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 Ex Libris 
 C. K. OGDEN 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
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 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 HENEIETTA TEMPLE.
 
 BALLANTYNK, HANSON AND CO. 
 EDINBURGH AND LONDOJf
 
 HENEIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 A LOVE STORY, 
 
 BY THE 
 
 RIGHT HONORABLE B. DISRAELI. 
 
 ' Quoth Sancho, read It out by all means ; for I mightily delight In hcjvriiiff 
 of Lovo Stories.' 
 
 NEW EDITION. 
 
 LONDON : 
 LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.
 
 "PR 
 
 H 
 
 TO 
 
 THE COUXT ALFEED D'OESAY 
 
 THESE VOLUMES ARE INSCRIBED 
 
 UY 
 
 HIS AFi'ECTIOXATE FRIEND. 
 
 .:cj3
 
 (■
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 This "Work was first published in tho year 1837.
 
 
 HENEIETTA TEMPLE. 
 
 BOOK I. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 SOME ACCOUNT OF THE FAMILY OF ARMINE, AND ESrECIALLT 
 OF SIR FERDINAND AND OF SIR RATCLIFFB. 
 
 The family of Armine entered England with William the 
 Norman. Ralph d'Ermyn was standard-bearer of the Con- 
 queroi", and shared prodigally in the plunder, as appears by 
 Doomsday Book. At the time of the general survey the 
 family of Ermyn, or Armyn, possessed numerous manors in 
 Nottinghamshire, and several in the shire of Lincoln. 
 William D'Armyn, lord of the honour of Armyn, was one 
 of the subscribing Barons to the Great Charter. His pre- 
 decessor died in the Holy Land before Ascalon. A succes- 
 sion of stout barons and valiant knights maintained the high 
 fortunes of the family ; and in the course of the vai'ious 
 struggles with France tlicy obtained i)OSsession of several 
 fair castles in Guienne and Gasconv. In the wars of the 
 Roses the Armyns sided with the house of Lancaster. 
 Ferdinand Armyn, wbo shared the exile of Henry the 
 Seventh, was knighted on Bosworth Field, and soon after 
 created Earl of Tewke.sbury. Faithful to the Church, the 
 second Lord Tewkesbury became involved in one of those 
 numerous risings that harassed the last years of Heniy the 
 
 B
 
 2 HENEIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 Eightli. The rebellion was unsuccessfal, Lord Tewkesbury 
 was beheaded, his blood attainted, and his numerous estates 
 forfeited to the Crown. A younger branch of the family, 
 who had adopted Protestantism, married the daughter of 
 Sir Francis Walsingham, and attracted, by his talents in 
 negotiation, the notice of Queen Elizabeth. He was sent 
 on a secret mission to the Low Countries, where, having 
 greatly distinguished himself, he obtained on his return the 
 restoration of the family estate of Armine, in Nottingham- 
 shire, to which he retired after an eminently prosperous 
 career, and amused the latter years of his life in the con- 
 struction of a family mansion, built in that national style 
 of architecture since described by the name of his royal 
 mistress, at once magnificent and convenient. His son, Sir 
 Walsingham Ai'mine figured in the first batch of baronets 
 under James the First. 
 
 During the memorable struggle between the Crovra and 
 the Commons, in the reign of the unhappy Charles, the 
 A.rmine family became distinguished Cavaliers. The second 
 Sir Walsingham raised a troop of horse, and gained great 
 credit by charging at the head of his regiment and defeat- 
 ing Sir Arthur Haselrigg's Cuirassiers. It was the first 
 time that that impenetrable band had been taught to fly ; 
 but the conqueror was covered with wounds. The same 
 Sir Walsingham also successfully defended Armine House 
 against the Commons, and commanded the cavaliy at the 
 battle of Newbury, where two of his brothers were slain. 
 For these various services and sufferings Sir Walsingham 
 was advanced to the dignity of a baron of the realm, by the 
 title of Lord Armine, of Armine, in the county of Notting- 
 ham. He died without issue, but the baronetcy devolved 
 on his youngest brother, Sir Ferdlnando. 
 
 The Armine family, who had relapsed into popery, fol- 
 lowed the fortunes of the second James, and the head of the 
 house died at St. Germain. His son, however, had been
 
 A LOVE STORY. 3 
 
 prudent cnotigli to remain in England and suj^port tlio new 
 dynastj, by whicli means he contrived to secure Hs title 
 and estates. Roman Catholics, however, the Armines al- 
 ways remained, and this circumstance accounts for this 
 once-distinguished family no longer figuring in the history 
 of their country. So far, therefore, as the house of Armine 
 was concerned, time flew during the next century with im- 
 memorable wing. The family led a secluded life on their 
 estate, intermarrying only with the great CathoHc families, 
 and duly begetting baronets. 
 
 At length arose, in the person of the last Sir Ferdinand 
 Armine, one of those extraordinary and rarely gifted beings 
 who require only an opportunity to influence the fortunes 
 of their nation, and to figure as a Ca3sar or an Alcibiades. 
 Beautiful, brilliant, and ambitious, the young and restless 
 Armine quitted, in his eighteenth year, the house of his 
 fathers, and his stepdame of a country, and entered the 
 Imperial service. His blood and creed gained him a 
 flattering reception ; his skill and valour soon made him. 
 distinguished. The world rang with stories of his romantic 
 bravery, his gallantries, his eccentric manners, and Lis 
 political intrigues, for he nearly contrived to be elected 
 KJing of Poland. Whether it were disgust at being foiled 
 in this high object by the influence of Austi-ia, or whether, 
 as was much whispered at the time, he bad dared to urge 
 his insolent and unsuccessful suit on a still more delicate 
 subject to the Empress Queen herself, certain it is that Sir 
 Ferdinand suddenly quitted the Imperial service, and ap- 
 peared at Constantinople in person. The man, whom a 
 point of honour prevented from becoming a Protestant in 
 his native country, had no scru[)les about his profession of 
 faith at Stamboul : certain it is that the Enj^lish baronet 
 soon rose high in the favour of the Sultan, assumed the 
 Turkish dress, conformed to the Turkish customs, and 
 finally, led against Austria a division of the Turkish army. 
 
 B 2
 
 i ITENEIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 Having gratified his pique by defeating the Imperial forces 
 in a sanguinary engagement, and obtaining a favourable 
 peace for the Porte, Sir Ferdinand Armine doffed his tur- 
 ban, and suddenly reappeared in his native country. After 
 the sketch we have given of the last ten years of his life, it 
 is unnecessary to observe that Sir Ferdinand Armine im- 
 mediately became Avhat is called fashionable ; and, as he 
 was now in Protestant England, the empire of fashion 
 was the only one in Avhich the young Catholic could dis- 
 tinguish himself. Let us then charitably set down to the 
 score of his political disabilities the fantastic dissipation and 
 the frantic prodigality in which the liveliness of his imagi- 
 nation and the energy of his soul exhausted themselves. 
 After three startling years he married the Lady Barbara 
 Ratcliffc, whose previous divorce from her husband, the 
 Earl of Faulconville, Sir Ferdinand had occasioned. He 
 was, however, separated from his lady during the first year 
 of their more hallowed union, and, retiring to Rome, Sir 
 Ferdinand became apparently devout. At the end of 
 a 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, Sir Ferdinand quitted his 
 capital in a huff, and, returning to England, laid claim to 
 the peerages of Tewkesbury and Armine. Although assui-ed 
 of failing in these claims, and himself perhaps as certain of 
 ill siiccess as his lawyers. Sir Ferdinand nevertheless ex- 
 pended upwards of 60,0()0Z. in their promotion, and was 
 amply repaid for the expenditure in the gratification of his 
 vanity by keeping his name before the public. He was 
 never content except when he Avas astonishing mankind ; 
 and while he was appai-ently exerting all his efforts to be- 
 come a King of Poland, a Roman cardinal, or an English 
 peer, the crown, the coronet, and the scarlet hat were in 
 truth ever secondary points with him, compared to the sen-
 
 A LOVE STORY. 5 
 
 Batlon tlirouglioiit Europe wliich tlie effort was contrived 
 and calculated to ensure. 
 
 On liis second return to liis native country Sir Ferdinand 
 liad not re-entered society. For sucli a man, society, witk 
 all its superficial excitement, and all the shadowy variety 
 with which it attempts to cloud the essential monotony of 
 its nature, was intolerably dull and commonplace. Sir 
 Ferdinand, on the contrary, shut himself up in Arminc, 
 having previously announced to the world that he was 
 going to write his memoirs. This history, the constructiou 
 of a castle, and the prosecution of his claims before tho 
 House of Lords, apparently occupied his time to his satis- 
 faction, for he remained quiet for several years, until, on 
 the breaking out of the French Revolution, he hastened to 
 Paris, became a member of the Jacobin Club, and of tho 
 National Convention. The name of Citizen Armino appear.^ 
 among the regicides. Perhaps in this vote he avenged the 
 loss of the crown of Poland, and tho still more mortifying 
 repulse he may have received from tho mother of Marie 
 Antoinette. After the execution of tlio royal victims, how- 
 ever, it was discovered that Citizen Armine had made them 
 an offer to save their lives and raise an insurrection in La 
 Vendee, provided he was made Lieutenant-general of the 
 kingdom. At his trial, which, from the natui'S of the accu- 
 sation and the character of the accused, occasioned to his 
 gratification a great .sensation, he made no effort to defend 
 himself, but seemed to glory in the chivalric crime. IIo 
 was hurried to the guillotine, and met his fate with the 
 greatest composui-e, assuring the public -with a mysterious 
 air, that had he lived four-and-twenty hours longer every- 
 thing would have been arranged, and the troubles which be 
 foresaw impending for Europe prevented. So successfully 
 had Armine plaj'cd his part, that his m3-sterious and doubt- 
 ful career occasioned a controversy, fi'om which only tho 
 appearance of Xapoloon distracted universal attention, and
 
 6 HENKIETTA TEJVIPLE : 
 
 which, indeed, only wholly ceased within these few years. 
 What were his intentions ? Was he or was he not a sincere 
 Jacobin ? If he made the offer to 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 conrse 
 would not suit such a man ; and so on. Interminable were 
 the queries and their solutions, the pamphlets and the 
 memoirs, which the conduct of this vain man occasioned, 
 and which must assuredly have appeased his manes. Re- 
 cently it has been discovered that the charge brought 
 against Armine was perfectly false and purely malicious. 
 Its victim, however, could not resist the dazzling celebrity 
 of the imaginary crime, and he preferred the reputation of 
 closing his career by conduct which at once perplexed and 
 astonished mankind, to a vindication which would have 
 deprived his name of some brilliant accessories, and spared 
 him to a life of which he was perhaps wearied. 
 
 By the unhappy victim of his vanity and passion Sir 
 Ferdinand Armine left one child, a son, whom he had never 
 seen, now Sir Ratcliffe. Brought up in sadness and in 
 seclusion, education had faithfully developed the charac- 
 teristics of a reserved and melancholy mind. Pride of line- 
 age and sentiments of religion, which even in early youth 
 darkened into bigotry, were not incompatible with strong 
 affections, a stern sense of duty, and a spirit of chivaliic 
 honour. Limited in capacity, he was, however, firm in 
 purpose. Trembling at the name of his father, and devoted 
 to the unhappy parent whose presence he had scarcely ever 
 quitted, a word of reproach had never escaped his lips 
 against the chieftain of his blood, and one, too, whose career, 
 how little soever his child could sympathise with it, still 
 maintained, in men's mouths and minds, the name and 
 memory of the house of Armine. At the death of his father 
 Sir Ratcliffe had just attained his majority, and he succeeded 
 to immense estates encumbered with mortgages, and to con-
 
 A LOVE STORY. 7 
 
 siderable debts, which his feelings of honour would have 
 compelled him to discharge, had they indeed been enforced 
 by no other claim. The estates of the family, on their 
 restoration, had not been entailed ; but, until Sir Ferdinand 
 no head of the house had abused the confidence of his an- 
 cestors, and the vast possessions of the house of Armine 
 had descended unimpaired ; and unimpaired, so far as he 
 was concerned, Sir Ratcliffe determined they should remain. 
 Although, by the sale of the estates, not only the encum- 
 brances and liabilities might have been discharged, but 
 himself left in possession of a moderate independence, Sir 
 Ratcliffe at once resolved to part with nothing. Fresh 
 sums were raised for the payment of the debts, and the 
 mortgages now consumed nearly the whole rental of the 
 Lands on which they were secured. Sir Ilatcliiie obtained 
 for himself only an annuity of three hundred per annum, 
 which he presented to his mother, in addition to the small 
 portion which she had received on her first marriage ; and 
 for himself, visiting Armine Place for the first time, he 
 roamed for a few days with sad complacency about that 
 magnificent demesne, and then, taking down from the walls 
 of the maf^nificent hall the sabre with which his father had 
 defeated the Imperial host, he embarked for Cadiz, and 
 shortly after his arrival obtained a commission in the Spanish 
 service. 
 
 Although the hereditary valour of the Armincs had de- 
 Bccnded to their forlorn representative, it is not probable 
 that, under any circumstances. Sir RatclifTe woidd havo 
 risen to any eminence in the country of his tempo- 
 rary adoption. His was not one of those minds born to 
 command and to create ; and his temper was too proud to 
 serve and to solicit. His residence in Spain, however, was 
 not altogether without satisfaction. It was dui-ing this 
 sojourn that he gained the little knowledge of life and 
 human nature ho possessed ; and the creed and solemn
 
 S HENKIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 xnanners of the land harmonised with his faith and habits. 
 Among these strangers, too, the proud young Englishman 
 felt not so keenly the degradation of his house ; and some- 
 times, though his was not the fatal gift of imagination, 
 sometimes he indulged in day dreams of its rise. Unprac- 
 tised in business, and not gifted with that intuitive quick- 
 ness which supplies experience and often baffles it, Ratcliffe 
 Armine, who had not quitted the domestic hearth even for 
 the purposes of education, was yet fortunate enough to 
 possess a devoted friend ; and this was Glastonbury, his 
 tutor, and confessor to his mother. It was to him that Sir 
 Eatcliffe intrusted the management of his affaii's, with a 
 confidence which was desei'ved ; for Glastonbuiy sympa- 
 thised with all his feelings, and was so "wi'apped up in the 
 glory of the family, that he had no greater ambition in life 
 than to become their historiographer, and had been for years 
 employed in amassing materials for a great work dedicated 
 to their celebrity. 
 
 When Ratcliffe Armine had been absent about three years 
 his mother died. Her death was unexpected. She had not 
 fulfilled two-thirds of the allotted period of the Psalmist, 
 and in spite of many sorrows she was still beautiful. Glas- 
 tonbury, who communicated to him the intelligence in a 
 letter, in which he vainly attempted to suppress his own 
 overwhelming affliction, counselled his immediate return to 
 England, if but for a season ; and the unhappy Ratchfl'e 
 followed his advice. By the death of his mother, Sir 
 Ratclifie Armine became possessed, for the first time, of a 
 small but still an independent income ; and having paid 
 a visit, soon after his return to his native country, to a 
 Catholic nobleman to whom his acquaintance had been of 
 some use when travelling in Spain, he became enamoured 
 of one of his daughters, and his passion being returned, and 
 not disapproved by the father, he was soon after married to 
 Constance, the eldest daughter of Lord Grandison.
 
 A LOVE STOKV. 9 
 
 CHAPTER IT. 
 
 ARMINE DESCKIBKD, 
 
 After his marnage Sir Rutcliffe determiued to reside at 
 Armine. lu one of the largest parks in England there yet 
 remained a fragment of a vast Elizabethan pile, that in old 
 days bore the name of Armine Place. When Sir Ferdinand 
 had commenced building Armine Castle, he had pulled down 
 the old mansion, partly for the sake of its site and partly 
 for the sake of its materials. Long lines of turreted and 
 inany-windowed avails, tall towers, and lofty arches, now 
 rose in picturesque confusion on the green ascent where 
 heretofore old Sir Walsingham had raised the fair and con- 
 venient dwelling, which he justly deemed might have served 
 the purpose of a long posterity. The hall and chief stair- 
 case of the castle and a gallery alone were finished ; and 
 many a day liad Sir Ferdinand passed in arranging the 
 pictures, the armour, and choice rarities of these magnifi- 
 cent apartments. The rest of the building was a mere 
 shell ; nor was it in all parts even roofed in. Heaps of 
 bricks and stone and piles of timber appeared in every 
 direction ; and traces of the sudden stoppage of a gi-cat 
 work might be observed in the temporary saw-pits still 
 remaining, the sheds for the workmen, and the kilns and 
 furnaces, which never had been removed. Time, however, 
 that had stained the neglected towers with an antique tint, 
 and had permitted many a generation of summer birds to 
 build their sunny nests on all the coignes of vantage of 
 the unfinished walls, had exercised a mellowing influence 
 even on these rude accessories, and in the course of years 
 they had been so drenched by the rain, and so buffeted by 
 the ^^'ind, and had become so covered with moss and ivy, 
 that thoy rather added to than detracted from the pio« 
 turesque character of the whole mass.
 
 10 HENEIETTA TEIVIPLE : 
 
 A few liuudred yards from fhe castle, but situate on the 
 same verdant rising ground, and commanding, although 
 well sheltered, an extensive view over the wide park, was 
 the fragment of the old Place that we have noticed. The 
 rouffh and undulating rent which marked the severance of 
 the building was now thickly covered with ivy, which in 
 its gamesome luxun'ance had contrived also to cHmb up a 
 remaining stack of tall chimneys, and to spread over the 
 covering of the large oriel window. This fragment con- 
 tained a set of pleasant chambers, which, having been 
 occupied by the late baronet, were of course furnished with 
 great taste and comfort ; and there was, moreover, accom- 
 modation sufficient for a small establishment. Armine 
 Place, before Sir Ferdinand, unfortunately for his descend- 
 ants, determined in the eighteenth century on building a 
 feudal castle, had been situate in famous pleasure-grounds, 
 which extended at the back of the mansion over a space 
 of some hundred acres. The grounds in the immediate 
 vicinity of the buildings had of course suffered severely, 
 but the far greater portion had only been neglected ; and 
 there were some indeed who deemed, as they wandered 
 through the arbour-walks of this enchanting wilderness, 
 that its beauty had been enhanced even by this very neg- 
 lect. It seemed like a forest in a beautiful romance ; a 
 green and bowery wilderness where Boccaccio would have 
 loved to woo, and Watteau to paint. So artfully had the 
 walks been planned, that they seemed interminable, nor 
 was there a single point in the whole pleasaunce where 
 the keenest eye could have detected a limit. Sometimes 
 you wandered in those arched and winding walks dear to 
 pensive spii'its ; sometimes you emerged on a plot of turf 
 blazing in the sunshine, a small and bright savannah, and 
 gazed with wonder on the group of black and mighty 
 cedars that rose from its centre, with their sharp and 
 spreading foliage. The beautiful and the vast blended
 
 A LOVE STORY. ll 
 
 together ; and the moment after you bad beheld with do- 
 light a bed of geraniums or of myrtles, you found yourself 
 in an amphitheatre of Italian pines. A strange exotic per- 
 fume filled the air : you trod on the flowers of other lands ; 
 and shrubs and plants, that usually are only trusted from 
 their conservatories, like sultanas from their jalousies, to 
 sniff the air and recall their bloom, here learning from hard- 
 ship the philosophy of endurance, had struggled success- 
 fully even against northern winters, and wantoned now 
 in native and unpruned luxuriance. Sir Ferdinand, when 
 he resided at Armine, was accustomed to fill these pleasui-e- 
 grounds with macaws and other birds of gorgeous plumage ; 
 but these had fled away with their master, all but some 
 swans which still floated on the surface of a lake, which 
 marked the centre of this paradise. 
 
 In the remains of the ancient seat of his fathers. Sir 
 Ratcliffe Armine and his bride now sought a home. Tho 
 principal chamber of Armine Place was a large irregular 
 room, with a low but richly-carved oaken roof, studded 
 with achievements. This apartment was lighted by the 
 oriel window we have mentioned, the upper panes of which 
 contained some ancient specimens of painted glass, and 
 having been fitted up by Sir Ferdinand as a library, con- 
 tained a collection of valuable books. From the library 
 you entered through an arched door of glass into a small 
 room, of which, it being much out of repair when the 
 family arrived. Lady Armine had seized tho opportunity of 
 gratifying her taste in the adornment. She had hung it 
 with some old-fashioned pea-green damask, that exhibited 
 to advantage several copies of Spanish paintings by her- 
 self, for she was a skilful artist. Tho third and remain- 
 ing chamber was the dining-room, a somewhat gloomy 
 chamber, being shadowed by a neighbouring chestnut. A 
 portrait of Sir Ferdinand, when a youth, in a Venetian 
 dress, was suspended over the old-fubhioncd fireplace ; and
 
 12 HE^^RIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 opposite huug a fine hunting piece by Schneiders. Lady 
 Armine was an amiable and accomplished woman. She 
 had enjoyed the advantage of a foreign education under 
 the inspection of a cautious parent : and a residence on the 
 Continent, while it had aftbrded her many graces, had not, 
 as unfortunately sometimes is the case, divested her of 
 those more substantial though less sho-^vy qualities of which 
 a husband knows the value. She was pious and dutiful : her 
 manners were 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 your 
 fellow- creatures that jow despise them. Her cheerful 
 temper solaced the constitutional gloom of Sir Ratcliffe, 
 and indeed had originally won his heart, even more than 
 her remarkable beauty : and while at the same time she 
 loved a country life, she possessed in a lettered taste, in a 
 beautiful and highly cultivated voice, and in a scientitic 
 knowledge of music and of painting, all those resources 
 which prevent retirement from degenerating into loneliness. 
 Her foibles, if we mu.st confess that she was not faultless, 
 endeared her to her husband, for her temper reflected his 
 own pride, and she possessed the taste for splendour which 
 was also his native mood, although circumstances had com- 
 pelled him to stifle its gratification. 
 
