached, she would keep the secret, until it could nolonger be maintained; and that in the meantime it was to be hoped thathealth might be restored to her cousin, and Providence in some wayinterfere in favour of this unhappy family. '

'Angelic creature!' said Lord Montfort. 'So young, too; I think sobeautiful. Good God! with such a heart what could Armine desire?'

'Alas!' said Glastonbury, and he shook his head. 'You know not thelove of Ferdinand Armine for Henrietta Temple. It is a wild and fearfulthing; it passeth human comprehension. '

Lord Montfort leant back in his chair, and covered his face with hishands. After some minutes he looked up, and said in his usual placidtone, and with an' unruffled brow, 'Will you take anything before yougo, Mr. Glastonbury?'

CHAPTER X. 

 _In Which Captain Armine Increases His Knowledge of the Value of Money, and Also Becomes Aware of the Advantage of an Acquaintance Who Burns Coals_. 

FERDINAND returned to his hotel in no very good humour, revolving in hismind Miss Temple's advice about optimism. What could she mean? Was therereally a conspiracy to make him marry his cousin, and was Miss Templeone of the conspirators? He could scarcely believe this, and yet it wasthe most probable, deduction from all that had been said and done. Hehad lived to witness such strange occurrences, that no event ought nowto astonish him. Only to think that he had been sitting quietly ina drawing-room with Henrietta Temple, and she avowedly engaged to bemarried to another person, who was present; and that he, FerdinandArmine, should be the selected companion of their morning ride, andbe calmly invited to contribute to their daily amusement by his socialpresence! What next? If this were not an insult, a gross, flagrant, andunendurable outrage, he was totally at a loss to comprehend what wasmeant by offended pride. Optimism, indeed! He felt far more inclinedto embrace the faith of the Manichee! And what a fool was he to havesubmitted to such a despicable, such a degrading situation! Whatinfinite weakness not to be able to resist her influence, the influenceof a woman who had betrayed him! Yes! betrayed him. He had for someperiod reconciled his mind to entertain the idea of Henrietta'streachery to him. Softened by time, atoned for by long suffering, extenuated by the constant sincerity of his purpose, his originalimprudence, to use his own phrase in describing his misconduct, hadgradually ceased to figure as a valid and sufficient cause for herbehaviour to him. When he recollected how he had loved this woman, what he had sacrificed for her, and what misery he had in consequenceentailed upon himself and all those dear to him; when he contrastedhis present perilous situation with her triumphant prosperity, andremembered that while he had devoted himself to a love which provedfalse, she who had deserted him was, by a caprice of fortune, absolutelyrewarded for her fickleness; he was enraged, he was disgusted, hedespised himself for having been her slave; he began even to hate her. Terrible moment when we first dare to view with feelings of repugnancethe being that our soul has long idolised! It is the most awful ofrevelations. We start back in horror, as if in the act of profanation. 

Other annoyances, however, of a less ethereal character, awaited ourhero on his return to his hotel. There he found a letter from hislawyer, informing him that he could no longer parry the determination ofone of Captain Armine's principal creditors to arrest him instantly fora considerable sum. Poor Ferdinand, mortified and harassed, with hisheart and spirit alike broken, could scarcely refrain from a groan. However, some step must be taken. He drove Henrietta from his thoughts, and, endeavouring to rally some of his old energy, revolved in his mindwhat desperate expedient yet remained. 

His sleep was broken by dreams of bailiffs, and a vague idea ofHenrietta Temple triumphing in his misery; but he rose early, wrote adiplomatic note to his menacing creditor, which he felt confident mustgain him time, and then, making a careful toilet, for when a man isgoing to try to borrow money it is wise to look prosperous, he took hisway to a quarter of the town where lived a gentleman with whose brotherhe had had some previous dealings at Malta, and whose acquaintance hehad made in England in reference to them. 

It was in that gloomy quarter called Golden-square, the murky repose ofwhich strikes so mysteriously on the senses after the glittering bustleof the adjoining Regent-street, that Captain Armine stopped before anoble yet now dingy mansion, that in old and happier days might probablyhave been inhabited by his grandfather, or some of his gay friends. Abrass plate on the door informed the world that here resided Messrs. Morris and Levison, following the not very ambitious calling of coalmerchants. But if all the pursuers of that somewhat humble trade couldmanage to deal in coals with the same dexterity as Messrs. Morris andLevison, what very great coal merchants they would be!

The ponderous portal obeyed the signal of the bell, and apparentlyopened without any human means; and Captain Armine, proceeding downa dark yet capacious passage, opened a door, which invited him byan inscription on ground glass that assured him he was entering thecounting-house. Here several clerks, ensconced within lofty walls of thedarkest and dullest mahogany, were busily employed; yet one advancedto an aperture in this fortification and accepted the card which thevisitor offered him. The clerk surveyed the ticket with a peculiarglance; and then, begging the visitor to be seated, disappeared. Hewas not long absent, but soon invited Ferdinand to follow him. CaptainArmine was ushered up a noble staircase, and into a saloon that oncewas splendid. The ceiling was richly carved, and there still might bedetected the remains of its once gorgeous embellishment in the faintforms of faded deities and the traces of murky gilding. The walls ofthis apartment were crowded with pictures, arranged, however, withlittle regard to taste, effect, or style. A sprawling copy of Titian'sVenus flanked a somewhat prim peeress by Hoppner; a landscape thatsmacked of Gainsborough was the companion of a dauby moonlight, thatmust have figured in the last exhibition; and insipid Roman matrons byHamilton, and stiff English heroes by Northcote, contrasted with a vastquantity of second-rate delineations of the orgies of Dutch boors andportraits of favourite racers and fancy dogs. The room was crowded withugly furniture of all kinds, very solid, and chiefly of mahogany; amongwhich were not less than three escritoires, to say nothing of the hugehorsehair sofas. A sideboard of Babylonian proportions was crownedby three massive and enormous silver salvers, and immense branchcandlesticks of the same precious metal, and a china punch-bowl whichmight have suited the dwarf in Brobdignag. The floor was covered witha faded Turkey carpet. But amid all this solid splendour there werecertain intimations of feminine elegance in the veil of finely-cutpink paper which covered the nakedness of the empty but highly-polishedfire-place, and in the hand-screens, which were profusely ornamentedwith ribbon of the same hue, and one of which afforded a most accurateif not picturesque view of Margate, while the other glowed with a hugewreath of cabbage-roses and jonquils. 

Ferdinand was not long alone, and Mr. Levison, the proprietor of allthis splendour, entered. He was a short, stout man, with a gravebut handsome countenance, a little bald, but nevertheless with anelaborateness of raiment which might better have become a younger man. He wore a plum-colored frock coat of the finest cloth; his green velvetwaistcoat was guarded by a gold chain, which would have been the envyof a new town council; an immense opal gleamed on the breast of hisembroidered shirt; and his fingers were covered with very fine rings. 

'Your sarvant, Captin, ' said Mr. Levison, and he placed a chair for hisguest. 

'How are you, Levison?' responded our hero in an easy voice. 'Any news?'

Mr. Levison shrugged his shoulders, as he murmured, 'Times is very bad, Captin. '

'Oh! I dare say, ' said Ferdinand; 'I wish they were as well with me aswith you. By Jove, Levison, you must be making an immense fortune. '

Mr. Levison shook his head, as he groaned out, 'I work hard, Captin; buttimes is terrible. '

'Fiddlededee! Come! I want you to assist me a little, old fellow. Nohumbug between us. '

'Oh!' groaned Mr. Levison, 'you could not come at a worse time; I don'tknow what money is. '

'Of course. However, the fact is, money I must have; and so, old fellow, we are old friends, and you must get it. '

'What do you want, Captin?' slowly spoke Mr. Levison, with an expressionof misery. 

'Oh! I want rather a tolerable sum, and that is the truth; but I onlywant it for a moment. '

'It is not the time, 'tis the money, ' said Mr. Levison. 'You know me andmy pardner, Captin, are always anxious to do what we can to sarve you. '

'Well, now you can do me a real service, and, by Jove, you shall neverrepent it. To the point; I must have 1, 500L. '

'One thousand five hundred pounds!' exclaimed Mr. Levison. ''Tayn't inthe country. '

'Humbug! It must be found. What is the use of all this stuff with me? Iwant 1, 500L. , and you must give it me. '

'I tell you what it is, Captin, ' said Mr. Levison, leaning over the backof a chair, and speaking with callous composure; 'I tell you what it is, me and my pardner are very willing always to assist you; but we want toknow when the marriage is to come off, and that's the truth. '

'Damn the marriage, ' said Captain Armine, rather staggered. 

'There it is, though, ' said Mr. Levison, very quietly. 'You know, Captin, there is the arrears on that 'ere annuity, three years nextMichaelmas. I think it's Michaelmas; let me see. ' So saying, Mr. Levisonopened an escritoire, and brought forward an awful-looking volume, and, consulting the terrible index, turned to the fatal name of Armine. 'Yes!three years next Michaelmas, Captin. '

'Well, you will be paid, ' said Ferdinand. 

'We hope so, ' said Mr. Levison; 'but it is a long figure. '

'Well, but you get capital interest?'

'Pish!' said Mr. Levison; 'ten per cent. ! Why! it is giving away themoney. Why! that's the raw, Captin. With this here new bill annuities isnothink. Me and my pardner don't do no annuities now. It's giving moneyaway; and all this here money locked up; and all to sarve you. '

'Well; you will not help me, ' said Ferdinand, rising. 

'Do you raly want fifteen hundred?' asked Mr. Levison. 

'By Jove, I do. '

'Well now, Captin, when is this marriage to come off?'

'Have I not told you a thousand times, and Morris too, that my cousin isnot to marry until one year has passed since my grandfather's death? Itis barely a year. But of course, at this moment, of all others, I cannotafford to be short. '

'Very true, Captin; and we are the men to sarve you, if we could. But wecannot. Never was such times for money; there is no seeing it. However, we will do what we can. Things is going very bad at Malta, and that'sthe truth. There's that young Catchimwhocan, we are in with him werydeep; and now he has left the Fusiliers and got into Parliament, hedon't care this for us. If he would only pay us, you should have themoney; so help me, you should. '

'But he won't pay you, ' said Ferdinand. 'What can you do?'

'Why, I have a friend, ' said Mr. Levison, 'who I know has got threehundred pound at his bankers, and he might lend it us; but we shall haveto pay for it. '

'I suppose so, ' said Ferdinand. 'Well, three hundred. '

'I have not got a shilling myself, ' said Mr. Levison. 'Young Touchemupleft us in the lurch yesterday for 750L. , so help me, and never gaveus no notice. Now, you are a gentleman, Captin; you never pay, but youalways give us notice. '

Ferdinand could not help smiling at Mr. Levison's idea of a gentleman. 

'Well, what else can you do?'

'Why, there is two hundred coming in to-morrow, ' said Mr. Levison; 'Ican depend on that. '

'Well, that is five. '

'And you want fifteen hundred, ' said Mr. Levison. 'Well, me and mypardner always like to sarve you, and it is very awkward certainly foryou to want money at this moment. But if you want to buy jewels, I canget you any credit you like, you know. '

'We will talk of that by and by, ' said Ferdinand. 

'Fifteen hundred pound!' ejaculated Mr. Levison. 'Well, I suppose wemust make it 700L. Somehow or other, and you must take the rest incoals. '

'Oh, by Jove, Levison, that is too bad. '

'I don't see no other way, ' said Mr. Levison, rather doggedly. 

'But, damn it, my good fellow, my dear Levison, what the deuce am I todo with 800L. Worth of coals?'

'Lord! My dear Captin, 800L. Worth of coals is a mere nothink. With yourconnection, you will get rid of them in a morning. All you have got todo, you know, is to give your friends an order on us, and we will letyou have cash at a little discount. '

'Then you can let me have the cash now at a little discount, or even agreat; I cannot get rid of 800L. Worth of coals. '

'Why, 'tayn't four hundred chaldron, Captin, ' rejoined Mr. Levison. 'Three or four friends would do the thing. Why, Baron Squash takes tenthousand chaldron of us every year; but he has such a knack, he gits theClubs to take them. '

'Baron Squash, indeed! Do you know whom you are talking to, Mr. Levison?Do you think that I am going to turn into a coal merchant? yourworking partner, by Jove! No, sir; give me the 700L. , without the coals, and charge what interest you please. ' 'We could not do it, Captin. 'Tayn't our way. ' 'I ask you once more, Mr. Levison, will you let mehave the money, or will you not?'

'Now, Captin, don't be so high and mighty! 'Tayn't the way to dobusiness. Me and my pardner wish to sarve you; we does indeed. And ifa hundred pound will be of any use to you, you shall have it on youracceptance; and we won't be curious about any name that draws; we won'tindeed. '

'Well, Mr. Levison, ' said Ferdinand, rising, 'I see we can do nothingto-day. The hundred pounds would be of no use to me. I will think overyour proposition. Good morning to you. '

'Ah, do!' said Mr. Levison, bowing and opening the door, 'do, Captin; wewish to sarve you, we does indeed. See how we behave about that arrears. Think of the coals; now do. Now for a bargin; come! Come, Captin, I daresay now you could get us the business of the Junior Sarvice Club; andthen you shall have the seven hundred on your acceptance for threemonths, at two shillings in the pound; come!'

CHAPTER XI. 

 _In Which Captain Armine Unexpectedly Resumes His Acquaintance with Lord Catchimwhocan, Who Introduces Him to Mr. Bond Sharpe_. 

FERDINAND quitted his kind friend Mr. Levison in no very amiable mood;but just as he was leaving the house, a cabriolet, beautifully painted, of a brilliant green colour picked out with a somewhat cream-colouredwhite, and drawn by a showy Holstein horse of tawny tint, with a flowingand milk-white tail and mane, and caparisoned in harness almost asprecious as Mr. Levison's sideboard, dashed up to the door. 

'Armine, by Jove!' exclaimed the driver, with great cordiality. 

'Ah! Catch, is it you?' said Ferdinand. 'What! have you been here?'said Lord Catchimwhocan. 'At the old work, eh? Is "me and my pardner"troublesome? for your countenance is not very radiant. '

'By Jove, old fellow!' said Ferdinand, in a depressed tone, 'I am in ascrape, and also in a rage. Nothing is to be done here. '

'Never mind, ' said his lordship; 'keep up your spirits, jump into mycab, and we will see how we can carry on the war. I am only going tospeak one word to "me and my pardner. "'

So saying, his lordship skipped into the house as gay as a lark, although he had a bill for a good round sum about to be dishonoured inthe course of a few hours. 

'Well, my dear Armine, ' he resumed, when he reappeared and took thereins; 'now as I drive along, tell me all about it; for if there be aman in the world whom I should like to "sarve, " it is thyself, my nobleFerdinand. '

With this encouragement, Captain Armine was not long in pouring hiscares into a congenial bosom. 

'I know the man to "sarve" you, ' said Catchimwhocan. 

'The fact is, these fellows here are regular old-fashioned humbugs. Theonly idea they have is money, money. They have no enlightened notions. I will introduce you to a regular trump; and if he does not do ourbusiness, I am much mistaken. Courage, old fellow! How do you like thisstart?'

'Deuced neat. By-the-bye, Catch, my boy, you are going it rather, Isee. '

'To be sure. I have always told you there is a certain system in affairswhich ever prevents men being floored. No fellow is ever dished who hasany connection. What man that ever had his run was really ever fairlyput _hors de combat_, unless he was some one who ought never to haveentered the arena, blazing away without any set, making himself a damnedfool and everybody his enemy. So long as a man bustles about and is in agood set, something always turns up. I got into Parliament, you see; andyou, you are going to be married. '

All this time the cabriolet was dashing down Regent-street, twistingthrough the Quadrant, whirling along Pall Mall, until it finally enteredCleveland-row, and stopped before a newly painted, newly pointed, andexceedingly compact mansion, the long brass knocker of whose dark greendoor sounded beneath the practised touch of his lordship's tiger. Eventhe tawny Holstein horse, with the white flowing mane, seemed consciousof the locality, and stopped before the accustomed resting-place in themost natural manner imaginable. A tall serving-man, well-powdered, andin a dark and well-appointed livery, immediately appeared. 

'At home?' enquired Lord Catchimwhocan, with a peculiarly confidentialexpression. 

'To you, my lord, ' responded the attendant. 

'Jump out, Armine, ' said his lordship; and they entered the house. 

'Alone?' said his lordship. 

'Not alone, ' said the servant, ushering the friends into thedining-room, 'but he shall have your lordship's card immediately. Thereare several gentlemen waiting in the third drawing-room; so I have shownyour lordship in here, and shall take care that he sees your lordshipbefore anyone. '

'That's a devilish good fellow, ' said Lord Catchimwhocan, putting hishand into his waistcoat pocket to give him a sovereign; but not findingone, he added, 'I shall remember you. '

The dining-room into which they were shown was at the back of the house, and looked into agreeable gardens. The apartment was in some littleconfusion at this moment, for their host gave a dinner to-day, andhis dinners were famous. The table was arranged for eight guests; itsappointments indicated refined taste. A candelabrum of Dresden china wasthe centre piece; there was a whole service of the same material, evento the handles of the knives and forks; and the choice variety of glassattracted Ferdinand's notice. The room was lofty and spacious; it wassimply and soberly furnished; not an object which could distract thetaste or disturb the digestion. But the sideboard, which filled a recessat the end of the apartment, presented a crowded group of gold platethat might have become a palace; magnificent shields, tall vases, ancient tankards, goblets of carved ivory set in precious metal, andcups of old ruby glass mounted on pedestals, glittering with gems. This accidental display certainly offered an amusing contrast to theperpetual splendour of Mr. Levison's buffet; and Ferdinand was wonderingwhether it would turn out that there was as marked a difference betweenthe two owners, when his companion and himself were summoned to thepresence of Mr. Bond Sharpe. 

They ascended a staircase perfumed with flowers, and on eachlanding-place was a classic tripod or pedestal crowned with a bust. Andthen they were ushered into a drawing-room of Parisian elegance; buhlcabinets, marqueterie tables, hangings of the choicest damask suspendedfrom burnished cornices of old carving. The chairs had been rifled froma Venetian palace; the couches were part of the spoils of the Frenchrevolution. There were glass screens in golden frames, and a clockthat represented the death of Hector, the chariot wheel of Achillesconveniently telling the hour. A round table of mosaic, mounted on agolden pedestal, was nearly covered with papers; and from an easy-chair, supported by air cushions, half rose to welcome them Mr. Bond Sharpe. Hewas a man not many years the senior of Captain Armine and his friend; ofelegant appearance, pale, pensive, and prepossessing. Deep thought wasimpressed upon his clear and protruding brow, and the expression ofhis grey sunken eyes, which were delicately arched, was singularlysearching. His figure was slight but compact. His dress was plain, buta model in its fashion. He was habited entirely in black, and his onlyornament were his studs, which were turquoise and of great size: butthere never were such boots, so brilliant and so small!

He welcomed Lord Catchimwhocan in a voice scarcely above a whisper, andreceived Captain Armine in a manner alike graceful and dignified. 

'My dear Sharpe, ' said his lordship, 'I am going to introduce to youmy most particular friend, and an old brother officer. This is CaptainArmine, the only son of Sir Ratcliffe, and the heir of Armine Castle. He is going to be married very soon to his cousin, Miss Grandison, thegreatest heiress in England. '

'Hush, hush, ' said Ferdinand, shrinking under this false representation, and Mr. Sharpe with considerate delicacy endeavoured to check hislordship. 

'Well, never mind, I will say nothing about that, ' continued LordCatchimwhocan. 'The long and the short of it is this, that my friendArmine is hard up, and we must carry on the war till we get into winterquarters. You are just the man for him, and by Jove, my dear Sharpe, if you wish sensibly to oblige me, who I am sure am one of your warmestfriends, you will do everything for Armine that human energy canpossibly effect. '

'What is the present difficulty that you have?' enquired Mr. Sharpe ofour hero, in a calm whisper. 

'Why, the present difficulty that he has, ' said Lord Catchimwhocan, 'isthat he wants 1, 500L. '

'I suppose you have raised money, Captain Armine?' said Mr. Sharpe. 

'In every way, ' said Captain Armine. 

'Of course, ' said Mr. Sharpe, 'at your time of life one naturally does. And I suppose you are bothered for this 1, 500L. '

'I am threatened with immediate arrest, and arrest in execution. '

'Who is the party?'

'Why, I fear an unmanageable one, even by you. It is a house at Malta. '

'Mr. Bolus, I suppose?'

'Exactly. '

'I thought so. '

'Well, what can be done?' said Lord Catchimwhocan. 

'Oh! there is no difficulty, ' said Mr. Sharpe quietly. 'Captain Arminecan have any money he likes. '

'I shall be happy, ' said Captain Armine, 'to pay any consideration youthink fit. '

'Oh! my dear sir, I cannot think of that. Money is a drug now. I shallbe happy to accommodate you without giving you any trouble. You can havethe 1, 500L. , if you please, this moment. '

'Really, you are very generous, ' said Ferdinand, much surprised, 'but Ifeel I am not entitled to such favours. What security can I give you?'

'I lend the money to you. I want no security. You can repay me when youlike. Give me your note of hand. ' So saying, Mr. Sharpe opened a drawer, and taking out his cheque-book drew a draft for the 1, 500L. 'I believeI have a stamp in the house, ' he continued, looking about. 'Yes, hereis one. If you will fill this up, Captain Armine, the affair may beconcluded at once. '

'Upon my honour, Mr. Sharpe, ' said Ferdinand, very confused, 'I do notlike to appear insensible to this extraordinary kindness, but reallyI came here by the merest accident, and without any intention ofsoliciting or receiving such favours. And my kind friend here has givenyou much too glowing an account of my resources. It is very probable Ishall occasion you great inconvenience. '

'Really, Captain Armine, ' said Mr. Sharpe with a slight smile, 'if wewere talking of a sum of any importance, why, one might be a little morepunctilious, but for such a bagatelle we have already wasted too muchtime in its discussion. I am happy to serve you. '

Ferdinand stared, remembering Mr. Levison and the coals. Mr. Sharpehimself drew up the note, and presented it to Ferdinand, who signed itand pocketed the draft. 