 Love, pure and profound, had alone prompted the union 
 between Ratcliffe Armine and Constance Grandison. Doubt- 
 less, like all of her race, she might have chosen amid the 
 wealthiest of the Catholic nobles and gentry one who would 
 have been proud to have mingled his life with hers ; but, 
 with a soul not insensible to the splendid accidents of exist- 
 ence, she yielded her heart to one who could repay the rich 
 sacrifice only with devotion. His poverty, his piide, his 
 dangerous and hereditary gift of beauty, his mournful life, 
 his illustrious lineage, his reserved and romantic mind, had
 
 A LOVE STORY. 13 
 
 at once attracted her fancy and captivated her heart. She 
 shared ivU his aspirations and sympathised Avith all his 
 hopes ; and the old glory of the house of Ai^mine, 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 ht-v 
 new home, scarcely with a pang that the whole of the park 
 in Avhich she lived was let out as grazing ground, and only 
 trusting, as she beheld the groups of ruminating cattle, that 
 the day might yet come for the antlered tenants of the bowers 
 to resume their shady dwellings. The good man and his 
 wife who hitherto had inhabited the old Place, and shown 
 the castle and the pleasaunce to passing travellers, were, 
 under the new order of affairs, promoted to the respect ivo 
 offices of serving-man and cook, or butler and housekee}>er, 
 as they styled themselves in the village. A maiden brought 
 from Grandison to Avait on Lady Armine completed the 
 establishment, witli her young brother, who, among nu- 
 merous duties, performed the office of grooin, and attended 
 to a pair of beautiful white ponies which Sir Ratcliffe drove 
 in a phaeton. This equipage, which was remarkable for its 
 elegance, was the especial delight of Lady Armine, and cei-- 
 tainly the only piece of splendour in which Sir Ratcliffe 
 indulged. As for neighbourhood, Sir Katoliffe, on his arrival, 
 of course received a visit from the rector of his parish, and, 
 by the courteous medium of this gentleman, he soon occa- 
 sioned it to be generally understood that he was not anxious 
 that the example of his rector should bo followed. The 
 intimation,in spite of much curio.sity, was of course re.spected. 
 Kobody called upon the Armines. Thishappy couple, however, 
 were too much engrossed with their own .society to require 
 amusement from any other sources than themselves. The 
 honeymoon was passed in wandering in the jileasure-grounds, 
 and in wondering at their own marvellous happiness. Then 
 Lady Armine would ait on a green bank and bing her choicest
 
 14 HENRIETTA TEIVIPLE : 
 
 songs, and Sir Ratcliffe repaid Tier for iier kindness by 
 speeches softer even than serenades. The arrangement of 
 their dwelling occupied the second month ; each day wit- 
 nessed some feKcitons yet economical alteration of her 
 creative taste. The third month Lady Armine determined 
 to make a garden. 
 
 ' I wish,' said her affectionate husband, as he toiled with 
 delight in her service, 'I wish, my dear Constance, that 
 Glastonbury was here ; he was such a capital gardener.' 
 
 ' Let us ask him, dear Ratcliffe ; and, perhaps, for such a 
 friend we have already allowed too great a space of time to 
 elapse without sending an invitation.' 
 
 ' Why, we are so happy,' said Sir Ratcliffe, smiling ; * and 
 yet Glastonbury 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. Write to him to-day; write to Glastonbury to-day.' 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 ARRIVAL OF GLASTONBURY. 
 
 Adrian Glastonburt was a younger son of an old but de- 
 cayed English family. He had been educated at a college 
 of Jesuits in France, and had entered at an early period of 
 life the service of the Romish Church, whose communion 
 his family had never quitted. At college young Glastonbury 
 had been alike distinguished for his assiduous talents and 
 for the extreme benevolence of his disposition. His was 
 one of those minds to which refinement is natural, and 
 which learning and experience never deprive of simplicity. 
 Apparently his passions were not violent ; perhaps they 
 were restrained by his profound piety. Next to his devotion, 
 Glastonbury was most remarkable for his taste. The mag-
 
 A LOVE STORY. 15 
 
 nificent temples in -wliicli the mysteries of the Deity and 
 saints lie worshipped were celebrated, developed the latent 
 predisposition for the beantiful, Tvhich became almost the 
 master sentiment of his life. In the inspired and inspiring 
 paintings that crowned the altars of the churches and the 
 cathedi-als in which he ministered, Glastonbury first studied 
 art ; and it was as he glided along the solemn shade of those 
 Gothic aisles, gazing on the brave groining of the vaulted 
 roofs, whose deep and subHme shadows so beautifully con- 
 trasted with the sparkling shrines and the deHcate chantries 
 below, that he first imbibed that passion for the architecture 
 of the middle ages that afterwai-ds led him on many a plea- 
 sant pilgrimage with no better companions than a wallet 
 and a sketch-book. Indeed, so sensible was Glastonbury of 
 the influence of the early and constant scene of his youth 
 on liis imagination, that he was wont to trace his lovo of 
 heraldry, of which he possessed a remarkable knowledge, to 
 the emblazoned windows that perpetuated the memory and 
 the achievements of many a pious founder. 
 
 When Glastonbury was about twenty-one years of age, ho 
 unexpectedly inherited from an uncle a sum which, though 
 by no means considerable, was for him a sufficient indepen- 
 dence ; and as no opening in the service of the Church at 
 this moment offered itself, which he considered it a duty to 
 pursue, he determined to gratify that restless feehng which 
 seems inseparable from the youth of men gifted with fino 
 sensibilities, and which probably arises in an unconscious 
 desire to quit the common-place and to discover the ideal. 
 He wandered on foot throughout the whole of Switzerland 
 and Italy, and, after more than three years' absence, returned 
 to England with several thousand sketches, and a complete 
 Alpine Hortus Siccus. lie was even more proud of the latter 
 tban of Laving kissed the Pope's toe. In the next seven 
 years the life of Glastonbury was nearly equally divided be- 
 tween the duties of his sacred profession and the gratification
 
 16 HENRIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 of his simple and elegant tastes. He resided principally in 
 Lancashire, where he became librarian to a Catholic noble- 
 man of the highest rank, whose notice he had first attracted 
 by publishing a description of his grace's residence, illus- 
 trated by his drawings. The duke, who was a man of fine 
 taste and antiquarian pui'suits, and an exceedingly bene- 
 volent person, sought Glastonbury's acquaintance in conse- 
 quence of the publication, and from that moment a close 
 and cherished intimacy subsisted between them. 
 
 In the absence of the family, however, Glastonbury found 
 time for many excursions; by means of which he at last 
 completed drawings of all our cathedrals. Tliei'e remained for 
 him still the abbeys and the minsters of the West of England, 
 a subject on which he was ever eloquent. Glastonbury 
 performed all these excursions on foot, armed only with an 
 ashen staff which he had cut in his early travels, and 
 respecting which he was superstitious ; so that he would 
 Iiave no more thought of journeying without this stick than 
 most other people without their hat. Indeed, to speak truth, 
 Glastonbury has been known to quit a house occasionally 
 without that necessary appendage, for, from living mucli 
 alone, he was not a little absent ; but instead of piquing 
 himself on such eccentricities, they ever occasioned him mor- 
 tification. Yet Glastonbury was an universal favourite, and 
 ever a Avelcome guest. In his journeys he had no want of 
 hosts ; for there was not a Catholic family which would not 
 have been hurt had ho passed them without a visit. He 
 was indeed a rarely accomplished personage. An admirable 
 scholar and profound antiquary, he possessed also a consi- 
 derable practical knowledge of the less severe sciences, Avas 
 a fine artist, and no contemptible musician. His pen, too, 
 was that of a ready wi-iter ; if his sonnets be ever published, 
 they will rank among the finest in our literature. 
 
 Glastonbury was about thirty when he was induced by- 
 Lady Barbara Armine to quit a roof where ho had passed
 
 A LOVE STORY. 17 
 
 Bome liappy years, and to iTudei'take the education of lier 
 son Katcliffc, a child of eight j-ears of age. From this time 
 Glastonbury in a great degree withdrew himself from Ida 
 former connexions, and so completely abandoned his previous 
 mode of life, that he never quitted his new home. His pupil 
 repaid him for his zeal rather by the goodness of his dis- 
 position and his unblemished conduct, than by any remark- 
 able brilliancy of talents or acquirements : but Eatcliflfe, 
 and particularly his mother, were capable of appreciating 
 Glastonbury ; and certain it is, whatever might be the cause, 
 he returned their sympathy with deep emotion, for every 
 thought aud feeling of his existence seemed dedicated to 
 their happiness and prosperity. 
 
 So great indeed was the shock which ho experienced at 
 the unexpected death of Lady JJarbara, that for some time 
 he meditated assuming tlie cowl ; and if the absence of his 
 pupil prevented the accomplishment of this project, tho 
 i;)lan was only postponed, not abandoned. The speedy mai*- 
 liage of Sii' Ratcliflfc followed. Circumstances had prevented 
 Glastonbury from being present at the ceremony. It was 
 impossible for him to retire to the cloister without seeing 
 his pupil. Business, if not affection, rendered an interview 
 between them necessary. It was equally impossible for 
 Glastonbury to trouble a bride and bridegroom with his 
 presence. When, however, three months liad elapsed, ho 
 began to believe that he might vcntui*e to propose a meeting 
 to Sir RatclifTe ; but while he was yd meditating on this 
 Btep, he was anticipated by the receipt of a letter contaiuing 
 a warm invitation to Armine. 
 
 It was a beautiful sunshiny afternoon in June. Lady 
 Ai'minc was seated in front of the Place looking towards 
 the park, and busied with her work ; Avhile Sir Ratclifte, 
 stretched on the grass, was reading to her the last poem of 
 Scott, which they had just received from tho neighbouring 
 town. 
 

 
 18 HENRIETTA TEMPLE : 
 
 * Ratcliffe, my dear,' said Lady Annine, * some one ap- 
 proaches.' 
 
 'A tramper, Constance ?' 
 
 ' N"o, no, my love ; rise ; it is a gentleman.' 
 
 ' Who can it be ? ' said Sii* Ratcliffe, rising ; ' perhaps it is 
 your brother, love. Ah ! no, it is, it is Glastonbury!' 
 
 And at these words he ran forward, jumped over the iron 
 hurdle which separated their lawn from the park, nor stopt 
 his quick pace until he reached a middle-aged man of very 
 prepossessing appearance, though certainly not unsullied by 
 the dust, for assuredly the guest had travelled far and long. 
 
 ' My dear Glastonbury,' exclaimed Sir RatcHffe, embracing 
 him, and speaking under the influence of an excitement in 
 which he rarely indulged, ' I am the happiest fellow alive. 
 How do you do ? I will introduce you to Constance directly. 
 She is dying to know you, and quite prepared to love you 
 as much as myself. ! my dear Glastonbury, you have no 
 idea how happy I am. She is a perfect angel.' 
 
 * I am sure of it,' said Glastonbury, seriously. 
 
 Sir Ratclifi'e hurried his tutor along. * Here is my best 
 friend, Constance,' he eagerly exclaimed. Lady Armino 
 rose and welcomed Mr. Glastonbury very cordially. * Tour 
 presence, my dear sir, has, I assure you, been long desired 
 by both of us,' she said, with a delightful smile. 
 
 ' 1^0 compliments, believe me,' added Sir Ratcliffe ; ' Con- 
 stance never pays comphments. She fixed upon your own 
 room herself. She always calls it Mr. Glastonbury's room.' 
 
 ' Ah ! madam,' said Mr. Glastonbury, laying his hand very 
 gently on the shoulder of Sir RatcHffe, and meaning to say 
 Bomething felicitous, ' I know this dear youth well ; and I 
 have always thought whoever could claim this heart should 
 be counted a very fortunate woman.' 
 
 'And such the possessor esteems herself,' replied Lady 
 Armine with a smile. 
 
 Six Ratcliffe, after a quarter; ©f an hour or so had passed
 
 A LOVE STORY. 19 
 
 in conversation, 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 have had a hot day's journey. 
 Thank God, we are together again. Give me your staff; I 
 will take care of it ; no fear of that. So, this way. You 
 have seen the old Place before ? Take care of that step. I 
 Bay, 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 f ' 
 
 ' Really, truly.' 
 
 'Angel !' exclaimed the gratified Sir Eatcliife. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 PROGRESS OP AFFAIRS AT ARMINE. 
 
 Life is adventurous. Events are perpetually occurring, 
 even in the calmness of domestic existence, which change 
 in an instant the whole train and tenor of our thoughts and 
 feelings, and often materially influence our fortunes and our 
 character. It is strange, and sometimes as pi'ofitable as it 
 is singular, to recall our state on the eve of some acquaint- 
 ance which transfigures our being ; with some man whoso 
 philosophy revolutionises our mind ; with some woman 
 whose charms metamorphose our career. These retro- 
 spective meditations are fruitful of self-knowledge. 
 
 The visit of Glastonbury was one of those incidents 
 which, from the unexpected results that they occasion, 
 BWcU into events. He had not been long a guest at Ai'mino 
 before Sir Ratclifle and his lady could not refrain from 
 mutually communicating to each other the gratification 
 they should feel could Glastonbury be induced to cast his 
 lot among them. His benevolent and placid temper, his 
 
 c 2
 
 20 HENRIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 xaany accomplishmeuts, aud the eutii'e afiectiou Avhich \io 
 evidently entertained for everybody that bore the rame, 
 and for everything that related to the fortunes of Ai'miue, 
 all pointed 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, 
 find his voice accompanied her lute. Sir RatclifFe, too, 
 thoroughly enjoyed his society : Glastonbury was with him 
 the only link, in life, between the present and the past. 
 They talked over old times together ; and sorrowful recol- 
 lections lost half their bitterness, from the tenderness of his 
 sympathetic reminiscences. Sir Ratcliffe, too, was conscious 
 of the value of such a companion for his gifted wife. And 
 Glastonbury, moreover, among his many accomplishments, 
 had the excellent quality of never being in the way. He 
 was aware that young people, and especially young lovers, 
 are not averse sometimes to being alone ; and his friends, iu 
 his absence, never felt that he was neglected, because his 
 pursuits were so various and his resources so numerous 
 that they were sure he was employed and amused. 
 
 In the pleasaunce of Armine, at the termination of a long 
 turfen avenue of purple beeches, there was a turreted gate, 
 flanked by round towers, intended by Sir Ferdinand for one 
 of the principal entrances of his castle. Over the gate were 
 email but convenient chambers, to which you ascended by 
 a winding staircase in one of the towers ; the other was a 
 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, Avho was a little wearied 
 by the exertion, stood opposite the building, leaning on her 
 husband and his friend. 
 
 ' A man might go far, and find a worse dwelling than 
 that portal,' said Glastonbury, musingly. 'MethinkB life 
 might glide away pleasantly enough iu those Little rooms,
 
 A LOVE ??TORY. 21 
 
 Vf'nh. one's books and drawings, and this noble 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 Arinine, 'take 
 pity upon U3 ! ' 
 
 'At any rate, it is not so dull as a cloister,' added Sir 
 Ratcliffe ; ' and, say what they like, there is nothing liko 
 living among friends.' 
 
 'You would find me very troublesome,' replied Glaston- 
 buiy, with a smile; and then, turning the conversation, 
 evidently more from embaiTassment than distaste, he re- 
 marked the singularity of the purple beeches. 
 
 Their origin was uncertain ; but one circumstance is sure : 
 that, before another mouth had passed, Glastonbury was 
 tenant for life of the portal of Armine Castle, and all his 
 books and collections were safely stowed and arranged in 
 the rooms with which ho had been so much pleased. 
 
 The course of time for some years flowed on happily at 
 Armine. In the second year of their marriage Lady Armino 
 presented her husband with a son. Their family was never 
 afterwards increased, but the proud father was consoled by 
 the sex of his child for the recollection that the existence 
 of his line depended upon the precious contiugency of a 
 single life. The boy was christened Ferdinand. With the 
 exception of an annual visit to Lord Grandison, the Aa-mino 
 family never quitted their home. Necessity as well as 
 taste induced this regularity of life. The affairs of Sir 
 Ratcliffe did not improve. His mortgagees were moro 
 strict in their demands of interest than his tenants in pay- 
 ment of their rents. His man of business, who had mado 
 his fortune in the service of the family, was not wanting in 
 accommodation to his client ; but he was a man of business ; 
 he could not sympathise with the peculiar feelings and 
 fancies of Sir Ratcliffe, and he persisted in seizing evorj"
 
 22 HENEIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 opportunity of urging on him the advisability of selling liig 
 estates. However, by strict economy and temporary assist- 
 ance from bis lawyer, Sir Ratclifle, during the first ten 
 years of bis marriage, managed to carry on affairs ; and 
 tbougb occasional embarrassments sometimes caused bira 
 fits of gloom and despondency, the sanguine spirit of bis 
 wife, and the confidence in tbe destiny of tbeir beautiful 
 child which she regularly enforced upon him, maintained 
 on the whole his courage. All their hopes and joys were 
 indeed centred in the education of the little Ferdinand. 
 At ten years of age 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 the tboughtfalness and self- 
 discipline of maturer age. It was the constant and 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 the village, where he was idolised, they called him * the 
 little prince ; ' he was so gentle and so generous, so kind 
 and yet so dignified in his demeanour. His education 
 was remarkable ; for though he never quitted home, and 
 lived in such extreme seclusion, so richly gifted were those 
 few persons with whom he passed his life, that it would 
 have been difficult to have fixed upon a youth, however 
 favoured by fortune, who enjoyed greater advantages for 
 the cultivation of his mind and manners. Fi'om the first 
 dawn of the intellect of the young Armine, Glastonbury 
 bad devoted himself to its culture ; and the kind scholar, 
 who had not shrunk from the painful and patient task of 
 impregnating a young mind with the seeds of knowledge, 
 had bedewed its budding promise with all the fertilising 
 influence of his learning and his taste. As Ferdinand 
 advanced in years, he had participated in the accomplish- 
 ments of his mother ; from her he derived not only a taste 
 for the fine arts, but no unskilful practice. She, too, had 
 cultivated the rich voice vath which Nature had endowed
 
 A LOVE STORY. 23 
 
 him ; and it was his mother who taught liim not only to 
 sing, but to dance. In more manlj accomplishments, Fer- 
 dinand could not have found a more skilful instructor than 
 his father, a consummate sportsman, and who, like all his 
 ancestors, was remarkable for his finished horsemanship 
 and the certainty of his aim. Under a roof, too, whoso 
 inmates were distinguished for their sincere piety and un- 
 affected virtue, the higher duties of existence were not 
 forgotten ; and Ferdinand Armine was early and ever 
 taught to bo sincere, dutiful, charitable, and just ; and to 
 have a deep sense of the great account hereafter to be 
 dehvered to his Creator. The very foibles of his parents 
 which he imbibed tended to the maintenance of his mag- 
 nanimity. His illustrious lineage was early impressed 
 upon him, and inasmuch as little now was left to them but 
 their honour, so it was doubly incumbent upon him to 
 preserve that chief treasure, of which fortune could not 
 deprive them, unsullied. 
 
 This much of tho education of Ferdinand Armine. With 
 great gifts of nature, with lively and highly cultivated 
 talents, and a most affectionate and disciplined temper, ho 
 was adored by tho friends who nevertheless had too much 
 sense to spoil him. But for his character, what was that ? 
 Perhaps, -n-ith all their anxiety and all their care, and all 
 their apparent opportunities for observation, the parent 
 and the tutor are rarely skilful in discovering the character 
 of their child or charge. Custom blunts the fineness of 
 psychological study : those with whom we have lived Ion"- 
 and early are apt to blend our essential and our accidental 
 qualities in one bewildering association. The consequences 
 of education and of nature aro not sufficiently discriminated. 
 Nor is it, indeed, marvellous, that for a long time tempera- 
 ment should be disguised and even stifled by education ; 
 for it is, as it were, a contest between a child and a man. 
 There were moments when Ferdinand Armine loved to
 
 24 HENBIETTA TEMPLE : 
 
 be alone, wlaen lie could fly from all the fondness of his 
 fi-iends, and roam in solitude amid the wild and desolate 
 pleasure-grounds, or wander for hours in the halls and 
 galleries of the castle, gazing on the pictures of his an- 
 cestors. He ever experienced a strange satisfaction in 
 beholding the portrait of his gi'andfather. He would some- 
 times stand abstracted for many minutes before the portrait 
 of Sir Ferdinand in the gallery, painted by Reynolds, 
 before his gi-andfather left England, and which the child 
 ah-eady singularly resembled. But Avas there any other 
 resemblance betv/een them than form and feature ? Did 
 the fiery imagination and the terrible passions of that 
 extraordinary man lurk in the innocent heart and the 
 placid mien of his young descendant ? No matter now ! 
 Behold, he is a light-hearted and airy child ! Thoxight 
 passes over his brow like a cloud 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 reveiie, to fly 
 a kite or chase a butterfly ! 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 A DOMESTIC SCENE. 
 
 Years glided away without any remarkable incidents in the 
 life of young Ferdinand. He seldom quitted home, except 
 as companion to Glastonbuiy in his pedesti-ian excursions, 
 when he witnessed a difierent kind of hfe from that dis- 
 played in the annual visit which he paid to Grandison. 
 The boy amused his grandfather, with whom, therefore, he 
 became a favourite. The old Lord, indeed, would have had 
 no objection to his grandson passing half the year with 
 him ; and he always returned home with a benediction, a 
 letter full of his praises, and a ten-pound note. Lady
 
 A LOVE STORY. 25 
 
 Avmiue was quite tlelightcd with these symptoms of afFoc- 
 i ion on the part of her father towards her child, and augured 
 from them important future results. But Sir Eatclifie, who 
 •was not blessed with so sanguine a temperament as his 
 amiable lady, and who, unbiassed by blood, was perhaps 
 better qualified to form an opinion of the character of his 
 father-in-law, never shared her transports, and seldom 
 omitted an opportunity of restraining them. 
 
 ' It is all very well, my dear/ he would observe, * for 
 Ferdinand to visit his relations. Loi'd Grandison is his 
 grandfather. It is veiy proper that he should visit his 
 grandfather. I like him to be seen at Grandison. That 
 is all very right. Grandison is a first-rate establishment, 
 where he is certain of meeting persons of his own class, 
 with whom circumstances unhappily,' and here Sir Rat- 
 fllffe sighed, ' debar him from mixing ; and your father, 
 Constance, is a very good sort of man. I like your father, 
 Constance, you know, very much. No person ever could 
 be more courteous to me than he has ever been. I have 
 no complaints to make of him, Constance ; or your brother, 
 or indeed of any member of your family. I like them 
 all. Persons more kind, or more thoroughly bred, I am sure 
 I never knew. And I think they like us. They appear to 
 me to be always really glad to see us, and to be unaflfectedly 
 sorry when wo quit them. I am sure I should be very 
 happy if it were in my power to return their hospitality, 
 und welcome them at Armlnc: but it is useless to think of 
 that. God only knows whether Ave shall be able to remain 
 here ourselves. All I want to make you feel, my love, is, 
 that if vou arc bulldiiiff anv castle in tliat little brain of 
 yours on the ground of expectations from Grandison, trust 
 me you will be disajipointed, my dear, you will indeed.' 
 