'I have several gentlemen waiting, ' said Mr. Bond Sharpe; 'I am sorry Icannot take this opportunity of cultivating your acquaintance, CaptainArmine, but I should esteem it a great honour if you would dine with meto-day. Your friend Lord Catchimwhocan favours me with his company, andyou might meet a person or two who would amuse you. '

'I really shall be very happy, ' said Ferdinand. 

And Mr. Bond Sharpe again slightly rose and bowed them out of the room. 

'Well, is not he a trump?' said Lord Catchimwhocan, when they were oncemore in the cab. 

'I am so astonished, ' said Ferdinand, 'that I cannot speak. Who in thename of fortune is this great man?'

'A genius, ' said Lord Catchimwhocan. 'Don't you think he is a deucedgood-looking fellow?'

'The best-looking fellow I ever saw, ' said the grateful Ferdinand. 

'And capital manners?'

'Most distinguished. '

'Neatest dressed man in town!'

'Exquisite taste!'

'What a house!'

'Capital!'

'Did you ever see such furniture? It beats your rooms at Malta. '

'I never saw anything more complete in my life. '

'What plate!' 'Miraculous!' 'And, believe me, we shall have the bestdinner in town. '

'Well, he has given me an appetite, ' said Ferdinand. 'But who is he?'

'Why, by business he is what is called a conveyancer; that is to say, heis a lawyer by inspiration. '

'He is a wonderful man, ' said Ferdinand. 'He must be very rich. '

'Yes; Sharpe must be worth his quarter of a million. And he has made itin such a deuced short time!'

'Why, he is not much older than we are!'

'Ten years ago that man was a prizefighter, ' said Lord Catchimwhocan. 

'A prizefighter!' exclaimed Ferdinand. 

'Yes; and licked everybody. But he was too great a genius for the ring, and took to the turf. '

'Ah!'

'Then he set up a hell. '

'Hum!'

'And then he turned it into a subscription-house. '

'Hoh!'

'He keeps his hell still, but it works itself now. In the mean time heis the first usurer in the world, and will be in the next Parliament. '

'But if he lends money on the terms he accommodates me, he will hardlyincrease his fortune. '

'Oh! he can do the thing when he likes. He took a fancy to you. The factis, my dear fellow, Sharpe is very rich and wants to get into society. He likes to oblige young men of distinction, and can afford to risk afew thousands now and then. By dining with him to-day you have quiterepaid him for his loan. Besides, the fellow has a great soul; and, though born on a dung-hill, nature intended him for a palace, and he hasplaced himself there. '

'Well, this has been a remarkable morning, ' said Ferdinand Armine, asLord Catchimwhocan set him down at his club. 'I am very much obliged toyou, dear Catch!'

'Not a word, my dear fellow. You have helped me before this, and glad amI to be the means of assisting the best fellow in the world, and that weall think you. _Au revoir!_ We dine at eight. '

CHAPTER XII. 

 _Miss Grandison Makes a Remarkable Discovery_. 

IN THE mean time, while the gloomy morning which Ferdinand hadanticipated terminated with so agreeable an adventure, Henrietta andMiss Grandison, accompanied by Lord Montfort and Glastonbury, paid theirpromised visit to the British Museum. 

'I am sorry that Captain Armine could not accompany us, ' said LordMontfort. 'I sent to him this morning early, but he was already out. '

'He has many affairs to attend to, ' said Glastonbury. 

Miss Temple looked grave; she thought of poor Ferdinand and all hiscares. She knew well what were those affairs to which Glastonburyalluded. The thought that perhaps at this moment he was struggling withrapacious creditors made her melancholy. The novelty and strangeness ofthe objects which awaited her, diverted, however, her mind from thesepainful reflections. Miss Grandison, who had never quitted England, wasdelighted with everything she saw; but the Egyptian gallery principallyattracted the attention of Miss Temple. Lord Montfort, regardful of hispromise to Henrietta, was very attentive to Miss Grandison. 

'I cannot help regretting that your cousin is not here, ' said hislordship, returning to a key that he had already touched. But Katherinemade no answer. 

'He seemed so much better for the exertion he made yesterday, ' resumedLord Montfort. 'I think it would do him good to be more with us. '

'He seems to like to be alone, ' said Katherine. 

'I wonder at that, ' said Lord Montfort; 'I cannot conceive a happierlife than we all lead. '

'You have cause to be happy, and Ferdinand has not, ' said MissGrandison, calmly. 

'I should have thought that he had very great cause, ' said LordMontfort, enquiringly. 

'No person in the world is so unhappy as Ferdinand, ' said Katherine. 

'But cannot we cure his unhappiness?' said his lordship. 'We are hisfriends; it seems to me, with such friends as Miss Grandison and MissTemple one ought never to be unhappy. '

'Miss Temple can scarcely be called a friend of Ferdinand, ' saidKatherine. 

'Indeed, a very warm one, I assure you. '

'Ah, that is your influence. '

'Nay, it is her own impulse. '

'But she only met him yesterday for the first time. '

'I assure you Miss Temple is an older friend of Captain Armine than Iam, ' said his lordship. 

'Indeed!' said Miss Grandison, with an air of considerable astonishment. 

'You know they were neighbours in the country. '

'In the country!' repeated Miss Grandison. 

'Yes; Mr. Temple, you know, resided not far from Armine. '

'Not far from Armine!' still repeated Miss Grandison. 

'Digby, ' said Miss Temple, turning to him at this moment, 'tell Mr. Glastonbury about your sphinx at Rome. It was granite, was it not?'

'And most delicately carved. I never remember having observed anexpression of such beautiful serenity. The discovery that, after all, they are male countenances is quite mortifying. I loved their mysteriousbeauty. '

What Lord Montfort had mentioned of the previous acquaintance ofHenrietta and her cousin made Miss Grandison muse. Miss Temple'saddress to Ferdinand yesterday had struck her at the moment as somewhatsingular; but the impression had not dwelt upon her mind. But now itoccurred to her as very strange, that Henrietta should have become sointimate with the Armine family and herself, and never have mentionedthat she was previously acquainted with their nearest relative. LadyArmine was not acquainted with Miss Temple until they met at BellairHouse. That was certain. Miss Grandison had witnessed their mutualintroduction. Nor Sir Ratcliffe. And yet Henrietta and Ferdinand werefriends, warm friends, old friends, intimately acquainted: so said LordMontfort, and Lord Montfort never coloured, never exaggerated. Allthis was very mysterious. And if they were friends, old friends, warmfriends, and Lord Montfort said they were, and, therefore, there couldbe no doubt of the truth of the statement, their recognition of eachother yesterday was singularly frigid. 

It was not indicative of a very intimate acquaintance. Katherine hadascribed it to the natural disrelish of Ferdinand now to be introducedto anyone. And yet they were friends, old friends, warm friends. Henrietta Temple and Ferdinand Armine! Miss Grandison was so perplexedthat she scarcely looked at another object in the galleries. 

The ladies were rather tired when they returned from the Museum. LordMontfort walked to the Travellers, and Henrietta agreed to remain anddine in Brook-street. Katherine and herself retired to Miss Grandison'sboudoir, a pretty chamber, where they were sure of being alone. Henrietta threw herself upon a sofa, and took up the last new novel;Miss Grandison seated herself on an ottoman by her side, and worked at apurse which she was making for Mr. Temple. 

'Do you like that book?' said Katherine. 

'I like the lively parts, but not the serious ones, ' replied MissTemple; 'the author has observed but he has not felt. '

'It is satirical, ' said Miss Grandison; 'I wonder why all this class ofwriters aim now at the sarcastic. I do not find life the constant sneerthey make it. '

'It is because they do not understand life, ' said Henrietta, 'buthave some little experience of society. Therefore their works give aperverted impression of human conduct; for they accept as a principal, that which is only an insignificant accessory; and they make existencea succession of frivolities, when even the career of the most frivoloushas its profounder moments. '

'How vivid is the writer's description of a ball or a dinner, ' said MissGrandison; 'everything lives and moves. And yet, when the hero makeslove, nothing can be more unnatural. His feelings are neither deep, norardent, nor tender. All is stilted, and yet ludicrous. '

'I do not despise the talent which describes so vividly a dinner and aball, ' said Miss Temple. 'As far as it goes it is very amusing, butit should be combined with higher materials. In a fine novel, mannersshould be observed, and morals should be sustained; we require thoughtand passion, as well as costume and the lively representation ofconventional arrangements; and the thought and passion will be thebetter for these accessories, for they will be relieved in the novel asthey are relieved in life, and the whole will be more true. '

'But have you read that love scene, Henrietta? It appeared to me soridiculous!'

'I never read love scenes, ' said Henrietta Temple. 

'Oh, I love a love story, ' said Miss Grandison, smiling, 'if it benatural and tender, and touch my heart. When I read such scenes, Iweep. '

'Ah, my sweet Katherine, you are soft-hearted. '

'And you, Henrietta, what are you?'

'Hard-hearted. The most callous of mortals. '

'Oh, what would Lord Montfort say?'

'Lord Montfort knows it. We never have love scenes. '

'And yet you love him?'

'Dearly; I love and esteem him. '

'Well, ' said Miss Grandison, 'I may be wrong, but if I were a man I donot think I should like the lady of my love to esteem me. '

'And yet esteem is the only genuine basis of happiness, believe me, Kate. Love is a dream. '

'And how do you know, dear Henrietta?'

'All writers agree it is. '

'The writers you were just ridiculing?'

'A fair retort; and yet, though your words are the more witty, believeme, mine are the more wise. '

'I wish my cousin would wake from his dream, ' said Katherine. 'To tellyou a secret, love is the cause of his unhappiness. Don't move, dearHenrietta, ' added Miss Grandison; 'we are so happy here;' for MissTemple, in truth, seemed not a little discomposed. 

'You should marry your cousin, ' said Miss Temple. 

'You little know Ferdinand or myself, when you give that advice, ' saidKatherine. 'We shall never marry; nothing is more certain than that. In the first place, to be frank, Ferdinand would not marry me, nothingwould induce him; and in the second place, I would not marry him, nothing would induce me. '

'Why not?' said Henrietta, in a low tone, holding her book very near toher face. 

'Because I am sure that we should not be happy, ' said Miss Grandison. 'Ilove Ferdinand, and once could have married him. He is so brilliant thatI could not refuse his proposal. And yet I feel it is better for me thatwe have not married, and I hope it may yet prove better for him, for Ilove him very dearly. He is indeed my brother. '

'But why should you not be happy?' enquired Miss Temple. 

'Because we are not suited to each other. Ferdinand must marry some onewhom he looks up to, somebody brilliant like himself, some one who cansympathise with all his fancies. I am too calm and quiet for him. Youwould suit him much better, Henrietta. '

'You are his cousin; it is a misfortune; if you were not, he would adoreyou, and you would sympathise with him. '

'I think not: I should like to marry a very clever man, ' said Katherine. 'I could not endure marrying a fool, or a commonplace person; I shouldlike to marry a person very superior in talent to myself, some one whoseopinion would guide me on all points, one from whom I could not differ. But not Ferdinand; he is too imaginative, too impetuous; he wouldneither guide me, nor be guided by me. '

Miss Temple did not reply, but turned over a page of her book. 

'Did you know Ferdinand before you met him yesterday at our house?'enquired Miss Grandison, very innocently. 

'Yes!' said Miss Temple. 

'I thought you did, ' said Miss Grandison, 'I thought there was somethingin your manner that indicated you had met before. I do not think youknew my aunt before you met her at Bellair House?'

'I did not. '

'Nor Sir Ratclifle?'

'Nor Sir Ratclifle. '

'But you did know Mr. Glastonbury?'

'I did know Mr. Glastonbury. '

'How very odd!' said Miss Grandison. 

'What is odd?' enquired Henrietta. 

'That you should have known Ferdinand before. '

'Not at all odd. He came over one day to shoot at papa's. I remember himvery well. '

'Oh, ' said Miss Grandison. 'And did Mr. Glastonbury come over to shoot?'

'I met Mr. Glastonbury one morning that I went to see the picturegallery at Armine. It is the only time I ever saw him. '

'Oh!' said Miss Grandison again, 'Armine is a beautiful place, is itnot?'

'Most interesting. '

'You know the pleasaunce. '

'Yes. '

'I did not see you when I was at Armine. '

'No; we had just gone to Italy. '

'How beautiful you look to-day, Henrietta!' said Miss Grandison. 'Whocould believe that you ever were so ill!'

'I am grateful that I have recovered, ' said Henrietta. 'And yet I neverthought that I should return to England. '

'You must have been so very ill in Italy, about the same time as poorFerdinand was at Armine. Only think, how odd you should both have beenso ill about the same time, and now that we should all be so intimate!'

Miss Temple looked perplexed and annoyed. 'Is it so odd?' she at lengthsaid in a low tone. 

'Henrietta Temple, ' said Miss Grandison, with great earnestness, 'I havediscovered a secret; you are the lady with whom my cousin is in love. '

CHAPTER XIII. 

 _In Which Ferdinand Has the Honour of Dining with Mr. Bond Sharpe_. 

WHEN Ferdinand arrived at Mr. Bond Sharpe's he was welcomed by his hostin a magnificent suite of saloons, and introduced to two of the guestswho had previously arrived. The first was a stout man, past middleage, whose epicurean countenance twinkled with humour. This was LordCastlefyshe, an Irish peer of great celebrity in the world of luxury andplay, keen at a bet, still keener at a dinner. Nobody exactly knewwho the other gentleman, Mr. Bland-ford, really was, but he had thereputation of being enormously rich, and was proportionately respected. He had been about town for the last twenty years, and did not look a dayolder than at his first appearance. He never spoke of his family, wasunmarried, and apparently had no relations; but he had contrived toidentify himself with the first men in London, was a member of everyclub of great repute, and of late years had even become a sort ofauthority; which was strange, for he had no pretension, was very quiet, and but humbly ambitious; seeking, indeed, no happier success thanto merge in the brilliant crowd, an accepted atom of the influentialaggregate. As he was not remarkable for his talents or his person, and as his establishment, though well appointed, offered no singularsplendour, it was rather strange that a gentleman who had apparentlydropped from the clouds, or crept out of a kennel, should have succeededin planting himself so vigorously in a soil which shrinks from anythingnot indigenous, unless it be recommended by very powerful qualities. ButMr. Bland-ford was good-tempered, and was now easy and experienced, andthere was a vague tradition that he was immensely rich, a rumour whichMr. Blandford always contradicted in a manner which skilfully confirmedits truth. 

'Does Mirabel dine with you, Sharpe?' enquired Lord Castlefyshe of hishost, who nodded assent. 

'You won't wait for him, I hope?' said his lordship. 'By-the-bye, Blandford, you shirked last night. '

'I promised to look in at the poor duke's before he went off, ' said Mr. Blandford. 

'Oh! he has gone, has he?' said Lord Castlefyshe. 'Does he take his cookwith him?'

But here the servant ushered in Count Alcibiades de Mirabel, CharlesDoricourt, and Mr. Bevil. 

'Excellent Sharpe, how do you do?' exclaimed the Count. 'Castlefyshe, what _bêtises_ have you been talking to Crocky about Felix Winchester?Good Blandford, excellent Blandford, how is my good Blandford?'

Mr. Bevil was a tall and handsome young man, of a great family andgreat estate, who passed his life in an imitation of Count Alcibiades deMirabel. He was always dressed by the same tailor, and it was his pridethat his cab or his _vis-à-vis_ was constantly mistaken for the equipageof his model; and really now, as the shade stood beside its substance, quite as tall, almost as good-looking, with the satin-lined coatthrown open with the same style of flowing grandeur, and revealing abreastplate of starched cambric scarcely less broad and brilliant, theuninitiated might have held the resemblance as perfect. The wristbandswere turned up with not less compact precision, and were fastenedby jewelled studs that glittered with not less radiancy. The satinwaistcoat, the creaseless hosen, were the same; and if the foot werenot quite as small, its Parisian polish was not less bright. But here, unfortunately, Mr. Bevil's mimetic powers deserted him. 

We start, for soul is wanting there!

The Count Mirabel could talk at all times, and at all times well; Mr. Bevil never opened his mouth. Practised in the world, the Count Mirabelwas nevertheless the child of impulse, though a native grace, and anintuitive knowledge of mankind, made every word pleasing and every actappropriate; Mr. Bevil was all art, and he had not the talent to concealit. The Count Mirabel was gay, careless, generous; Mr. Bevil was solemn, calculating, and rather a screw. It seemed that the Count Mirabel'sfeelings grew daily more fresh, and his faculty of enjoyment more keenand relishing; it seemed that Mr. Bevil could never have been a child, but that he must have issued to the world ready equipped, like Minerva, with a cane instead of a lance, and a fancy hat instead of a helmet. His essence of high breeding was never to be astonished, and he neverpermitted himself to smile, except in the society of intimate friends. 

Charles Doricourt was another friend of the Count Mirabel, but not hisimitator. His feelings were really worn, but it was a fact he alwaysconcealed. He had entered life at a remarkably early age, and hadexperienced every scrape to which youthful flesh is heir. Any otherman but Charles Doricourt must have sunk beneath these accumulateddisasters, but Charles Doricourt always swam. Nature had given him anintrepid soul; experience had cased his heart with iron. But he alwayssmiled; and audacious, cool, and cutting, and very easy, he thoroughlydespised mankind, upon whose weaknesses he practised without remorse. But he was polished and amusing, and faithful to his friends. The worldadmired him, and called him Charley, from which it will be inferred thathe was a privileged person, and was applauded for a thousand actions, which in anyone else would have been met with decided reprobation. 

'Who is that young man?' enquired the Count Mirabel of Mr. Bond Sharpe, taking his host aside, and pretending to look at a picture. 

'He is Captain Armine, the only son of Sir Ratcliffe Armine. He has justreturned to England after a long absence. '

'Hum! I like his appearance, ' said the Count. 'It is verydistinguished. '

Dinner and Lord Catchimwhocan were announced at the same moment; CaptainArmine found himself seated next to the Count Mirabel. The dinners atMr. Bond Sharpe's were dinners which his guests came to eat. Mr. BondSharpe had engaged for his club-house the most celebrated of livingartists, a gentleman who, it was said, received a thousand a-year, whoseconvenience was studied by a chariot, and amusement secured by a boxat the French play. There was, therefore, at first little conversation, save criticism on the performances before them, and that chieflypanegyrical; each dish was delicious, each wine exquisite; and yet, evenin these occasional remarks, Ferdinand was pleased with the lively fancyof his neighbour, affording an elegant contrast to the somewhat grossunction with which Lord Castlefyshe, whose very soul seemed wrapped upin his occupation, occasionally expressed himself. 

'Will you take some wine, Captain Armine?' said the Count Mirabel, witha winning smile. 'You have recently returned here?'

'Very recently, ' said Ferdinand. 

'And you are glad?'

'As it may be; I hardly know whether to rejoice or not. '

'Then, by all means rejoice, ' said the Count; 'for, if you are in doubt, it surely must be best to decide upon being pleased. '

'I think this is the most infernal country there ever was, ' said LordCatchimwhocan. 

'My dear Catch!' said the Count Mirabel, 'you think so, do you? You makea mistake, you think no such thing, my dear Catch. Why is it the mostinfernal? Is it because the women are the handsomest, or because thehorses are the best? Is it because it is the only country where you canget a good dinner, or because it is the only country where there arefine wines? Or is it because it is the only place where you can get acoat made, or where you can play without being cheated, or where youcan listen to an opera without your ears being destroyed? Now, my dearCatch, you pass your life in dressing and in playing hazard, in eatinggood dinners, in drinking good wines, in making love, in going to theopera, and in riding fine horses. Of what, then, have you to complain?'

'Oh! the damned climate!'

'On the contrary, it is the only good climate there is. In England youcan go out every day, and at all hours; and then, to those who lovevariety, like myself, you are not sure of seeing the same sky everymorning you rise, which, for my part, I think the greatest of allexisting sources of ennui. '

'You reconcile me to my country, Count, ' said Ferdinand, smiling. 

'Ah! you are a sensible man; but that dear Catch is always repeatingnonsense which he hears from somebody else. To-morrow, ' he added, in alow voice, 'he will be for the climate. '

The conversation of men, when they congregate together, is generallydedicated to one of two subjects: politics or women. In the presentinstance the party was not political; and it was the fair sex, andparticularly the most charming portion of it, in the good metropolisof England, that were subject to the poignant criticism or the profoundspeculation of these practical philosophers. There was scarcely acelebrated beauty in London, from the proud peeress to the vainopera-dancer, whose charms and conduct were not submitted to theirmasterly analysis. And yet it would be but fair to admit that theircritical ability was more eminent and satisfactory than their abstractreasoning upon this interesting topic; for it was curious to observethat, though everyone present piqued himself upon his profound knowledgeof the sex, not two of the sages agreed in the constituent principlesof female character. One declared that women were governed by theirfeelings; another maintained that they had no heart; a third propoundedthat it was all imagination; a fourth that it was all vanity. LordCastlefyshe muttered something about their passions; and CharleyDoricourt declared that they had no passions whatever. But they allagreed in one thing, to wit, that the man who permitted himself amoment's uneasiness about a woman was a fool. 

All this time Captain Armine spoke little, but ever to the purpose, andchiefly to the Count Mirabel, who pleased him. Being very handsome, and, moreover, of a distinguished appearance, this silence on the part ofFerdinand made him a general favourite, and even Mr. Bevil whispered hisapprobation to Lord Catchimwhocan. 

'The fact is, ' said Charles Doricourt, 'it is only boys and old men whoare plagued by women. They take advantage of either state of childhood. Eh! Castlefyshe?'

'In that respect, then, somewhat resembling you, Charley, ' repliedhis lordship, who did not admire the appeal. 'For no one can doubt youplagued your father; I was out of my teens, fortunately, before youplayed écarté. '

'Come, good old Fyshe, ' said Count Mirabel, 'take a glass of claret, and do not look so fierce. You know very well that Charley learnedeverything of you. '

'He never learned from me to spend a fortune upon an actress, ' said hislordship. 'I ave spent a fortune, but, thank heaven, it was on myself. '

'Well, as for that, ' said the Count, 'I think there is something greatin being ruined for one's friends. If I were as rich as I might havebeen, I would not spend much on myself. My wants are few; a fine house, fine carriages, fine horses, a complete wardrobe, the best opera-box, the first cook, and pocket-money; that is all I require. I have these, and I get on pretty well; but if I had a princely fortune I would makeevery good fellow I know quite happy. '

'Well, ' said Charles Doricourt, 'you are a lucky fellow, Mirabel. I havehad horses, houses, carriages, opera-boxes, and cooks, and I have had agreat estate; but pocket-money I never could get. Pocket-money was thething which always cost me the most to buy of all. '

The conversation now fell upon the theatre. Mr. Bond Sharpe wasdetermined to have a theatre. He believed it was reserved for him torevive the drama. Mr. Bond Sharpe piqued himself upon his patronage ofthe stage. He certainly had a great admiration of actresses. Therewas something in the management of a great theatre which pleased thesomewhat imperial fancy of Mr. Bond Sharpe. The manager of a greattheatre is a kind of monarch. Mr. Bond Sharpe longed to seat himself onthe throne, with the prettiest women in London for his court, andall his fashionable friends rallying round their sovereign. He had animpression that great results might be obtained with his organisingenergy and illimitable capital. Mr. Bond Sharpe had unbounded confidencein the power of capital. Capital was his deity. He was confident thatit could always produce alike genius and triumph. Mr. Bond Sharpe wasright: capital is a wonderful thing, but we are scarcely aware of thisfact until we are past thirty; and then, by some singular process, whichwe will not now stop to analyse, one's capital is in general sensiblydiminished. As men advance in life, all passions resolve themselves intomoney. Love, ambition, even poetry, end in this. 

'Are you going to Shropshire's this autumn, Charley?' said LordCatchimwhocan. 

'Yes, I shall go. '

'I don't think I shall, ' said his lordship; 'it is such a bore. '

'It is rather a bore; but he is a good fellow. '

'I shall go, ' said Count Mirabel. 

'You are not afraid of being bored, ' said Ferdinand, smiling. 

'Between ourselves, I do not understand what this being bored is, ' saidthe Count. 'He who is bored appears to me a bore. To be bored supposesthe inability of being amused; you must be a dull fellow. Wherever I maybe, I thank heaven that I am always diverted. '

'But you have such nerves, Mirabel, ' said Lord Catchimwhocan. 'By Jove!I envy you. You are never floored. '

'Floored! what an idea! What should floor me? I live to amuse myself, and I do nothing that does not amuse me. Why should I be floored?'

'Why, I do not know; but every other man is floored now and then. As forme, my spirits are sometimes something dreadful. '

'When you have been losing. '

'Well, we cannot always win. Can we, Sharpe? That would not do. But, byJove! you are always in good humour, Mirabel, when you lose. '

'Fancy a man ever being in low spirits, ' said the Count Mirabel. 'Lifeis too short for such _bêtises_. The most unfortunate wretch alivecalculates unconsciously that it is better to live than to die. Well, then, he has something in his favour. Existence is a pleasure, and thegreatest. The world cannot rob us of that; and if it is better to livethan to die, it is better to live in a good humour than a bad one. If aman be convinced that existence is the greatest pleasure, his happinessmay be increased by good fortune, but it will be essentially independentof it. He who feels that the greatest source of pleasure always remainsto him ought never to be miserable. The sun shines on all: every man cango to sleep: if you cannot ride a fine horse, it is something to lookupon one; if you have not a fine dinner, there is some amusement in acrust of bread and Gruyère. Feel slightly, think little, never plan, never brood. Everything depends upon the circulation; take care of it. Take the world as you find it; enjoy everything. _Vive la bagatelle!_'

Here the gentlemen rose, took their coffee, and ordered their carriages. 

'Come with us, ' said Count Mirabel to Ferdinand. 

Our hero accepted the offer of his agreeable acquaintance. There was agreat prancing and rushing of cabs and _vis-à-vis_ at Mr. BondSharpe's door, and in a few minutes the whole party were dashing upSt. James'-street, where they stopped before a splendid building, resplendent with lights and illuminated curtains. 

'Come, we will make you an honorary member, _mon cher_ Captain Armine, 'said the Count; 'and do not say _Lasciate ogni speranza_ when you enterhere. '

They ascended a magnificent staircase, and entered a sumptuous andcrowded saloon, in which the entrance of Count Mirabel and his friendsmade no little sensation. Mr. Bond Sharpe glided along, droppingoracular sentences, without condescending to stop to speak to those whomhe addressed. Charley Doricourt and Mr. Blandford walked away together, towards a further apartment. Lord Castlefyshe and Lord Catchimwhocanwere soon busied with écarté. 

'Well, Faneville, good general, how do you do?' said Count Mirabel. 'Where have you dined to-day? at the Balcombes'? You are a very braveman, mon general! Ah! Stock, good Stock, excellent Stock!' he continued, addressing Mr. Million de Stockville, 'that Burgundy you sent me iscapital. How are you, my dear fellow? Quite well? Fitzwarrene, I didthat for you: your business is all right. Ah! my good Massey, _mon cher, mon brave_, Anderson will let you have that horse. And what is doinghere? Is there any fun? Fitzwarrene, let me introduce you to my friendCaptain Armine:' (in a lower tone) 'excellent _garçon!_ You will likehim very much. We have been all dining at Bond's. '

'A good dinner?'

'Of course a good dinner. I should like to see a man who would give me abad dinner: that would be a _bêtise_, --to ask me to dine, and then giveme a bad dinner. '

'I say, Mirabel, ' exclaimed a young man, 'have you seen HoracePoppington about the match?'

'It is arranged; 'tis the day after to-morrow, at nine o'clock. '

'Well, I bet on you, you know. '

'Of course you bet on me. Would you think of betting on that good Pop, with that gun? Pah! _Eh! bien!_ I shall go in the next room. ' And theCount walked away, followed by Mr. Bevil. 

Ferdinand remained talking for some time with Lord Fitzwarrene. Bydegrees the great saloon had become somewhat thinner: some had stolenaway to the House, where a division was expected; quiet men, who justlooked in after dinner, had retired; and the play-men were engaged inthe contiguous apartments. Mr. Bond Sharpe approached Ferdinand, andLord Fitzwarrene took this opportunity of withdrawing. 

'I believe you never play, Captain Armine, ' said Mr. Bond Sharpe. 

'Never, ' said Ferdinand. 

'You are quite right. '

'I am rather surprised at your being of that opinion, ' said Ferdinand, with a smile. 

Mr. Bond Sharpe shrugged his shoulders. 'There will always be votariesenough, ' said Mr. Bond Sharpe, 'whatever may be my opinion. '

'This is a magnificent establishment of yours, ' said Ferdinand. 

'Yes; it is a very magnificent establishment. I have spared no expenseto produce the most perfect thing of the kind in Europe; and it is themost perfect thing of the kind. I am confident that no noble in anycountry has an establishment better appointed. I despatched an agent tothe Continent to procure this furniture: his commission had no limit, and he was absent two years. My cook was with Charles X. ; the cellar isthe most choice and considerable that was ever collected. I take a pridein the thing, but I lose money by it. '

'Indeed!'

'I have made a fortune; there is no doubt of that; but I did not make ithere. '

'It is a great thing to make a fortune, ' said Ferdinand. 

'Very great, ' said Mr. Bond Sharpe. 'There is only one thing greater, and that is, to keep it when made. '

Ferdinand smiled. 

'Many men make fortunes; few can keep them, ' said Mr. Bond Sharpe. 'Money is power, and rare are the heads that can withstand thepossession of great power. '

'At any rate, it is to be hoped that you have discovered this moreimportant secret, ' said Ferdinand; 'though I confess to judge from myown experience, I should fear that you are too generous. '

'I had forgotten that to which you allude, ' said his companion, quietly. 'But with regard to myself, whatever may be my end, I have not yetreached my acme. '

'You have at least my good wishes, ' said Ferdinand. 

'I may some day claim them, ' said Mr. Bond Sharpe. 'My position, ' hecontinued, 'is difficult. I have risen by pursuits which the world doesnot consider reputable, yet if I had not had recourse to them, I shouldbe less than nothing. My mind, I think, is equal to my fortune; I amstill young, and I would now avail myself of my power and establishmyself in the land, a recognised member of society. But this cannotbe. Society shrinks from an obscure foundling, a prizefighter, a leg, ahell-keeper, and an usurer. Debarred therefore from a fair theatre formy energy and capital, I am forced to occupy, perhaps exhaust, myself inmultiplied speculations. Hitherto they have flourished, and perhaps mytheatre, or my newspaper, may be as profitable as my stud. But Iwould gladly emancipate myself. These efforts seem to me, as it were, unnecessary and unnatural. The great object has been gained. It is atempting of fate. I have sometimes thought myself the Napoleon of thesporting world; I may yet find my St. Helena. ' 'Forewarned, forearmed, Mr. Sharpe. ' 'I move in a magic circle: it is difficult to extricatemyself from it. Now, for instance, there is not a man in the room who isnot my slave. You see how they treat me. They place me upon an equalitywith them. They know my weakness; they fool me to the top of mybent. And yet there is not a man in that room who, if I were to breakto-morrow, would walk down St. James'-street to serve me. Yes! thereis one; there is the Count. He has a great and generous soul. I believeCount Mirabel sympathises with my situation. I believe he does notthink, because a man has risen from an origin the most ignoble andobscure to a powerful position, by great courage and dexterity, andlet me add also, by some profound thought, by struggling too, be itremembered, with a class of society as little scrupulous, though not soskilful as himself, that he is necessarily an infamous character. Whatif, at eighteen years of age, without a friend in the world, trusting tothe powerful frame and intrepid spirit with which Nature had endowed me, I flung myself into the ring? Who should be a gladiator if I werenot? Is that a crime? What if, at a later period, with a brain forcalculation which none can rival, I invariably succeeded in that inwhich the greatest men in the country fail! Am I to be branded becauseI have made half a million by a good book? What if I have kept agambling-house? From the back parlour of an oyster-shop my hazardtable has been removed to this palace. Had the play been foul, thismetamorphosis would never have occurred. It is true I am an usurer. Mydear sir, if all the usurers in this great metropolis could only passin procession before you at this moment, how you would start! You mightfind some Right Honourables among them; many a great functionary, manya grave magistrate; fathers of families, the very models of respectablecharacters, patrons and presidents of charitable institutions, andsubscribers for the suppression of those very gaming-houses whosevictims, in nine cases out of ten, are their principal customers. Ispeak not in bitterness. On the whole, I must not complain of the world, but I have seen a great deal of mankind, and more than most, of what isconsidered its worst portion. The world, Captain Armine, believe me, isneither so bad nor so good as some are apt to suppose. And after all, 'said Mr. Bond Sharpe, shrugging up his shoulders, 'perhaps we ought tosay with our friend the Count, _Vive la bagatelle!_ Will you take somesupper?'

CHAPTER XIV. 

 _Miss Grandison Piques the Curiosity of Lord Montfort, and Count Mirabel Drives Ferdinand Down to Richmond, Which Drive Ends in an Agreeable Adventure and an Unexpected Confidence_. 

THE discovery that Henrietta Temple was the secret object of Ferdinand'sunhappy passion, was a secret which Miss Grandison prized like a truewoman. Not only had she made this discovery, but from her previousknowledge and her observation during her late interview with MissTemple, Katherine was persuaded that Henrietta must still love hercousin as before. Miss Grandison was attached to Henrietta; she wasinterested in her cousin's welfare, and devoted to the Armine family. All her thoughts and all her energies were engaged in counteracting, if possible, the consequences of those unhappy misconceptions which hadplaced them all in this painful position. 

It was on the next day that she had promised to accompany the duchessand Henrietta on a water excursion. Lord Montfort was to be theircavalier. In the morning she found herself alone with his lordship inSt. James'-square. 

'What a charming day!' said Miss Grandison. 'I anticipate so muchpleasure! Who is our party?'

'Ourselves alone, ' said Lord Montfort. 'Lady Armine cannot come, andCaptain Armine is engaged. I fear you will find it very dull, MissGrandison. '

'Oh! not at all. By-the-bye, do you know I was surprised yesterday atfinding that Ferdinand and Henrietta were such old acquaintances. '

'Were you?' said Lord Montfort, in a peculiar tone. 

'It is odd that Ferdinand never will go with us anywhere. I think it isvery bad taste. '

'I think so too, ' said Lord Montfort. 

'I should have thought that Henrietta was the very person he would haveadmired; that he would have been quite glad to be with us. I caneasily understand his being wearied to death with a cousin, ' said MissGrandison; 'but Henrietta, --it is so strange that he should not availhimself of the delight of being with her. '

'Do you really think that such a cousin as Miss Grandison can drive himaway?'

'Why, to tell you the truth, dear Lord Montfort, Ferdinand is placed ina very awkward position with me. You are our friend, and so I speakto you in confidence. Sir Ratcliffe and Lady Armine both expect thatFerdinand and myself are going to be married. Now, neither of us has theslightest intention of anything of the sort. '

'Very strange, indeed, ' said Lord Montfort. 'The world will be muchastonished, more so than myself, for I confess to a latent suspicion onthe subject. '

'Yes, I was aware of that, ' said Miss Grandison, 'or I should not havespoken with so much frankness. For my own part, I think we are very wiseto insist upon having our own way, for an ill-assorted marriage must bea most melancholy business. ' Miss Grandison spoke with an air almost oflevity, which was rather unusual with her. 

'An ill-assorted marriage, ' said Lord Montfort. 'And what do you call anill-assorted marriage, Miss Grandison?'

'Why, many circumstances might constitute such an union, ' saidKatherine; 'but I think if one of the parties were in love with anotherperson, that would be quite sufficient to ensure a tolerable portion ofwretchedness. '

'I think so too, ' said Lord Montfort; 'an union, under suchcircumstances, would be ill-assorted. But Miss Grandison is not in thatsituation?' he added with a faint smile. 

'That is scarcely a fair question, ' said Katherine, with gaiety, 'butthere is no doubt Ferdinand Armine is. '

'Indeed!'

'Yes; he is in love, desperately in love; that I have long discovered. Iwonder with whom it can be!'

'I wonder!' said Lord Montfort. 

'Do you?' said Miss Grandison. 'Well, I have sometimes thought that youmight have a latent suspicion of that subject, too. I thought you werehis confidant. '

'I!' said Lord Montfort; 'I, of all men in the world?'

'And why not you of all men in the world?' said Miss Grandison. 

'Our intimacy is so slight, ' said Lord Montfort. 

'Hum!' said Miss Grandison. 'And now I think of it, it does appear to mevery strange how we have all become suddenly such intimate friends. TheArmines and your family not previously acquainted: Miss Temple, too, unknown to my aunt and uncle. And yet we never live now out of eachother's sight. I am sure I am grateful for it; I am sure it is veryagreeable, but still it does appear to me to be very odd. I wonder whatthe reason can be?'

'It is that you are so charming, Miss Grandison, ' said Lord Montfort. 

'A compliment from you!'

'Indeed, no compliment, dearest Miss Grandison, ' said Lord Montfort, drawing near her. 'Favoured as Miss Temple is in so many respects, innone, in my opinion, is she more fortunate than in the possession of soadmirable a friend. '

'Not even in the possession of so admirable a lover, my lord?'

'All must love Miss Temple who are acquainted with her, ' said LordMontfort, seriously. 

'Indeed, I think so, ' said Katherine, in a more subdued voice. 'I loveher; her career fills me with a strange and singular interest. May shebe happy, for happiness she indeed deserves!'

'I have no fonder wish than to secure that happiness, Miss Grandison, 'said Lord Montfort; 'by any means, ' he added. 

'She is so interesting!' said Katherine. 'When you first knew her shewas very ill?'

'Very. '

'She seems quite recovered. '

'I hope so. '

'Mr. Temple says her spirits are not what they used to be. I wonder whatwas the matter with her?'

Lord Montfort was silent. 

'I cannot bear to see a fine spirit broken, ' continued Miss Grandison. 'There was Ferdinand. Oh! if you had but known my cousin before he wasunhappy. Oh! that was a spirit! He was the most brilliant being thatever lived. And then I was with him during all his illness. It wasso terrible. I almost wish we could have loved each other. It is verystrange, he must have been ill at Armine, at the very time Henriettawas ill in Italy. And I was with him in England, while you were solacingher. And now we are all friends. There seems a sort of strange destinyin our lots, does there not?'

'A happy lot that can in any way be connected with Miss Grandison, ' saidLord Montfort. 

At this moment her Grace and Henrietta entered; the carriage was ready;and in a few minutes they were driving to Whitehall Stairs, where abeautiful boat awaited them. 

In the mean time, Ferdinand Armine was revolving the strange occurrencesof yesterday. Altogether it was an exciting and satisfactory day. Inthe first place, he had extricated himself from his most pressingdifficulties; in the next, he had been greatly amused; and thirdly, hehad made a very interesting acquaintance, for such he esteemed CountMirabel. Just at the moment when, lounging over a very late breakfast, he was thinking of Bond Sharpe and his great career, and then turningin his mind whether it were possible to follow the gay counsels of hisfriends of yesterday, and never plague himself about a woman again, theCount Mirabel was announced. 

_Mon cher_ Armine, ' said the Count, 'you see I kept my promise, andwould find you at home. '

The Count stood before him, the best-dressed man in London, fresh andgay as a bird, with not a care on his sparkling visage, and his eyebright with _bonhomie_. And yet Count Mirabel had been the very lastto desert the recent mysteries of Mr. Bond Sharpe; and, as usual, thedappled light of dawn had guided him to his luxurious bed, that bedwhich always afforded him serene slumbers, whatever might be theadventures of the day, or the result of the night's campaign. How theCount Mirabel did laugh at those poor devils who wake only to moraliseover their own folly with broken spirits and aching heads! Care he knewnothing about; Time he defied; indisposition he could not comprehend. Hehad never been ill in his life, even for five minutes. 

Ferdinand was really very glad to see him; there was something inCount Mirabel's very presence which put everybody in good spirits. His lightheartedness was caught by all. Melancholy was a farce in thepresence of his smile; and there was no possible combination of scrapesthat could withstand his kind and brilliant raillery. At the presentmoment, Ferdinand was in a sufficiently good humour with his destiny, and he kept up the ball with effect; so that nearly an hour passed inamusing conversation. 

'You were a stranger among us yesterday, ' said Count Mirabel; 'I thinkyou were rather diverted. I saw you did justice to that excellent BondSharpe. That shows that you have a mind above prejudice. Do you know hewas by far the best man at the table except ourselves?'

Ferdinand smiled. 

'It is true, he has a heart and a brain. Old Castlefyshe has neither. As for the rest of our friends, some have hearts without brains, and therest brains without hearts. Which do you prefer?'

''Tis a fine question, ' said Ferdinand; 'and yet I confess I should liketo be callous. '

'Ah! but you cannot be, ' said the Count, 'you have a soul of greatsensibility; I see that in a moment. '

'You see very far, and very quickly, Count Mirabel, ' said Ferdinand, with a little reserve. 

'Yes; in a minute, ' said the Count, 'in a minute I read a person'scharacter. I know you are very much in love, because you changedcountenance yesterday when we were talking of women. '

Ferdinand changed countenance again. 'You are a very extraordinary man, Count, ' he at length observed. 

'Of course; but, _mon cher_ Armine, what a fine day this is! What areyou going to do with yourself?'

'Nothing; I never do anything, ' said Ferdinand, in an almost mournfultone. 

'A melancholy man! _Quelle bêtise!_ I will cure you. I will be yourfriend and put you all right. Now, we will just drive down to Richmond;we will have a light dinner, a flounder, a cutlet, and a bottle ofchampagne, and then we will go to the French play. I will introduce youto Jenny Vertpré. She is full of wit; perhaps she will ask us to supper. _Allons, mon ami, mon cher_ Armine; _allons, mon brave!_' Ceremony was afarce with Alcibiades de Mirabel. 

Ferdinand had nothing to do; he was attracted to his companion. Theeffervescence produced by yesterday's fortunate adventure had not quitesubsided; he was determined to forget his sorrows, and, if only fora day, join in the lively chorus of _Vive la bagatelle!_ So, in afew moments, he was safely ensconced in the most perfect cabrioletin London, whirled along by a horse that stepped out with a proudconsciousness of its master. 

The Count Mirabel enjoyed the drive to Richmond as if he had never beento Richmond in his life. The warm sun, the western breeze, every objecthe passed and that passed him called for his praise or observation. He inoculated Ferdinand with his gaiety, as Ferdinand listened to hislight, lively tales, and his flying remarks, so full of merriment andpoignant truth and daring fancy. When they had arrived at the Star andGarter, and ordered their dinner, they strolled into the Park, along theTerrace walk; and they had not proceeded fifty paces when they came upwith the duchess and her party, who were resting on a bench and lookingover the valley. 

Ferdinand would gladly have bowed and passed on; but that wasimpossible. He was obliged to stop and speak to them, and it wasdifficult to disembarrass himself of friends who greeted him so kindly. Ferdinand presented his companion. The ladies were charmed to know socelebrated a gentleman, of whom they had heard so much. Count Mirabel, who had the finest tact in the world, but whose secret spell, after all, was perhaps only that he was always natural, adapted himself in a momentto the characters, the scene, and the occasion. He was quite delightedat these sources of amusement, that had so unexpectedly revealedthemselves; and in a few minutes they had all agreed to walk together, and in due time the duchess was begging Ferdinand and his friend to dinewith them. Before Ferdinand could frame an excuse, Count Mirabelhad accepted the proposition. After passing the morning together soagreeably, to go and dine in separate rooms, it would be a _bêtise_. This word _bêtise_ settled everything with Count Mirabel; when once hedeclared that anything was a _bêtise_, he would hear no more. 

It was a charming stroll. Never was Count Mirabel more playful, moreengaging, more completely winning. Henrietta and Katherine alike smiledupon him, and the duchess was quite enchanted. Even Lord Montfort, whomight rather have entertained a prejudice against the Count before heknew him--though none could after--and who was prepared for somethingrather brilliant, but pretending, presumptuous, fantastic, and affected, quite yielded to his amiable gaiety, and his racy and thoroughly genuineand simple manner. So they walked and talked and laughed, and allagreed that it was the most fortunately fine day and the most felicitous_rencontre_ that had ever occurred, until the dinner hour was at hand. The Count was at her Grace's side, and she was leaning on Miss Temple'sarm. Lord Montfort and Miss Grandison had fallen back apace, as theirparty had increased. Ferdinand fluttered between Miss Temple and hiscousin; but would have attached himself to the latter, had not MissTemple occasionally addressed him. He was glad, however, when theyreturned to dinner. 