 ' But, my love — ' 
 
 ' If your father die to-morrow, my dear, ho will not leave 
 us a shilling. And who can complain ? I cannot. He haa
 
 26 HENRIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 always been very frank. I remember when we were going 
 to many, and I was obliged to talk to bim about your por- 
 tion; I remember it as if it were only yesterday; I remember 
 his saying, with the most flattering smile in the world, " I 
 wish the 5,000?., Sir RatcHffe, were 50,000Z., for your sake ; 
 particularly as it will never be in my power to increase it." ' 
 
 ' But, my dear Ratclifie, surely he may do something for 
 his favourite, Ferdinand ? ' 
 
 ' My dear Constance, there yoa are again ! Why /a- 
 vourite ? I hate the very woi'd. Tour 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 not 
 a single care in the world, and he thinks nobody else has ; 
 and what is more, my dear, nobody ever could persuade 
 him that anybody else has. He has no idea of our situa- 
 tion ; he never could form an idea of it. If I chose to 
 attempt to make him understand it he would listen with 
 the greatest politeness, shrug his shoulders at the end of 
 the story, tell me to keep up my spirits, and order another 
 bottle of Madeira in order that he might illustrate his pre- 
 cept by practice. He is a good-natured selfish 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 our acquaintance : he likes Ferdinand to visit 
 him because he is a handsome fine-spirited boy, and his 
 friends congratulate him on having such a grandson. And 
 so Ferdinand is his favourite ; and next year I should not 
 be surprised were he to give him a pony : and perhaps, if 
 he die, he will leave him fifty guineas to buy a gold watch.' 
 
 ' "Well, I dare say you are right, Ratchfie ; but still 
 nothing that you can say will ever persuade me that Ferdi- 
 nand is not papa's decided favourite.' 
 
 ' Well ! we shall soon see what this favour is worth,' 
 retorted Sir Ratclifie, rather bitterly. 'Regularly every 
 visit for the last three years your father has asked me what
 
 A LOVE STORY. 27 
 
 I intended to do with Ferdinand. I said to him last year 
 more than I thought I ever could say to anyone. I told 
 him that Ferdinand was now fifteen, and that I wished to 
 get him a commission ; but that I had no influence to get 
 him a commission, and no money to pay for it if it were 
 offered me. I think that was pretty plain ; and I have 
 been surprised ever since that I ever could have placed 
 myself in such a degrading position as to say so much.' 
 
 ' Degi-ading, my dear Ratchffe ! ' 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 the room examining a large foHo, and who had 
 evidently been uneasy during the whole conversation, at- 
 tempted to quit the room. 
 
 ' My dear Glastonbury,' said Sir Ratcliffe, with a forced 
 smile, * you are alarmed at our domestic broils. Pray, do 
 not leave the room. You know we have no secrets from 
 you.' 
 
 ' No, pray do not go, Mr. Glastonbury,' added Lady 
 Armine : ' and if indeed there be a domestic broil,' and 
 here she rose and kissed her husband, ' at any rate witness 
 our reconciliation.' 
 
 Sir Ratcliffo smiled, and returned his wife's embrace with 
 much feeling. 
 
 * My own Constance,' he said, ' you are the dearest wifo 
 in the world ; and if I ever feel unhappy, believe me it is 
 only because I do not see you in the position to which you 
 are entitled.' 
 
 * I know no fortune to bo compared to your love, Eat- 
 cliffe ; and as for our child, nothing will ever persuade mo 
 that all will not go right, and that he will not restore tho 
 fortunes of the family.' 
 
 * Amen ! ' said Glastonbury, closing the book with a re- 
 verberating sound. ' Nor indeed can I believe that Provi« 
 dence will ever desert a great .ind pious line ! '
 
 28 HENRIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 CONTAINING ANOTHER DOMESTIC SCENE. 
 
 Lady Arjiine and Glastonbury were both, too mucla in- 
 terested in the welfare of Sir Ratcliffo not to obsei-ve with 
 deep concern that a great, although gradual, change had 
 occurred in his character dui-ing the last five years. He 
 had become moody and quernlous, and occasionally even 
 irritable. His constitutional melancholy, long diverted by 
 the influence of a vigorous youth, the society of a charming 
 woman, and the interesting feelings of a father, began to 
 reassert its ancient and essential sway, and at times even to 
 deepen into gloom. Sometimes whole days elapsed without 
 his ever indulging in conversation ; his nights, once tran- 
 quil, Avere now remarkable for their restlessness ; his wife 
 was alarmed at the sighs and agitation of his dreams. 
 He abandoned also his field Bports, and none of those 
 innocent sources of amusement, in which it was once his 
 boast their retirement was so rich, now interested him. In 
 vain Lady Armine sought his society in her walks, or con- 
 sulted him about her flowers. His frigid and monosyllabic 
 repHes discouraged all her efibrts. No longer did he lean 
 over her easel, or call for a I'epetition 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 was an altered 
 man ; and his wife could no longer resist the miserable con- 
 viction that he was an unhappy one. 
 
 She, however, was at least spared the mortification, the 
 bitterest that a wife can experience, of feehng that this 
 change in his conduct was occasioned by any indifierence 
 towards her ; for, averse as Sir Ratelifie was to converse 
 on a subject so hopeless and ungrateful as the state of his 
 fortune, still there were times in which he could not refrain
 
 A LOVE STOllY. 29 
 
 fi'Om communicating to the partner of his bosom all tlio 
 causes of liis misery, and these, indeed, too truly had sho 
 divined. 
 
 * Alas ! ' she would sometimes say as she tried to compose 
 his restless pillow ; ' what is this pride to which you men 
 sacrifice everything ? For me, who am a woman, love is 
 sufficient. Oh ! my Ratcliffe, why do you not feel like your 
 Constance ? What if these estates be sold, still we are 
 Armines ! and still our dear Ferdinand is spared to us ! 
 Believe me, love, that if deference to your feelings has 
 prompted my silence, I have long felt that it would be wiser 
 for us at once to meet a necessary evil. For God's sake put 
 an end to the torture of this life, which is destroying us both. 
 Poverty, absolute poverty, with you and with your love, I 
 can meet even with cheerfulness ; but indeed, my Ratcliffe, 
 I can bear our present life no longer ; I shall die if you bo 
 unhappy. .A nd oh ! dearest Ratcliffe, if that were to happen, 
 which sometimes I fear has hapj^ened, 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 voluntarily done that which we may now be forced 
 to do, we really should have been almost rich people ; at 
 least we should have had quite enough to live in ease, and 
 t;veu elegance. And tiow wc owe thousands to that horrible 
 Bagstcr, who I am sure cheated your father out of house 
 and home, and I dare say, after all, wants to buy Ai-miuo 
 for himself.' 
 
 ' He buy Arminc \ An attorney buy Armine ! Xever, 
 Constance, never ! I will be buried in its ruins first. 
 There is no sacrifice that I would not sooner make — ' 
 
 ' But, dearest love, suppose wo sell it to some ono else, 
 and suppose after paying every thing we have thirty thou- 
 sand pounds left. How well we could live abroad on the 
 interest of thirty thousand pounds r '
 
 30 HENKIETTA TEIvIPLE : 
 
 * There would not be thirty thousand pounds left now ! ' 
 
 ' Well, five-and-twenty, or even twenty. I could manage 
 on twenty. And then 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 a commission in the Spanish Guards for nothing. 
 They must remember you there. And such a name as 
 Armine ! I have no doubt that the king would be quite 
 proud to have another Armine in his guard. And then we 
 could Hve at Madrid ; and that would be so dehghtful, 
 because you speak Spanish so beautifully, and I could learn 
 it very quickly. I am very quick at learning languages. I 
 am, indeed.' 
 
 * I think you are very quick at everything, dear Constance. 
 I am sure you are 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 wished you had made a happier 
 marriage.' 
 
 ' Oh ! do not say that, Ratcliffe ; say anything but that, 
 RatcHffe. If you love me I am the happiest woman that 
 ever Hved. Be sure always of that.' 
 
 ' I wonder if they do remember me at Madrid ! ' 
 
 * To be sure they do. How could they forget you ; how 
 could they forget my Ratcliffe ? I dare say you go to this 
 day by the name of the handsome Englishman.' 
 
 ' Poh ! I remember when I left England before, I had no 
 wife then, no child, but I remembered who I was, and when 
 I thought I was the last of our race, and that I was in all 
 probability going to spill the little blood that was spared 
 of us in a foreign soil, oh, Constance, I do not think I ever 
 could forget the agony of that moment. Had it been for 
 England, I would have met my fate without a pang. No ! 
 Constance, I am an Englishman : I am proud of being an 
 Englishman. My fathers helped to make this country what
 
 A LOVE STOKY. 31 
 
 it is ; no one can deny that ; and no consideration in the 
 world shall ever induce me again to quit this island.' 
 
 ' But suppose we do not quit England. Suppose we buy 
 a small estate and live 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 flight from 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 ; and hoar 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 little house somewhere.' 
 
 * In a suburb ! a fitting lodgment for Lady Annine. Ko ! 
 at any rate we will have no witnesses to our fall.' 
 
 ' But could not we try some place near my father's ? ' 
 
 * And bo patronised by the great family with whom I 
 liad the good fortune of being connected. No ! my dear 
 Constance, I like your father very well, but I could not 
 stand his eleemosynary haunches of venison, and great 
 baskets of apples and cream-cheeses sent with the house- 
 keeper's duty.' 
 
 ' But what shall we do, dear RatclifFe ? ' 
 
 * My love, there is no resisting fate. We must live or 
 die at Armiue, even if we starve.' 
 
 'Perhaps something will turn up. I dreamt the other 
 night that dear Ferdinand maiTied an heiress. Suppose ho 
 were ? What do you think ? ' 
 
 'Why, even then, that he would not be as lucky as his 
 father. Good night, love!'
 
 32 HENRIETTA TEJIPLE : 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 CONTAINING AN UNEXPECTED VISIT TO LONDON, AND IIS 
 CONSEQUENCES. 
 
 The day after tlie conversation in the library to wliich 
 Glastonbury had been an unwilling listener, he informed 
 his friends that it was necessary for him to visit the metro- 
 polis ; and as yoting Ferdinand had never yet seen London, 
 he proposed that he should accompany him. Sir Ratclifte 
 and Lady Ai'mine cheerfully assented to this proposition ; 
 and as for Ferdinand, it is difficult to describe the delight 
 which the anticipation of his visit occasioned him. The 
 three days that were to elapse before his departure did not 
 seem sufficient to ensure the complete packing of his port- 
 manteau ; and his excited manner, the rapidity of his con- 
 versation, and the restlessness of his movements were veiy 
 diverting. 
 
 'Mamma! is London twenty times bigger than 'Not- 
 tingham? How big is it then? Shall we travel all night? 
 What o'clock is it now ? I wonder if Thursday will ever 
 come ? I think I shall go to bed early, to finish the day 
 sooner. Do you think my cap is good enough to travel in ? 
 I shall buy a hat in London. I shall get up early the very 
 first morning, and buy a hat. Do you think my uncle is in 
 Loudon ? I wish Augustus were not at Eton, perhaps ho 
 would be there. I wonder if Mr. Glastonbury will take me 
 to see St. Paul's ! I wonder if he will take me to the play. 
 I'd give 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 travollers A\'ere obliged to liso
 
 A LOVl': STOEY. 33 
 
 before the sun, and. drive over to Nottingham to meet their 
 coach ; so they bid tlieir adieus the previous eve. As for 
 Ferdinand, so fearful was he of losing the coach, that ho 
 scarcely slept, and was never convinced that he was really 
 in time, until he found himself planted in breathless agita- 
 tion outside of the Dart light post coach. It was the first 
 time in his life that he had ever travelled outside of a coach. 
 He felt all the excitement of expanding experience and 
 advancing manhood. They whirled along : at the end of 
 every stage Ferdinand followed the example of his fellow- 
 travellers and dismounted, and then with sparkling eyes 
 hurried to Glastonbury, who was inside, to inquire how he 
 sped. ' Capital travelling, isn't it, sir? Did the ten miles 
 within the hour. You have no idea what a fellow our 
 coachman, is; and the guard, such a fellow our guard! 
 Don't wait here a moment. Can I get anything for you ? 
 We dine at Mill-field. What fun!' 
 
 Away whirled the dashing Dart over the rich plains of 
 car merry midland; a cpiick and dazzling vision of golden 
 corn-fields and lawny pasture land ; farmhouses embowered 
 in orchards and hamlets shaded by the straggling members 
 of some vast and ancient forest. Then rose in the distance 
 the dim blue towers, or the graceful spire, of some old 
 cathedral, and soon the spreading causeways announce 
 their approach to some provincial capital. The coac!iman 
 flanks his leaders, who break into a gallop ; the guard 
 sounds his triumphant bugle ; the coach bounds over the 
 noble bridge that spans a stream covered with craft; jjuljlio 
 buildings, guildhalls, and county gaols rise on each .side. 
 Kattling through inany an inferior way lliey at length 
 emerged into the High Street, the observed of all observers, 
 and mine liost of the Red Lion, or the White Hart, followed 
 by all his waiters, advances from his piu'tal with a smile to 
 leceive the 'gentlemen i)assengers.' 
 
 i>
 
 34 HENRIETTA TEIVEPLE : 
 
 ' Tho coach stops here half an hour, gentlemen : dinr.e^ 
 quite ready ! ' 
 
 'Tis a delio'htful sound. And what a dinner ! What a 
 profusion of substantial delicacies ! What mighty and ii-is- 
 tinted rounds of beef ! What vast and marble- veined ribs ! 
 What gelatinous veal pies ! What colossal hams ! Those 
 are evidently prize cheeses ! And how invigorating is the 
 perfume of those various and variegated pickles! Then 
 the bustle emulating the plenty ; the ringing of bells, the 
 clash of thoroughfare, the summoning of ubiquitous waiters, 
 and the all-pervading feeling of omnipotence, from the 
 guests, who order what they please, to the landlord, who 
 can produce and execute everything they can desire. 'Tis 
 a wondrous sight. Why should a man go and see the 
 pyramids and cross the desert, when he has not beheld 
 Y"oi'k Minster or travelled on the Road! 
 
 Our little Ferdinand amid all this novelty heartily en- 
 joyed himself, and did ample justice to mine host's good 
 cheer. They were soon again whirling along the road ; 
 but at sunset, Ferdinand, at the instance of Glastonbury, 
 availed himself of his inside place, and, wearied by the air 
 and the excitement of the day, he soon fell soundly asleep. 
 
 Several hours had elapsed, when, awaking from a con- 
 fused dream in which Armine and all he had lately seen 
 were blended together, he found his fellow-travellers slum- 
 bering, and the mail dashing along through the illuminated 
 streets of a great city. The streets were thickly thronged. 
 Ferdinand stared at the magnificence of the shops blazing 
 with lis-hts, and the multitude of men and vehicles moviner 
 in all directions. The guard sounded his bugle with treble 
 energy, and the coach suddenly turned through an arched 
 entrance into the court-yard of an old-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.
 
 A LOVE STORY. 35 
 
 'Yos!, gentlenieri, I am Lappy to say oiu' journey is 
 finished,' said a more polite voice ; ' and a very pleasant 
 one I have found it. Porter, have the goodness to call mo 
 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 we reach our quarters. I think Ave had better 
 alight and look after our luggage. Gentlemen, good 
 evening!' 
 
 Mr. Glastonbury hailed a coach, into which, having 
 safely deposited their portmanteaus, he and Ferdinand 
 entered ; but our young friend was so entirely overcome 
 by his feelings and the genius of the place, that he Avas 
 quite unable to make an observation. Each minute the 
 streets seemed to grow more spacious and more brilliant, 
 and the multitude more dense and more excited. Beauti- 
 ful buildings, too, rose before him ; palaces, and churches, 
 and streets, and squares of imposing architecture ; to his 
 inexperienced cj^e and unsophisticated spirit their route 
 appeared a never-ending triumph. To the hackney- coach- 
 man, however, Avho had no imagination, and who was quito 
 satiated with metropolitan experience, it only appeared 
 tiiat he had had an exceeding good fare, and that he was 
 jogging up from Bishopsgate Sti'eet to Charing Cross. 
 
 When Jarvis, therefore, had safely deposited bis charge 
 at Morley's Hotel, in Cockspur Street, and extorted from 
 them an extra shilling, in consideration of their cAndcnt 
 rustication, he bent his course towards the Opera House; 
 for clouds were gathering, and, with the favoirr of Provi- 
 dence, there seemed a chance about midnight of picking 
 up some helpless beau, or desperate cabless dandy, the 
 clioicest victim, in a midnight shower, of these public con- 
 veyancers. 
 
 n 2
 
 ?S HENRIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 The coffec-i'oom at Morley's "W«a3 a new scene of amnse- 
 nieut to Ferdinand, and lie watched witli great diversion 
 the two evening" papers portioned out among twelve eager 
 quidnuncs, and the evident anxiety Avhich they endured, 
 and the nice diplomacies to which they resorted, to obtain 
 the envied journals. The entrance of our two travellers 
 so alarmiugly increasing the demand over the supply, at 
 first seemed to attract considerable and not very friendly 
 notice ; but when a malignant half-pay officer, in order to 
 revenge himself for the restless watchfulness of his neigh- 
 bour, a political doctor of divinity, offered the journal, 
 which he had long finished, to Glastonbury, and it was 
 declined, the general alarm visibly diminished. Poor Mr. 
 Glastonbury had never looked into a newspaper in his life, 
 save the County Chronicle, to which he occasionally con- 
 tributed a communication, giving an account of the digging 
 up of some old coins, signed Antiquarius ; or of the exhu- 
 mation of some fossil remains, to which he more boldly 
 appended his initials. 
 
 In sjjite of the strange clatter in the streets, Ferdinand 
 slept well, and the next morning, after an early breakfast, 
 himself and his fellow-traveller set out on their peregrina- 
 tions. Young and sanguine, full of health and enjoyment, 
 innocent and happy, it was with difficulty that Ferdinand 
 could restrain his sjiirits as he mingled in the bustle of the 
 streets. It was a bright sunny morning, and although the 
 end of June, the town was yet quite full. 
 
 ' Is this Charing Cross, sir ? I wonder if Ave shall ever 
 be able to get over. 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 house is 
 that? Northumberland House! Is it the Duke of Nor- 
 thumberland's ? Does he live there ? How I should like 
 to see it! Is it very fine ? AVho is that ? What is this ? 
 The Admiralty; oh! let me see the Admiralty! The
 
 A LOVE STOEY. 37 
 
 Horse Guards ! Oh ! -where, ^Yhere ? Let U3 set our 
 watches by the Horse Guards. The guard of our coach 
 always sets his watcli by the Horse Guards. Mr. Glaston- 
 bury, which is the best clock, the Horse Guards, or St. 
 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 Downing Street ? Is this Charing 
 Cross still, or is it Parliament Street ? "Where does 
 Charing Cross end, and Avhere does Parliament Street 
 begin ? By Jove, I see Westmiusier Abbey! ' 
 
 After visiting Westminster Abbey and the two Houses of 
 Parliament, Mr. Glastonbury, looking at his watch, said it 
 was now time to call upon a friend of his who lived in St. 
 James's Square. This was the nobleman with whom early 
 in life Glastonbury had been connected, and with whom and 
 whose family he had become so great a favourite, that, not- 
 withstanding his retired life, they had never permitted the 
 connexion entirely to subside. During the very few visits 
 which he had made to the metropolis, he always called in 
 St. James's Square, and his reception always assured him 
 that his remembrance imparted pleasure. 
 
 When Glastonbury sent up his name he was instantly 
 admitted, and uslierod up stairs. The room was full, but 
 it con.sisted only of a family imrty. The mother of the 
 Duke, who was an interesting personage, with tine grey hair, 
 a clear blue oyo, and a soft voice, was surrounded by her 
 great-grandchildren, who were at home for the Midsummer 
 holidays, and who had gathered together at her rooms this 
 morning to consult upon amusements. Among them was the 
 heir presumptive of the house, a youth of the age of Ferdi- 
 nand, and of a prepossessing appearance. It was difficult to 
 meet a more amiable and agi-ecable family, and nothing could 
 exceed the kindness with which they all welcomed Glaston- 
 bury. The Duke himself soon appeared. ' My dear, dear 
 Glastonbury,' he said, ' I heard you were here, and I would
 
 38 HENRIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 come. This sliall be a, lioliday for us all. Wliy, man, you 
 bury yourself alive ! ' 
 
 ' Mr. Armine,' said the Duchess, pointing to Ferdinand. 
 
 ' Mr. Armine, how do you do ? Tour grandfather and I 
 were well acquainted. I am glad to know his gi'andson. 
 I hope your father, Sir Ratcliffe, and Lady Armine are 
 well. My dear Glastonbury, I hope you have come to stay a 
 long time. You must dine with us every day. Tou know 
 we are very old-fashioned people ; we do not go much into 
 the world ; so you will always find us at home, and we 
 will do what we can to amuse your young friend. Why, 
 I should think he was about the same age as Digby ? Is 
 he at Eton ? His grandfather was. I shall never forget the 
 time he cut ofi" old Barnard's pig-tail. He was a wonder- 
 ful man, poor Sir Ferdinand ! he was indeed.' 
 
 While his Grace and Glastonbury maintained their con- 
 versation, Ferdinand conducted himself with so much spirit 
 and propriety towards the rest of the party, and gave them 
 such a lively and graceful narrative of all his travels up to 
 town, and the wonders he had already witnessed, that they 
 were quite delighted with him ; and, in short, from this 
 moment, during his visit to London he was scarcely ever 
 out of their society, and every day became a greater favourite 
 with them. His letters to his mother, for he wrote to her 
 almost every day, recounted all their successful efibrts for 
 his amusement, and it seemed that he passed his mornings 
 in a round of 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 more thoroughly enjoyed 
 life than Ferdinand Armine. 
 
 In the meantime while he thought only of amusement, 
 Mr. Glastonbury was not inattentive to his more important 
 interests ; for the truth is that this excellent man had intro- 
 duced him to the family only with the hope of interesting 
 the feelings of the Duke in his behalf His Grace was a
 
 A LOVE STORY. 39 
 
 man of a generous disposition. He sympathised with the 
 recital of Glastonburj as he detailed to him the unfortu- 
 nate situation of this youth, sprung from so illustrious a 
 lineage, and yet cut off by a combination of unhappy cir- 
 cumstances from almost all those natural sources whence ho 
 might have expected support and countenance. And when 
 Glastonbury, seeing that the Duke's heart was moved, 
 added that all he required for him, Ferdinand, was a com- 
 mission in the army, for which his parents were prepared 
 to advance the money, his Grace instantly declared that ho 
 would exert all his influence to obtain their purpose. 
 
 Mr. Glastonbuiy was, therefore, more gratified than sur- 
 prised when, a few days after the conversation which we 
 have mentioned, his noble friend informed liim, with a smile, 
 that he believed all might be arranged, provided his young 
 charge could make it convenient to quit England at once. 
 A vacancy had unexpectedly occurred in a regiment just 
 oz'dei'ed to Malta, and an ensigncy had been promised to 
 Ferdinand Ai'mine. Mr. Glastonbury gratefully closed with 
 the offer. He sacrificed a fourth part of his moderate inde- 
 pendence in the purchase of the commission and the outfit 
 of his young friend, and had the supreme satisfaction, ere 
 the third week of their visit was completed, of forwarding 
 a Gazette to Armine, containing the appointment of Ferdi- 
 nand Annine as Ensign in the Royal Fusiliei'S. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 A VISIT TO Glastonbury's ciiamber. 
 
 It was ari'anged that Ferdinand should join liis regiment liy 
 the next Mediterranean packet, which was not to quit Fal- 
 mouth for a fortnight. Glastonbury and himself, therefore, 
 lost no time in bidding adieu to their kind friends in
 
 40 HENRIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 London, and liasfceuing to Armine. They arrived the day 
 after the Gazette. They found Sir Ratcliffe waiting for thera 
 at the town, and the fond smile and cordial embrace with 
 Avhich he greeted Glastonbui-y more than repaid that good 
 man for all his exertions. There was, notwithstanding, a 
 perceptible degree of constraint both on the part of the 
 baronet and his former tutor. It was (s-s-ident that Sir 
 Ratcliffe had something on his mind of which he wished 
 to disburden himself; and it was equally apparent that 
 Glastonbury was unwilling to afford him an opportunity. 
 Under these rather awkward circumstances, it was perhaps 
 fortunate that Ferdinand talked without ceasing, giving his 
 father an account of all he had seen, done, and heard, and 
 
 of all the friends 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. The carriage stopped ; Ferdinand jumped 
 out and embraced his mother. She kissed him, a-nd ran 
 forward and extended both her hands to Mr. Glastonbur}'. 
 ' Deeds, not words, must show our feelings,' she said, and 
 the tears glittered in her beautiful eyes ; Glastonbury, with 
 a blush, pressed her hand to his lips. After dmner, during 
 which Ferdinand recounted all his adventures, Lady Armine 
 invited him, when she rose, to walk with her in the garden. 
 It was then, with an air of considerable confusion, 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 days of magic have returned. This commission, 
 both Constance and myself feel, that is, we are certain, 
 that you are at the bottom of it all. The commission is 
 purchased. I could not expect the Duke, deeply as I feel 
 his generous kindness, to purchase a commission for my 
 son : I could not permit it. No ! Glastonbury,' and hero 
 Sir Ratcliffe became more animated, ' y'li. could not permit
 
 A LOVE STORY. 41 
 
 it; my lionoui' is safe ia your bauds ? ' Sir Ratcliffe paused 
 for a reply. 
 
 ' On that score my conscience is cleai-,' replied Glastou- 
 bury. 
 
 ' It is tbeu, it must be then as I suspect,' rejoined Sir 
 Eatcliff'c. ' I am your debtor for this great service.' 
 
 ' It is easy to count your obligations tome,' said Glaston- 
 bury, ' but mine to you and yours are incalculable.' 
 
 ' J\Iy dear Glastonbury,' said Sir Ilatclitfe, pushing his 
 glass away as he rose from his scab and -walked up and down 
 tlie room, ' I may be proud, but I have no pride for you, [ 
 owe you too much ; indeed, my dear friend, there is nothing 
 that I would not accept fi-om you, were it in your power 
 to 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 more readily ; but the 
 truth is, I, I — I cannot permit that you should suiFer lor 
 us, Glastonbury, I cannot indeed.' 
 
 Mr. Glastonbury looked at Sir Ratcliffe steadily ; then 
 insing from his seat he took the baronet's arm, and without 
 saving a word walked slowly towards the eratcs of the castle 
 whei"e he lodged, and which we have before described. 
 "When he had reached the steps of the tower he with- 
 drew his arm, and saying, ' Let me be i)ioneer,' invited 
 Sir EatclifTe to follow him. They accordingly entered 
 his chamber. 
 
 It was a small room lined with shelves of books, except 
 in one spot, where was suspended a porh-ait of Lady Bar- 
 bara, which she liad bequeathed him in her will. The floor 
 was covered with so many boxes and cases that it was not 
 very easy to steer a course when you had entered. Glaston- 
 bur}', however, beckoned to his companion to seat himself 
 in one of hif? two chairs, while he unlocked a small cabinet, 
 from a drawer uf which ho brought forth a paper.
 
 42 HENRIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 * It is my will,' said Glastonbury, handing it to Sir Rat- 
 clifFe, who laid it down on the table. 
 
 ' Nay, I wish you, my dear friend, to pei'use it, for it con- 
 cerns yoiirself.' 
 
 * I would rather learn its contents from yourself, if you 
 positively desire me,' replied Sir Ratcliffe. 
 
 ' I have left everything to our child,' said Glastonbury ; 
 for thus, when speaking to the father alone, he would often 
 style the son. 
 
 'May it be long before he enjoys the bequest,' said Sir 
 Ratcliffe, brushing a-\vay a tear ; ' long, very long.' 
 
 'As the Almighty pleases,' said Glastonbury, crossing 
 himself. ' But living or dead, I look upon all as Ferdinand's, 
 and hold myself but the steward of his inheritance, which 
 I will never abuse.' 
 
 ' ! Glastonbury, no more of this I pray ; you have 
 wasted a precious life upon our forlorn race. Alas ! how 
 often and how keenly do I feel, that had it not been for the 
 name of Armine your great talents and goodness might 
 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 an unaccustomed energy of manner. 'Would 
 that I could ! would that any act of mine, I care not what, 
 could revive the fortunes of the house of Armine. Hon- 
 oured for ever be the name, which Avith me is associated 
 with all that is great and glorious in man, and (here his 
 voice faltered, and he turned away his face) exquisite and 
 enchanting in woman ! ' 
 
 ' No, Ratcliffe,' he resumed, ' by the memory of one I 
 cannot name, by that blessed and saintly being from whom 
 you derive your life, you will not, you cannot deny this 
 last favour I ask, I entreat, I supplicate you to accord me : 
 me, who have ever eaten of yom' bread, and whom your 
 roof hath ever shrouded ! '
 
 A LOVE STORY. 43 
 
 * My friend, I cannot speak,' said Sii- Ratclilie, throwing 
 himself back in the chair and covering his face with his 
 right hand ; ' I know not what to say ; I know not what to 
 feeh' 
 
 Glastonbury advanced, and gently took his other hand. 
 ' Dear Sir Ratcliffe,' he observed, in his usual calm, sweet 
 voice, ' if I have erred you will pardon me. I did believe 
 that, after my long and intimate connection with your 
 house ; after having for nearly forty years sympathised as 
 deeply with all your fortunes as if, indeed, your noble 
 blood flowed in these old veins ; after having been honoured 
 on your side with a friendship which has been the consola- 
 tion and charm of my existence ; indeed, too great a bless- 
 ing ; I did believe, more especially wlicn I reminded myself 
 of the unrestrained manner in which I had availed myself 
 of the advantages of that friendship, I did believe, actuated 
 by feelings Avhich perhaps I cannot describe, and thoughts 
 to which I cannot now give utterance, that I might ven- 
 ture, "without ofience, upon this slight service : ay, that the 
 offering raiglit be made in the spirit of most respectful 
 affection, and not altogether be devoid of favour iu your 
 sight.' 
 
 ' Excellent, kind-hearted man !' said Sir Ratcliffe, press- 
 ing the hand of Glastonbury in his OAvn ; ' I accept your 
 offering in the spirit of perfect love. Believe me, dearest 
 friend, it was no feeling of false pride that for a moment 
 influenced mo ; I only felt — ' • 
 
 ' That in venturing upon this humble service I deprived 
 myself of some portion of my means of livelihood : you arc 
 mistaken. When I cast my lot at Armine I sank a portion 
 of my capital on my life ; so slender are my wants here, 
 and so little does your dear lady permit me to desire, that, 
 believe me, I have never yet expended upon myself this 
 apportioned income ; and as for the rest, it is, as you have 
 Been, destined for our Ferdinand. Yet a little time and
 
 44 HENKIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 Adrian Glastoiibmy must be gathered to his fathers. 
 Why, tlien, deprive him of the greatest gratification of his 
 remaining years ? the consciousness that, to be really ser- 
 viceable to those he loves, it is not necessary for him to 
 cease to exist.' 
 
 ' May you never repent your devotion to our house ! ' 
 said Sir Eatclifle, rising from his seat. ' Time was we 
 could give them who served us something better than 
 thanks ; but, at any rate, these come from the heart.' 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE LAST DAY AND THE LAST NIGHT. 
 
 In the meantime, the approaching departure of Ferdinand 
 was the great topic of interest at Armine. It was settled 
 that his father should accompany him to Falmouth, where 
 he was to embark ; and that they should pay a' visit on 
 their way to his grandfather, whose seat was situate in the 
 west of England. This separation, now so near at hand, 
 occasioned Lady Armine the deepest affliction; but she 
 struggled to suppress her emotion. Yet often, while apj)a- 
 rently busied with the common occupations of the day, the 
 tears trickled down her cheek ; and often she rose from her 
 restless seat, while surrounded by those she loved, to seek 
 the solitude of her chamber and indulge lier overwhelming 
 Borrow. Nor was Ferdinand less sensible of the bitterness 
 of this separation. With all the excitement of his new 
 prospects, and the feeling of approaching adventure and 
 fancied independence, so flattering to inexperienced youth, 
 he could not forget that his had been a very happy home. 
 Nearly seventeen years of an innocent existence had passed, 
 undisturbed by a single bad 2:)assion, and unsullied by a 
 single action that he could regret. The river of his life
 
 A LOVE STORY. 4o 
 
 liad glided along, vefleeliug only a cloudless .sky. Bi;t if 
 he had been dutiful and hapjoy, if at this moment of severe 
 examination his conscience were serene, he conld not but 
 feel how much this emaable state of mind was to bo 
 attributed to those who had, as it were, imbued his life 
 with love ; w^hose never-varying affection had developed all 
 the kindly feelings of his nature, had anticipated all his 
 wants, and listened to all his wishes ; had assisted him in 
 difficulty and guided him in doubt ; had iu\nted confidence 
 by kindness, and deserved it by sympathy ; had robbed 
 instruction of all its labour, and discipline of all its harsh- 
 ness. 
 
 It was the last day ; on the morrow he was to quit Ai-- 
 mine. He strolled about among the mouldering chambers 
 of the castle, and a host of thoughts and passions, like 
 clouds in a stormy sky, coursed over his hitherto serene 
 and light-hearted breast. In this first great struggle of 
 his soul some sj-mptoms of his latent nature developed 
 themselves, and, amid the rifts of the mental tempest, 
 occasionally he caught some glimpses of self-knoAvledgo. 
 Nature, that had endowed him with a fiery imagination 
 and a reckless courage, had tempered those dangerous, 
 and, hitherto, those undeveloped and untried gifts, Avith ii 
 heart of infinite sensibility. Ferdinand Armine wa.-?, in 
 truth, a singular blending of the daring and the soft ; and 
 now, as he looked around him and thought of his illu.strioua 
 and fallen race, aiul esiiecially of that extraordinary man, 
 of whose splendid and ruinous career, that man's own 
 creation, the surrounding pile, seemed a fitting emblem, lie 
 asked himself if he had nut inherited the energies with the 
 name of his grandsire, and if their exertion might not yet 
 revive the glories of his line. He felt within him alike the 
 power and the will ; and while he indulged in magnificent 
 reveries of fame and glory and heroic action, of which 
 career, indeed, his approaching departure was to be llio
 
 46 HENEIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 commencement, tlie association of ideas led his recollection 
 to those beings from whom he was about to depart. His 
 fancy dropped like a bird of paradise in full wing, tumbling 
 exhausted in the sky : he thought of his innocent and happy 
 boyhood, of his father's thoughtful benevolence, his sweet 
 mother's gentle assiduities, and Glastonbury's devotion ; 
 and he demanded aloud, in a voice of anguish, whether 
 Fate could indeed supply a lot more exquisite than to pass 
 existence in these calm and beauteous bowers with such 
 beloved companions. 
 
 His name was called : it was his mother's voice. He 
 dashed away a desperate tear, and came forth with a 
 smilinor face. His mother and father were walkino- to- 
 gether at a little distance. 
 
 'Ferdinand,' said Lady Armine, with an air of affected 
 gaiety, ' we have just been settling that you are to send me 
 a gazelle from Malta.' And in this strain, speaking of 
 slight things, yet all in some degree touching upon the 
 mournful incident of the morrow, did Lady Armine for 
 some time converse, as if she were all this time trying 
 the fortitude of her mind, and accustoming herself to a 
 catastrophe which she was resolved to meet with forti- 
 tude. 
 
 While they were walking together, Glastonbuiy, who 
 was hurrying from his rooms to the Place, for the dinner 
 hour was at hand, joined them, and they entered their 
 home together. It was singular at dinner, too, in what 
 excellent spirits everybody determined to be. The dinner 
 also, generally a simple repast, Avas almost as elaborate as 
 the dem.eanour of the guests, and, although no one felt 
 incHned to eat, consisted of every dish and delicacy which 
 was supposed to be a favourite with Ferdinand. Sir Rat- 
 cliffc, in general so grave, was to-day quite joyous, and 
 produced a magnum of claret which he had himself dis- 
 covered in the old cellars, and of which even Glastonbury,
 
 A LOVE STORY. 47 
 
 an habitual -water-drinker, ventui'ed to partake. As I'or 
 Lady Ai-mine, slie scarcely ever ceased talking ; she found 
 a jest in every sentence, and seemed only uneasy "when 
 there was silence. Ferdinand, of course, yielded himself to 
 the apparent spirit of the party ; and, had a stranger been 
 present, he could only have supposed that they "were cele- 
 brating some anniversary of domestic joy. It seemed 
 rather a birth-day feast than the last social meeting of 
 those who had hved together so long, and loved each other 
 so dearly. 
 
 But as the evening drew on their hearts began to grow 
 heavy, and every one was glad that the early departure 
 of the travellers on the morrow was an excuse for speedily 
 retiring. 
 
 * No adieus to-night ! ' said Lady Armine with a gay air, 
 as she scarcely returned the habitual embrace of her son. 
 ' We shall be all up to-morrow.' 
 
 So wishing his last good night with a charged heart and 
 faltering tongue, Ferdinand Annine took up his candle and 
 retired to his chamber. He could not refrain from exercis- 
 ing an uniisual scnitiny when he had entered the room. 
 He held up the light to the old accustomed walls, and 
 threw a parting glance of affection at the curtains. There 
 was the glass vase which his mother had never omitted 
 each day to fill -with fresh flowers, and the counterpane 
 that was her own handiwork. He kissed it ; and, flinging 
 off his clothes, was glad when ho was surrounded with 
 darkness 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 obsoi-ved 
 a tall white figure approaching him. 
 
 Lady Armine, without speaking, knelt doA^Ti by his bod- 
 eide and took him in her arms. She Iraried her face in his
 
 48 ITENTIIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 breast. He felt her tears upon liis heart. 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 He guard over you ; may He presei-ve you ! ' 
 Very weak was her still, solemn voice. ' I would have 
 spared you this, my darling. For you, not for myself, 
 have I controlled my feelings. But I knew not the strength 
 of a mother's love. Alas ! what mother has a child like 
 thee ? ! Ferdinand, my first, my only-born : child of 
 love and joy and happiness, that never cost me a thought 
 of sorrow ; so kind, so gentle, and so dutiful ! must we, oh ! 
 must we indeed part ? ' 
 
 ' It is too cruel,' continued I;ady Armine, kissing with a 
 thousand kisses her weeping child. ' What have I done to 
 deserve such misery as this ? Ferdinand, beloved Ferdi- 
 nand, I shall die.' 
 
 ' I will not go, mother, I will not go,' wildly exclaimed 
 the boy, disengaging himself from her embrace and start- 
 ing up in his bed. ' Mother, I cannot go. No, no, it 
 never can be good to leave a homo like this.' 
 
 ' Hush ! hush ! my darling. What words are these ? How 
 unkind, how wicked is it of me to say all this ! Would 
 that 1 had not come ! I only meant to listen at your door a 
 minute, and hear you move, perhaps to hear you speak, 
 and like a fool, how naughty of me ! never, never shall I 
 forgive myself; 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 like other children, Ferdinand ? When your 
 uncle left us, my father said, 'Good-bye,' and shook his 
 hand; and he, he scarcely kissed us, he was so glad to
 
 A LOVE STOEY, 49 
 
 leave Ills home ; but you — to-morrow ; no, not to-mo^ro\^^ 
 Can it bo to-morrow ? ' 
 
 ' Mother, let mo got up and call my father, and tell him 
 I will not go.' 
 
 ' Good God ! what words arc these ? ITot go ! 'Tis all 
 your hope to go ; all ours, dear child. What would your 
 father say were he to hear me speak thus ? Oh ! that I 
 had not entered ! What a fix)l I am ! ' 
 
 ' Dearest, deai*est 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.' 
 
 ' Darlins? child ! ' 
 
 ' You know I have often stayed a month at grandpapa's, 
 and once sis weeks. WJiy ! eight times six weeks, and I 
 shall be home a^'ain.' 
 
 ' Home ! home again ! eight times six weeks ; a ycai', 
 nearly a year ! It seems eternit3^ Winter, and spring, 
 and summer, and winter again, all to pass away. And for 
 seventeen years he has scarcelj' been out of my sight. Oh ! 
 my idol, my beloved, my darling Ferdinand, I cannot be- 
 lieve it ; I cannot believe that we are to part.' 
 
 ' ^Mother, dearest mother, think of my lather ; think how 
 much his hopes are placed on me ; tliink, dearest mother, 
 how much I ha-\'e to do. All noAV depends on me, you know. 
 I must restore our house.' 
 
 ' ! Ferdinand, I dare not express the thoughts that rise 
 upon me ; yet I would say that, had I but my child, I could 
 live in peace ; how, or where, I care not.' 
 
 ' Dearest mother, you unman me.' 
 
 * It is xorj wicked. I am a fool. I never, no ! never shall 
 I pardon myself for this night, Ferdinand.' 
 
 ' Sweet mothCT', I beseech you calm yourself Believe mo
 
 60 HENRIETTA TEJVLPLE : 
 
 we stall indeed meet very soon, and somehow or other a 
 little bird whispers to me we shall yet be very happy.' 
 
 ' But wiU you be the same Ferdinand to me as befoi'e ? 
 Ay ! There it is, my child. Ton will be a man when you 
 come baolc, and be ashamed to love your mother. Promise 
 me now,' said Lady Armine, with extraordinary energy, 
 ' promise me, Ferdinand, you will always love me. Do not 
 let them make jou ashamed of loving m.e. They will joke, 
 and jest, and ridicule all home affections. Ton are very 
 young, sweet love, very, very young, and very inexperienced 
 and susceptible. Do not let them spoil your frank and beau- 
 tiful nature. Do not let them lead you astray. Remember 
 Armine, dear, dear Armine, and those who live there. Trust 
 me, oh ! yes, indeed believe me, darling, you will never find 
 friends in this world like those you leave at Armine.' 
 
 ' I know it,' exclaimed Ferdinand, with streaming eyes ; 
 * God be my witness how deeply I feel that truth. If I for- 
 get thee and them, dear mother, may God indeed forget me.' 
 
 ' My Ferdinand,' said Lady Armine, in a calm tone, 'I am 
 better now. I hardly am soriy that I did come now. It 
 will be a consolation to me in your absence tq remember all 
 you have said. Good night, my beloved child ; my darling 
 child, good night. I shall not come down to-morrow, dear. 
 We Avill not meet again ; I will say good-bye to you from the 
 window. Be happy, my dear Ferdinand, and as you say 
 indeed, we shall soon meet again. Eight-and-forty weeks ! 
 Why what are eight-and-forty weeks ? It is not quite a 
 year. Courage, my sweet boy ! let us keep u-p each other's 
 spirits. Who knows what may yet come from this your 
 first venture into the world ? I am full of hope. I tmst 
 you will find all that you want. I packed up everything 
 myself. Whenever you want anything write to your mo- 
 ther. Mind, you have eight packages ; I have written them 
 down on a card and placed it on the hall table. And take 
 the greatest care of old Sir Ferdinand's sword. I am very
 
 A LOVE STORY. 51 
 
 superstitious about that sword, and while you have it I am 
 sure you will succeed. I have ever thought that had he 
 taken it ^vith him to France all would have gone right with 
 him. God bless, God Almighty bless you, child. Be of 
 good heart. I will write you everything that takes place, 
 and, as you say, we shall soon meet. Indeed, after to-night,' 
 she added in a more mournful tone, ' we have nought else 
 to think of but of meeting. I fear it is very late. Your 
 father mil be surprised at my absence.' She rose from his 
 ])ed and walked up and down the room several times in 
 silence ; then again approaching him, she folded him in her 
 arms and quitted the chamber -without again speaking. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE ADVANTAGE OF BEING A FAVOUHITE GRANDSON. 
 
 The exhausted Ferdinand found consolation in sleep. When 
 he woke the dawn was just breaking. He dressed and went 
 forth to look, for the last time, on his hereditary woods. 
 The air was cold, but the .sky was perfectly clear, and the 
 beams of the rising sun soon spread over the blue heaven. 
 How fresh, and glad, and sparkling was the surrounding 
 scene ! "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 the groves. From 
 the green knoll on which he stood he beheld the clustering 
 village of Armino, a little agricultural settlement formed of 
 the peasants alone who lived on the estate. The smoke be- 
 gan to rise in blue curls from the cottage cliimneys, and the 
 church clock struck the hour of five. It seemed to Ferdi- 
 nand that those labourers were far happier than he, since
 
 52 IIEKllIETTA TEMPLE : 
 
 the selHug suu would find tliem still at Armine : liappy, 
 happy Armino ! 
 
 The sound of carriage wheels roused him from his reverie. 
 The fatal moment had arrived. He hastened to the gate 
 according to his promise, to bid farewell to Glastonbiiry. 
 The good old man was up. He pi-essed his pupil to his 
 bosom, and blessed him with a choking voice. 
 
 ' Dearest and kindest friend ! ' murmured Ferdinand. 
 
 Glastonbury placed round his neck a small golden crucifix 
 that had belonged to Lady Barbara. ' Wear it next your 
 heart, my child,' said he ; 'it Avill remind you of your God, 
 and of us all.' Eevdinand quitted the tower with a thou- 
 sand blessings. 
 
 When he came in sight of the Place he saw his father 
 standing by the carriage, Avhich was already packed. Fer- 
 dinand ran into the house to get the cai'd which had been 
 left on the hall table for him by his mother. He ran over 
 the list with the old and faithful domestic, and shook hands 
 with him. Xothing 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 EatclIfTe, ' sho 
 does not expect you. Come, come along.' 
 
 So he slowly seated himself, with his eyes fixed on tho 
 window of his mother's chamber; and as tho carriage drove 
 oS' the window opened, and a hand waved a Avhite handker- 
 chief. He saw no more ; but as he saw it he clenched his 
 hand in agony. 
 