'We have only availed ourselves of your Grace's permission to join ourdinners, ' said Count Mirabel, offering the duchess his arm. He placedhimself at the head of the table; Lord Montfort took the other end. Tothe surprise of Ferdinand, Miss Grandison, with a heedlessness that wasquite remarkable, seated herself next to the duchess, so that Ferdinandwas obliged to sit by Henrietta Temple, who was thus separated from LordMontfort. 

The dinner was as gay as the stroll. Ferdinand was the only person whowas silent. 

'How amusing he is!' said Miss Temple, turning to Ferdinand, andspeaking in an undertone. 

'Yes; I envy him his gaiety. '

'Be gay. '

'I thank you; I dare say I shall in time. I have not yet quite embracedall Count Mirabel's philosophy. He says that the man who plagues himselffor five minutes about a woman is an idiot. When I think the same, whichI hope I may soon, I dare say I shall be as gay. '

Miss Temple addressed herself no more to Ferdinand. 

They returned by water. To Ferdinand's great annoyance, the Count didnot hesitate for a moment to avail himself of the duchess's proposalthat he and his companion should form part of the crew. He gaveimmediate orders that his cabriolet should meet him at Whitehall Stairs, and Ferdinand found there was no chance of escape. 

It was a delicious summer evening. The setting sun bathed the bowers ofFulham with refulgent light, just as they were off delicate Rosebank;but the air long continued warm, and always soft, and the last few milesof their pleasant voyage were tinted by the young and glittering moon. 

'I wish we had brought a guitar, ' said Miss Grandison; 'Count Mirabel, I am sure, would sing to us?' 'And you, you will sing to us without aguitar, will you not?' said the Count, smiling. 

'Henrietta, will you sing?' said Miss Grandison. 'With you. '

'Of course; now you must, ' said the Count: so they did. 

This gliding home to the metropolis on a summer eve, so soft and still, with beautiful faces, as should always be the case, and with sweetsounds, as was the present--there is something very ravishing in thecombination. The heart opens; it is a dangerous moment. As Ferdinandlistened once more to the voice of Henrietta, even though it was blendedwith the sweet tones of Miss Grandison, the passionate past vividlyrecurred to him. Fortunately he did not sit near her; he had takencare to be the last in the boat. He turned away his face, but its sternexpression did not escape the observation of the Count Mirabel. 

'And now, Count Mirabel, you must really favour us, ' said the duchess. 

'Without a guitar?' said the Count, and he began thrumming on his armfor an accompaniment. 'Well, when I was with the Duc d'Angoulême inSpain, we sometimes indulged in a serenade at Seville. I will try toremember one. '

 A SERENADE OF SEVILLE. 

 I. 

 Come forth, come forth, the star we love Is high o'er Guadalquivir's grove, And tints each tree with golden light; Ah! Rosalie, one smile from thee were far more bright. 

 II. 

 Come forth, come forth, the flowers that fear To blossom in the sun's career The moonlight with their odours greet; Ah! Rosalie, one sigh from thee were far more sweet!

 III. 

 Come forth, come forth, one hour of night, When flowers are fresh and stars are bright, Were worth an age of gaudy day; Then, Rosalie, fly, fly to me, nor longer stay!

'I hope the lady came, ' said Miss Temple, 'after such a pretty song. '

'Of course, ' said the Count, 'they always come. '

'Ferdinand, will you sing?' said Miss Grandison. 

'I cannot, Katherine. '

'Henrietta, ask Ferdinand to sing, ' said Miss Grandison; 'he makes ita rule never to do anything I ask him, but I am sure you have moreinfluence. '

Lord Montfort came to the rescue of Miss Temple. 'Miss Temple has spokenso often to us of your singing, Captain Armine, ' said his lordship;and yet Lord Montfort, in this allegation, a little departed front thehabitual exactitude of his statements. 

'How very strange!' thought Ferdinand; 'her callousness or her candourbaffles me. I will try to sing, ' he continued aloud, 'but it is a year, really, since I have sung. '

In a voice of singular power and melody, and with an expression whichincreased as he proceeded, until the singer seemed scarcely able tocontrol his emotions, Captain Armine thus proceeded:--

 CAPTAIN ARMINE'S SONG. 

 I. 

 My heart is like a silent lute Some faithless hand has thrown aside; Those chords are dumb, those tones are mute, That once sent forth a voice of pride! Yet even o'er the lute neglected The wind of heaven will sometimes fly, And even thus the heart dejected, Will sometimes answer to a sigh!

 II. 

 And yet to feel another's power May grasp the prize for which I pine, And others now may pluck the flower I cherished for this heart of mine! No more, no more! The hand forsaking, The lute must fall, and shivered lie In silence: and my heart thus breaking, Responds not even to a sigh. 

Miss Temple seemed busied with her shawl; perhaps she felt the cold. Count Mirabel, next whom she sat, was about to assist her. Her face wasturned to the water; it was streaming with tears. Without appearingto notice her, Count Mirabel leant forward, and engaged everybody'sattention; so that she was unobserved and had time to recover. And yetshe was aware that the Count Mirabel had remarked her emotion, and wasgrateful for his quick and delicate consideration. It was fortunatethat Westminster-bridge was now in sight, for after this song of CaptainArmine, everyone became dull or pensive; even Count Mirabel was silent. 

The ladies and Lord Montfort entered their britzka. They bid a cordialadieu to Count Mirabel, and begged him to call upon them in St. James'-square, and the Count and Ferdinand were alone. 

'_Cher_ Armine, ' said the Count, as he was driving up Charing-cross, 'Catch told me you were going to marry your cousin. Which of those twoyoung ladies is your cousin?'

'The fair girl; Miss Grandison. '

'So I understood. She is very pretty, but you are not going to marryher, are you?'

'No; I am not. '

'And who is Miss Temple?'

'She is going to be married to Lord Montfort. '

'_Diable!_ But what a fortunate man! What do you think of Miss Temple?'

'I think of her as all, I suppose, must. '

'She is beautiful: she is the most beautiful woman I ever saw. Shemarries for money, I suppose?'

'She is the richest heiress in England; she is much richer than mycousin. '

'_C'est drôle_. But she does not want to marry Lord Montfort. '

'Why?'

'Because, my dear fellow, she is in love with you. '

'By Jove, Mirabel, what a fellow you are! What do you mean?'

'_Mon cher_ Armine, I like you more than anybody. I wish to be, I am, your friend. Here is some cursed _contretemps_. There is a mystery, and both of you are victims of it. Tell me everything. I will put youright. '

'Ah! my dear Mirabel, it is past even your skill. I thought I couldnever speak on these things to human being, but I am attracted to you bythe same sympathy which you flatter me by expressing for myself. I wanta confidant, I need a friend; I am most wretched. '

'_Eh! bien!_ we will not go to the French play. As for Jenny Vertpré, we can sup with her any night. Come to my house, and we will talk overeverything. But trust me, if you wish to marry Henrietta Temple, you arean idiot if you do not have her. '

So saying, the Count touched his bright horse, and in a few minutesthe cabriolet stopped before a small but admirably appointed house inBerkeley-square. 

'Now, _mon cher, _' said the Count, 'coffee and confidence. '

CHAPTER XV. 

 _In Which the Count Mirabel Commences His Operations with Great Success_. 

IS THERE a more gay and graceful spectacle in the world than Hyde Park, at the end of a long sunny morning in the merry months of May and June?Where can we see such beautiful women, such gallant cavaliers, such finehorses, and such brilliant equipages? The scene, too, is worthy ofsuch agreeable accessories: the groves, the gleaming waters, and thetriumphal arches. In the distance, the misty heights of Surrey, and thebowery glades of Kensington. 

It was the day after the memorable voyage from Richmond. Eminent amongthe glittering throng, Count Mirabel cantered along on his Arabian, scattering gay recognitions and bright words. He reined in his steedbeneath a tree, under whose shade was assembled a knot of listlesscavaliers. The Count received their congratulations, for this morning hehad won his pigeon match. 

'Only think of that old fool, Castlefyshe, betting on Poppington, ' saidthe Count. 'I want to see him, old idiot! Who knows where Charley is?'

'I do, Mirabel, ' said Lord Catchimwhocan. 'He has gone to Richmond withBlandford and the two little Furzlers. '

'That good Blandford! Whenever he is in love he always gives a dinner. It is a droll way to succeed. '

'Apropos, will you dine with me to-day, Mirabel?' said Mr. DeStockville. 

'Impossible, my dear fellow; I dine with Fitz-warrene. '

'I say, Mirabel, ' drawled out a young man, 'I saw you yesterday drivinga man down to Richmond yourself. Who is your friend?'

'No one you know, or will know. 'Tis the best fellow that ever lived;but he is under my guidance, and I shall be very particular to whom heis introduced. '

'Lord! I wonder who he can be!' said the young man. 

'I say, Mirabel, you will be done on Goshawk, if you don't take care, Ican tell you that. '

'Thank you, good Coventry; if you like to bet the odds, I will takethem. '

'No, my dear fellow, I do not want to bet, but at the same time------'

'You have an opinion that you will not back. That is a luxury, forcertainly it is of no, use. I would advise you to enjoy it. '

'Well, I must say, Mirabel, ' said Lord Catchimwhocan, 'I think the sameabout Goshawk. '

'Oh, no, Catch, you do not think so; you think you think. Go and takeall the odds you can get upon Goshawk. Come, now, to-morrow you willtell me you have a very pretty book. Eh! _mon cher_ Catch?'

'But do you really think Goshawk will win?' asked Lord Cathimwhocan, earnestly. 

'Certain!'

'Well, damned if I don't go and take the odds, ' said his lordship. 

'Mirabel, ' said a young noble, moving his horse close to the Count, andspeaking in a low voice, 'shall you be at home to-morrow morning?'

'Certainly. But what do you want?'

'I am in a devil of a scrape; I do not know what to do. I want you toadvise me. '

'The Count moved aside with this cavalier. 'And what is it?' said he. 'Have you been losing?'

'No, no, ' said the young man, shaking his head. 'Much worse. It is themost infernal business; I do not know what I shall do. I think I shallcut my throat. '

'_Bêtise!_ It cannot be very bad, if it be not money. '

'Oh, my dear Mirabel, you do not know what trouble I am in. '

'_Mon cher Henri, soyez tranquille, _' said the Count, in a kind voice. 'I am your friend. Rest assured, I will arrange it. Think no more of ituntil to-morrow at one o'clock, and then call on me. If you like, I amat your service at present. '

'No, no, not here: there are letters. '

'Ha, ha! Well, to-morrow, at one. In the meantime, do not write anynonsense. '

At this moment, the duchess, with a party of equestrians, passed andbowed to the Count Mirabel. 

'I say, Mirabel, ' exclaimed a young man, 'who is that girl? I wantto know. I have seen her several times lately. By Jove, she is a finecreature!'

'Do not you know Miss Temple?' said the Count. 'Fancy a man not knowingMiss Temple! She is the only woman in London to be looked at. '

Now there was a great flutter in the band, and nothing but the name ofMiss Temple was heard. All vowed they knew her very well, at leastby sight, and never thought of anybody else. Some asked the Count topresent them, others meditated plans by which that great result mightbe obtained; but, in the midst of all this agitation, Count Mirabel rodeaway, and was soon by the very lady's side. 

'What a charming voyage yesterday, ' said the Count to Miss Temple. 'Youwere amused?'

'Very. '

'And to think you should all know my friend Armine so well! I wasastonished, for he will never go anywhere, or speak to anyone. '

'You know him intimately?' said Miss Temple. 

'He is my brother! There is not a human being in the world I love somuch! If you only knew him as I know him. Ah! _chère_ Miss Temple, thereis not a man in London to be compared with him, so clever and sogood! What a heart! so tender! and what talent! There is no one so_spirituel_. '

'You have known him long, Count?'

'Always; but of late I find a great change in him. I cannot discoverwhat is the matter with him. He has grown melancholy. I think he willnot live. '

'Indeed!'

'No, I am never wrong. That _cher_ Armine will not live. '

'You are his friend, surely------'

'Ah! yes; but I do not know what it is. Even me he cares not for. Icontrive sometimes to get him about a little; yesterday, for instance;but to-day, you see, he will not move. There he is, sitting alone, in adull hotel, with his eyes fixed on the ground, dark as night. Never wasa man so changed. I suppose something has happened to him abroad. Whenyou first knew him, I daresay now, he was the gayest of the gay?'

'He was indeed very different, ' said Miss Temple, turning away her face. 

'You have known that dear Armine a long time?'

'It seems a long time, ' said Miss Temple. 

'If he dies, and die he must, I do not think I shall ever be in verygood spirits again, ' said the Count. 'It is the only thing that wouldquite upset me. Now do not you think, Miss Temple, that our _cher_Armine is the most interesting person you ever met?'

'I believe Captain Armine is admired by all those who know him. '

'He is so good, so tender, and so clever. Lord Montfort, he knows himvery well?'

'They were companions in boyhood, I believe; but they have resumed theiracquaintance only recently. '

'We must interest Lord Montfort in his case. Lord Montfort must assistin our endeavours to bring him out a little. '

'Lord Montfort needs no prompting, Count. We are all alike interested inCaptain Armine's welfare. '

'I wish you would try to find out what is on his mind, ' said CountMirabel. 'After all, men cannot do much. It requires a more delicatesympathy than we can offer. And yet I would do anything for the _cher_Armine, because I really love him the same as if he were my brother. '

'He is fortunate in such a friend. '

'Ah! he does not think so any longer, ' said the Count; 'he avoids me, hewill not tell me anything. _Chère_ Miss Temple, this business hauntsme; it will end badly. I know that dear Armine so well; no one knows himlike me; his feelings are too strong: no one has such strong feelings. Now, of all my friends, he is the only man I know who is capable ofcommitting suicide. '

'God forbid!' said Henrietta Temple, with emphasis. 

'I rise every morning with apprehension, ' said the Count. 'When I callupon him every day, I tremble as I approach his hotel. '

'Are you indeed serious?'

'Most serious. I knew a man once in the same state. It was the Duc deCrillon. He was my brother friend, like this dear Armine. We were atcollege together; we were in the same regiment. He was exactly likethis dear Armine, young, beautiful, and clever, but with a heart alltenderness, terrible passions. He loved Mademoiselle de Guise, mycousin, the most beautiful girl in France. Pardon me, but I told Armineyesterday that you reminded me of her. They were going to be married;but there was a _contretemps_. He sent for me; I was in Spain; shemarried the Viscount de Marsagnac. Until that dreadful morning heremained exactly in the same state as our dear Armine. Never was amelancholy so profound. After the ceremony he shot himself. '

'No, no!' exclaimed Miss Temple in great agitation. 

'Perfectly true. It is the terrible recollection of that dreadfuladventure that overcomes me when I see our dear friend here, because Ifeel it must be love. I was in hopes it was his cousin. But it isnot so; it must be something that has happened abroad. Love alone canaccount for it. It is not his debts that would so overpower him. Whatare his debts? I would pay them myself. It is a heart-rending business. I am going to him. How I tremble!' 'How good you are!' exclaimed MissTemple, with streaming eyes. 'I shall ever be grateful; I mean, we allmust. Oh! do go to him, go to him directly; tell him to be happy. '

'It is the song I ever sing, ' said the Count. 'I wish some of you wouldcome and see him, or send him a message. It is wise to show him thatthere are some who take interest in his existence. Now, give me thatflower, for instance, and let me give it to him from you. '

'He will not care for it, ' said Miss Temple. 'Try. It is a fancy I have. Let me bear it. ' Miss Temple gave the flower to the Count, who rode offwith his prize. 

It was about eight o'clock: Ferdinand was sitting alone in hisroom, having just parted with Glastonbury, who was going to dine inBrook-street. The sun had set, and yet it was scarcely dark enough forartificial light, particularly for a person without a pursuit. It wasjust that dreary dismal moment, when even the most gay grow pensive, if they be alone. And Ferdinand was particularly dull; a reaction hadfollowed the excitement of the last eight-and-forty hours, and he was atthis moment feeling singularly disconsolate, and upbraiding himselffor being so weak as to permit himself to be influenced by Mirabel'sfantastic promises and projects, when his door flew open, and the Count, full dressed, and graceful as a Versailles Apollo, stood before him. 

'_Cher ami!_ I cannot stop one minute. I dine with Fitzwarrene, and I amlate. I have done your business capitally. Here is a pretty flower! Whodo you think gave it me? She did, pardy. On condition, however, thatI should bear it to you, with a message; and what a message! that youshould be happy. '

'Nonsense, my dear Count'

'It is true; but I romanced at a fine rate for it. It is the only waywith women. She thinks we have known each other since the Deluge. Do notbetray me. But, my dear fellow, I cannot stop now. Only, mind, all ischanged. Instead of being gay, and seeking her society, and amusingher, and thus attempting to regain your influence, as we talked of lastnight; mind, suicide is the system. To-morrow I will tell you all. Shehas a firm mind and a high spirit, which she thinks is principle. Ifwe go upon the tack of last night, she will marry Montfort, and fall inlove with you afterwards. That will never do. So we must work upon herfears, her generosity, pity, remorse, and so on. Call upon me to-morrowmorning, at half-past two; not before, because I have an excellent boycoming to me at one, who is in a scrape. At half-past two, _cher, cher_Armine, we will talk more. In the meantime, enjoy your flower; and restassured that it is your own fault if you do not fling the good Montfortin a very fine ditch. '

CHAPTER XVI. 

 _In Which Mr. Temple Surprises His Daughter Weeping_. 

THE Count Mirabel proceeded with his projects with all the ardour, address, and audacity of one habituated to success. By some means orother he contrived to see Miss Temple almost daily. He paid assiduouscourt to the duchess, on whom he had made a favourable impression fromthe first; in St. James'-square he met Mr. Temple, who was partial tothe society of a distinguished foreigner. He was delighted with CountMirabel. As for Miss Grandison, the Count absolutely made her hisconfidante, though he concealed this bold step from Ferdinand. Heestablished his intimacy in the three families, and even mystified SirRatcliffe and Lady Armine so completely that they imagined he must besome acquaintance that Ferdinand had made abroad; and they received himaccordingly as one of their son's oldest and most cherished friends. But the most amusing circumstance of all was that the Count, who even inbusiness never lost sight of what might divert or interest him, becamegreat friends with Mr. Glastonbury. Count Mirabel comprehended andappreciated that good man's character. 

All Count Mirabel's efforts were directed to restore the influence ofFerdinand Armine over Henrietta Temple; and with this view he omitted noopportunity of impressing the idea of his absent friend on that lady'ssusceptible brain. His virtues, his talents, his accomplishments, hissacrifices; but, above all, his mysterious sufferings, and the fatal endwhich the Count was convinced awaited him, were placed before her ina light so vivid that they engrossed her thought and imagination. Shecould not resist the fascination of talking about Ferdinand Armine toCount Mirabel. He was the constant subject of their discourse. All herfeelings now clustered round his image. She had quite abandoned her oldplan of marrying him to his cousin. That was desperate. Did she regretit? She scarcely dared urge to herself this secret question; and yet itseemed that her heart, too, would break were Ferdinand another's. But, then, what was to become of him? Was he to be left desolate? Was heindeed to die? And Digby, the amiable, generous Digby; ah! why did sheever meet him? Unfortunate, unhappy woman! And yet she was resolved tobe firm; she could not falter; she would be the victim of her duty evenif she died at the altar. Almost she wished that she had ceased to live, and then the recollection of Armine came back to her so vividly! Andthose long days of passionate delight! All his tenderness and all histruth; for he had been true to her, always had he been true to her. Shewas not the person who ought to complain of his conduct. And yet shewas the person who alone punished him. How different was the generousconduct of his cousin! She had pardoned all; she sympathised with him, she sorrowed for him, she tried to soothe him. She laboured to unitehim to her rival. What must he think of herself? How hard-hearted, howselfish must the contrast prove her! Could he indeed believe now thatshe had ever loved him? Oh, no! he must despise her. He must believethat she was sacrificing her heart to the splendour of rank. Oh! couldhe believe this! Her Ferdinand, her romantic Ferdinand, who had thrownfortune and power to the winds but to gain that very heart! What areturn had she made him! And for all his fidelity he was punished;lone, disconsolate, forlorn, overpowered by vulgar cares, heart-broken, meditating even death------. The picture was too terrible, tooharrowing. She hid her face in the pillow of the sofa on which she wasseated, and wept bitterly. 

She felt an arm softly twined round her waist; she looked up; it was herfather. 

'My child, ' he said, 'you are agitated. '

'Yes; yes, I am agitated, ' she said, in a low voice. 

'You are unwell. '

'Worse than unwell. '

'Tell me what ails you, Henrietta. '

'Grief for which there is no cure. '

'Indeed! I am greatly astonished. '

His daughter only sighed. 

'Speak to me, Henrietta. Tell me what has happened. '

'I cannot speak; nothing has happened; I have nothing to say. '

'To see you thus makes me quite unhappy, ' said Mr. Temple; 'if only formy sake, let me know the cause of this overwhelming emotion. '

'It is a cause that will not please you. Forget, sir, what you haveseen. '

'A father cannot. I entreat you tell me. If you love me, Henrietta, speak. '

'Sir, sir, I was thinking of the past. '

'Is it so bitter?'

'Ah! that I should live!' said Miss Temple. 

'Henrietta, my own Henrietta, my child, I beseech you tell me all. Something has occurred; something must have occurred to revive suchstrong feelings. Has--has------ I know not what to say, but so muchhappens that surprises me; I know, I have heard, that you have seenone who once influenced your feelings, that you have been thrown inunexpected contact with him; he has not--he has not dared-----'

'Say nothing harshly of him, ' said Miss Temple wildly; 'I will not bearit, even from you. '

'My daughter!'

'Ay! your daughter, but still a woman. Do I murmur? Do I complain? HaveI urged you to compromise your honour? I am ready for the sacrifice. Myconduct is yours, but my feelings are my own. '

'Sacrifice, Henrietta! What sacrifice? I have heard only of yourhappiness; I have thought only of your happiness. This is a strangereturn. '

'Father, forget what you have seen; forgive what I have said. But letthis subject drop for ever. '

'It cannot drop here. Captain Armine prefers his suit?' continued Mr. Temple, in a tone of stern enquiry. 