 How different was this journey to London from his last ! 
 He scarcely spoke a word. Nothing interested him but his 
 own feelings. The guard and tho coachman, and the bustle 
 of the inn, and the passing spectacles of the road, appeared 
 a collection of imjicrtincnces. All of a sudden it seemed 
 that his boyish feelings had deserted him. He was glad 
 when they arrived in Loudon, and glud that they were to
 
 A LOVE STORY, 53 
 
 stay in it only a single day. Sia* Ratclifle auil his son called 
 upon the Duke ; but, as they had anticipated, the family had 
 quitted town. Oui* travellers pat up at Hatchett's, and the 
 following night started for Exeter in the Devonport mail. 
 Ferdinand ari-ived at the Avestern meti'opolis having inter- 
 changed •with his father scarcely a hundred sentences. At 
 Exeter, after a night of most welcome rest, they took a 
 post-chaise and proceeded by a cross-road to Grandison. 
 
 When Lord Grandison, who as yet was perfectly un- 
 acquainted with the revolutions in the Arniine family, had 
 clearly comprehended that his gi'andson had obtained a 
 commission without either troubling him for his interest, or 
 putting him in the disagreeable predicament of refusing hi.^ 
 money, there were no bounds to the extravagant testimo- 
 nials of his affection, both towards his son-in-law and his 
 grandson. He seemed quite proud of such relations ; ho 
 patted Sir Ratcliffe on his back, asked a thousand questions 
 about his darling Constance, and hugged and slobbered 
 over Ferdinand as if he were a child of live voars old. 
 He informed all his guests daily (and the house was full) 
 that Lady Armine was liis favourite daughter, and Sir Rat- 
 cliffe his favourite son-in-law, and Ferdinand especially his 
 favourite grandchild. Ho insisted upon Sir Ratcliffe always 
 sitting at the head of his table, and always placed Ferdinand 
 on his own right hand. He asked his butler aloud at dinner 
 why he had not given a particular kind of Burgundy, 
 because Sir Ratcliffe Armine was here. 
 
 ' DarboLs,' said the old nobleman, "have not I told yoii 
 that Clos de Vougeot is always to be kept for Sir Ratclitib 
 Armine ? It is his favourite wine. Clos de Vougeot 
 directly to Sir Ratcliffe Armine. I do not think, my dear 
 madam (turning to a fair neighbour), that I liave 3'et had 
 the pleasure of introducing you to my son-in-law, my 
 favourite son-in-law, Sir Ratclifle Armine. He married my 
 daughter Constance, my favouiile daughter Conslauce.
 
 54 HENRIETTA TE5TPLE : 
 
 Only here foi' a few days, a very, very few days indeed. 
 Quite a flying visit. I wish I could see the whole family 
 oftener and longer. Passing through to Falmouth with his 
 son, this young gentleman on my right, my grandson, my 
 favourite grandson, Ferdinand. Just got his commission. 
 Ordered for Malta immediately. He is in the Fusileers, the 
 Royal Fusileers. Very difficult, my dear madam, in these 
 days to obtain a commission, especially a commission in the 
 Royal Fusileers. Very great interest required, very great 
 interest, indeed. But the Armines are a most ancient 
 family, very highly connected, very highly connected ; and, 
 
 between you and me, the Duke of would do anything 
 
 for them. Come, come Captain Armine, take a glass of 
 wine with your old grandfather.' 
 
 ' How attached the old gentleman appears to be to his 
 grandson ! ' whispered the lady to her neighbour. 
 
 ' Delightful ! yes ! ' was the reply, ' I believe he is the 
 favourite grandson,' 
 
 In short, the old gentleman at last got so excited by the 
 universal admiration lavished on his favourite grandson, 
 that he finally insisted on seeing the young hero in his regi- 
 mentals ; and when Ferdinand took his leave, after a great 
 many whimpering blessings, his domestic feelings wero 
 worked up to such a pitch of enthusiasm, that he absolutely 
 presented his grandson with a hundred-pou^nd note. 
 
 ' Thank you, my dear grandpapa,' said the astonished 
 Ferdinand, who really did not expect more than fifty, per- 
 haps even a moiety of that more moderate sum ; ' thank you, 
 my dear grandpapa ; I am. very much obliged to you, 
 indeed.' 
 
 ' I wish I could do more for you ; I do, indeed,' said Lord 
 Grandlson ; ' but nobody ever thinks of paying his rent now. 
 You are my grandson, my favourite grandson, my dear 
 favourite daughter's only child. And you are an ofl&cer in 
 his Majesty's service, an officer in the Royal Fusileers, only 
 
 i
 
 A LOVE STORY. 55 
 
 tliink of tLat ! Ifc is the most unexpected thing that evev 
 happened to me. To see you so '.veil and so unexpecfcedlj pro- 
 vided for, my dear child, has taken a very great load off my 
 mind ; it has indeed. Yon have no idea of a parent's anxiety 
 in these matters, especially of a gi'andfather. You -will some 
 day, I warrant you,' continued the noble grandfather, with 
 an expression between a giggle and a leer ; ' bat do not be 
 wild, my dear Ferdinand, do not be too wild at least. Young 
 blood must have its way ; but be cautious ; now, do ; bo 
 cautious, my dear child. Do not get into any scrapes ; at 
 least, do not get into any serious scrapes ; and whatever 
 happens to you,' and here his lordship assumed even a 
 solemn tone, 'remember you have friends; remember, my 
 dear boy, you have a grandfather, and that you, my dear 
 Ferdinand, are his favourite grandson.' 
 
 This passing visit to Grandison rather rallied the spirits 
 of our travellers. "When they ari'ived at Falmouth, they 
 found, however, that the packet, which waited for govern- 
 ment despatches, was not yet to sail. Sir Ratcliffe scarcely 
 knew whether he ought to grieve or to rejoice at the re- 
 prieve ; but he determined to be gay. So Ferdinand and 
 himself passed their mornings in visiting the mines, Pen- 
 dennis Castle, and the other lions of the neighbourhood ; 
 and returned in the evening to their cheerful hotel, with 
 good appetites for their agreeable banquet, the mutton of 
 Dartmoor and the cream of Devon. 
 
 At length, however, the hour of separation approached ; 
 a message awaited them at the inn, on their return from 
 one of their rambles, that Ferdinand must be on board at 
 an early hour on the morrow. That evening the conversa- 
 tion between Sir Ratcliffe and his son was of a graver 
 nature than they usually indulged in. He spoke to him in 
 confidence of his affairs. Dark hints, indeed, had before 
 reached Ferdinand ; nor, although his j^arents had ever 
 spared his feelings, could his intelligent mind have altogether
 
 50 HENEIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 refrained from guessing mucli tliat had never been formally 
 communicated. Yet the truth was worse even than he had 
 anticipated. Ferdinand, however, was young and sanguine. 
 He encouraged his father with his hopes, and supported 
 him by his sympathy. He expressed to Sir Ratcliffe his 
 confidence that the generosity of his grandfather would 
 prevent him at present from becoming a burden to his own 
 parent, and he inwardly resolved that no possible circum- 
 stance should ever induce him to abuse the benevolence of 
 Sir Ratcliffe. 
 
 The moment of separation arrived. Sir Ratcliffe pressed 
 to his bosom his only, his loving, and his beloved child. 
 He poured ovor Ferdinand the deepest, the most fervid 
 blessing that a father ever granted to a son. But_. with all 
 this pious consolation, it Avas a moment of agoTiy. 
 
 KTD OF THE YlJiST BOOS.
 
 A LOVE STORY. J 7 
 
 BOOK IT. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 PARTLY EETP.OSPECTIVr;, YET VERY NECESSARY TO liR rERDSED. 
 
 Nearly five years Ijacl elapsed between the event -svliich 
 formed the subject of our last cliajiter and the rccal to 
 Eng-land of the regiment in which Captain Armiuo now 
 commanded a company. This period of time had passt-l 
 away not unfruitful of events in the experience of that 
 family, in whose fate and feelings I have attempted to 
 interest the reader. In this interval Ferdinand Armine 
 had paid one short visit to his native land ; a visit which 
 had certainly been accelerated, if not absolutely occasioned, 
 by the imtimely death of his cousin Augustus, the pres\inip. 
 tive heir of Grandison. This unforeseen event produced a 
 great revolution in the prospects of the family of Arniine ; 
 I'or although the title and an entailed estate devolved 
 to a distant branch, the absolute property of the old 
 lord was of great amount; and, as he had no male heir 
 now living, conjectures as to its probable disposition were 
 now rife among all those who could possibly become in- 
 terested in it. Whatever arrangement the old lord might 
 decide upon, it seemed nearly certain that the Armine 
 {iimily must be greatly benefited. Some persons even went 
 so lar as to express their conviction that everything would 
 be left to Mr. Arniine, who evervbodv now dincovered to
 
 58 HEXKIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 have always been a particular favourite with his grand- 
 father. At all events, Sir Ratcliffe, who ever maintained 
 upon the subject a becoming silence, thought it as well that 
 his son should remind liis grandfather personally of his 
 existence ; and it was at his father's suggestion that Fer- 
 dinand had obtained a short leave of absence, at the first 
 opportunity, to pay a huri'ied visit to Grandison and his 
 grandfather. 
 
 The old lord yielded him a reception which might have 
 flattered the most daring hopes. He embraced Ferdinand, 
 and pressed him to his heart a thousand times ; he gave 
 him his blessing in the most formal manner every morning 
 and evening ; and assured everybody that he now was not 
 only his favourite but his only grandson. He did not even 
 hesitate to affect a growing dislike for his own seat, because 
 it was not in his power to leave it to Ferdinand ; and he 
 endeavoured to console that fortunate youth for his in- 
 dispensable deprivation by mysterious intimations that he 
 would, perhaps, find quite enough to do with his money in 
 completing Armine Castle, and maintaining its becoming 
 splendour. The sangiiine Ferdinand returned to Malta 
 with the conviction that he was his grandfather's heir ; and 
 even Sir Ratcliffe was almost disposed to believe that his 
 son's expectations were not without some show of proba- 
 bility, when he found that Lord Grandison had absolutely 
 furnished him v/ith the funds for the purchase of his com- 
 pany. 
 
 Ferdinand was fond of his profession. He had entered 
 it under favourable circumstances. He had joined a crack 
 regiment in a crack garrison. Malta is certainly a delightful 
 station. Its city, Yaletta, equals in its noble architecture, 
 if it even do not excel, any capital in Europe ; and although 
 it must be confessed that the surrounding region is little 
 better than a rock, the vicinity, nevertheless, of Barbaiy, 
 of Italy, and of Sicily, presents exhaustless resources to
 
 A LOVE STORY. 59 
 
 tlie lovers of the highest order of natural beauty. If that 
 fair Valetta, with its streets of palaces, its picturesque forts 
 and maguificent church, only crowned some green and 
 azure island of the Ionian Sea, Corfu for instance, I really 
 think that the ideal of landscape would be realised. 
 
 To Ferdinand, who was inexperienced in the world, the 
 dissipation of Malta, too, was delightful. It must be confessed 
 that, under all circumstances, the first burst of emancipation 
 from domestic routine hath in it something fascinating. 
 However you may be indulged at home, it is impossible to 
 break the chain of childish associations ; it is impossible to 
 escape from the feeling of dependence and the habit of sub- 
 mission. Charming hour when you first order your own 
 servants and ride your ovm horses, instead of your father's ! 
 It is delightful even to kick about our own furniture ; and 
 there is something manly and magnanimous in paying our 
 own taxes. Toung, lively, kind, accomplished, good-looking, 
 and well-bred, Ferdinand Armine had in him all the elements 
 of popularity ; and the novelty of popularity quite intoxi- 
 cated a youth who had passed his life in a rural seclusion, 
 where he had been appreciated, but not huzzaed. Ferdi- 
 nand was not only popular, but proud of being popular. 
 He was popular with Ihe Goveraor, he was popular with 
 his Colonel, he was popular with his mess, ho was popular 
 throughout tho garrison. Never was a person so popular 
 as Ferdinand Armine. He was the best rider among them, 
 and tho deadliest shot; and he soon became an oracle at 
 the billiard-table, and a hero in the racket-court. His re- 
 fined education, however, fortunately preserved him from 
 the fiite of many other lively youths : he did not degenerate 
 into a mere hero of sports and brawls, the genius of male 
 revels, the ai-biter of roistering suppers, and the Comus of 
 a club. His boyish feelings had their play ; ho soon exuded 
 the wanton heat of which a public school would have served 
 as a safety-valve. He returned to his books, his music, and
 
 CO HENRIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 Ills peiiciJ. He became more quiet, biii lie vras not less 
 liked. If he lost some companions, he gained many friends ; 
 and, on the whole, the most boisterous wassailers were 
 proud of the accomplishments of their comrade ; and often 
 an invitation to a mess dinner was accompanied by a hint 
 that Armine dined there, and that there was a chance of 
 hearing him sing. Ferdinand now became as popular with 
 the Governor's lady as with the Governor himself, was 
 idolised by his Colonel's wife, Avliile not a party throughout 
 the island Avas considered perfect without the presence of 
 Mr. Armine. 
 
 Excited by his situation, Ferdinand was soon tempted to 
 incur expenses which his income did not justify. Tlie 
 facility of credit afforded him not a moment to pause ; 
 everything he wanted was furnished him ; and until tb.e 
 regiment quitted the garrison he was well aware thai a 
 settlement of accounts was never even desired. Amid this 
 imprudence he was firm, however, in his resolution never to 
 trespass on the resources of his father. It was with diffi. 
 culty that he even brought himself to draw for the allow- 
 ance which Sir Eatcliffe insisted on making him ; and ho 
 would gladly have saved his father from making even this 
 advance, by vague intimations of the bounty of Lord Gran- 
 dison, had he not feared this conduct might have led to 
 suspicious and disagreeable enquiries. It cannot be denied 
 that his debts occasionally caused him anxiety, but they 
 were not considerable ; he quieted his conscience by the 
 belief that, if he were pressed, his grandfather could scarcely 
 i-efuse to discharge a few hundred pounds for his favourite 
 grandson ; and, at all events, he felt that the ultimate re- 
 source of selling his commission was still resei"ved for him. 
 If these vague prospects did not drive away compunction, 
 the qualms of conscience were generally allayed in the 
 evening assembly, in which his vanity was gratified. At 
 length he pa^'d his first visit to England. That was a
 
 A LO\'JE STOKV. 61 
 
 liappy meeting-. His kiud father, Lis doai', dear mother, 
 aud the faithful Glastonbury, experienced some of the 
 most transporting moments of their existence, -when they 
 behehl, with admiring gaze, the hero who returned to them. 
 Their eyes were never satiated with beholding him ; they 
 hung upon his accents. Then came the triumphant visit 
 to Grandison; and then Ferdinand returned to Malta, in 
 the full conviction that he was the heir to fifteen thousand 
 a year. 
 
 Among many other, there is one characteristic of capitals 
 in which Vuletta is not deficient : the facility with which 
 young heirs apparent, presumptive, or expectant, can ob- 
 tain any accommodation tho}^ desire. The terms ; never 
 mind the terms, who ever thinks of them ? As for Ferdi- 
 nand Armine, who, as the only son of an (jld baronet, and 
 the supposed future inheritor of Armine Park, had alwavs 
 been looked upon by tradesmen with a gracious eye, ho 
 found that his popularity in this respect was not at all 
 diminished by his visit to England, and its supposed couse- 
 quences ; slight expressions, uttered on his return in tho 
 conlidence of convivial companionship, were repeated, mis- 
 represented, exaggerated, and circulated in all quarters. 
 We like those whom wo lovo to be fortunate. Ever^'body 
 rejoices iu the good luck of a popular character ; and soon 
 it was generally understood that Ferdinand Armine had 
 become next iu the entail lo thirty thousand a year and a 
 peerage. Moreover, he Mas not long to wait for his inheri- 
 tance. The usurers pricked up their ears, and such nume- 
 rous proflers of accommodation and assistance were made lo 
 the fortunate Mr. Armine, that he really found it quite im- 
 possible to refuse them, or to reject the loans that were 
 almost forced on his acceptance. 
 
 Ferdinand Armine liad jiassed tho Rubicon. lie was in 
 debt. If youth but knew the fatal misery that they ai-o 
 entailing on themfcehcs the moment they accept a jiccu-
 
 62 HENEIETTA TEMPLE : 
 
 niary credit to wliicli they are not entitled, liow tliey would 
 start in their career ! how pale they would turn ! how they 
 would tremble, and clasp their hands in agony at the preci- 
 pice on which they are disporting ! Debt is the prolific 
 mother of folly and of crime ; it taints the course of life in 
 all its dreams. Hence so many unhappy marriages, so 
 many prostituted pens, and venal politicians ! It hath a 
 small beginning, but a giant's growth and strength. When 
 we make the monster we make our mastei", who haunts us 
 at all hours, and shakes his whip of scorpions for ever in 
 our sight. The slave hath no overseer so severe. Faustus, 
 when he signed the bond with blood, did not secure a doom 
 more terrific. But when we are young we must enjoy our- 
 selves. Tru^ ; and there are few things more gloomy than 
 the recollection of a youth that has not been enjoyed. 
 What prosperity of manhood, what splendour of old #.ge, 
 can compensate for it? Wealth is power; and in youth, 
 of all seasons of life, we require power, because we can 
 enjoy everything that Ave can command. What, then, is to 
 be done? I leave the question to the schoolmen, because 
 I am convinced that to moralise with the inexiDei-ienced 
 availeth nothing. 
 
 The conduct of men depends upon their temperament, 
 not upon a bunch of musty maxims. No one had been 
 educated with more care than Ferdinand Armine ; in no 
 heart had stricter precepts of moral conduct ever been in- 
 stilled. But he was lively and impetuous, with a fieiy 
 imagination, violent passions, and a daring soul. Sanguine 
 he was as the day ; he could not believe in the night of 
 sorrow, and the impenetrable gloom that attends a career 
 that has failed. The world was all before him ; and he 
 dashed at it like a young charger in his first strife, confident 
 that he must rush to victory, and never dreaming of death. 
 Thus would I attemjDt to account for the extreme impru- 
 dence of his conduct on his. return from Ena'land. He was
 
 A LOVE STORY. G3 
 
 confident in his future fortunes ; lie was excited by the 
 applause of the men, and the admiration of the women ; ho 
 determined to gratify, even to satiety, his restless vanity ; 
 he broke into j^rofuse expenditure ; he purchased a yacht ; 
 he engaged a villa ; his racing-horses and his servants ex- 
 ceeded all other establishments, except the Governor's, in 
 breeding, in splendour, and in number. Occasionally wearied 
 with the monotony of Malta, he obtained a short leave of 
 absence, and passed a few weeks at JSTaples, Palermo, and 
 Rome, where he glittered in brilliant circles, and whence 
 he returned laden with choice specimens of art and luxury, 
 and followed by the report of strange and flattering adven- 
 tures. Finally, he was the prime patron of the Maltese 
 opera, and brought over a celebrated Prima Donna from 
 San Carlo in his own vessel. 
 
 In the midst of his career, Ferdinand received intelli- 
 gence of the death of Lord Grandison. Fortunately, when 
 he received it he was alone ; there was no one, therefore, to 
 witness his blank dismay when he discovered that, after 
 all, he was not his grandfather's heir! After a vast num- 
 ber of trifliiig legacies to his daughters, and their husbands, 
 and their children, and all his favoui-ite friends. Lord Gran- 
 dison left the whole of his property to his gi-and-daughter 
 Katherine, the only remaining child of his son, who had 
 died early in life, and the sister of the lately deceased 
 Augustus. 
 
 What was to be done now ? His mother's sang-uine mind, 
 for Lady Armine broke to him the iiital intelhgence, already 
 seemed to anticipate the on\y remedy for this ' unjust will' 
 It was a remedy dehcately intimated, but the intention fell 
 upon a fine and ready car. Yes ! he must marry ; he must 
 many his cousin ; he must marry Katherine Grandison. 
 Ferdinand looked around him at his magnificent rooms ; 
 the damask hangings of Tunis, the tall mirrors from Mar- 
 Beilles, the inlaid tables, the marble statues, and the alabaster
 
 64 HENRIETTA TE.^U^LE : 
 
 vases tliat lie had purcliased at Florence and at Rome, and 
 the delicate mats that he had himself imported from Algiers. 
 He looked around and he shrugged his shoulders : ' All this 
 must he paid for,' thought he; 'and, alas! how much 
 more ! ' And then came across his mind a recollection of 
 his father and his cares, and innocent Armine, and dear 
 Glastonbuiy, and his sacrifice. Ferdinand shook his head 
 and sighed. 
 
 ' How have I repaid them,' thought he. ' Thank God 
 they know nothing. Thank Gcd they have only to bear 
 their own disappointments and their own privations ; but 
 it is in vain to moralise. The future, not the past, must be 
 my motto. To retreat is impossible; I may yet advance 
 and conquer. Katherine Grandison : only think of my little 
 cousin Kate for a wife ! They say that it is not the easiest 
 task in the world to fun a lively flame in the bosom of a 
 cousin. The love of cousins is proverbially not of a very 
 romantic character, 'Tis well I have not seen her much in 
 my life, and very little of late. Familiarity breeds con- 
 tempt, they say. Will she dare to despise me?' He 
 glanced at the mirror. The inspection was not unsatis- 
 factory. Plunged in profound meditation, he paced the 
 room. 
 
 CHAPTEK II. 
 
 IN WHICH CAPTAIX AEMIXE ACHIEVES Wmi RAPIDITY A RESULT 
 WHICH ALWAYS REQUIEES GREAT DELIBERATION^. 
 
 It so happened that the regiment in which Captain Armine 
 had the honour of commanding a company Avas at this time 
 under orders of immediaf e recal to England ; and within a 
 month of his receipt of the fatal intelligence of his being, 
 as he styled it, diteinheritcd, he was on his way to his native
 
 A LOVE STORY. 60 
 
 land. This speedy departure was fortunate, because it 
 permitted liim to retire before tlie death of Lord Grandison 
 becarae generally known, and consequently commented 
 upon and enquired into. Previous to quitting the garrison, 
 Ferdinand bad settled bis affairs for tbe time without the 
 fllightest difficulty, as he was still able to raise any money 
 that be required. 
 
 On arriving at Falmouth, Ferdinand learnt that his father 
 and mother were at Bath, on a visit to bis maiden aunt, 
 Miss Grandison, with whom his cousin now resided. As 
 the regiment was quartered at Exeter, he was enabled in a 
 very few days to obtain leave of absence and join them. 
 In the first raptiu'e of meeting all disappointment was for- 
 gotten, and in the course of a day or two, when this senti- 
 ment had somewhat subsided, Ferdinand perceived that the 
 shock wliich his parents must have necessarily experienced 
 was already considerably softened by the prospect in which 
 they secretly indulged, and which various circumstances 
 combined in inducing them to believe was by no means a 
 visionary one. 
 
 His cousin Katherinc was about his own acre ; mild, 
 elegant, and pretty. Being fair, she looked extremely well 
 in her deep mourning. Slic was not remarkable for the 
 liveliness of her mind, yet not devoid of observation, 
 although easily influenced by those whom she loved, and 
 with whom she lived. Her maiden aunt evidently exercised 
 a powerful control over her conduct and opinions ; and 
 Lady Armine was a favourite sister of this maiden aunt. 
 Without, therefore, apparently directing her will, there was 
 no lack of effort from this quarter to predispose Kathcrine 
 in favour of her cousin. She heard so much of her cousin 
 Ferdinand, of his beauty, and his goodness, and his accom- 
 plishments, that she had looked forward to his arrival with 
 feelings of no ordinary interest. And, indeed, if the opinion.<3 
 and sentiments of those with whom she lived could infiu- 
 
 F
 
 66 HENRIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 ence, there was no need of any artifice to predispose her in 
 favour of her cousin. Sir RatclifFe and Lady Armine were 
 wrapped up in their son. They seemed scarcely to have 
 another idea, feeHng, or thought in the world, but his 
 existence and his felicity; and although their good sense 
 had ever preserved them from the silly habit of uttering 
 his panegyric in his presence, they amply compensated for 
 this painful restraint when he was away. Then he was 
 ever the handsomest, the cleverest, the most accomplished, 
 and the most kind-hearted and virtuous of his sex. For- 
 tunate the parents blessed with such a son ! thrice fortunate 
 the wife blessed with such a husband ! 
 
 It was therefore with no ordinary emotion that Katherine 
 Grandison heard that this perfect cousin Ferdinand had at 
 length arrived. She had seen little of him even in his 
 boyish days, and even then he was rather a hero in their 
 Lilliputian circle. 
 
 Ferdinand Armine was always looked up to at Grandison, 
 and always spoken of by her grandfather as a very fine 
 fellow indeed; a wonderfully fine fellow, his favourite 
 grandson, Ferdinand Armine : and now he had arrived. 
 His knock was heard at the door, his step was on the stairs, 
 the door opened, and certainly his first appearance did not 
 disappoint his cousin Kate. So handsome, so easy, so 
 gentle, and so cordial ; they were all the best friends in a 
 moment. Then he embraced his father with such fervour, 
 and kissed his mother with such fondness : it was evident 
 that he had an excellent heart. His arrival, indeed, was a 
 revolution. Their mourning days seemed at once to dis- 
 appear ; and although they of course entered society very 
 little, and never frequented any public amusement, it seemed 
 to Katherine that all of a sudden she lived in a round of 
 delightful gaiety. Ferdinand was so amusing and so accom- 
 plished ! He sang with her, he played with her ; he was 
 always projecting long summer rides and long summer
 
 A LOVE STORY. 67 
 
 walks. Then his conversation was so different from, every- 
 thing to which she had ever listened. He had seen so 
 many things and so many persons ; everything that was 
 strange, and everybody that was famous. His opinions 
 were so original, his illustrations so apt and lively, his 
 anecdotes so inexhaustible and sparkling ! Poor inex- 
 perienced, innocent Katherine ! Her cousin in four-and- 
 twenty hours found it quite impossible to fall in love 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 was anyone in the world so handsome, 
 so good, and so clever. ISTo one, indeed, who knew Fer- 
 dinand Armine could deny that he was a rare being ; but, 
 had there been any acute and unprejudiced observers who 
 had known him in his younger and happier hours, they 
 would perhaps have remarked some difference in his cha- 
 racter and conduct, and not a favourable one. He was 
 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 his lively talents and his perfect breed- 
 ing, but there was a restlessness about him, an excited and 
 exaggerated style, which might have made some suspect 
 that his demeanour was an effort, and that under a super- 
 ficial glitter, by which so many are deceived, there was no 
 little deficiency of the genuine and sincere. Katherine 
 Grandisou, however, was not one of those profound ob- 
 servers. She was easily captivated. Ferdinand, who really 
 did not feel sufficient emotion to venture upon a scene, 
 made his proposals to her when they were riding in a green 
 lane : the sun just setting, and the evening star glittering 
 through a vista. The lady blushed, and wept, and sobbed, 
 and hid her fair and streaming face ; but the result was as 
 satisfactory as our hero could desire. The young equestrians 
 kept their friends in the crescent at least two hours for 
 dinner, and then had no appetite for the repast when they
 
 G8 HENEIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 had arrived. JSTevertheless the maiden aunt, although a 
 very particular personage, made this day no complaint, and 
 was evidently far from being dissatisfied with anybody or 
 anything. As for Ferdinand, he called for a tumbler of 
 champagne, and secretly drank his own health, as the 
 luckiest fellow of his acquaintance, with a pretty, amiable, 
 and highbred wife, with all his debts paid, and the house 
 of Armine restored. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 IN WHlCn FERDINAND EETUENS TO ARMINE. 
 
 It was settled that a year must elapse from the death of 
 Lord Grandison before the young couple could be united : 
 a reprieve which did not occasion Ferdinand acute grief. 
 In the meantime the Grandisons were to pass at least 
 the autumn at Armine, and thither the imited families 
 proposed soon to direct their progress. Ferdinand, who 
 had been nearly two months at Bath, and was a little 
 wearied of courtship, contrived to quit that city before his 
 friends, on the plea of visiting London, to arrange about 
 selling his commission ; for it was agreed that he should 
 quit the army. 
 
 On his arrival in London, having spoken to his agent, 
 and finding town quite empty, he set off immediately for 
 Armine, in order that he might have the pleasure of being 
 there a few days without the society of his intended ; 
 celebrate the impending first of September ; and, especially, 
 embrace his dear Glastonbury. For it must not be sup- 
 posed that Ferdinand had forgotten for a moment this 
 invaluable friend ; on the contrary, he had written to him 
 several times since his arrival : always assuring him that 
 nothing but important business could prevent him fi'om 
 instantly paying him his respects.
 
 A LOVE STOEY. 69 
 
 It was with feelings of no common emotion, even of 
 agitation, that Ferdinand beheld the woods of Lis ancient 
 home ris.e in the distance, and soon the towers and 
 turrets of Armine Castle. Those venerable bowers, that 
 proud and lordly house, were not then to pass away 
 from their old and famous line ? He had redeemed 
 the heritage of his great ancestry; he looked with un- 
 mingled complacency on the magnificent landscape, once 
 to him a source of as nmeh anxiety as affection. "What a 
 change in the destiny of the Armines ! Their glory re- 
 stored; his own devoted and domestic hearth, once the 
 prey of so much care and gloom, crowned with ease and 
 happiness and joy ; on all sides a career of splendour and 
 felicity. And he had done all this ! What a prophet was 
 his mother ! She had ever indulged the fond conviction 
 that her beloved son would be their restorer. How wise 
 and pious was the nndeviating confidence of kind old 
 Glastonbury in their fate ! With what pure, what heart- 
 felt delight, would that faithful friend listen to his extra- 
 ordinary communication ! 
 
 His carriage dashed through the park gates as if the 
 driver were sensible of his master's pride and exultation. 
 Cllastonbury was ready to welcome him, standing in the 
 flower-garden, which he had made so rich and beautiful, 
 and which had been the charm and consolation of many of 
 their humbler hours. 
 
 ' My dear, dear father ! ' exclaiincd Ferdinand, embracing 
 him, for thus he ever styled his old tutor. 
 
 But Glastonbury could not speak ; the tears quivered in 
 his eyes and trickled do^^'n liis fixded cheek. Ferdinand 
 led him into the house. 
 
 ' How well yoiT look, dear father ! ' continued Ferdinand ; 
 * you really look younger and heartier than ever. You re- 
 ceived all my letters, I am sure ; and yours, how kind of 
 yc>u to remember and to write to mc ! I never forgot you,
 
 70 HENRIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 my dear, dear friend. I never could forget you. Do you 
 know I am the happiest fellow in the world ? I have the 
 greatest news in the world to tell my Glastonbury ! and 
 we owe everything to you, everything. What would Sii" 
 Ratcliffe have been without you ? what should I have been? 
 Fancy the best news you can, dear friend, and it is not so 
 ^ood as I have got to tell. Tou will rejoice, you will be 
 deliglited ! We shall furnish a castle ! by Jove we shall 
 furnish a castle ! We shall indeed, and you shall build it ! 
 1^0 more gloom ; no more care. The Armines shall hold 
 their heads up again, by Jove they shall ! Dearest of men, 
 I dare say you think me mad. I am mad with joy. How 
 that Virginian creeper has grown ! I have brought you so 
 many plants, my father ! a complete Sicilian Hortus Siccus. 
 Ah, John, good John, how is your wife ? Take care of 
 my pistol-case. Ask Louis ; he knows all about every- 
 tldng. Well, dear Glastonbury, and how have you been ? 
 how is the old tower ? how are the old books, and the old 
 staff, and the old arms, and the old everything ? dear, dear 
 Glastonbury ! ' 
 
 Wliile the carriage was unpacking, and the dinner-table 
 prepared, the friends walked in the garden, and from thence 
 strolled towards the tower, where they remained some time 
 pacing up and down the beechen avenue. It was evi- 
 dent, on their return, that Ferdinand had communicated 
 liis great intelligence. The countenance of Glastonbury 
 was radiant with delight. Indeed, although he had dined, 
 he accepted with readiness Ferdinand's invitation to repeat 
 the ceremony ; nay, he quaffed more than one glass of 
 wine; and, I believe, even drank the health of every 
 member of the united families of Armine and Grandison. 
 It was late before the companions parted, and retired for 
 the night ; and I think, before they bade each other good 
 night, they must have talked over every circumstance 
 that had occurred in their experience since the birth of 
 Ferdinand.
 
 A LOVE STORY. 71 
 
 CHAPTER IV, 
 
 tN WHICH SOME LIGHT IS THRO^VN ON THE TITLE OF THIS 
 
 WORK. 
 
 How delicious after a long absence to wake on a sunny- 
 morning and find ourselves at home! Ferdinand could 
 scarcely credit that he was really again at Armine. He 
 started up in his bed, and rubbed his eyes and stared at 
 the unaccustomed, yet familiar sights, and for a moment 
 Malta and the Royal Fusileers, Bath and his betrothed, 
 were all a dream; and then he remembered the visit of 
 his dear mother to this very room on the eve 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 all her solicitude. ISTover felt anyone more content 
 than Ferdinand Armine, more content and more grateful. 
 
 He rose and opened the casement ; a rich and exhilarat- 
 ing perfume filled the chamber ; he looked with a feeling 
 of delight and pride over the broad and beautiful park ; 
 the tall trees rising and flinging their taller shadows over 
 the bright and dewy turf, and the last mists clearing away 
 from the distant woods and blending with the spotless sky. 
 Everything was sweet and still, save, indeed, the carol of 
 the birds, or the tinkle of some restless bellwether. It was 
 a rich autumnal morn. And yet with all the excitement 
 of his new views in life, and the bhssful consciousness of 
 the happiness of those he loved, he could not but feel that 
 a great change had come over his spirit since the days he 
 was wont to ramble in this old haunt of his boyhood. His 
 innocence was gone. Life was no longer that deep un- 
 broken trance of duty and of love from which he had been 
 roused to so much care ; and if not remorse, at least to so 
 much compunction. He had no secrets then. Existence 
 was not then a subterfuge, but a calm and candid state
 
 72 HENEIETTA TEilPLE : 
 
 of serene enjoyment. Feelings then were not compromised 
 for interests ; and then it was the excellent that was studied, 
 not the expedient. ' Yet such I suppose is life,' murmured 
 Ferdinand ; ' we moralise when it is too late ; nor is there 
 anything more silly than to regret. One event makes 
 another : what we anticipate seldom occurs ; what we least 
 expected generally happens ; and time can only prove which 
 is most for our advantage. And surely I am the last per- 
 son who should look grave. Our ancient house rises from 
 its ruins ; the beings I love most in the world are not only 
 happy, but indebted to me for their happiness ; and I, I 
 myself, with every gift of fortune suddenly thrown at my 
 feet, what more can I desire ? Am I not satisfied ? Why 
 do I even ask the question ? I am sure I know not. It 
 rises like a devil in my thoughts, and spoils everything. 
 The girl is young, noble, and fair, and loves me. And her ? 
 I love her, at least I suppose I love her. I love her at any 
 rate as much as I love, or ever did love, woman. There is 
 no great sacrifice, then, on my part ; there should be none ; 
 there is none ; unless indeed it be that a man does not like 
 to give up without a struggle all his chance of romance and 
 rapture. 
 
 ' I know not how it is, but there are moments I almost 
 wish that I had no father 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 stood alone in the 
 world methinks I might find the place that suits me ; now 
 everything seems ordained for me, as it were, beforehand. 
 My spirit has had no play. Something whispers me that, 
 with all its flush prosperity, this is neither wise nor well, 
 God knows I am not heartless, and would be grateful ; and 
 yet if life can afford me no deeper sympathy than I have 
 yet experienced, I cannot but hold it, even with all its 
 sweet reflections, as little better than a dull delusion.' 
 
 While Ferdinand was thus moralising at the casement.
 
 A LOVE STORY. 73 
 
 (xlastonbuiy appeared beneath ; and his appearance dissi- 
 pated this gathering gloom. ' Let us breakfast together,' 
 proposed Ferdinand. ' I have breakftisted these two hours,' 
 repHed the hermit of the gate. ' I hope that on the first 
 night of your return to Armine you have proved auspicious 
 dreams.' 
 
 'My bed and I are old companions,' said Ferdinand, 
 'and -vve agreed very well. I tell you what, my dear 
 Glastonbury, we will have a stroll together this morning 
 and talk over our plans of last night. Go into the library 
 and look over my sketch-books : you will find them on my 
 pistol-case, and I will be with you anon.' 
 
 In due time the friends commenced their ramble. Fer- 
 dinand soon became excited by Glastonbuay's various sug- 
 gestions for the completion of the castle ; and as for the 
 old man himself, between his architectural creation and the 
 restoration of the fiimily, to which he had been so long 
 devoted, he was in a rapture of enthusiasm, which afforded 
 an amusing contrast to his usual meek and subdued de- 
 meanour. 
 
 ' Your grandfather was a great man,' said Glastonbury, 
 who in old days seldom ventured to mention the name of 
 the famous Sir Ferdinand : ' there is no doubt he was a 
 very great man. lie had great ideas. How he would 
 glory in our present prospects ! 'Tis strange what a strong 
 confidence I have ever had in the destiny of your house. I 
 felt sure that Providence would not desert us. There is no 
 doiibt we must have a portcullis.' 
 
 ' Decidedly, a portciillis,' said Ferdinand ; ' you phall 
 make all the drawings yourself, my dear Glastonbury, and 
 supervise everything. Wo will not have a single ana- 
 chronism. It shall bo perfect.' 
 
 ' Perfect,' echoed Glastonbury ; ' really perfect ! It shall 
 be a perfect Gothic castle. I have such treasures fo.v the 
 work. All the labours of my life have tended to this object.
 
 74 HENRIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 I have all the eniWazonings of your house since the Con- 
 quest. There shall be three hundred shields in the hall, 
 I will paint them myself. Oh ! there is no place in the 
 world like Armine ! ' 
 
 * Nothing,' said Ferdinand ; ' I have seen a great deal, 
 hut after all there is nothing like Armine.' 
 
 * Had we been born to this splendour,' said Glastonbury, 
 ' we should have thought little of it. We have been mildly 
 and wisely chastened. I cannot sufficiently admire the 
 wisdom of Providence, which has tempered, by such 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, though humbly.' 
 
 ' I would we could move it to another part of the park, 
 like the house of Loretto,' said Ferdinand with a smile. 
 
 ' We can cover it with ivy,' observed Glastonbury, look- 
 ing somewhat grave. 
 
 The morning stole away in these agreeable plans and 
 prospects. At length the friends parted, agreeing to meet 
 again at dinner. Glastonbury repaired to his tower, and 
 Ferdinand, taking his gun, sauntered into the surrounding 
 wilderness. 
 
 But he felt no inclination for sport. The conversation 
 with Glastonbury had raised a thousand thoughts over 
 which he longed to brood. His life had been a scene of 
 such constant excitement since his return to England, that 
 lie had enjoyed little opportunity of indulging in calm self- 
 communion ; and now that he was at Armine, and alone, 
 the contrast between his past and his present situation 
 struck him so forcibly that he could not refrain from fall- 
 ing into a reveiie upon his fortunes. It was wonderful, all 
 wonderful, very, very wonderful. There seemed indeed, as 
 Glastonbury affirmed, a providential dispensation in the
 
 A LOVE STOEY. 75 
 
 wtole transaction. The fall of his family, the heroic, and, 
 as it now appeared, prescient firmness vnth. which his father 
 had clung, in all their deprivations, to his unproductive 
 patrimony, his own education, the extinction of his mother's 
 house, his very follies, once to him a cause of so much un- 
 happiness, but which it now seemed were all the time com- 
 pelling him, as it were, to his prosperity ; all these and a 
 thousand other traits and circumstances flitted over his 
 mind, and were each in turn the subject of his manifold 
 meditation. "Willing was he to credit that destiny had 
 reserved for him the character of restorer ; that duty in- 
 deed he had accepted, and yet 
 
 He looked around him as if to see what devil was 
 whispering in his ear. He was alone. No one was there 
 or near. Around him rose the silent bowers, and scarcely 
 the voice of a bird or the hum of an insect disturbed the 
 deep tranquillity. But a cloud seemed to rest on the fair 
 and pensive brow of Ferdinand Armine. He threw him- 
 self on the turf, leaning his head on one hand, and with 
 the other plucking the -wild flowers, which he as hastily, 
 almost as fretfully, flung away. 
 
 * Conceal it as I will,' he exclaimed, ' I am a victim ; 
 diso-uise them as I may, all the considerations are worldly. 
 There is, there must be, something better in this world 
 than power and wealth and rank ; and surely there must 
 be felicity more rapturous even than securing the happi- 
 ness of a parent. Ah ! dreams in which I have so oft and 
 so fondly indulged, are ye, indeed, after all, but fantastical 
 and airy visions ? Is love indeed a delusion, or am I 
 marked out from men alone to be exempted from its de- 
 licious bondage ? It must be a delusion. All laugh at it, 
 all jest about it, all agree in stigmatising it the vanity of 
 vanities. 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
 
 76 EENEIETTA TEilPLE : 
 
 women I have met more beautiful, assui'edlj, than Kate, 
 find many, many less fair ; and some have crossed my path 
 %vitli a wild and brilliant grace, that has for a moment 
 dazzled my sight, and perhaps for a moment lured me 
 from my way. But these shooting stars have but glittered 
 transiently in my heaven, and only made me, by their eva- 
 nescent brilliancy, more sensible of its gloom. Let me 
 believe then, oh ! let me of all men then believe, that the 
 forms that inspire the sculptor and the painter have no 
 models in nature ; that that combination of beauty and 
 grace, of fascinating intelligence and fond devotion, over 
 which men brood in the soft hours of their young loneli- 
 ness, is but the promise of a better world, and not the 
 charm of this one. 
 
 * But, what terror in that truth ! what despair ! what 
 madness ! Yes ! at this moment of severest scrutiny, how 
 profoundly I feel that life without love is worse than death ! 
 How vain and void, how flat and fruitless, appear all those 
 splendid accidents of existence for which men struggle, 
 without this essential and pervading charm ! What a 
 world without a sun ! Yes ! without this transcendent sym- 
 pathy, riches and rank, and even power and fame, seem to 
 me at best but jewels set in a coronet of lead ! 
 
 ' And who knows whether that extraordinary being, of 
 whose magnificent yet ruinous career this castle is in truth 
 a fitting emblem; I say, who knows Avhether the secret of 
 his wild and restless course is not hidden iu this same sad 
 lack of love ? Perhaps while the world, the silly superficial 
 world, marvelled and moralised at his wanton life, and 
 jDOured forth their anathemas against his heartless selfish- 
 ness, perchance he all the time was sighing for some soft 
 bosom whereon to pour his overwhelming passion, even as 
 I am ! 
 
 ' Nature ! why art thou beautiful ?' My heart requires 
 not, imagination cannot paint, a sweeter or a fairer scene
 
 A LOVE STORY. 77 
 
 ilian ttese snrrounding bowers. This azuro vault of 
 heaven, this golden sunshine, this deep and blending shade, 
 these rare and fragrant shrubs, yon grove of green and 
 tallest pines, and the bright gliding of this swan-crowned 
 lake ; my soul is charmed with all this beauty and this 
 sweetness ; I feel no disa23pointnient here ; my mind does 
 not here outrun reality ; here there is no cause to mouru 
 over ungratified hopes and fanciful desires. Is it then my 
 destiny that I am to be baffled only in the dearest desires 
 of my heart ? ' 
 
 At this moment the loud and agitated barking of his 
 dogs at some little distance roused Ferdinand from his 
 reverie. He called them to him, and soon one of them 
 obeyed his summons, but instantly returned to his com- 
 panion with such significant gestures, panting and yelping, 
 that Ferdinand supposed that Basto was caught joerhaps 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 aberceau 
 on to a plot of turf, in the centre of which grew a largo 
 cedar, he beheld a lady in a riding-habit standing bcfuro 
 the tree, and evidently admiring its beautiful proportions. 
 
 Her countenance was raised and motionless. It seemed 
 to him that it was more radiant than the sunshine. He 
 gazed with rapture on the dazzling brilliancy of her com- 
 plexion, the delicate regularity of her features, and the 
 large violet-tinted eyes, fringed with the longest and the 
 darkest lashes that he had ever beheld. From her position 
 her hat had fallen back, revealing her lofty and pellucid 
 brow, and the dark and lustrous locks that were braided 
 over her temples. The whole countenance combined that 
 brilliant health and that classic beauty which we associate 
 with the idea of some nymph tripping over the dew- 
 bespangled meads of Ida, or glancing amid the hallowed 
 groves of Greece. Although the lady cculd scarcely have
 
 78 HENEIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 seen eigliteen sinnmers, her stature was above tlie common 
 lieiglit ; but language cannot describe the startling sym- 
 metry of her superb figure. 
 
 There is no love but love at first sight. This is the 
 transcendent and surpassing offspring of sheer and unpol- 
 luted sympathy. All other is the illegitimate result of 
 observation, of reflection, of compromise, of comparison, of 
 expediency. The passions that endure flash like the liglit- 
 ning: they scorch the soul, but it is warmed for ever. 
 Miserable man 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 deems 
 eternal sunshine. But then how often overcast by the 
 clouds of care, how often dusked by the blight of misery 
 and misfortune ! And certain as the gradual rise of such 
 affection is its gradual decline, and melancholy set. Then, 
 in the chill dim twilight of his soul, he execrates custom ; 
 because he has madly exjDected that feelings could be 
 habitual that were not homogeneous, and because he has 
 been guided by the observation of sense, and not by the 
 inspiration of sympathy. 
 