'What if he did? He has a right to do so. '

'As good a right as he had before. You are rich now, Henrietta, and heperhaps would be faithful. '

'O Ferdinand!' exclaimed Miss Temple, lifting, up her hands and eyes toheaven, 'and you must endure even this!'

'Henrietta, ' said Mr. Temple in a voice of affected calmness, as heseated himself by her side, 'listen to me: I am not a harsh parent; youcannot upbraid me with insensibility to your feelings. They have everengrossed my thought and care; and how to gratify, and when necessaryhow to soothe them, has long been the principal occupation of my life. If you have known misery, girl, you made that misery yourself. Itwas not I that involved you in secret engagements and clandestinecorrespondence; it was not I that made you, you, my daughter, on whomI have lavished all the solicitude of long years, the dupe of the firstcalculating libertine who dared to trifle with your affections, andbetray your heart. '

''Tis false, ' exclaimed Miss Temple, interrupting him; 'he is as trueand pure as I am; more, much more, ' she added, in a voice of anguish. 

'No doubt he has convinced you of it, ' said Mr. Temple, with a laughingsneer. 'Now, mark me, ' he continued, resuming his calm tone, 'youinterrupted me; listen to me. You are the betrothed bride of LordMontfort; Lord Montfort, my friend, the man I love most in the world;the most generous, the most noble, the most virtuous, the most gifted ofhuman beings. You gave him your hand freely, under circumstances which, even if he did not possess every quality that ought to secure theaffection of a woman, should bind you to him with an unswerving faith. Falter one jot and I whistle you off for ever. You are no more daughterof mine. I am as firm as I am fond; nor would I do this, but that I knowwell I am doing rightly. Yes! take this Armine once more to your heart, and you receive my curse, the deepest, the sternest, the deadliest thatever descended on a daughter's head. '

'My father, my dear, dear father, my beloved father!' exclaimed MissTemple, throwing herself at his feet. 'Oh! do not say so; oh! recallthose words, those wild, those terrible words. Indeed, indeed, my heartis breaking. Pity me, pity me; for God's sake, pity me. '

'I would do more than pity you; I would save you. '

'It is not as you think, ' she continued, with streaming eyes: 'indeedit is not. He has not preferred his suit, he has urged no claim. He hasbehaved in the most delicate, the most honourable, the most consideratemanner. He has thought only of my situation. He met me by accident. Myfriends are his friends. They know not what has taken place between us. He has not breathed it to human being. He has absented himself from hishome, that we might not meet. '

'You must marry Lord Montfort at once. '

'Oh! my father, even as you like. But do not curse me; dream not ofsuch terrible things; recall those fearful words; love me, love me;say I am your child. And Digby, I am true to Digby. But, indeed, canI recall the past; can I alter it? Its memory overcame me. Digby knowsall; Digby knows we met; he did not curse me; he was kind and gentle. Oh! my father!'

'My Henrietta, ' said Mr. Temple, moved; 'my child!'

'Oh! my father, I will do all you wish; but speak not again as you havespoken of Ferdinand. We have done him great injustice; I have done himgreat injury. He is good and pure; indeed, he is; if you knew all, youwould not doubt it. He was ever faithful; indeed, indeed he was. Onceyou liked him. Speak kindly of him, father. He is the victim. If youmeet him, be gentle to him, sir: for, indeed, if you knew all, you wouldpity him. '

CHAPTER XVII. 

 _In Which Ferdinand Has a Very Stormy Interview with His Father_. 

IF WE pause now to take a calm and comprehensive review of the state andprospects of the three families, in whose feelings and fortunes we haveattempted to interest the reader, it must be confessed that, howeverbrilliant and satisfactory they might appear on the surface, theelements of discord, gloom, and unhappiness might be more profoundlydiscovered, and might even be held as rapidly stirring into movement. Miss Temple was the affianced bride of Lord Montfort, but her heart wasCaptain Armine's: Captain Armine, in the estimation of his parents, wasthe pledged husband of Miss Grandison, while he and his cousin had, infact, dissolved their engagement. Mr. Temple more than suspected hisdaughter's partiality for Ferdinand. Sir Ratcliffe, very much surprisedat seeing so little of his son, and resolved that the marriage shouldbe no further delayed, was about to precipitate confessions, of whichhe did not dream, and which were to shipwreck all the hopes of his life. The Count Mirabel and Miss Grandison were both engaged in an activeconspiracy. Lord Montfort alone was calm, and if he had a purpose toconceal, inscrutable. All things, however, foreboded a crisis. 

Sir Ratcliffe, astonished at the marked manner in which his son absentedhimself from Brook-street, resolved upon bringing him to an explanation. At first he thought there might be some lovers' quarrel; but thedemeanour of Katherine, and the easy tone in which she ever spoke ofher cousin, soon disabused him of this fond hope. He consulted his wife. Now, to tell the truth, Lady Armine, who was a shrewd woman, was notwithout her doubts and perplexities, but she would not confess them toher husband. Many circumstances had been observed by her which filledher with disquietude, but she had staked all her hopes upon this cast, and she was of a sanguine temper. She was leading an agreeable life. Katherine appeared daily more attached to her, and Lady Armine wasquite of opinion that it is always very injudicious to interfere. Sheendeavoured to persuade Sir Ratcliffe that everything was quite right, and she assured him that the season would terminate, as all seasonsought to terminate, by the marriage. 

And perhaps Sir Ratcliffe would have followed her example, only it sohappened that as he was returning home one morning, he met his son inGrosvenor-square. 

'Why, Ferdinand, we never see you now, ' said Sir Ratcliffe. 

'Oh! you are all so gay, ' said Ferdinand. 'How is my mother?'

'She is very well. Katherine and herself have gone to see the balloon, with Lord Montfort and Count Mirabel. Come in, ' said Sir Ratcliffe, forhe was now almost at his door. 

The father and son entered. Sir Ratcliffe walked into a little libraryon the ground floor, which was his morning room. 

'We dine at home to-day, Ferdinand, ' said Sir Ratcliffe. 'Perhaps youwill come. '

'Thank you, sir, I am engaged. '

'It seems to me you are always engaged. For a person who does not likegaiety, it is very odd. '

'Heigho!' said Ferdinand. 'How do you like your new horse, sir?'

'Ferdinand, I wish to speak a word to you, ' said Sir Ratcliffe. 'I donot like ever to interfere unnecessarily with your conduct; but theanxiety of a parent will, I think, excuse the question I am about toask. When do you propose being married?'

'Oh, I do not know exactly. '

'Your grandfather has been dead now, you know, much more than a year. I cannot help thinking your conduct singular. There is nothing wrongbetween you and Katherine, is there?'

'Wrong, sir?'

'Yes, wrong? I mean, is there any misunderstanding? Have youquarrelled?'

'No, sir, we have not quarrelled; we perfectly understand each other. '

'I am glad to hear it, for I must say I think your conduct is veryunlike that of a lover. All I can say is, I did not win your mother'sheart by such proceedings. '

'Katherine has made no complaint of me, sir?'

'Certainly not, and that surprises me still more. '

Ferdinand seemed plunged in thought. The silence lasted someminutes. Sir Ratcliffe took up the newspaper; his son leant over themantel-piece, and gazed upon the empty fire-place. At length he turnedround and said, 'Father, I can bear this no longer; the engagementbetween Katherine and myself is dissolved. '

[Illustration: page2-118. Jpg]

'Good God! when, and why?' exclaimed Sir Ratcliffe, the newspaperfalling from his hand. 

'Long since, sir; ever since I loved another woman, and she knew it. '

'Ferdinand! Ferdinand!' exclaimed the unhappy father; but he was sooverpowered that he could not give utterance to his thoughts. He threwhimself in a chair, and wrung his hands. Ferdinand stood still andsilent, like a statue of Destiny, gloomy and inflexible. 

'Speak again, ' at length said Sir Ratcliffe. 'Let me hear you speakagain. I cannot believe what I have heard. Is it indeed true that yourengagement with your cousin has been long terminated?'

Ferdinand nodded assent. 

'Your poor mother!' exclaimed Sir Ratcliffe. 'This will kill her. ' Herose from his seat, and walked up and down the room in great agitation. 

'I knew all was not right, ' he muttered to himself. 'She will sink underit; we must all sink under it. Madman! you know not what you have done!'

'It is in vain to regret, sir; my sufferings have been greater thanyours. '

'She will pardon you, my boy, ' said Sir Ratcliffe, in a quicker andkinder tone. 'You have lived to repent your impetuous folly; Katherineis kind and generous; she loves us all; she must love you; she willpardon you. Yes! entreat her to forget it; your mother, your mother hasgreat influence with her; she will exercise it, she will interfere; youare very young, all will yet be well. '

'It is as impossible for me to marry Katherine Grandison, as for youyourself to do it, sir, ' said Ferdinand, in a tone of calmness. 

'You are not married to another?'

'In faith; I am bound by a tie which I can never break. '

'And who is this person?'

'She must be nameless, for many reasons. '

'Ferdinand, ' said Sir Ratcliffe, 'you know not what you are doing. My life, your mother's, the existence of our family, hang upon yourconduct. Yet, yet there is time to prevent this desolation. I amcontrolling my emotions; I wish you to save us, you, all! Throw yourselfat your cousin's feet. She is soft-hearted; she may yet be yours!'

'Dear father, it cannot be. '

'Then-then, welcome ruin!' exclaimed Sir Ratcliffe, in a hoarse voice. 'And, ' he continued, pausing between every word, from the difficultyof utterance, 'if the conviction that you have destroyed all our hopes, rewarded us for all our affection, our long devotion, by blasting everyfond idea that has ever illumined our sad lives, that I and Constance, poor fools, have clung and clung to; if this conviction can console you, sir, enjoy it-----

'Ferdinand! my son, my child, that I never have spoken an unkind wordto, that never gave me cause to blame or check him, your mother will behome soon, your poor, poor mother. Do not let me welcome her with allthis misery. Tell me it is not true; recall what you have said; let usforget these harsh words; reconcile yourself to your cousin; let us behappy. '

'Father, if my heart's blood could secure your happiness, my life wereready; but this I cannot do. '

'Do you know what is at stake? Everything. All, all, all! We can seeArmine no more; our home is gone. Your mother and myself must be exiles. Oh! you have not thought of this: say you have not thought of this. '

Ferdinand hid his face; his father, emboldened, urged the fond plea. 'You will save us, Ferdinand, you will be our preserver? It is allforgotten, is it not? It is a lovers' quarrel, after all?'

'Father, why should I trifle with your feelings? why should I feign whatcan never be? This sharp interview, so long postponed, ought not now tobe adjourned. Indulge no hopes, for there are none. '

'Then by every sacred power I revoke every blessing that since yourbirth I have poured upon your head. I recall the prayers that everynight I have invoked upon your being. Great God! I cancel them. You havebetrayed your cousin; you have deserted your mother and myself; you havefirst sullied the honour of our house, and now you have destroyed it. Why were you born? What have we done that your mother's womb shouldproduce such a curse? Sins of my father, they are visited upon me! AndGlastonbury, what will Glastonbury say? Glastonbury, who sacrificed hisfortune for you. '

'Mr. Glastonbury knows all, sir, and has always been my confidant. '

'Is he a traitor? For when a son deserts me, I know not whom to trust. '

'He has no thoughts but for our welfare, sir. He will convince you, sir, I cannot marry my cousin. '

'Boy, boy! you know not what you say. Not marry your cousin! Then let usdie. It were better for us all to die. '

'My father! Be calm, I beseech you; you have spoken harsh words; Ihave not deserted you or my mother; I never will. If I have wronged mycousin, I have severely suffered, and she has most freely forgiven me. She is my dear friend. As for our house: tell me, would you have thathouse preserved at the cost of my happiness? You are not the father Isupposed, if such indeed be your wish. '

'Happiness! Fortune, family, beauty, youth, a sweet and charming spirit, if these will not secure a man's happiness, I know not what might. Andthese I wished you to possess. '

'Sir, it is in vain for us to converse upon this subject. SeeGlastonbury, if you will. He can at least assure you that neither myfeelings are light nor my conduct hasty. I will leave you now. '

Ferdinand quitted the room; Sir Ratcliffe did not notice his departure, although he was not unaware of it. He heaved a deep sigh, and wasapparently plunged in profound thought. 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

 _Ferdinand Is Arrested by Messrs. Morris and Levison, and Taken to a Spunging-House_. 

IT MUST be confessed that the affairs of our friends were in a criticalstate: everyone interested felt that something decisive in theirrespective fortunes was at hand. And, yet, so vain are all human plansand calculations, that the unavoidable crisis was brought about byan incident which no one anticipated. It so happened that the stormyinterview between Sir Ratcliffe and his son was overheard by a servant. This servant, who had been engaged by Miss Grandison in London, was amember of a club to which a confidential clerk of Messrs. Morris andLevison belonged. In the ensuing evening, when this worthy knight ofthe shoulder-knot just dropped out for an hour to look in at this choicesociety, smoke a pipe, and talk over the affairs of his mistress andthe nation, he announced the important fact that the match between MissGrandison and Captain Armine was 'no go, ' which, for his part, hedid not regret, as he thought his mistress ought to look higher. Theconfidential clerk of Messrs. Morris and Levison listened in silence tothis important intelligence, and communicated it the next morning tohis employers. And so it happened that a very few days afterwards, as Ferdinand was lying in bed at his hotel, the door of his chambersuddenly opened, and an individual, not of the most prepossessingappearance, being much marked with smallpox, reeking with gin, andwearing top-boots and a belcher handkerchief, rushed into his room andenquired whether he were Captain Armine. 

'The same, ' said Ferdinand. 'And pray, sir, who are you?'

'Don't wish to be unpleasant, ' was the answer, 'but, sir, you are myprisoner. '

There is something exceedingly ignoble in an arrest: Ferdinand felt thatsickness come over him which the uninitiated in such ceremonies mustexperience. However, he rallied, and enquired at whose suit theseproceedings were taken. 

'Messrs. Morris and Levison, sir. '

'Cannot I send for my lawyer and give bail?'

The bailiff shook his head. 'You see, sir, you are taken in execution, so it is impossible. '

'And the amount of the debt?'

'Is 2, 800L. , sir. '

'Well, what am I to do?'

'Why, sir, you must go along with us. We will do it very quietly. Myfollower is in a hackney-coach at the door, sir. You can just step inas pleasant as possible. I suppose you would like to go to a house, andthen you can send for your friends, you know. '

'Well, if you will go down stairs, I will come to you. '

The bailiff grinned. 'Can't let you out of my sight, sir. '

'Why, I cannot dress if you are here. '

The bailiff examined the room to see if there were any mode of escape;there was no door but the entrance; the window offered no chance. 'Well, sir, ' he said, 'I likes to do things pleasant. I can stand outside, sir;but you must be quick. '

Ferdinand rang for his servant. When Louis clearly understood the stateof affairs, he was anxious to throw the bailiff out of the window, buthis master prevented him. Mr. Glastonbury had gone out some two hours;Ferdinand sent Louis with a message to his family, to say he was aboutleaving town for a few days; and impressing upon him to be careful notto let them know in Brook-street what had occurred, he completed hisrapid toilet and accompanied the sheriff's officer to the hackney-coachthat was prepared for him. 

As they jogged on in silence, Ferdinand revolved in his mind how itwould be most advisable for him to act. Any application to his ownlawyer was out of the question. That had been tried before, and hefelt assured that there was not the slightest chance of that gentlemandischarging so large a sum, especially when he was aware that it wasonly a portion of his client's liabilities; he thought of applying foradvice to Count Mirabel or Lord Catchimwhocan, but with what view? Hewould not borrow the money of them, even if they would lend it; and asit was, he bitterly reproached himself for having availed himself soeasily of Mr. Bond Sharpe's kind offices. At this moment, he could notpersuade himself that his conduct had been strictly honourable to thatgentleman. He had not been frank in the exposition of his situation. The money had been advanced under a false impression, if not absolutelyborrowed under a false pretence. He cursed Catchimwhocan and his levity. The honour of the Armines was gone, like everything else that oncebelonged to them. The result of Ferdinand's reflections was, that hewas utterly done up; that no hope or chance of succour remained forhim; that his career was closed; and not daring to contemplate whatthe consequences might be to his miserable parents, he made a desperateeffort to command his feelings. 

Here the coach turned up a dingy street, leading out of the lower endof Oxford-street, and stopped before a large but gloomy dwelling, whichFerdinand's companion informed him was a spunging-house. 'I suppose youwould like to have a private room, sir; you can have every accommodationhere, sir, and feel quite at home, I assure you. '

In pursuance of this suggestion, Captain Armine was ushered intothe best drawing-room, with barred windows, and treated in the mostaristocratic manner. It was evidently the chamber reserved only forunfortunate gentlemen of the utmost distinction. It was amply furnishedwith a mirror, a loo-table, and a very hard sofa. The walls were hungwith old-fashioned caricatures by Bunbury; the fire-irons were ofpolished brass; over the mantel-piece was the portrait of the master ofthe house, which was evidently a speaking likeness, and in whichCaptain Armine fancied he traced no slight resemblance to his friend Mr. Levison; and there were also some sources of literary amusement in theroom, in the shape of a Hebrew Bible and the Racing Calendar. 

After walking up and down the room for an hour, meditating over thepast, for it seemed hopeless to trouble himself any further with thefuture, Ferdinand began to feel faint, for it may be recollected that hehad not even breakfasted. So pulling the bell-rope with such force thatit fell to the ground, a funny little waiter immediately appeared, awedby the sovereign ring, and having, indeed, received private intelligencefrom the bailiff that the gentleman in the drawing-room was a regularnob. 

And here, perhaps, I should remind the reader, that of all the greatdistinctions in life none perhaps is more important than that whichdivides mankind into the two great sections of NOBS and SNOBS. It mightseem at the first glance, that if there were a place in the world whichshould level all distinctions, it would be a debtors' prison. But thiswould be quite an error. Almost at the very moment that Captain Arminearrived at his sorrowful hotel, a poor devil of a tradesman who had beenarrested for fifty pounds, and torn from his wife and family, had beenforced to repair to the same asylum. He was introduced into what isstyled the coffee-room, being a long, low, unfurnished sanded chamber, with a table and benches; and being very anxious to communicate withsome friend, in order, if possible, to effect his release, and preventhimself from being a bankrupt, he had continued meekly to ring atintervals for the last half-hour in order that he might write andforward his letter. The waiter heard the coffee-room bell ring, butnever dreamed of noticing it, though the moment the signal of theprivate room sounded, and sounded with so much emphasis, he rushedupstairs, three steps at a time, and instantly appeared before our hero:and all this difference was occasioned by the simple circumstance, thatCaptain Armine was a NOB, and the poor tradesman a SNOB. 

'I am hungry, ' said Ferdinand. 'Can I get anything to eat at this damnedplace?'

'What would you like, sir? Anything you choose, sir. Mutton chop, rumpsteak, weal cutlet? Do you a fowl in a quarter of an hour; roast orboiled, sir?'

'I have not breakfasted yet; bring me some breakfast. '

'Yes, sir, ' said the little waiter. 'Tea, sir? Coffee, eggs, toast, buttered toast, sir? Like any meat, sir? Ham, sir? Tongue, sir? Like adevil, sir?'

'Anything, everything, only be quick. '

'Yes, sir, ' responded the waiter. 'Beg pardon, sir. No offence, I hope, but custom to pay here, sir. Shall be happy to accommodate you, sir. Know what a gentleman is. '

'Thank you, I will not trouble you, ' said Ferdinand; 'get me that notechanged. '

'Yes, sir, ' replied the little waiter, bowing very low as hedisappeared. 

'Gentleman in best drawing-room wants breakfast. Gentleman in bestdrawing-room wants change for a ten-pound note. Breakfast immediatelyfor gentleman in best drawing-room. Tea, coffee, toast, ham, tongue, anda devil. A regular nob!'

Ferdinand was so exhausted that he had postponed all deliberation as tohis situation until he had breakfasted; and when he had breakfasted, he felt dull. It is the consequence of all meals. In whatever lighthe viewed his affairs, they seemed inextricable. He was now in aspunging-house; he could not long remain here, he must be soon in agaol. A gaol! What a bitter termination of all his great plans andhopes! What a situation for one who had been betrothed to HenriettaTemple! He thought of his cousin, he thought of her great fortune, which might have been his. Perhaps at this moment they were all ridingtogether in the Park. In a few days all must be known to his father. Hedid not doubt of the result. Armine would immediately be sold, andhis father and mother, with the wretched wreck of their fortune, wouldretire to the Continent. What a sad vicissitude! And he had done it all;he, their only child, their only hope, on whose image they had lived, who was to restore the house. He looked at the bars of his windows, itwas a dreadful sight. His poor father, his fond mother, he was quitesure their hearts would break. They never could survive all this misery, this bitter disappointment of all their chopes. Little less than a yearago and he was at Bath, and they were all joy and triumph. What a wildscene had his life been since! O Henrietta! why did we ever meet? Thatfatal, fatal morning! The cedar tree rose before him, he recalled, heremembered everything. And poor Glastonbury--it was a miserable end. Hecould not disguise it from himself, he had been most imprudent, hehad been mad. And yet so near happiness, perfect, perfect happiness!Henrietta might have been his, and they might have been so happy!This confinement was dreadful; it began to press upon his nerves. Nooccupation, not the slightest resource. He took up the Racing Calendar, he threw it down again. He knew all the caricatures by heart, theyinfinitely disgusted him. He walked up and down the room till he was sotired that he flung himself upon the hard sofa. It was intolerable. 

A gaol must be preferable to this. There must be some kind of wretchedamusement in a gaol; but this ignoble, this humiliating solitude, he wasconfident he should go mad if he remained here. He rang the bell again. 

'Yes, sir, ' said the little waiter. 

'This place is intolerable to me, ' said Captain Armine. 'I really amquite sick of it. What can I do?'

The waiter looked a little perplexed. 

'I should like to go to gaol at once, ' said Ferdinand. 

'Lord! sir!' said the little waiter. 

'Yes! I cannot bear this, ' he continued; 'I shall go mad. '

'Don't you think your friends will call soon, sir?'

'I have no friends, ' said Ferdinand. 'I hope nobody will call. '

'No friends!' said the little waiter, who began to think Ferdinand wasnot such a nob as he had imagined. 'Why, if you have no friends, sir, itwould be best to go to the Fleet, I think. '

'By Jove, I think it would be better. '

'Master thinks your friends will call, I am sure. '

'Nobody knows I am here, ' said Ferdinand. 

'Oh!' said the little waiter, 'You want to let them know, do you, sir?'

'Anything sooner; I wish to conceal my disgrace. '

'O sir! you are not used to it; I dare say you never were nabbedbefore?'

'Certainly not. '

'There it is; if you will be patient, you will see everything go well. '

'Never, my good fellow; nothing can go well. '

'O sir! you are not used to it. A regular nob like you, nabbed for thefirst time, and for such a long figure, sir, sure not to be diddled. Never knowed such a thing yet. Friends sure to stump down, sir. '

'The greater the claim, the more difficulty in satisfying it, I shouldthink, ' said Ferdinand. 

'Lord! no, sir: you are not used to it. It is only poor devils nabbedfor their fifties and hundreds that are ever done up. A nob was nevernabbed for the sum you are, sir, and ever went to the wall. Trust myexperience. I never knowed such a thing. '

Ferdinand could scarcely refrain from a smile. Even the conversation ofthe little waiter was a relief to him. 

'You see, sir, ' continued that worthy, 'Morris and Levison would neverhave given you such a deuce of a tick unless they knowed your resources. Trust Morris and Levison for that. You done up, sir! a nob like you, that Morris and Levison have trusted for such a tick! Lord! sir, you don't know nothing about it. I could afford to give them fifteenshillings in the pound for their debt myself and a good day's business, too. Friends will stump down, sir, trust me. '

'Well, it is some satisfaction for me to know that they will not, andthat Morris and Levison will not get a farthing. '

'Well, sir, ' said the incredulous little functionary, 'when I findMorris and Levison lose two or three thousand pounds by a nob who isnabbed for the first time, I will pay the money myself, that is all Iknow. '

Here the waiter was obliged to leave Ferdinand, but he proved hisconfidence in that gentleman's fortunes by his continual civility, andin the course of the day brought him a stale newspaper. It seemed toFerdinand that the day would never close. The waiter pestered him aboutdinner, eulogising the cook, and assuring him that his master was famousfor champagne. Although he had no appetite, Ferdinand ordered dinner inorder to ensure the occurrence of one incident. The champagne made himdrowsy; he was shown to his room; and for a while he forgot his cares insleep. 

CHAPTER XIX. 

 _The Crisis Rapidly Advances_. 

HENRIETTA TEMPLE began once more to droop. This change was not unnoticedby her constant companion Lord Montfort, and yet he never permitted herto be aware of his observation. All that he did was still more to studyher amusement; if possible, to be still more considerate and tender. Miss Grandison, however, was far less delicate; she omitted noopportunity of letting Miss Temple know that she thought that Henriettawas very unwell, and that she was quite convinced Henrietta was thinkingof Ferdinand. Nay! she was not satisfied to confine these intimations toMiss Temple; she impressed her conviction of Henrietta's indispositionon Lord Montfort, and teased him with asking his opinion of the cause. 

'What do you think is the cause, Miss Grandison?' said his lordship, very quietly. 

'Perhaps London does not agree with her; but then, when she was illbefore she was in the country; and it seems to me to be the sameillness. I wonder you do not notice it, Lord Montfort. A lover to be soinsensible, I am surprised!'

'It is useless to notice that which you cannot remedy. '

'Why do you not call in those who can offer remedies?' said MissGrandison. 'Why not send for Sir Henry?'

'I think it best to leave Henrietta alone, ' said Lord Montfort. 

'Do you think it is the mind, then?' said Miss Grandison. 

'It may be, ' said Lord Montford. 

'It may be! Upon my word, you are very easy. '

'I am not indifferent, Miss Grandison. There is nothing that I would notdo for Henrietta's welfare. '

'Oh! yes, there is; there is something, ' said Miss Grandison, rathermaliciously. 

'You are really an extraordinary person, Miss Grandison, ' said LordMontfort. 'What can you mean by so strange an observation?'

'I have my meaning; but I suppose I may have a mystery as well asanybody else. '

'A mystery, Miss Grandison?'

'Yes! a mystery, Lord Montfort. There is not a single individual in thethree families who has not a mystery, except myself; but I have foundout something. I feel quite easy now: we are all upon an equality. '

'You are a strange person. '

'It may be so; but I am happy, for I have nothing on my mind. Now thatpoor Ferdinand has told Sir Ratcliffe we are not going to marry, I haveno part to play. I hate deception; it is almost as bitter as marryingone who is in love with another person. '

'That must indeed be bitter. And is that the reason that you do notmarry your cousin?' enquired Lord Montfort. 

'I may be in love with another person, or I may not, ' said MissGrandison. 'But, however that may be, the moment Ferdinand very candidlytold me he was, we decided not to marry. I think we were wise; do notyou. Lord Montfort?'

'If you are happy, you were wise, ' said Lord Montfort. 

'Yes, I am pretty happy: as happy as I can well be when all my bestfriends are miserable. '

'Are they?'

'I think so: my aunt is in tears; my uncle in despair; Ferdinandmeditates suicide; Henrietta is pining away; and you, who are thephilosopher of the society, you look rather grave. I fancy I think weare a most miserable set. '

'I wish we could be all happy, ' said Lord Montfort. 

'And so we might, I think, ' said Miss Grandison; 'at least, some of us. '

'Make us, then, ' said Lord Montfort. 

'I cannot make you. '

'I think you could, Miss Grandison. '

At this moment Henrietta entered, and the conversation assumed adifferent turn. 

'Will you go with us to Lady Bellair's, Kate?' said Miss Temple. 'Theduchess has asked me to call there this morning. '

Miss Grandison expressed her willingness: the carriage was waiting, andLord Montfort offered to attend them. At this moment the servant enteredwith a note for Miss Grandison. 

'From Glastonbury, ' she said; 'dear Henrietta, he wishes to see meimmediately. What can it be? Go to Lady Bellair's, and call for me onyour return. You must, indeed; and then we can all go out together. '

And so it was arranged. Miss Temple, accompanied by Lord Montfort, proceeded to Bellair House. 

'Don't come near me, ' said the old lady when she saw them; 'don't comenear me; I am in despair; I do not know what I shall do; I think I shallsell all my china. Do you know anybody who wants to buy old china? Theyshall have it a bargain. But I must have ready money; ready money I musthave. Do not sit down in that chair; it is only made to look at. Oh!if I were rich, like you! I wonder if my china is worth three hundredpounds. I could cry my eyes out, that I could. The wicked men; I shouldlike to tear them to pieces. Why is not he in Parliament? and then theycould not take him up. They never could arrest Charles Fox. I have knownhim in as much trouble as anyone. Once he sent all his furniture to myhouse from his lodgings. He lodged in Bury-street. I always look at thehouse when I pass by. Don't fiddle the pens; I hate people who fiddle. Where is Gregory? where is my bell' Where is the page? Naughty boy! whydo not you come? There, I do not want anything; I do not know what todo. The wicked men! The greatest favourite I had: he was so charming!Charming people are never rich; he always looked melancholy. I think Iwill send to the rich man I dine with; but I forget his name. Why do notyou tell me his name?'

'My dear Lady Bellair, what is the matter?'

'Don't ask me; don't speak to me. I tell you I am in despair. Oh! if Iwere rich, how I would punish those wicked men!'

'Can I do anything?' said Lord Montfort. 

'I do not know what you can do. I have got the tic. I always have thetic when my friends are in trouble. '

'Who is in trouble, Lady Bellair?'

'My dearest friend; the only friend I care about. How can you be sohard-hearted? I called upon him this morning, and his servant wascrying. I must get him a place; he is such a good man, and loveshis master. Now, do you want a servant? You never want anything. Askeverybody you know whether they want a servant, an honest man, who loveshis master. There he is crying down stairs, in Gregory's room. Poor, good creature! I could cry myself, only it is of no use. '

'Who is his master?' said Lord Montfort. 

'Nobody you know; yes! you know him very well. It is my dear, dearfriend; you know him very well. The bailiffs went to his hotelyesterday, and dragged him out of bed, and took him to prison. Oh! Ishall go quite distracted. I want to sell my china to pay his debts. Where is Miss Twoshoes?' continued her ladyship; 'why don't you answer?You do everything to plague me. '

'Miss Grandison, Lady Bellair?'

'To be sure; it is her lover. '

'Captain Armine?'

'Have I not been telling you all this time? They have taken him toprison. '

Miss Temple rose and left the room. 

'Poor creature! she is quite shocked. She knows him, too, ' said herladyship. 'I am afraid he is quite ruined. There is a knock. I will makea subscription for him. I dare say it is my grandson. He is very rich, and very good-natured. '

'My dear Lady Bellair, ' said Lord Montfort, rising, 'favour me by notsaying a word to anybody at present. I will just go in the next room toHenrietta. She is intimate with the family, and much affected. Now, mydear lady, I entreat you, ' continued his lordship, 'do not say a word. Captain Armine has good friends, but do not speak to strangers. It willdo harm; it will indeed. '

'You are a good creature; you are a good creature. Go away. '

'Lady Frederick Berrington, my lady, ' announced the page. 

'She is very witty, but very poor. It is no use speaking to her. I won'tsay a word. Go to Miss Thingabob: go, go. ' And Lord Montfort escapedinto the saloon as Lady Frederick entered. 

Henrietta was lying on the sofa, her countenance was hid, she wassobbing convulsively. 

'Henrietta, ' said Lord Montfort, but she did not answer. 'Henrietta, heagain said, 'dear Henrietta! I will do whatever you wish. '

'Save him, save him!' she exclaimed. 'Oh! you cannot save him! And Ihave brought him to this! Ferdinand! dearest Ferdinand! oh! I shalldie!'

'For God's sake, be calm, ' said Lord Montfort, 'there is nothing I willnot do for you, for him. '

'Ferdinand, Ferdinand, my own, own Ferdinand, oh! why did we ever part?Why was I so unjust, so wicked? And he was true! I cannot survive hisdisgrace and misery. I wish to die!'

'There shall be no disgrace, no misery, ' said Lord Montfort, 'only forGod's sake, be calm. There is a chattering woman in the next room. Hush!hush! I tell you I will do everything. '

'You cannot; you must not; you ought not! Kind, generous Digby! Pardonwhat I have said; forget it; but indeed I am so wretched, I can bearthis life no longer. '

'But you shall not be wretched, Henrietta; you shall be happy; everybodyshall be happy. I am Armine's friend, I am indeed. I will prove it. Onmy honour, I will prove that I am his best friend. '

'You must not. You are the last person, you are indeed. He is so proud!Anything from us will be death to him. Yes! I know him, he will diesooner than be under an obligation to either of us. '

'You shall place him under still greater obligations than this, ' saidLord Montfort. 'Yes! Henrietta, if he has been true to you, you shallnot be false to him. '

'Digby, Digby, speak not such strange words. I am myself again. I leftyou that I might be alone. Best and most generous of men, I have neverdeceived you; pardon the emotions that even you were not to witness. '

'Take my arm, dearest, let us walk into the garden. I wish to speakto you. Do not tremble. I have nothing to say that is not for yourhappiness; at all times, and under all circumstances, the great objectof my thoughts. '

He raised Miss Temple gently from the sofa, and they walked away farfrom the observation of Lady Bellair, or the auricular powers, thoughthey were not inconsiderable, of her lively guest. 

CHAPTER XX. 

 _In Which Ferdinand Receives More than One Visit, and Finds That Adversity Has Not Quite Deprived Him of His Friends_. 

IN THE mean time morning broke upon the unfortunate Ferdinand. Hehad forgotten his cares in sleep, and, when he woke, it was with somedifficulty that he recalled the unlucky incident of yesterday, andcould satisfy himself that he was indeed a prisoner. But the bars of hisbedroom window left him not very long in pleasing doubt. 

His friend, the little waiter, soon made his appearance. 'Slept prettywell, sir? Same breakfast as yesterday, sir? Tongue and ham, sir?Perhaps you would like a kidney instead of a devil? It will be achange. '

'I have no appetite. '

'It will come, sir. You an't used to it. Nothing else to do here but toeat. Better try the kidney, sir. Is there anything you fancy?'

'I have made up my mind to go to gaol to-day. ' 'Lord! sir, don't thinkof it. Something will turn up, sir, take my word. '

And sooth to say, the experienced waiter was not wrong. For bringingin the breakfast, followed by an underling with a great pomp of platedcovers, he informed Ferdinand with a chuckle, that a gentleman wasenquiring for him. 'Told you your friends would come, sir. '

The gentleman was introduced, and Ferdinand beheld Mr. Glastonbury. 

'My dear Glastonbury, ' said Ferdinand, scarcely daring to meet hisglance, 'this is very kind, and yet I wished to have saved you this. '

'My poor child, ' said Glastonbury. 

'Oh! my dear friend, it is all over. This is a more bitter moment foryou even than for me, kind friend. This is a terrible termination of allyour zeal and labours. '

'Nay!' said Glastonbury; 'let us not think of anything but the present. For what are you held in durance?'

'My dear Glastonbury, if it were only ten pounds, I could not permit youto pay it. So let us not talk of that. This must have happened sooneror later. It has come, and come unexpectedly: but it must be borne, likeall other calamities. '

'But you have friends, my Ferdinand. '

'Would that I had not! All that I wish now is that I were alone inthe world. If I could hope that my parents would leave me to myself, Ishould be comparatively easy. But when I think of them, and the injury Imust do them, it is hell, it is hell. '

'I wish you would tell me your exact situation, ' said Mr. Glastonbury. 

'Do not let us talk of it; does my father know of this?'

'Not yet. '

''Tis well; he may yet have a happy day. He will sell Armine. '

Glastonbury shook his head and sighed. 'Is it so bad?' he said. 

'My dearest friend, if you will know the worst, take it. I am here fornearly three thousand pounds, and I owe at least ten more. '

'And they will not take bail?'

'Not for this debt; they cannot. It is a judgment debt, the only one. '

'And they gave you no notice?'

'None: they must have heard somehow or other that my infernal marriagewas off. They have all waited for that. And now that you see thataffairs are past remedy; let us talk of other topics, if you will beso kind as to remain half an hour in this dungeon. I shall quit itdirectly; I shall go to gaol at once. '

Poor Glastonbury, he did not like to go, and yet it was a mostmelancholy visit. What could they converse about? Conversation, excepton the interdicted subject of Ferdinand's affairs, seemed quite amockery. At last, Ferdinand said, 'Dear Glastonbury, do not stay here;it only makes us both unhappy. Send Louis with some clothes for me, and some books. I will let you know before I leave this place. Uponreflection, I shall not do so for two or three days, if I can stay aslong. See my lawyer; not that he will do anything; nor can I expect him;but he may as well call and see me. Adieu, dear friend. '

Glastonbury was about to retire, when Ferdinand called him back. 'Thisaffair should be kept quiet, ' he said. 'I told Louis to say I was out oftown in Brook-street. I should be sorry were Miss Temple to hear of it, at least until after her marriage. '

Ferdinand was once more alone with the mirror, the loo-table, thehard sofa, the caricatures which he hated even worse than his host'sportrait, the Hebrew Bible, and the Racing Calendar. It seemed a yearthat he had been shut up in this apartment, instead of a day, he hadgrown so familiar with every object. And yet the visit of Glastonburyhad been an event, and he could not refrain from pondering over it. Aspunging-house seemed such a strange, such an unnatural scene, for sucha character. Ferdinand recalled to his memory the tower at Armine, andall its glades and groves, shining in the summer sun, and freshenedby the summer breeze. What a contrast to this dingy, confined, closedungeon! And was it possible that he had ever wandered at will in thatfair scene with a companion fairer? Such thoughts might well drive aman mad. With all his errors, and all his disposition at present notto extenuate them, Ferdinand Armine could not refrain from esteeminghimself unlucky. Perhaps it is more distressing to believe ourselvesunfortunate, than to recognise ourselves as imprudent. 

A fond mistress or a faithful friend, either of these are greatblessings; and whatever may be one's scrapes in life, either of thesemay well be sources of consolation. Ferdinand had a fond mistress once, and had Henrietta Temple loved him, why, he might struggle with allthese calamities; but that sweet dream was past. As for friends, hehad none, at least he thought not. Not that he had to complain of humannature. He had experienced much kindness from mankind, and many were theservices he had received from kind acquaintances. With the recollectionof Catch, to say nothing of Bond Sharpe, and above all, Count Mirabel, fresh in his mind, he could not complain of his companions. Glastonburywas indeed a friend, but Ferdinand sighed for a friend of his ownage, knit to him by the same tastes and sympathies, and capable ofcomprehending all his secret feelings; a friend who could even whisperhope, and smile in a spunging-house. 

The day wore away, the twilight shades were descending; Ferdinand becameevery moment more melancholy, when suddenly his constant ally, thewaiter, rushed into the room. 'My eye, sir, here is a regular nobenquiring for you. I told you it would be all right. '

'Who is it?'

'Here he is coming up. '

Ferdinand caught the triumphant tones of Mirabel on the staircase. 

'Which is the room? Show me directly. Ah! Armine, _mon ami! mon cher!_Is this your friendship? To be in this cursed hole, and not send forme! _C'est une mauvaise plaisanterie_ to pretend we are friends! How areyou, good fellow, fine fellow, excellent Armine? If you were not hereI would quarrel with you. There, go away, man. ' The waiter disappeared, and Count Mirabel seated himself on the hard sofa. 

'My dear fellow, ' continued the Count, twirling the prettiest cane inthe world, 'this is a _bêtise_ of you to be here and not send for me. Who has put you here?'

'My dear Mirabel, it is all up. '

'Pah! How much is it?'

'I tell you I am done up. It has got about that the marriage is off, and Morris and Levison have nabbed me for all the arrears of my cursedannuities. '

'But how much?'

'Between two and three thousand. '

The Count Mirabel gave a whistle. 

'I brought five hundred, which I have. We must get the rest somehow orother. '

'My dear Mirabel, you are the most generous fellow in the world; but Ihave troubled my friends too much. Nothing will induce me to take a soufrom you. Besides, between ourselves, not my least mortification at thismoment is some 1, 500L. , which Bond Sharpe let me have the other day fornothing, through Catch. '

'Pah! I am sorry about that, though, because he would have lent us thismoney. I will ask Bevil. '

'I would sooner die. '

'I will ask him for myself. '

'It is impossible. '

'We will arrange it: I tell you who will do it for us. He is a goodfellow, and immensely rich: it is Fitzwarrene; he owes me greatfavours. '

'Dear Mirabel, I am delighted to see you. This is good and kind. I am sodamned dull here. It quite gladdens me to see you; but do not talk aboutmoney. '

'Here is 500L. ; four other fellows at 500L. We can manage it. '

'No more, no more! I beseech you. '

'But you cannot stop here. _Quel drôle appartement!_ Before CharleyDoricourt was in Parliament he was always in this sort of houses, but Igot him out somehow or other; I managed it. Once I bought of the fellowfive hundred dozen of champagne. '

'A new way to pay old debts, certainly, ' said Ferdinand. 

'I tell you--have you dined?'

'I was going to; merely to have something to do. '

'I will stop and dine with you, ' said the Count, ringing the bell, 'andwe will talk over affairs. Laugh, my friend; laugh, my Armine: this isonly a scene. This is life. What can we have for dinner, man? I shalldine here. '

'Gentleman's dinner is ordered, my lord; quite ready, ' said the waiter. 'Champagne in ice, my lord?'

'To be sure; everything that is good. _Mon cher_ Armine, we shall havesome fun. '

'Yes, my lord, ' said the waiter, running down stairs. 'Dinner for bestdrawing-room directly; green-pea-soup, turbot, beefsteak, roast duck andboiled chicken, everything that is good, champagne in ice; two regularnobs!'

The dinner soon appeared, and the two friends seated themselves. 

'Potage admirable!' said Count Mirabel. 'The best champagne I ever drankin my life. _Mon brave_, your health. This must be Charley's man, by thewine. I think we will have him up; he will lend us some money. Finestturbot I ever ate! I will give you some of the fins. Ah! you are glad tosee me, my Armine, you are glad to see your friend. _Encore_ champagne!Good Armine, excellent Armine! Keep up your spirits, I will manage thesefellows. You must take some bifteac. The most tender bifteac I evertasted! This is a fine dinner. _Encore un verre!_ Man, you may go; don'twait. '

'By Jove, Mirabel, I never was so glad to see anybody in my life. Now, you are a friend; I feel quite in spirits. '

'To be sure! always be in spirits. _C'est une bêtise_ not to be inspirits. Everything is sure to go well. You will see how I will managethese fellows, and I will come and dine with you every day until you areout: you shall not be here eight-and-forty hours. As I go home I willstop at Mitchell's and get you a novel by Paul de Kock. Have you everread Paul de Kock's books?'

'Never, ' said Ferdinand. 

'What a fortunate man to be arrested! Now you can read Paul de Kock!By Jove, you are the most lucky fellow I know. You see, you thoughtyourself very miserable in being arrested. 'Tis the finest thing in theworld, for now you will read _Mon Voisin Raymond_. There are always twosides to a case. '

'I am content to believe myself very lucky in having such a friend asyou, ' said Ferdinand; 'but now as these things are cleared away, let ustalk over affairs. Have you seen Henrietta?'

'Of course, I see her every day. '

'I hope she will not know of my crash until she has married. '

'She will not, unless you tell her. '

'And when do you think she will be married?'

'When you please. '

'_Cher ami! point de moquerie!_'

'By Jove, I am quite serious, ' exclaimed the Count. 'I am as certainthat you will marry her as that we are in this damned spunging-house. '

'Nonsense!'