 Amid the gloom and travail of existence suddenly to 
 behold a beautiful being, and as instantaneously to feel an 
 overwhelming conviction that with that fair form for ever 
 our destiny must be entwined ; that there is no more joy but 
 in her joy, no sorrow but when she grieves ; that in her 
 sigh of love, in her smile of fondness, hereafter is all bliss ; 
 to feel our flaunty ambition fade away Hke a shrivelled 
 gourd before her vision ; to feel fame a juggle and posterity 
 a He ; and to be prepared at once, 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, divine senti- 
 ment ! An immortal flame burns in the breast of that man
 
 A LOVE STORY. 79 
 
 •nrho adores and 13 adored. He is an ethereal "being. The 
 accidents of earth touch him not. Revolutions of empire, 
 changes of creed, mutations of opinion, are to him but the 
 clouds and meteors of a stormy sky. The schemes and 
 struggles of mankind are, in his thinking, but the anxieties 
 of pigmies and the fantastical achievements of apes. No- 
 thing can subdue him. He laughs alike at loss of fortune, 
 loss of friends, loss of character. The deeds and thoughts 
 of men are to him equally indifferent. He does not mingle 
 in their paths of callous bustle, or hold himself responsible 
 to the airy impostures before which they bow down. He 
 is a mariner, who, in the sea of life, keeps his gaze fixedly 
 on a single star ; and if that do not shine, he lets go the 
 rudder, and glories when his barqxie descends into the bot- 
 tomless gulf. 
 
 Yes ! it was this mighty passion that now raged in the 
 heart of Ferdinand Armine, as, pale and trembling, he with- 
 di'ow a few paces from the overwhelming spectacle, and 
 leant against a tree in a chaos of emotion. What had he 
 seen ? What ravishing vision had risen upon his sight ? 
 What did he feel ? What wild, what delicious, what mad- 
 dening impulse now pervaded his frame ? A storm seemed 
 raging in his soul, a mighty wind dispelling in its course 
 the sullen clouds and vapours of long years. Silent he was 
 indeed, for he was speechless ; though the big drop that 
 quivered on his brow and ihe slight ibam that played upon 
 liis Hp proved the difficult triumph of passion over expres- 
 sion. But, as the wind clears the heaven, passion even- 
 tually tranquilhses the soul. The tumult of his mind 
 gradually subsided ; the flitting memories, the scudding 
 thoughts, that for a moment had coursed about in such 
 wild order, vanished and melted away, and a feeling of 
 bright serenity succeeded, a souse of beauty and of joy, and 
 of hoveruig and circumambient happiness. 
 
 He advanced, he gazed again ; the lady was still there.
 
 80 HENRIETTA TEJIPLE : 
 
 Changed indeed her position ; she had gathered a flower 
 and was examining its beanty. 
 
 'Henrietta! ' exclaimed a manly voice from the adjoin- 
 ing wood. Before she could answer, a stranger came 
 forward, a man of middle age but of an appearance re- 
 markably prepossessing. He was tall and dignified, fair, 
 with an aquiline nose. One of Ferdinand's dogs followed 
 hira barking. 
 
 ' I cannot find the gardener anywhere,' said the stranger; 
 ' I think we had 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 dis- 
 composed, courteously welcomed Ferdinand, and said, ' I 
 feel that we are intruders, sir. But we were informed by 
 the woman at the lodge that the family were not here at 
 present, and that we should find her husband in the 
 grounds.' 
 
 ' The family are not at Armine,' replied Ferdinand ; ' I 
 am sure, however. Sir Ratcliffo would be most happy for 
 you to walk about the grounds as much as you please ; and 
 as I am well acquainted with them, I should feel delighted 
 to be your guide.' 
 
 ' You are really too coui-teous, sir,' replied the gentleman ; 
 and his beautiful companion rewarded Ferdinand with a 
 smile like a sunbeam, that played about her countenance 
 till it finally settled into two exquisite dimples, and re- 
 vealed to him teeth that, for a moment, he believed to be 
 even the most beautiful feature of that surpassing visage. 
 
 They sauntered along, eveiy step developing new beauties 
 in their progress and eliciting from his companions renewed 
 expressions of rapture. The dim bowers, the shining glades, 
 the tall rare trees, the luxuriant shrubs, the silent and 
 sequestered lake, in turn enchanted them, until at length, 
 Ferdinand, who had led them with experienced taste
 
 A LOVE STORY. 81 
 
 tlirougli all tlic most striking points of tlio pleasaunce, 
 brought tliem before the walls of the castle. 
 
 ' And hero is Arniine 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 arc spoiling your sport,' suggested the gentle- 
 man. 
 
 'I can always kill partridges,' replied Ferdinand, laying 
 down his gun ; ' but I cannot always find agreeable com- 
 panions.' 
 
 So saying, he opened the massy portal of the castle and 
 they entered the hall. It was a lofty chamber, of dimen- 
 sions large enough to feast a thousand vassals, with a dais 
 and a rich Gothic screen, and a gallery for the musicians. 
 The walls were hung with arms and armour admirably 
 arranged ; but the parti-coloured marble floor was so 
 covered wdth piled-up cases of furniture that the general 
 effect of the scene was not only greatly marred, but it was 
 even difficult in some parts to trace a path. 
 
 ' Here,' said Ferdinand, jumping upon a huge case and 
 running to the wall, ' here is the standard of Ralph D'Ennyii, 
 who came over wnth the Conqueror, and founded the family 
 in England. Here is the sword of William D'Armyn, who 
 signed Magna Charta. Hei'e is the complete coat armour 
 of the second Ralph, who died before Ascalon. This case 
 contains a diamond-hilted sword, given by the empress to 
 the great Sir Ferdinand for defeating the Turks ; and here 
 is a ^Mameluke sabre, given to the same Sir Ferdinand by 
 the Sultan for defeating the Empress. 
 
 ' Oh ! I have heard so much of that gi'eat Sir Ferdinand,' 
 said the lady. ' He must have been the most interesting 
 charactei'.' 
 
 * He was a marvellous being,' answered her guide, with
 
 82 HENEIETTA TEJIPLE : 
 
 a peculiar look, ' and yet I know not "wlietlier his dc- 
 scendanis have not cause to rue his genius,' 
 
 ' Oh ! never, never ! ' said the lady ; ' what is wealth to 
 genius ? How much prouder, were I an Armine, should I. 
 be of such an ancestor than of a thousand others, even if 
 they had left nae this castle as complete as he wished it 
 to be ! ' 
 
 ' Vfell, as to that,' replied Ferdinand, ' I believe I am 
 somewhat of your opinion ; though I fear he lived in too 
 late an age for such order of minds. It would have been 
 better for him perhaps if he had succeeded in becoming 
 King of Poland.' 
 
 ' I hope there is a portrait of him,' said the lady ; * there 
 is nothing I long so much to see.' 
 
 ' I rather think there is a portrait,' repHed her companion, 
 somewhat drily. ' We will try to find it out. Do not you 
 think I make not a bad cicerone ? ' 
 
 ' Indeed, most excellent,' replied the lady. 
 
 ' I perceive you are a master of your subject,' replied 
 the gentleman, thus affording Ferdinand an easy oppor- 
 tunity of telling them who he was. The hint, however, 
 was not accepted. 
 
 ' And now,' said Ferdinand, ' we will ascend the staii'- 
 case.' 
 
 Accordingly they mounted a large spiral staircase Avhich 
 filled the space of a round tower, and was lighted from the 
 top by a lantern of rich coloured glass on which were em- 
 blazoned the arms of the family. Then they entered the 
 A^cstibule, an apartment spacious enough for a saloon ; 
 which, however, was not fitted up in the Gothic style, but 
 of which the painted ceiling, the gilded panels, and inlaid 
 floor were more suitable to a French palace. The brilliant 
 doors of this vestibule opened in many directions upon 
 long suites of state chambers, which indeed merited the 
 description of shells. They were nothing more : of many
 
 A LOVE STORY. 83 
 
 tte flooring was not even laid down ; the walls of all were 
 rongli and plastered. 
 
 ' Ah ! ' said the lady, ' what a pity it is not finished ! ' 
 ' It is indeed desolate,' observed Ferdinand ; ' but here 
 perhaps is something more to your taste.' So saying, he 
 opened another door and ushered them into the picture 
 gallery. 
 
 It was a superb chamber nearly two hundred feet in 
 length, and contained only portraits of the family, or pic- 
 tures of their achievements. It was of a pale green colour, 
 lighted from the top ; and the floor, of oak and ebony, was 
 partially covered with a single Persian carpet, of fanciful 
 pattern and brilliant dye, a present from the Sultan to the 
 great Sir Ferdinand. The earlier annals of the family were 
 illustrated by a series of paintings by modern masters, 
 representing the battle of Hastings, the siege of Ascalon, 
 the meeting at Runnymede, the various invasions of France, 
 and some of the most striking incidents in the wars of the 
 Roses, in all of which a valiant Armyn prominently figured. 
 At length they stood before the first contemporary portrait 
 of the Armyn family, one of Cardinal Stephen Armyn, by 
 an Italian master. This great dignitary was legate of the 
 Pope in the time of the seventh Henry, and in his scarlet 
 robes and ivory chair looked a papal Jupiter, not unworthy 
 himself of wielding the thunder of the Vatican. From him 
 the series of fixmily portraits was unbroken ; and it was 
 very interesting to trace, in this excellently ari'anged col- 
 lection, the history of national costume. Holbein had com- 
 memorated 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 many a gallant cavali-r, by Vandyke. One 
 admirable picture contained Lord Armine and his brave 
 brothers, seated together in a tent round a drum, on which 
 his lordship was apparently planning the operations of the 
 
 s 2
 
 84 HENRIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 campaign. Theu followed a long series of unmemorable 
 baronets, and tlieir more interesting wives and daughters, 
 tonclied by tlie pencil of Kneller, of Lely, or of Hudson ; 
 squires in wigs and scarlet jackets, and powdered dames in 
 Loops and farthingales. 
 
 They stood before the crowning effort of the ga^llery, the 
 masterpiece of Reynolds. It represented a full-length poi'- 
 trait of a young man, apparently just past his minority. 
 The side of the figure was alone exhibited, and the face 
 glanced at the spectator over the shoulder, in a favoui-ite 
 attitude of Vandyke. It was a countenance of ideal beauty. 
 A i^rofasion of dark brown curls was dashed aside from a 
 lofty forehead of dazzling brilliancy. The face was per- 
 fectly oval ; the nose, though small was high and aquiline, 
 and exhibited a remarkable dilation of the nostril; the curl- 
 ing lip was shaded by a very delicate mustachio ; and the 
 general expression, indeed, of the mouth and of the large 
 grey eyes would have been perhaps arrogant and impe- 
 rious, had not the extraordinaiy beauty of the whole coun- 
 tenance rendered it fascinating. 
 
 It was indeed a picture to gaze upon and to return to ; 
 one of those visages which, after having once beheld, haunt 
 Tis at all hours and flit across our mind's eye unexpected 
 and unbidden. So great was the effect that it produced 
 iipon the present visitors to the gallery, that they stood 
 before it for some minutes in silence: the scrutinisincr 
 glance of the gentleman was more than once diverted from 
 the portrait to the countenance of his conductor, and the 
 silence was eventually broken by our hero. 
 
 * And what think you,' he enquii-ed, ' of the famous Sir 
 Ferdinand ? ' 
 
 The lady started, looked at him, withdrew her glance, 
 and appeared somewhat confused. Her companion re- 
 plied, ' I think, sir, I cannot err in believing that I arn 
 indebted for much courtesy to his descendant r '
 
 A I.OVE STORY. 65 
 
 ' I believe,' said Fci'dinantl, ' tLaf, I sliould not have 
 mucli trouble in proving my pedigree. I am generally 
 considered an ngly likeness of my grandfather.' 
 
 The gentleman smiled, and then said, ' I hardly Ictiow 
 ■whether I can style myself 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, offer- 
 ing his card to Ferdinand. ' I need not now introduce you 
 to my daughter. I was not unaware that Sir Ratcliffo 
 Armine had a son, but I had 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 return has afforded me an 
 opportunity of welcoming you and Miss Temple. But you 
 must not talk of our castle, for that you know is our folly. 
 Pray come now and visit our older and humbler dwelling, 
 and take some refreshment after your long ride.' 
 
 This offer was declined, but with great courtesy. They 
 quitted the castle, and Mr. Temple was about to direct his 
 steps towards the lodge, where he had left his own and his 
 daughter's horses ; but Ferdinand persuaded them to return 
 thi'ough the park, which he proved to them very satisfac- 
 torily must be the nearest way. He even asked permis- 
 sion to accompany them ; and while his groom was saddling 
 Lis horse ho led them to the old Place and the flower- 
 garden. 
 
 • You must bo very fatigued. Miss Temple. I wish that 
 I could persuade you 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 beautj',' said Ferdinand, plucking a strange rose, 
 and presenting it to her. * I sent it to my mother from 
 Barbary.' 
 
 ' You live amidst beauty.'
 
 86 HENEIETTA TEMPI'S^ *• 
 
 • I think that I neve^ remember Armine looking so well 
 as to-day.' 
 
 * A sylvf*^ scene requires sunshine,' replied Miss Temple. 
 * "VVe Have been most 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 VERT 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. I perceive that you are an accomplished 
 horsewoman. Miss Temple. You know our country, I 
 dare say, well ? ' 
 
 'I wish to know it better. This is only the second 
 summer that we have passed 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 iu 
 the county. I have myself scarcely been at Armine for 
 these five years, and my father and mother do not visit 
 anyone.' 
 
 ' What a beautiful oak ! ' exclaimed Miss Temple, de- 
 sirous of turning the conversation. 
 
 ' It has the reputation of being planted by Sir Francis 
 Walsingham,' said Ferdinand. ' An ancestor of mine mar- 
 ried his daughter. He was the father of Sir Walsingham, 
 the portrait in the gallery with the white stick. You 
 remember it?'
 
 A LOVE STOKY. 87 
 
 * Perfectly : that beautiful portrait ! It must be, at all 
 events, a very old tree.' 
 
 ' There are few things more pleasing to mo than an 
 ancient place,' said Mr. Temple. 
 
 ' Doubly pleasing when in the possession of an ancient 
 family,' added his daughter. 
 
 * I fear such feelings are fast wearing away,' said Fer- 
 dinand. 
 
 ' 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 jDrejudices,' said Fer- 
 dinand ; ' but I should be sorry to see Armine in any other 
 hands than our own, I confess.' 
 
 * I never would enter the park again,' said Miss Temple. 
 
 ' So far as worldly considerations are concerned,' con- 
 tinued Ferdinand, ' it would perhaps be much better for us 
 if wo 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 sheep browse where our fathers hunted the sfag 
 and flew their falcons. I think if 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. There is such a variety of 
 prospect.' 
 
 The park of Armine indeed differed materially from those 
 vamped-up sheep-walks and ambitious paddocks which are 
 now honoured with the title. It was, in truth, the old 
 chase, and little shorn of its original proportions. It was 
 many miles in circumference, abounding in hill and dale, 
 and offering much variety of appearance. Sometimes it 
 was studded with ancient timber, single trees of extra- 
 ordinary gi'owth, and rich clumps that seemed coeval with
 
 88 HENRIETTA TEJii'LE : 
 
 the foundation of tlio family. Tracts of wild cliampaign 
 succeeded these, covered with gorse and fern. Then came 
 stately avenues of sycamore or Spanish chestnut, fragments 
 of stately woods, that, in old days doubtless reached the 
 vicinity of the mansion house ; and these were in turn suc- 
 ceeded by modern coverts. 
 
 At length our party reached the gate whence Ferdinand 
 had calculated that they should quit the park. He would 
 williuo-ly have accompanied them. He bade them farewell 
 with regret, which was softened by the hope expressed by 
 all of a speedy meeting. 
 
 'I wdsh, Captain Armine,' said Miss Temple, 'we had 
 your turf to canter home upon.' 
 
 ' By the bye, Captain Armine,' said Mr. Temple, ' cere- 
 mony should scarcely subsist between country neighbours, 
 and certainly we have given you no cause to complain of 
 our reserve. As you are alone at Armine, perhaps you 
 would come over and dine Avith us to-morrow. If you can 
 manage to come early, we will see whether we may not 
 contrive to kill a bird together ; and pray remember we 
 can give yo-a. a bed, which I think, all things considered, it 
 would be but wise to accept.' 
 
 ' I accept everything,' said Ferdinand, smiling ; ' all your 
 offers. Good morning, my dearest sir ; good morning, M iss 
 Temple.' 
 
 'Miss Temple, indeed!* exclaimed Ferdinand, when he 
 had watched them out of sight. ' Exquisite, enchanting, 
 adored being ! Without thee what is existence ? How 
 dull, how blank does everything even now seem ! It is as 
 if the sun had just set 1 Oh ! that form ! that radiant 
 countenance ! that musical and thrilling voice ! Those 
 tones still vibrate on my ear, or I should deem it all a 
 vision ! Will to-morrow ever come ? Oh ! that I could 
 express to you my love, my overwhelming, my absorbing, 
 my burning passion. ' Beautiful Henrietta ! Thou hast a
 
 A LOVE STORY. 89 
 
 name, metlainks, I cxcv lorecl. Where am I ? -svliat do I 
 say ? wliat ^vikl, what maddening words are these ? Am 
 I not Ferdinand Armine, the betrotlied, the victim ? Even 
 now, methinks, I hear the chariot-Avheels of my bride. 
 God ! if she be there ; if she indeed be 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 be 
 dragged to the altar, a miserable sacrifice, to redeem, by 
 my forfeited felicity, the worldly fortunes of my race. ! 
 Armine, Armine ! she would not enter thy walls again if 
 other blood biit mine swayed thy fair demesne : and I, 
 shall I give thee another mistress, Armine ? It would 
 indeed be treason ! Without her I cannot Hve. Without 
 her form bounds over this turf and glances in these 
 arbours I never wish to view them. All the inducements 
 to make the wretched sacrifice once meditated then 
 vanish ;. for Ai'mine, without her, is a desert, a tomb, a 
 hell. I am free, then. Excellent logician ! But this 
 woman : I am bound to her. Bound ? The word makes 
 me tremble. I shiver : I hear the clank of my fetters. 
 Am I indeed bound ? Ay ! in honour. Honour and 
 love ! A contest ! Pah ! The Idol must yield to the 
 Divinity ! ' 
 
 With these wild woi'ds and wilder thoughts bursting 
 from his lips and dashing thi'ough his mind ; his course as 
 irrcgiilar and as reckless as his fancies ; now fiercely 
 galloping, now pulling up into a sudden halt, Ferdinand 
 at length arrived home ; and his quick eye perceived in 
 a moment that the dreaded arrival had not taken place. 
 Glastonbury was in the flower-garden on one knee before a 
 vase, over which he Avas training a creeper. He looked up 
 as he heard the approach of Ferdinand. His presence and 
 benignant smile in some degree stilled the fierce emotions 
 of his pupil. Fei'dinand felt that the system of dissimula- 
 tion must now commence ; besides, he Avas always careful
 
 90 HENRIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 to be most kiud to Glastonbury. He would not allow tliat 
 any attack of spleen, or even illness, could ever 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 to the moment ; and I rather think that 
 yonder approaches a summons to our repast. I hope you 
 have passed your morning agreeably ? ' 
 
 ' K all days would pass as sweet, my father, I should 
 indeed be blessed.' 
 
 ' I, too, have had a fine morning of it. Ton must come 
 to-morrow and see my gi'and emblazonry of the Ratclifib 
 and Armine coats ; I mean it for the gallery.' "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 was much too excited to have an appetite, and 
 so abstracted that anyone but Glastonbury wonJd have long 
 before detected his absence. 
 
 ' I have changed my hour to-day,' continued Glaston- 
 bury, ' for the pleasure of dining with you, and I think to- 
 morrow you had better change your hour and dine with me.' 
 
 ' By the bye, my dear father, you, who know everything, 
 do you happen to know 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 that name.' 
 
 ' Do you know who he is ? ' 
 
 ' I never asked ; for I feel no interest except about pro- 
 prietors, because they enter into my County History. But 
 I think I once heard that this Mr. Temple had been our 
 minister at some foreign court. You give me a fine dinner 
 and eat nothing yourself This pigeon is savoury.'
 
 A LOVE STOEY. 91 
 
 ' I will trouble you. I think there once was a Henrietta 
 Armine, my father ? ' 
 
 * The beautiful creature ! ' said Glastonbury, laying down 
 his knife and fork ; ' 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 no 
 portrait of her. Sho 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 as light 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 bcautifal name.' 
 
 ' I think that Armine makes any name sound well,' said 
 Glastonbury. ' No more wine indeed, my child. Nay ! if 
 I must,' continued he, with a most benevolent smile, ' I 
 will drink to the health of Miss Grandison ! ' 
 
 ' Ah ! ' exclaimed Ferdinand. 
 
 ' My chUd, 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 ; ' 'ti3 
 a specific' 
 
 ' Oh, no ! 'tis nothing, only a fly : sharp at the moment ; 
 nothing more.' 
 
 The dinner was over ; they retii-ed to the library. Fer- 
 dinand w\alked about the room restless and moody ; at 
 length lie bethought himself of the piano, and, affecting aiv 
 anxiety to hear some old favourite compositions of Glas- 
 tonbury, he contrived to occupy his companion. Li time, 
 however, his old tutor invited him to take his violoncello 
 and join him in a concerto. Ferdinand of course complied 
 with his invitation, but the result was not satisfactory.
 
 92 IIENEIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 After a series of blunders, which were the natural result of 
 his thoughts being occupied on other subjects, he was 
 obliged to plead a headache, and was glad when he could 
 escape to his chamber. 
 
 Rest, however, no longer awaited him on his old pillovr. 
 It was at fii-st delightful to escape from the restraint upon 
 his reverie which he had lately experienced. He leant for 
 an hour over his empty fireplace in mute abstraction. The 
 cold, however, in time drove him to bed, but he could not 
 sleep ; his eyes indeed were closed, but the vision of Hen- 
 rietta Temple was not less apparent to him. He recalled 
 every feature of her countenance, every trait of her con- 
 duct, every word that she had expressed. The whole series 
 of her observations, from the moment he had first seen her 
 until the moment they had parted, were accui'ately re- 
 peated, her very tones considered, and her very attitudes 
 pondered over. Many were the hours that he heard strike ; 
 he grew restless and feverish. Sleep would not be com- 
 manded ; he jumped out of bed, he opened the casement, 
 he beheld in the moonlight the Barbary rose-tree of which 
 he had presented her a flower. This consoling spectacle 
 assured him that he had not been, as he had almost ima- 
 gined, the victim of a dream. He knelt down and invoked 
 all heavenly and earthly blessings on Henrietta Temple 
 and his love. The night air and the earnest invocation 
 together cooled his brain, and Nature soon delivered Jiim, 
 exhausted, to repose.
 
 A LOVE STORY. 93 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 rs WHICH CAPTAIN ARMINB PATS HIS FIRST VISIT TO DUCIE. 
 
 Yes ! ifc is the morning. Is it possible ? Shall lie again 
 beliold her ? That form of surpassing beauty : that bright, 
 that dazzling countenance ; again are they to bless his 
 entranced vision ? Shall he speak to her again ? That 
 musical and thrillino" voice, shall it ao-ain sound and echo 
 in his enraptured ear ? 
 