'The very finest sense in the world. If you will not marry her, I willmyself, for I am resolved that good Montfort shall not. It shall neverbe said that I interfered without a result. Why, if she were to marryMontfort now, it would ruin my character. To marry Montfort after allmy trouble: dining with that good Temple, and opening the mind of thatlittle Grandison, and talking fine things to that good duchess; it wouldbe a failure. '

'What an odd fellow you are, Mirabel!' 'Of course! Would you have melike other people and not odd? We will drink _la belle Henriette!_Fill up! You will be my friend when you are married, eh? _Mon Armine, excellent garçon!_ How we shall laugh some day; and then this dinner, this dinner will be the best dinner we ever had!'

'But why do you think there is the slightest hope of Henrietta notmarrying Montfort?'

'Because my knowledge of human nature assures me that a young woman, very beautiful, very rich, with a very high spirit, and an onlydaughter, will never go and marry one man when she is in love withanother, and that other one, my dear fellow, like you. You are more sureof getting her because she is engaged. '

What a wonderful thing is a knowledge of human nature! thought Ferdinandto himself. The Count's knowledge of human nature is like my friend thewaiter's experience. One assures me that I am certain to marry a womanbecause she is engaged to another person, and the other, that it isquite clear my debts will be paid because they are so large! The Countremained with his friend until eleven o'clock, when everybody was lockedup. He invited himself to dine with him to-morrow, and promised thathe should have a whole collection of French novels before he awoke. Andassuring him over and over again that he looked upon him as the mostfortunate of all his friends, and that if he broke the bank at Crocky'sto-night, which he fancied he should, he would send him two or threethousand pounds; at the same time he shook him heartily by the hand, and descended the staircase of the spunging-house, humming _Vive laBagatelle_. 

CHAPTER XXI. 

 _The Crisis_. 

ALTHOUGH, when Ferdinand was once more left alone to his reflections, itdid not appear to him that anything had occurred which should change hisopinion of his forlorn lot, there was something, nevertheless, inspiringin the visit of his friend Count Mirabel. It did not seem to him, indeed, that he was one whit nearer extrication from his difficultiesthan before; and as for the wild hopes as to Henrietta, he dismissedthem from his mind as the mere fantastic schemes of a sanguine spirit, and yet his gloom, by some process difficult to analyse, had in greatmeasure departed. It could not be the champagne, for that was a remedyhe had previously tried; it was in some degree doubtless the magicsympathy of a joyous temperament: but chiefly it might, perhaps, beascribed to the flattering conviction that he possessed the heartyfriendship of a man whose good-will was, in every view of the case, avery enviable possession. With such a friend as Mirabel, he could notdeem himself quite so unlucky as in the morning. If he were fortunate, and fortunate so unexpectedly, in this instance, he might be so inothers. A vague presentiment that he had seen the worst of life cameover him. It was equally in vain to justify the consoling conviction orto resist it; and Ferdinand Armine, although in a spunging-house, fellasleep in better humour with his destiny than he had been for the lasteight months. 

His dreams were charming: he fancied that he was at Armine, standingby the Barbary rose-tree. It was moonlight; it was, perhaps, a slightrecollection of the night he had looked upon the garden from the windowof his chamber, the night after he had first seen Henrietta. Suddenly, Henrietta Temple appeared at his window, and waved her hand to him witha smiling face. He immediately plucked for her a flower, and stood withhis offering beneath her window. She was in a riding-habit, and she toldhim that she had just returned from Italy. He invited her to descend, and she disappeared; but instead of Henrietta, there came forward fromthe old Place-----the duchess, who immediately enquired whether he hadseen his cousin; and then her Grace, by some confused process common indreams, turned into Glastonbury, and pointed to the rose-tree, where, tohis surprise, Katherine was walking with Lord Montfort. Ferdinand calledout for Henrietta, but, as she did not appear, he entered the Place, where he found Count Mirabel dining by himself, and just drinkinga glass of champagne. He complained to Mirabel that Henrietta haddisappeared, but his friend laughed at him, and said that, after such along ride, leaving Italy only yesterday, he could scarcely expect to seeher. Satisfied with this explanation, Ferdinand joined the Count at hisbanquet, and was awakened from his sleep, and his dream apparently, byMirabel drawing a cork. 

Ah! why did he ever wake? It was so real; he had seen her so plainly; itwas life; it was the very smile she wore at Ducie; that sunny glance, sofull of joy, beauty, and love, which he could live to gaze on! And nowhe was in prison, and she was going to be married to another. Oh! thereare things in this world that may well break hearts!

The cork of Count Mirabel was, however, a substantial sound, a gentletap at his door: he answered it, and the waiter entered his chamber. 

'Beg pardon, sir, for disturbing you; only eight o'clock. '

'Then why the deuce do you disturb me?' 'There has been another nob, sir. I said as how you were not up, and he sent his compliments, and said as how he would call in an hour, as he wished to see youparticular. ' 'Was it the Count?'

'No, sir; but it was a regular nob, sir, for he had a coronet on hiscab. But he would not leave his name. '

'Catch, of course, ' thought Ferdinand to himself. 'And sent by Mirabel. I should not wonder, if after all, they have broken the bank atCrocky's. Nothing shall induce me to take a ducat. '

However, Ferdinand thought fit to rise, and contrived to descend to thebest drawing-room about a quarter of an hour after the appointed time. To his extreme surprise he found Lord Montfort. 

'My dear friend, ' said Lord Montfort, looking a little confused; 'I amafraid I have sadly disturbed you. But I could not contrive to find youyesterday until it was so late that I was ashamed to knock them up here, and I thought, therefore, you would excuse this early call, as, as, as, I wished to see you very much indeed. '

'You are extremely kind, ' said Captain Armine. 'But really I much regretthat your lordship should have had all this trouble. '

'Oh! what is trouble under such circumstances!' replied his lordship. 'Icannot pardon myself for being so stupid as not reaching you yesterday. I never can excuse myself for the inconvenience you have experienced. '

Ferdinand bowed, but was so perplexed that he could not say a word. 

'I hope, my dear Armine, ' said his lordship, advancing rather slowly, putting his arm within that of Ferdinand, and then walking up and downthe room together, 'I hope you will act at this moment towards me as Iwould towards you, were our respective situations changed. '

Ferdinand bowed, but said nothing. 

'Money, you know, my good fellow, ' continued Lord Montfort, 'is adisagreeable thing to talk about; but there are circumstances whichshould deprive such conversation between us of any awkwardness whichotherwise might arise. '

'I am not aware of them, my lord, ' said Ferdinand, 'though your goodfeelings command my gratitude. '

'I think, upon reflection, we shall find that there are some, ' said LordMontfort. 'For the moment I will only hope that you will esteem thosegood feelings, and which, on my part, I am anxious should ripen intosincere and intimate friendship, as sufficient authority for my placingyour affairs in general in that state that they may in futurenever deprive your family and friends of society necessary to theirhappiness. '

'My lord, I am sure that adversity has assumed a graceful hue with me, for it has confirmed my most amiable views of human nature. I shall notattempt to express what I feel towards your lordship for this generousgoodness, but I will say I am profoundly impressed with it; not theless, because I cannot avail myself in the slightest degree of youroffer. '

'You are too much a man of the world, I am sure, my dear Armine, tobe offended by my frankness. I shall, therefore, speak without fear ofmisconception. It does appear to me that the offer which I have made youis worthy of a little more consideration. You see, my dear friend, thatyou have placed yourself in such a situation that however you may actthe result cannot be one completely satisfactory. The course you shouldpursue, therefore, as, indeed, all conduct in this world should be, is amatter of nice calculation. Have you well considered the consequences ofyour rushing upon ruin? In the first place, your family will receive ablow from which even future prosperity may not recover them. Your familyestate, already in a delicate position, may be irrecoverably lost;the worldly consequences of such a vicissitude are very considerable;whatever career you pursue, so long as you visibly possess Armine, you rank always among the aristocracy of the land, and a family thatmaintains such a position, however decayed, will ultimately recover. Ihardly know an exception to this rule. I do not think, of all men, thatyou are most calculated to afford one. '

'What you say has long pressed itself upon us, ' said Captain Armine. 

'Then, again, ' resumed Lord Montfort, 'the feelings and even interestsof your friends are to be considered. Poor Glastonbury! I love that oldman myself. The fall of Armine might break his heart; he would not liketo leave his tower. You see, I know your place. '

'Poor Glastonbury!' said Ferdinand. 

'But above all, ' continued Lord Montfort, 'the happiness, nay, the veryhealth and life of your parents, from whom all is now concealed, wouldperhaps be the last and costliest sacrifices of your rashness. '

Ferdinand threw himself on the sofa and covered his face. 

'Yet all this misery, all these misfortunes, may be avoided, and youyourself become a calm and happy man, by--for I wish not to understateyour view of the subject, Armine--putting yourself under a pecuniaryobligation to me. A circumstance to be avoided in the common course oflife, no doubt; but is it better to owe me a favour and save your familyestate, preserve your position, maintain your friend, and prevent themisery, and probable death, of your parents, or be able to pass me inthe street, in haughty silence if you please, with the consciousnessthat the luxury of your pride has been satisfied at the cost of everycircumstance which makes existence desirable?'

'You put the case strongly, ' said Ferdinand; 'but no reasoning can everpersuade me that I am justified in borrowing 3, 000L. , which I can neverrepay. '

'Accept it, then. '

''Tis the same thing, ' said Ferdinand. 

'I think not, ' said Lord Montfort; 'but why do you say never?'

'Because it is utterly impossible that I ever can. '

'How do you know you may not marry a woman of large fortune?' said LordMontfort. 'Now you seem to me exactly the sort of man who would marry anheiress. '

'You are thinking of my cousin, ' said Ferdinand. 'I thought that youhad discovered, or that you might have learnt, that there was no realintention of our union. '

'No, I was not thinking of your cousin, ' said Lord Montfort; 'though, to tell you the truth, I was once in hopes that you would marry her. However, that I well know is entirely out of the question, for I believeMiss Grandison will marry someone else. '

'Indeed!' exclaimed Ferdinand, a little agitated. 'Well! may she behappy! I love Kate from the bottom of my heart. But who is the fortunatefellow?'

''Tis a lady's secret, ' said Lord Montfort. 'But let us return to ourargument. To be brief: either, my dear Armine, you must be convinced bymy reasoning, or I must remain here a prisoner like yourself; for, totell you the truth, there is a fair lady before whom I cannot presentmyself except in your company. '

Ferdinand changed countenance. There wanted but this to confirmhis resolution, which had scarcely wavered. To owe his release toHenrietta's influence with Lord Montfort was too degrading. 

'My lord, ' he said, 'you have touched upon a string that I had hopedmight have been spared me. This conversation must, indeed, cease. Mymouth is sealed from giving you the reasons, which nevertheless renderit imperative on me to decline your generous offer. '

'Well, then, ' said Lord Montfort, 'I must see if another can be moresuccessful, ' and he held forth a note to the astounded Ferdinand, inHenrietta's writing. It dropped from Ferdinand's hand as he took it. Lord Montfort picked it up, gave it him again, and walked to the otherend of the room. It was with extreme difficulty that Ferdinand prevailedon himself to break the seal. The note was short; the hand that tracedthe letters must have trembled. Thus it ran:--

'Dearest Ferdinand, --Do everything that Digby wishes. He is our bestfriend. Digby is going to marry Katherine; are you happy? Henrietta. '

Lord Montfort looked round; Ferdinand Armine was lying senseless on thesofa. 

Our friend was not of a swooning mood, but we think the circumstancesmay excuse the weakness. 

As for Lord Montfort, he rang the bell for the little waiter, who, themoment he saw what had occurred, hurried away and rushed up stairs againwith cold water, a bottle of brandy, and a blazing sheet of brown paper, which he declared was an infallible specific. By some means or otherFerdinand was in time recovered, and the little waiter was fairlyexpelled. 

'My dear friend, ' said Ferdinand, in a faint voice; 'I am the happiestman that ever lived; I hope you will be, I am sure you will be;Katherine is an angel. But I cannot speak. It is so strange. '

'My dear fellow, you really must take a glass of brandy, ' said LordMontfort. 'It is strange, certainly. But we are all happy. '

'I hardly know where I am, ' said Ferdinand, after a few minutes. 'Am Ireally alive?'

'Let us think how we are to get out of this place. I suppose they willtake my cheque. If not, I must be off. '

'Oh, do not go, ' said Ferdinand. 'If you go I shall not believe it istrue. My dear Montfort, is it really true?'

'You see, my dear Armine, ' said Lord Montfort, smiling, 'it was fatedthat I should marry a lady you rejected. And to tell you the truth, thereason why I did not get to you yesterday, as I ought to have done, wasan unexpected conversation I had with Miss Grandison. I really thinkthis arrest was a most fortunate incident. It brought affairs to acrisis. We should have gone on playing at cross purposes for ever. '

Here the little waiter entered again with a note and a packet. 

'The same messenger brought them?' asked Ferdinand. 

'No, sir; the Count's servant brought the note, and waits for an answer;the packet came by another person. '

Ferdinand opened the note and read as follows:--

'Berkeley-square, half-past 7, morning. 

'Mon Ami, --Best joke in the world! I broke Crocky's bank three times. Of course; I told you so. I win 15, 000L. Directly I am awake I will sendyou the three thousand, and I will lend you the rest till your marriage. It will not be very long. I write this before I go to bed, that you mayhave it early. Adieu, _cher ami_. 

'_Votre affectionné_, 'De Mirabel. 

'My arrest was certainly the luckiest incident in the world, ' saidFerdinand, handing the note to Lord Montfort. 'Mirabel dined hereyesterday, and went and played on purpose to save me. I treated it asa joke. But what is this?' Ferdinand opened the packet. The handwritingwas unknown to him. Ten bank notes of 300L. Each fell to the ground. 

'Do I live in fairyland?' he exclaimed. 'Now who can this be? It cannotbe you; it cannot be Mirabel. It is wondrous strange. '

'I think I can throw some light upon it, ' said Lord Montfort. 'Katherinewas mysteriously engaged with Glastonbury yesterday morning. They wereout together, and I know they went to her lawyer's. There is no doubt itis Katherine. I think, under the circumstances of the case, we need haveno delicacy in availing ourselves of this fortunate remittance. It willat least save us time, ' said Lord Montfort, ringing the bell. 'Send yourmaster here directly, ' he continued to the waiter. 

The sheriff's officer appeared; the debt, the fees, all were paid, andthe discharge duly taken. Ferdinand in the meantime went up stairs tolock up his dressing-case; the little waiter rushed after him to packhis portmanteau. Ferdinand did not forget his zealous friend, whowhispered hope when all was black. The little waiter chuckled as he puthis ten guineas in his pocket. 'You see, sir, ' he said, 'I was quiteright. Knowed your friends would stump down. Fancy a nob like you beingsent to quod! Fiddlededee! You see, sir, you weren't used to it. '

And so Ferdinand Armine bid adieu to the spunging-house, where, in thecourse of less than eight-and-forty hours, he had known alike despairand rapture. Lord Montfort drove along with a gaiety unusual to him. 

'Now, my dear Armine, ' he said, 'I am not a jot the less in love withHenrietta than before. I love her as you love Katherine. What folly tomarry a woman who was in love with another person! I should have madeher miserable, when the great object of all my conduct was to make herhappy. Now Katherine really loves me as much as Henrietta loves you. Ihave had this plan in my head for a long time. I calculated finely; Iwas convinced it was the only way to make us all happy. And now we shallall be related; we shall be constantly together; and we will be brotherfriends. '

'Ah! my dear Montfort, ' said Ferdinand, 'what will Mr. Temple say?'

'Leave him to me, ' said Lord Montfort. 

'I tremble, ' said Ferdinand, 'if it were possible to anticipatedifficulties to-day. '

'I shall go to him at once, ' said Lord Montfort; 'I am not fond ofsuspense myself, and now it is of no use. All will be right. '

'I trust only to you, ' said Ferdinand; 'for I am as proud as Temple. Hedislikes me, and he is too rich for me to bow down to him. '

'I take it upon myself, ' said Lord Montfort. 'Mr. Temple is a calm, sensible man. You will laugh at me, but the truth is, with him it mustbe a matter of calculation: on the one hand, his daughter's happiness, aunion with a family second to none in blood, alliances, and territorialposition, and only wanting his wealth to revive all its splendour; onthe other, his daughter broken-hearted, and a duke for his son-in-law. Mr. Temple is too sensible a man to hesitate, particularly when I removethe greatest difficulty he must experience. Where shall I out you down?Berkeley-Square?'

CHAPTER XXII. 

 _Ferdinand Meditates over His Good Fortune_. 

IN MOMENTS of deep feeling, alike sudden bursts of prosperity as indarker hours, man must be alone. It requires some self-communion toprepare ourselves for good fortune, as well as to encounter difficulty, and danger, and disgrace. This violent and triumphant revolution in hisprospects and his fortunes was hardly yet completely comprehended by ourfriend, Ferdinand Armine; and when he had left a note for the generousMirabel, whose slumbers he would not disturb at this early hour, evenwith good news, he strolled along up Charles-street, and to the Park, in one of those wild and joyous reveries in which we brood over comingbliss, and create a thousand glorious consequences. 

It was one of those soft summer mornings which are so delightful in agreat city. The sky was clear, the air was bland, the water sparkledin the sun, and the trees seemed doubly green and fresh to one who sorecently had gazed only on iron bars. Ferdinand felt his freedom as wellas his happiness. He seated himself on a bench and thought of HenriettaTemple! he took out her note, and read it over and over again. It wasindeed her handwriting! Restless with impending joy, he sauntered to thebridge, and leant over the balustrade, gazing on the waters in charmedand charming vacancy. How many incidents, how many characters, how manyfeelings flitted over his memory! Of what sweet and bitter experiencedid he not chew the cud! Four-and-twenty hours ago, and he deemedhimself the most miserable and forlorn of human beings, and now all theblessings of the world seemed showered at his feet! A beautiful brideawaited him, whom he had loved with intense passion, and who he hadthought but an hour ago was another's. A noble fortune, which wouldpermit him to redeem his inheritance, and rank him among the richestcommoners of the realm, was to be controlled by one a few hours back aprisoner for desperate debts. The most gifted individuals in the landemulated each other in proving which entertained for him the mostsincere affection. What man in the world had friends like FerdinandArmine? Ferdinand Armine, who, two days back, deemed himself alonein the world! The unswerving devotion of Glastonbury, the delicateaffection of his sweet cousin, all the magnanimity of the high-souledMont-fort, and the generosity of the accomplished Mirabel, passed beforehim, and wonderfully affected him. He could not flatter himself thathe indeed merited such singular blessings; and yet with all his faults, which with him were but the consequences of his fiery youth, Ferdinandhad been faithful, to Henrietta. His constancy to her was now rewarded. As for his friends, the future must prove his gratitude to them. '

Ferdinand Armine had great tenderness of disposition, and somewhat of ameditative mind; schooled by adversity, there was little doubt that hiscoming career would justify his favourable destiny. 

It was barely a year since he had returned from Malta, but what aneventful twelvemonth! Everything that had occurred previously seemedof another life; all his experience was concentrated in that wonderfuldrama that had commenced at Bath, the last scene of which was nowapproaching; the characters, his parents, Glastonbury, Katherine, Henrietta, Lord Montfort, Count Mirabel, himself, and Mr. Temple!

Ah! that was a name that a little disturbed him; and yet he feltconfidence now in Mirabel's prescience; he could not but believe thatwith time even Mr. Temple might be reconciled! It was at this momentthat the sound of military music fell upon his ear; it recalled olddays; parades and guards at Malta; times when he did not know HenriettaTemple; times when, as it seemed to him now, he had never paused tothink or moralise. That was a mad life. What a Neapolitan ball was hiscareer then! It was indeed dancing on a volcano. And now all had endedso happily! Oh! could it indeed be true? Was it not all a dream of hisown creation, while his eye had been fixed in abstraction on that brightand flowing river? But then there was Henrietta's letter. He might beenchanted, but that was the talisman. 

In the present unsettled, though hopeful state of affairs, Ferdinandwould not go home. He was resolved to avoid any explanations untilhe heard from Lord Montfort. He shrank from seeing Glastonbury or hiscousin. As for Henrietta, it seemed to him that he never could haveheart to meet her again, unless they were alone. Count Mirabel was theonly person to whom he could abandon his soul, and Count Mirabel wasstill in his first sleep. 

So Ferdinand entered Kensington Gardens, and walked in those rich gladesand stately avenues. It seems to the writer of this history that theinhabitants of London are scarcely sufficiently sensible of the beautyof its environs. On every side the most charming retreats open to them, nor is there a metropolis in the world surrounded by so many ruralvillages, picturesque parks, and elegant casinos. With the exceptionof Constantinople, there is no city in the world that can for amoment enter into competition with it. For himself, though in his timesomething of a rambler, he is not ashamed in this respect to confess toa legitimate Cockney taste; and for his part he does not know where lifecan flow on more pleasantly than in sight of Kensington Gardens, viewingthe silver Thames winding by the bowers of Rosebank, or inhaling fromits terraces the refined air of graceful Richmond. 

In exactly ten minutes it is in the power of every man to free himselffrom all the tumult of the world; the pangs of love, the throbs ofambition, the wear and tear of play, the recriminating boudoir, theconspiring club, the rattling hell; and find himself in a sublime sylvansolitude superior to the cedars of Lebanon, and inferior only in extentto the chestnut forests of Anatolia. Kensington Gardens is almost theonly place that has realised his idea of the forests of Spenser andAriosto. What a pity, that instead of a princess in distress we meetonly a nurserymaid! But here is the fitting and convenient locality tobrood over our thoughts; to project the great and to achieve thehappy. It is here that we should get our speeches by heart, invent ourimpromptus; muse over the caprices of our mistresses, destroy a cabinet, and save a nation. 

About the time that Ferdinand directed his steps from these greenretreats towards Berkeley-Square, a servant summoned Miss Temple to herfather. 

'Is papa alone?' enquired Miss Temple. 

'Only my lord with him, ' was the reply. 

'Is Lord Montfort here!' said Miss Temple, a little surprised. 

'My lord has been with master these three hours, ' said the servant. 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

 _Ferdinand Receives the Most Interesting Invitation to Dinner Ever Offered to Him_. 

IS NOT it wonderful?' said Ferdinand, when he had finished his historyto Count Mirabel. 

'Not the least, ' said the Count, 'I never knew anything less surprising. 'Tis exactly what I said, 'tis the most natural termination in theworld. '

'Ah, my dear Mirabel, you are a prophet! What a lucky fellow I am tohave such a friend as you!'

'To be sure you are. Take some more coffee. What are you going to dowith yourself?'

'I do not know what to do with myself. I really do not like to goanywhere until I have heard from Montfort. I think I shall go to myhotel' 'I will drive you. It is now three o'clock. ' But just at thismoment, Mr. Bevil called on the Count, and another hour disappeared. When they were fairly in the cabriolet, there were so many places tocall at, and so many persons to see, that it was nearly six o'clock whenthey reached the hotel. Ferdinand ran up stairs to see if there were anyletter from Lord Montfort. He found his lordship's card, and also Mr. Temple's; they had called about half an hour ago; there was also a note. These were its contents:--

'Grosvenor-square, Thursday. 

'My Dear Captain Armine, 'I have prepared myself with this note, as I fear I shall hardly be sofortunate as to find you at home. It is only very recently that I havelearnt from Henrietta that you were in London, and I much regret to hearthat you have been so great an invalid. It is so long since we met thatI hope you will dine with us to-day; and indeed I am so anxious to seeyou, that I trust, if you have unfortunately made any other engagement, you may yet contrive to gratify my request. It is merely a family party;you will only meet our friends from St. James'-square, and your owncircle in Brook-street. I have asked no one else, save old Lady Bellair, and your friend Count Mirabel; and Henrietta is so anxious to securehis presence, that I shall be greatly obliged by your exerting yourinfluence to induce him to accompany you, as I fear there is little hopeof finding him free. 

'Henrietta joins with me in kindest regards; and I beg you to believeme, 'My dear Captain Armine, 'Most cordially yours, 'Pelham Temple. '

'Well, what is the matter?' said the Count, when Ferdinand returned tothe cabriolet, with the note in his hand, and looking very agitated. 

'The strangest note!' said Ferdinand. 

'Give it me, ' said the Count. 'Do you call that strange? Tis the mostregular epistle I ever read; I expected it. 'Tis an excellent fellow, that Mr. Temple; I will certainly dine with him, and send an excuse tothat old Castlefyshe. A family party, all right; and he asks me, thatis proper. I should not wonder if it ended by my being your trustee, oryour executor, or your first child's godfather. Ah, that good Templeis a sensible man. I told you I would settle this business for you. You should hear me talk to that good Temple. I open his mind. A familyparty; it will be amusing! I would not miss it for a thousand pounds. Besides, I must go to take care of you, for you will be committing allsorts of _bêtises_. I will give you one turn in the park. Jump in, _monenfant_. Good Armine, excellent fellow, jump in! You see, I was right;I am always right. But I will confess to you a secret: I never was soright as I have been in the present case. 'Tis the best business thatever was!'

CHAPTER XXIV. 

 _Some Account of the Party, and Its Result_. 

IN SPITE of the Count Mirabel's inspiring companionship, it must beconfessed that Ferdinand's heart failed him when he entered Mr. Temple'shouse. Indeed, had it not been for the encouragement and jolly railleryof his light-hearted friend, it is not quite clear that he would havesucceeded in ascending the staircase. A mist came over his vision ashe entered the room; various forms, indeed, glanced before him, but hecould distinguish none. He felt so embarrassed, that he was absolutelymiserable. It was Mr. Temple's hand that he found he had hold of; thecalm demeanour and bland tones of that gentleman somewhat reassured him. Mr. Temple was cordial, and Count Mirabel hovered about Ferdinand, andcovered his confusion. Then he recognised the duchess and his mother;they were sitting together, and he went up and saluted them. He darednot look round for the lady of the house. Lady Bellair was talking tohis father. At last he heard his name called by the Count. 'Armine, _mon cher_, see this beautiful work!' and Ferdinand advanced, or ratherstaggered, to a window where stood the Count before a group, and ina minute he clasped the hand of Henrietta Temple. He could not speak. Katherine was sitting by her, and Lord Montfort standing behind herchair. But Count Mirabel never ceased talking, and with so much art andtact, that in a few moments he had succeeded in producing comparativeease on all sides. 

'I am so glad that you have come to-day, ' said Henrietta. Her eyessparkled with a strange meaning, and then she suddenly withdrew hergaze. The rose of her cheek alternately glowed and faded. It was amoment of great embarrassment, and afterwards they often talked of it. 

Dinner, however, was soon announced as served, for Mirabel and Ferdinandhad purposely arrived at the last moment. As the duke advanced to offerhis arm to Miss Temple, Henrietta presented Ferdinand with a flower, asif to console him for the separation. It was a round table; the duchessand Lady Bellair sat on each side of Mr. Temple, the duke on the righthand of Miss Temple; where there were so many members of the samefamily, it was difficult to arrange the guests. Ferdinand held back, when Count Mirabel, who had secured a seat by Henrietta, beckoned toFerdinand, and saying that Lady Bellair wished him to sit next to her, pushed Ferdinand, as he himself walked away, into the vacated seat. Henrietta caught the Count's eye as he moved off; it was a laughing eye. 

'I am glad you sit next to me, ' said Lady Bellair to the Count, 'becauseyou are famous. I love famous people, and you are very famous. Why don'tyou come and see me? Now I have caught you at last, and you shall comeand dine with me the 7th, 8th, or 9th of next month; I have dinnerparties every day. You shall dine with me on the 8th, for then LadyFrederick dines with me, and she will taste you. You shall sit nextto Lady Frederick, and mind you flirt with her. I wonder if you are asamusing as your grandfather. I remember dancing a minuet with him atVersailles seventy years ago. '

'It is well recollected in the family, ' said the Count. 

'Ah! you rogue!' said the little lady, chuckling, 'you lie! I like a liesometimes, ' she resumed, 'but then it must be a good one. Do you know, I only say it to you, but I am half afraid lies are more amusing thantruth. '

'Naturally, ' said the Count, 'because truth must in general becommonplace, or it would not be true. '

In the meantime, Ferdinand was seated next to Henrietta Temple. He mightbe excused for feeling a little bewildered. Indeed, the wonderful eventsof the last four-and-twenty hours were enough to deprive anyone of acomplete command over his senses. What marvel, then, that he nearlycarved his soup, ate his fish with a spoon; and drank water instead ofwine! In fact, he was labouring under a degree of nervous excitementwhich rendered it quite impossible for him to observe the proprieties oflife. The presence of all these persons was insupportable to him. Fiveminutes alone with her in the woods of Ducie, and he would have feltquite reassured. Miss Temple avoided his glance! She was, in truth, as agitated as himself, and talked almost entirely to the duke; yetsometimes she tried to address him, and say kind things. She called himFerdinand; that was quite sufficient to make him happy, although he feltvery awkward. He had been seated some minutes before he observed thatGlastonbury was next to him. 

'I am so nervous, dear Glastonbury, ' said Ferdinand, 'that I do notthink I shall be able to remain in the room. '

'I have heard something, ' said Glastonbury, with a smile, 'that makes mequite bold. '

'I cannot help fancying that it is all enchantment, ' said Ferdinand. 

'There is no wonder, my dear boy, that you are enchanted, ' saidGlastonbury. 

'Ferdinand, ' said Miss Temple in a low voice, 'papa is taking wine withyou. ' Ferdinand looked up and caught Mr. Temple's kind salute. 

'That was a fine horse you were riding to-day, ' said Count Mirabel, across the table to Miss Grandison. 

'Is it not pretty? It is Lord Montfort's. '

'Lord Montfort's!' thought Ferdinand. 'How strange all this seems!'

'You were not of the riding party this morning, ' said his Grace toHenrietta. 

'I have not been very well this day or two, ' said Miss Temple. 

'Well, I think you are looking particularly well to-day, ' replied theduke. 'What say you, Captain Armine?'

Ferdinand blushed, and looked confused at this appeal, and muttered somecontradictory compliments. 

'Oh! I am very well now, ' said Miss Temple. 

'You must come and dine with me, ' said Lady Bellair to Count Mirabel, 'because you talk well across a table. I want a man who talks wellacross a table. So few can do it without bellowing. I think you do itvery well. '

'Naturally, ' replied the Count. 'If I did not do it well, I should notdo it at all. '

'Ah! you are audacious, ' said the old lady. 'I like a little impudence. It is better to be impudent than to be servile. '

'Mankind are generally both, ' said the Count. 

'I think they are, ' said the old lady. 'Pray, is the old Duke ofThingabob alive? You know whom I mean: he was an _émigré_, and arelation of yours. '

'De Crillon. He is dead, and his son too. '

'He was a great talker, ' said Lady Bellair, 'but then, he was the tyrantof conversation. Now, men were made to listen as well as to talk. '

'Without doubt, ' said the Count; 'for Nature has given us two ears, butonly one mouth. '

'You said that we might all be very happy, ' whispered Lord Montfort toMiss Grandison. 'What think you; have we succeeded?'

'I think we all look very confused, ' said Miss Grandison. 'What afortunate, idea it was inviting Lady Bellair and the Count. They nevercould look confused. '

'Watch Henrietta, ' said Lord Montfort. 

'It is not fair. How silent Ferdinand is!'

'Yes, he is not quite sure whether he is Christopher Sly or not, ' saidLord Montfort. 'What a fine embarrassment you have contrived, MissGrandison!'

'Nay, Digby, you were the author of it. I cannot help thinking of yourinterview with Mr. Temple. You were prompt!'

'Why, I can be patient, fair Katherine, ' said Lord Montfort; 'but in thepresent instance I shrank from suspense, more, however, for others thanmyself. It certainly was a singular interview. '

'And were you not nervous?'

'Why, no; I felt convinced that the interview could have only oneresult. I thought of your memorable words; I felt I was doing what youwished, and that I was making all of us happy. However, all honour be toMr. Temple! He has proved himself a man of sense. '

As the dinner proceeded, there was an attempt on all sides to be gay. Count Mirabel talked a great deal, and Lady Bellair laughed at what hesaid, and maintained her reputation for repartee. Her ladyship had beenfor a long time anxious to seize hold of her gay neighbour, and it wasevident that he was quite 'a favourite. ' Even Ferdinand grew a littlemore at his ease. He ventured to relieve the duke from some of hislabours, and carve for Miss Temple. 

'What do you think of our family party?' said Henrietta to Ferdinand, ina low voice. 

'I can think only of one thing, ' said Ferdinand. 

'I am so nervous, ' she continued, 'that it seems to me I shall everyminute shriek, and leave the room. '

'I feel the same; I am stupefied. '

'Talk to Mr. Glastonbury; drink wine, and talk. Look, look at yourmother; she is watching us. She is dying to speak to you, and so is someone else. '

At length the ladies withdrew. Ferdinand attended them to the door ofthe dining-room. Lady Bellair shook her fan at him, but said nothing. He pressed his mother's hand. 'Good-bye, cousin Ferdinand, ' said MissGrandison in a laughing tone. Henrietta smiled upon him as she passedby. It was a speaking glance, and touched his heart. The gentlemenremained behind much longer than was the custom in Mr. Temple's house. Everybody seemed resolved to drink a great deal of wine, and Mr. Templealways addressed himself to Ferdinand, if anything were required, ina manner which seemed to recognise, his responsible position in thefamily. 

Anxious as Ferdinand was to escape to the drawing-room, he could notventure on the step. He longed to speak to Glastonbury on the subjectwhich engrossed his thoughts, but he had not courage. Never did a man, who really believed himself the happiest and most fortunate person inthe world, ever feel more awkward and more embarrassed. Was his fatheraware of what had occurred? He could not decide. Apparently, Henriettaimagined that his mother did, by the observation which she had made atdinner. Then his father must be conscious of everything. Katherine musthave told all. Were Lord Montfort's family in the secret? But what usewere these perplexing enquiries? It was certain that Henrietta was tobe his bride, and that Mr. Temple had sanctioned their alliance. Therecould be no doubt of that, or why was he there?

At length the gentlemen rose, and Ferdinand once more beheld HenriettaTemple. As he entered, she was crossing the room with some music in herhand, she was a moment alone. He stopped, he would have spoken, but hislips would not move. 

'Well, ' she said, 'are you happy?'

'My head wanders. Assure me that it is all true, ' he murmured in anagitated voice. 

'It is all true; there, go and speak to Lady Armine. I am as nervous asyou are. '

Ferdinand seated himself by his mother. 

'Well, Ferdinand, ' she said, 'I have heard wonderful things. '

'And I hope they have made you happy, mother?'

'I should, indeed, be both unreasonable and ungrateful if they did not;but I confess to you, my dear child, I am even as much astonished asgratified. '

'And my father, he knows everything?'

'Everything. But we have heard it only from Lord Montfort and Katherine. We have had no communication with anyone else. And we meet here to-dayin this extraordinary manner, and but for them we should be completelyin the dark. '

'And the duchess; do they know all?'

'I conclude so. '

''Tis very strange, is it not?'

'I am quite bewildered. '

'O mother! is she not beautiful? Do you not love her? Shall we not allbe the happiest family in the world?'

'I think we ought to be, dear Ferdinand. But I have not recovered frommy astonishment. Ah, my child, why did you not tell me when you wereill?'

'Is it not for the best that affairs should have taken the course theyhave done? But you must blame Kate as well as me; dear Kate!'

'I think of her, ' said Lady Armine; 'I hope Kate will be happy. '

'She must be, dear mother; only think what an excellent person is LordMontfort. '

'He is indeed an excellent person, ' said Lady Armine; 'but if I had beenengaged to you, Ferdinand, and it ended by my marrying Lord Montfort, Ishould be very disappointed. '

'The duchess would be of a different opinion, ' said Ferdinand. 

Lady Bellair, who was sitting on a sofa opposite, and had hitherto beenconversing with the duchess, who had now quitted her and joinedthe musicians, began shaking her fan at Ferdinand in a manner whichsignified her extreme desire that he should approach her. 

'Well, Lady Bellair, ' said Ferdinand, seating himself by her side. 

'I am in the secret, you know, ' said her ladyship. 

'What secret, Lady Bellair?'

'Ah! you will not commit yourself. Well, I like discretion. I havealways seen it from the first. No one has worked for you as I have. Ilike true love, and I have left her all my china in my will. '

'I am sure the legatee is very fortunate, whoever she may be. '

'Ah, you rogue, you know very well whom I mean. You are saucy; you neverhad a warmer friend than myself. I always admired you; you have a greatmany good qualities and a great many bad ones. You always were a littlesaucy. But I like a little spice of sauciness; I think it takes. I hearyou are great friends with Count Thingabob; the Count, whosegrandfather I danced with seventy years ago. That is right; always havedistinguished friends. Never have fools for friends; they are no use. Isuppose he is in the secret too. '

'Really, Lady Bellair, I am in no secret. You quite excite mycuriosity. '

'Well, I can't get anything out of you, I see that. However, it allhappened at my house, that can't be denied. I tell you what I will do;I will give you all a dinner, and then the world will be quite certainthat I made the match. '

Lady Armine joined them, and Ferdinand seized the opportunity ofeffecting his escape to the piano. 

'I suppose Henrietta has found her voice again, now, ' whisperedKatherine to her cousin. 

'Dear Katherine, really if you are so malicious, I shall punish you, 'said Ferdinand. 

'Well, the comedy is nearly concluded. We shall join hands, and thecurtain will drop. '

'And I hope, in your opinion, not an unsuccessful performance. '

'Why, I certainly cannot quarrel with the catastrophe, ' said MissGrandison. 

In the meantime, the Count Mirabel had obtained possession of Mr. Temple, and lost no opportunity of confirming every favourable viewwhich that gentleman had been influenced by Lord Montfort to take ofFerdinand and his conduct. Mr. Temple was quite convinced that hisdaughter must be very happy, and that the alliance, on the whole, wouldbe productive of every satisfaction that he had ever anticipated. 

The evening drew on; carriages were announced; guests retired; Ferdinandlingered; Mr. Temple was ushering Lady Bellair, the last guest, to hercarriage; Ferdinand and Henrietta were alone. They looked at eachother, their eyes met at the same moment, there was but one mode ofsatisfactorily terminating their mutual embarrassments: they sprang intoeach other's arms. Ah, that was a moment of rapture, sweet, thrilling, rapid! There was no need of words, their souls vaulted over all pettyexplanations; upon her lips, her choice and trembling lips, he sealedhis gratitude and his devotion. 

The sound of footsteps was heard, the agitated Henrietta made her escapeby an opposite entrance. Mr. Temple returned, he met Captain Armine withhis hat, and enquired whether Henrietta had retired; and when Ferdinandanswered in the affirmative, wished him good-night, and begged him tobreakfast with them to-morrow. 

CHAPTER XXV. 

 _Which, Though Final, It Is Hoped Will Prove Satisfactory_. 

OUR kind reader will easily comprehend that from the happy day we havejust noticed, Ferdinand Armine was seldom absent from Grosvenor-square, or from the society of Henrietta Temple. Both were so happy that theysoon overcame any little embarrassment which their novel situationmight first occasion them. In this effort, however, they were greatlyencouraged by the calm demeanour of Lord Montfort and the complacentcarriage of his intended bride. The world wondered and whispered, marvelled and hinted, but nothing disturbed Lord Montfort, and Katherinehad the skill to silence raillery. Although it was settled thatthe respective marriages should take place as soon as possible, thesettlements necessarily occasioned delay. By the application of hisfunded property, and by a charge upon his Yorkshire estates, Mr. Templepaid off the mortgages on Armine, which, with a certain life-chargein his own favour, was settled in strict entail upon the issue of hisdaughter. A certain portion of the income was to be set aside annuallyto complete the castle, and until that edifice was ready to receivethem, Ferdinand and Henrietta were to live with Mr. Temple, principallyat Ducie, which Mr. Temple had now purchased. 

In spite, however, of the lawyers, the eventful day at length arrived. Both happy couples were married at the same time and in the same place, and Glastonbury performed the ceremony. Lord and Lady Montfort departedfor a seat in Sussex, belonging to his father; Ferdinand and Henriettarepaired to Armine; while Sir Ratcliffe and his lady paid a visit to Mr. Temple in Yorkshire, and Glastonbury found himself once more in his oldquarters in Lancashire with the duke and duchess. 

Once more at Armine; wandering once more together in the old pleasaunce;it was so strange and sweet, that both Ferdinand and Henrietta almostbegan to believe that it was well that the course of their true love hadfor a moment not run so smoothly as at present, and they felt that theiradversity had rendered them even more sensible of their illimitablebliss. And the woods of Ducie, they were not forgotten; nor, least ofall, the old farmhouse that had been his shelter. Certainly they werethe happiest people that ever lived, and though some years have nowpassed since these events took place, custom has not sullied thebrightness of their love. They have no cares now, and yet both haveknown enough of sorrow to make them rightly appreciate their unbrokenand unbounded blessings. 

When the honeymoon was fairly over, for neither of them would bate ajot of this good old-fashioned privilege, Sir Ratcliffe and Lady Arminereturned to the Place, and Glastonbury to his tower; while Mr. Templejoined them at Ducie, accompanied by Lord and Lady Montfort. Theautumn also brought the Count Mirabel to slaughter the pheasants, gay, brilliant, careless, kind-hearted as ever. He has ever remained one ofFerdinand's most cherished friends; indeed, I hardly think that there isany individual to whom Ferdinand is more attached. And after all, as theCount often observes, if it had not been for Ferdinand's scrapes theywould not have known each other. Nor was Lord Catchimwhocan passed over. Ferdinand Armine was not the man to neglect a friend or to forget agood service; and he has conferred on that good-natured, thoughsomewhat improvident, young nobleman, more substantial kindness than thehospitality which is always cheerfully extended to him. When Ferdinandrepaid Mr. Bond Sharpe his fifteen hundred pounds, he took care that theinterest should appear in the shape of a golden vase, which is now notthe least gorgeous ornament of that worthy's splendid sideboard. Thedeer have appeared again too in the park of Armine, and many a haunchsmokes on the epicurean table of Cleveland-row. 

Lady Bellair is as lively as ever, and bids fair to amuse society aslong as the famous Countess of Desmond, Who lived to the age of a hundred and ten, And died by a fall from a cherry tree then; What a frisky old girl!

In her annual progresses through the kingdom she never omits layingunder contribution every establishment of the three families, in whosefortunes she was so unexpectedly mixed up. As her ladyship persists inasserting, and perhaps now really believes, that both matches were theresult of her matrimonial craft, it would be the height of ingratitudeif she ever could complain of the want of a hearty welcome. 

In the daily increasing happiness of his beloved daughter, Mr. Templehas quite forgotten any little disappointment which he might once havefelt at not having a duke for a son-in-law, and such a duke as hisvalued friend, Lord Montfort. But Ferdinand Armine is blessed with sosweet a temper that it is impossible to live with him and not love him;and the most cordial intimacy and confidence subsist between the fatherof Henrietta Temple and his son-in-law. From the aspect of publicaffairs also, Mr. Temple, though he keeps this thought to himself, is inclined to believe that a coronet may yet grace the brow of hisdaughter, and that the barony of Armine may be revived. Soon afterthe passing of the memorable Act of 1828, Lord Montfort became therepresentative of his native county, and an active and influentialmember of the House of Commons. After the reform, Mr. Armine was alsoreturned for a borough situate near the duke's principal seat, andalthough Lord Montfort and Mr. Armine both adhere to the Whig politicsof their families, they have both also, in the most marked manner, abstained from voting on the appropriation clause; and there is littledoubt that they will ultimately support that British and nationaladministration which Providence has doubtless in store for theseoutraged and distracted realms. At least this is Mr. Temple's more thanhope, who is also in the House, and acts entirely with Lord Stanley. TheMontforts and the younger Armines contrive, through mutual visits anda town residence during the Session, to pass the greater part of theirlives together; they both honestly confess that they are a little inlove with each other's wives, but this only makes their society moreagreeable. The family circle at Armine has been considerably increasedof late; there is a handsome young Armine who has been christenedGlastonbury, a circumstance which repays the tenant of the tower forall his devotion, and this blending of his name and memory with theillustrious race that has so long occupied his thoughts and hopes, is tohim a source of constant self-congratulation. The future Sir Glastonburyhas also two younger brothers quite worthy of the blood, Temple andDigby; and the most charming sister in the world, with large violet eyesand long dark lashes, who is still in arms, and who bears the hallowedname of Henrietta. And thus ends our LOVE STORY. 

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