 Ferdinand had readied Arniine so many days before his 
 calculated arrival, that he did not expect his family and 
 the Grandisons to arrive for at least a week. What a 
 respite did he not now feel this delay ! if ever he could 
 venture to think of the subject at all. He drove it indeed 
 from his thoughts ; the fascinating present completely 
 engrossed his existence. He waited until the post arrived ; 
 it brought no letters, letters now so dreaded ! fie jumped 
 upon his horse and galloped towards Ducio. 
 
 Mr. Temple "was the younger son of a younger branch of 
 a noble family. Inheriting no patrimony, ho had been 
 educated for the dijilomatic service, and the influence of 
 his family had eai-ly obtained him distinguished appoint- 
 ments. He was envoy to a German court when a change 
 of ministry occasioned his rccal, and he I'etired, after a 
 long career of able and assiduous service, comforted by a 
 pension and glorified by a privy-councillorship. He was 
 an acute and accomplished man, practised in the world, 
 with great self-control, yet devoted to his daughter, the 
 only oQ'spring of a wife whom he had lost early and loved 
 much. Deprived at a tender age of that parent of whom 
 she would have become peculiarly the charge, Henrietta 
 Temple foujid in the devotion of her father all that conso- 
 lation of which her forlorn state was susceptible. She was 
 not delivered over to Ihc custody of a governess, or to tha
 
 94 HENRIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 even less sympathetic supervision of relations. Mr. Temple 
 never permitted his daughter to be separated from him ; 
 he cherished her hfe, and he directed her education. Re- 
 sident in a city which arrogates to itself, not without 
 justice, the title of the German Athens, his pupil availed 
 herself of all those advantasres which were offered to her 
 by the instruction of the most skilful professors. Few 
 persons were more accomplished than Henrietta Temple 
 even at an early age ; but her rare accomplishments 
 were not her most remarkable characteristics. Nature, 
 which had accorded to her that extraordinary beauty we 
 have attempted to describe, had endowed her with great 
 talents and a soul of sublime temper. It was often re- 
 marked of Henrietta Ternple (and the circumstance may 
 doubtless be in some degree accounted for by the little 
 interference and influence of women in her education) that 
 she never was a girl. She expanded at once from a charm- 
 ing child into a magnificent woman. She had entered life 
 very early, and had presided at her father's table for a 
 year before his recal from his mission. Few women in so 
 short a period had received so much homage ; but she 
 listened to compliments with a careless though courteous 
 ear, and received more ardent aspirations with a smile. 
 The men, who were puzzled, voted her cold and heartless ; 
 but men should remember that fineness of taste, as well as 
 apathy of temperament, may account for an unsuccessful 
 suit. Assuredly Henrietta Temple was not deficient in 
 feeling ; she entertained for her father sentiments almost 
 of idolatry, and those more intimate or dependeat ac- 
 quaintances best qualified to form an opinion of her cha- 
 racter spoke of her always as a soul of infinite tenderness. 
 Notwithstanding their mutual devotion to each other, there 
 were not many points of resemblance between the charac- 
 ters of Ml-. Temple and his daughter ; she was remarkaljle 
 for a frankness of demeanour and a simphcity yet strength
 
 A LOVE STORY. 95 
 
 of thouglit wliicli contrasted -with tlie artificial manners 
 and the conventional opinions and conversation of her 
 sire. A mind at once thoughtful and energetic permitted 
 Henrietta Temple to form her own judgments ; and an 
 artless candour, which her father never could eradicate 
 from her habit, generally impelled her to express them. It 
 was indeed impossible even for him long to find fault with 
 these ebullitions, however the diplomatist might deplore 
 them ; for Nature had so embued the existence of this being 
 with that indefinable charm which we call grace, that it 
 was not in your power to behold her a moment without 
 l)eing enchanted. A glance, a movement, a sunny smile, 
 a word of thrilling music, and all that was left to you was 
 to adore. There was indeed in Henrietta Temple that rare 
 and extraordinary combination of intellectual strength and 
 physical softness which marks out the woman capable of 
 exercising an irresistible influence over mankind. In the 
 good old days she might have occasioned a siege of Troy 
 or a battle of Actium. She was one of those women who 
 make nations mad, and for whom a man of genius would 
 willingly peril the empire of the world. 
 
 So at least deemed Ferdinand Arminc, as he cantered 
 through the park, talking to himself, apostrophising the 
 woods, and shouting his passion to the winds. It was 
 scarcely noon when ho reached Ducie Bower. This was a 
 Palladian pavilion, situated in the midst of beautiful 
 gardens, and surrounded by gi'ecn hills. The sun shono 
 brightly, the sky was without a cloud ; it appeared to him 
 that he had never beheld a more graceful scene. It was a 
 temple worthy of the divinity it enshrined. A facade of 
 four Ionic columns fronted an octagon hall, adorned with 
 statues, which led into a saloon of considerable size and 
 fine proportion. Ferdinand thought that he had never in 
 his life entered so brilliant a chamber. The lofty walls wcro 
 covered with an Indian paper of vivid fancy, and adorned
 
 96 HENEIETTA TESLPLE : 
 
 witli several pictures wlucli liis practised eye assured Ldm 
 were of great merit. The room, without being inconve- 
 niently crowded, was amply stored with furniture, every 
 article of which bespoke a refined and luxurious taste : easy 
 chairs of all descriptions, most inviting couches, cabinets 
 of choice inlay, and grotesque tables covered with articles 
 of vertu ; all those charming infinite nothings, which a 
 person of taste might some time back have easily collected 
 during a long residence on the continent. A large lamp 
 of Dresden china was suspended from the painted and 
 gilded ceiling. The three tall windows opened on the 
 gardens, and admitted a perfume so rich and various, that 
 Ferdinand could easily believe the fair mistress, as she 
 told him, was indeed a lover of flowers. A light bridge in 
 the distant wood, that bounded the furthest lawn, indi- 
 cated that a stream was at hand. What with the beauty 
 of the chamber, the richness of the exterior scene, and the 
 bright sun that painted every object with its magical 
 colouring, and made everything appear even more fair and 
 brilliant, Ferdinand stood for some moments qaite en- 
 tranced. A door opened, and Mr, Temple came forward 
 and welcomed him with cordiality. 
 
 After they had passed a half-hour in looking at tho 
 pictures and in conversation to which they gave rise, Mr. 
 Temple, proposing an adjournment to luncheon, conducted 
 Ferdinand into a dining-room, of which the suitable de- 
 corations wonderfully pleased his taste. A subdued tint 
 pervaded every part of the chamber : the ceiling was 
 painted in grey tinted frescoes of a classical and festive 
 character, and the side table, which stood in a recess sup- 
 ported by four magnificent columns, was adorned with 
 choice Etruscan vases. The air of repose and stillness 
 which distinguished this apartment was heightened by the 
 vast conservatory into which it led, blazing with light and 
 beauty, groups of exotic trees, plants of radiant tint, tho 
 bound of a fountain, and gorgeous forms of tropic birds.
 
 A LOVE STOKY. 97 
 
 * IIow beautiful ! ' exclaimed Ferdinand. 
 
 ' 'Tis pretty,' said Mr. Temple, carving a pasty, ' but we 
 are very bumble people, and cannot vie witb tbe lords of 
 Gotbic castles.' 
 
 'It appears to me,' said Ferdinand, 'that Ducie Bower is 
 tbe most exquisite place I ever bebeld.' 
 
 ' If you bad seen it two years ago you would bave 
 tbougbt differently,' said Mr. Temple ; ' I assure you I 
 dreaded becoming its tenant. Henrietta is entitled to all 
 the praise, as she took upon herself the whole responsibility. 
 There is not on the banks of the Brenta a more dingy and 
 desolate villa than Ducie appeared when we first came ; 
 and as for the gardens, they were a perfect wilderness. 
 She made everything. It was one vast, desolate, and neg- 
 lected lawn, used as a sheep-walk when we arrived. As 
 for the ceilings, I was almost tempted to whitewash them, 
 and yet you see they have cleaned wonderfully ; and, after 
 all, it only required 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 a conservatory.' 
 
 'Miss Temple is quite right,' pronoimccd Ferdinand, 
 'It is impossible to live without a conservatory.' 
 
 At this nioment the heroine of their conversation entered 
 the room, and Ferdinand turned pale. She extended to 
 him her hand with a graceful smile ; as he touched it, he 
 trembled from head to foot, 
 
 ' You were not fatigued, I hope, by your ride, !Mis3 
 Temple ? ' at length he contrived to say, 
 
 ' Not in the least ! I am an exjierienccd horsewoman. 
 Papa and I take very long rides together.' 
 
 As for eating, with Henrietta Temple in the room, Ferdi- 
 nand found that quite impossible. The moment she ap- 
 peared his appetite vanished. Anxious to speak, yet 
 deprived of his accustomed fluency, he began to praise 
 Ducie, 
 
 B
 
 98 HENEIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 * YoTi must see it,' said Miss Temple : ' shall we ■walk 
 round the grounds ? ' 
 
 ' My dear Henrietta,' said her father, ' I dare say Cap- 
 tain Armine is at this moment sufficiently tired ; besides, 
 when he moves, he will like perhaps to take his gun ; you 
 forget he is a sportsman, and that he cannot waste his 
 morning in talking to ladies and picking flowers.' 
 
 ' Indeed, sir, I assure you,' said Ferdinand, ' there is 
 nothing I like so much as talking to ladies and picking 
 flowers ; that is to say, when the ladies have as fine taste 
 as Miss Temple, and the flowers are as beautiful 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, she entered the conservatory, and 
 Ferdinand followed her, leaving Mr. Temple to his pasty. 
 
 ' These orange groves remind me of Palermo,' said Fer- 
 dinand. 
 
 ' Ah ! ' said Miss Temple, ' I have never been in the sweet 
 south.' 
 
 ' Tou seem to me a person born to live in a Sicilian 
 palace,' said Ferdinand, ' to wander in perfumed groves, 
 and to glance in a moonlight warmer 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 away rather quickly and pointing to a strange 
 plant. * It is the most singular thing in the world : but if 
 it be tended by any other person than myself it withers. 
 Is it not droU ? ' 
 
 ' 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 wonder what it can bo.' 
 
 ..
 
 A LOVE STORY. 99 
 
 *I think it must be some enchanted prince,' said Ferdi- 
 nand. 
 
 'If I tliouglit so, how I should long for a wand to eraan 
 cipate him ! ' said Miss Temple. 
 
 'I would break your wand, if you had one,' said Ferdi- 
 nand. 
 
 * Why ? ' said Miss Temple. 
 
 ' Oh ! I don't know,' said Ferdinand ; * I suppose be- 
 cause I believe you are sufficiently enchanting without 
 one.' 
 
 ' I am bound to consider that most excellent logic,' said 
 Miss Temple. 
 
 ' Do you admire my fountain and my birds ? ' she con- 
 tinued, after a short pause. ' After Armine, Ducie appears 
 a little tawdry toy.' 
 
 ' Ducie is Paradise,' said Ferdinand. ' I should like to 
 pass my life in this conservatory.' 
 
 ' As an enchanted prince, I suppose ? ' said !Miss Temple. 
 
 ' Exactly,' said Captain Ai'miue ; ' I would willingly this 
 instant become a flower, if I were sure that Miss Temple 
 would cherish my existence.' 
 
 * Cut off your tendrils and drown you Avith a watering- 
 pot,' said !Miss Temple ; ' you really are very Sicilian in 
 your conversation, Captain Armine.' 
 
 ' Corac,' said Mr. Temple, who now joined them, * if you 
 really should like to take a stroll round the grounds, I will 
 order the keeper to meet us at the cottage.' 
 
 ' A very good proposition,' said Miss Temple. 
 
 * But you must get a bonnet, Henrietta ; I must forbid 
 your going out uncovered.' 
 
 ' No, papa, this will do,' said Miss Temple, taking a hand- 
 kerchief, twisting it round her head, and tying it under her 
 chin. 
 
 ' You look like an old woman, Henrietta,' said her father, 
 Bmiling. 
 
 e2
 
 100 HENRIETTA TEItCPLE : 
 
 ' I shall not say what you look like, Miss Temple,' said 
 Captain Armine, "vvith a glance of admiration, ' lest you 
 sliou.ld tliink that I Avas this time even 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 of yesterday.' 
 
 Ferdinand pressed the gift to his lips. 
 
 They went forth ; they stepped into a Paradise, where 
 the sweetest flowers seemed grouped in every combination 
 of the choicest forms ; baskets, and vases, and beds of in- 
 finite fancy, A thousand bees and butterflies filled the air 
 with their glancing shapes and cheerful music, and the 
 birds from the neighboui-ing groves joined in the chorus of 
 melody. The wood walks through Avhich they now ram- 
 bled admitted at intervals glimpses of the ornate landscape, 
 and occasionally the view extended beyond the enclosed 
 limits, and exhibited the clustering and embowered roofs 
 of the neighbouring village, or some woody hill studded 
 with a farmhouse, or a distant spire. As for Ferdinand, 
 he strolled along, full of beautiful thoughts and thrilling 
 fancies, in a dreamy state which had banished all recollec- 
 tion or consciousness but of the present. He was happy ; 
 positively, perfectly, supremely happy. He was happy for 
 the first time in his Ufe. He had no conception that life 
 could afibrd such bliss as now filled his being. What a 
 chain of misez'able, tame, factitious sensations seemed the 
 whole course of his past existence. Even the joys of yes- 
 terday were nothing to these ; Armine was associated with 
 too much of the commonplace and the gloomy to realise 
 the ideal in which he now revelled. But now all circum- 
 Btances contributed to enchant him. The novelty, the 
 beavity of the scene, harmoniously blended with his passion. 
 The sun seemed to him a more brilliant sun than the orb 
 that illumined Armine ; the sky more clear, more pure, more 
 odorous. There seemed a magic sympathy in the trees,
 
 A LOVE STORY. 101 
 
 mid every flower renaiuded him of his mistress. And then 
 he looked around and beheld her. Was ho positively 
 awake ? Was he in England ? Was he in the same globe 
 in which he had hitherto moved and acted ? What was 
 this entrancing form that moved before him ? Was it in- 
 deed a woman ? 
 
 clea ccrte ! 
 
 That voice, too, now wilder than the wildest bird, now low 
 and hushed, yet always sweet ; where was he, what did ho 
 listen to, what did he behold, what did he feel ? The pre- 
 sence of her father alone restrained him from falling on his 
 knees and expressing to her hi^ adoration. 
 
 At length our fi-iends arrived at a picturesque and ivy- 
 grown cottage, where the keeper, with their guns and dogs, 
 awaited 'Mr. Temple and his guest. Ferdinand, although 
 a keen sportsman, beheld the spectacle with dismay. Ho 
 execrated, at the same time, the existence of partridges and 
 the invention of gunpowder. To resist his fate, however, 
 Avas 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 I go ? ' 
 
 ' Oh ! certainly,' said Miss Temple. ' It Avill do you a 
 great deal of good.' 
 
 Never did anyone at first shoot more wildly. In time, 
 howevei', Ferdinand sufficiently rallied to recover his repu- 
 tation with the keeper, who, from his first observation, 
 began to wink his eye to his son, an attendant bush-beater, 
 and occasionally even thrust his tongue inside his cheek, a 
 significant gesture perfectly understood by the im]\ ' For 
 the Hfo of me, Sam,' he afterwards profoundly observed, 
 ' I couldn't make out this here Captain by no manner of 
 means whatsomevcr. At first I thought as how he was 
 going to put the muzzle to his shoulder. Hang me if ever 
 I see sich a gentleman. He missed everything ; and at
 
 102 HENRIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 last if he didn't hit the longest flying shots withont taking 
 aim. Hang ine if ever I 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 vpife, and the rector of the parish. Ferdi- 
 nand was placed at the right hand of Miss Temple. The 
 more he beheld her the more beautiful she seemed. He 
 detected every moment some charm before unobserved. It 
 seemed to him that he never was in such agreeable society, 
 though, sooth to say, the conversation was not of a very 
 brilliant character. Mr. Temple recounted the sport of the 
 morning to the squire, whose ears kindled at a congenial 
 subject, and every preserve in the county was then discussed, 
 with some episodes on poaching. The rector, an old gen- 
 tleman, who had dined in old days at Armine Place, re- 
 minded Ferdinand of the agi'eeable circumstance, sanguine 
 perhaps that the invitation might lead to a renewal of his 
 acquaintance with that hospitable board. He was pain- 
 fully profuse in his description of the public days of the 
 famous Sir Ferdinand. 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,' re- 
 plied Miss Temple ; ' it was one of the agreeable days of 
 life.' 
 
 * And that is saying a great deal, for I think your life 
 must have abounded in agreeable days.' 
 
 * I cannot indeed lay any claim to that misery which 
 makes many people interesting,' sa,id Miss Temple ; ' I am 
 a very commonplac person, for I have been always 
 happy.' 
 
 "When the ladies withdrew there appeared but little in- 
 clination on the part of the squire and the rector to follow
 
 A LOVE STORY. 103 
 
 their example ; and Captain Armine, therefore, soon left 
 Mr. Temple to his fate, and escaped to the drawing-room. 
 He glided to a seat on an ottoman, by the side of his 
 hostess, and listened in silence to the conversation. What 
 a conversation ! At any other time, under any other cir- 
 cumstances, Ferdinand would have been teased and wearied 
 with its commonplace current : all the dull detail of county 
 tattle, in which the squire's lady was a proficient, and with 
 which Miss Temple was too highly bred not to appear to 
 sympathise ; and yet the conversation, to Ferdinand, ap- 
 peared quite charming. Every accent of Henrietta's 
 sounded like wit ; and when she bent her head in assent to 
 her companion's obvious deductions, there was about each 
 movement a grace so ineffable, that Ferdinand could have 
 sat in silence and listened, entranced, for ever : and occa- 
 sionally, too, she turned to Captain Armine, and appealed 
 on some point to his knowledge or his taste. It seemed to 
 him that he had never listened to sounds so sweetly thril- 
 ling as her voice. It was a birdlikc burst of music, that 
 well became the sparkling sunshine of her violet eyes. 
 
 His late companions entered. Ferdinand rose from his 
 seat ; the windows of the saloon were open ; he stepped 
 forth into the garden. He felt the necessity of being a 
 moment alone. He proceeded a few paces beyond the ken 
 of man, and then leaning on a statue, and burying his face 
 in his arm, he gave way to irresistible emotion. What 
 "wild thoughts dashed through his impetuous soul at that 
 instant, it is difficult to conjecture. Perhaps it was passion 
 that inspired that convulsive reverie ; perchance it might 
 have been remorse. Did he abandon himself to those novel 
 sentiments which in a few brief hours had changed all his 
 aspirations and coloured his whole existence ; or was he 
 tortured by that dark and perplexing future, from which 
 his imagination in vain struggled to extricate him ? 
 
 Ho was roused from his reverie, brief but tumultuous, by
 
 104 HENRIETTA TEIEPLE : 
 
 tlie note of music, and then by tlie sound of a human voice. 
 The stasr detectinof the huntsman's horn could not have 
 started with more wild emotion. But one fair organ could 
 Bend forth that voice. He approached, he listened ; the 
 voice of Henrietta Temple floated to him on the air, breath- 
 ing with a thousand odours. In a moment he was at her 
 side. The squire's lady was standing by her ; the gentle- 
 men, for a moment arrested from a political discussion, 
 formed a group in a distant part of the room, the rector 
 occasionally venturing in a practised whisper to enforce a 
 disturbed argument. Ferdinand glided in unobserved by 
 the fair performer. Miss Temple not only possessed a 
 voice of rare tone and compass, but this delightful gift of 
 nature had been cultivated with refined art. Ferdinand, 
 himself a musician, and passionately devoted to vocal me- 
 lody, 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 medi- 
 tating 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. His mother had been his able instruc- 
 tress in the art even in his childhood, and his frequent resi- 
 dence at iN'aples and other parts of the south had afibrdcd 
 him ample opportunities of perfecting a talent thus early 
 cultivated. But to-night the love of something beyond 
 liis art iuspii'ed the voice of Ferdinand. Singing with
 
 A LOVE STOEY. 105 
 
 Heni'ietta Temple, lie poured forth to Lev in safety all tlio 
 passion which raged in his soul. The squire's lady looked 
 confused ; Henrietta herself grew pale ; the politicians 
 ceased even to whisper, and advanced from their corner to 
 the instrument ; and Avhen the duet was terminated, Mr, 
 Temple offered his sincere congratulations to his guest. 
 Henrietta also turned with some words of commendation 
 to Ferdinand ; but tlie words were faint and confused, and 
 finally requesting Captain Armine to favour them by sing- 
 ing alone, she rose and vacated her seat. 
 
 Ferdinand took up the guitar, and accompanied himself 
 to a Neapolitan air. It was gay and festive, a Ritornella 
 which might summon your mistress to dance in the moon- 
 light. And then, amid many congi-atulations, he ofiered 
 the guitar to Miss Temple. 
 
 'JSTo 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 Avords : — 
 
 THE DESERTED. 
 
 I. 
 YoH, weeping i,s madness, 
 
 Away with this tear, 
 I/ct no sign of sadness 
 Betray the wikl anguisli I fear. 
 AVhen wc meet him to-night, 
 
 JJo mute tlien my Iicart ! 
 And my smilo bo as briglit, 
 As if we were never to part. 
 
 n. 
 Girl! givo mo the mirror 
 
 That said I was fair ; 
 Alas ! fatal error, 
 Tiiis 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 v»w ! 
 
 ' The music,' said Ferdinand, full of enthusiasm, ' Is ' 
 
 ' Henrietta's,' replied her father.
 
 106 HENEIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 ' And the words ? ' 
 
 ' Were found in my canary's cage,' said Henrietta Temple, 
 rising and putting an end to the conversation. 
 
 I 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 IN WHICH CAPTAIN AEMINE INDULGES IN A EEVERIE. 
 
 The squire's carriage was announced, and then came his 
 lady's shawl. How happy was Ferdinand when he recol- 
 lected that he was to remain at Ducie. Remain at Ducie ! 
 Remain under the same roof as Henrietta Temple. What 
 bliss ! what ravishing bliss ! All his life, and his had not 
 been a monotonous one ; it seemed that all his life could 
 not afford a situation so adventurous and so sweet as this. 
 ISTow they have gone. The squire and his lady, and the 
 worthy rector who recollected Armine so well ; they have 
 all departed, all the adieus are uttered ; after this httle and 
 unavoidable bustle, silence reigns in the saloon 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 that garden with Henrietta Temple, to have poured forth 
 his whole soul to her, 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 live for 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, in one hand a light, the other extended to her 
 father's guest. He pressed her hand, he sighed, he looked 
 confased ; then suddenly letting go her hand, he walked 
 quickly towards the door of the saloon, which he opened 
 that she might retire.
 
 A LOVE STORY. 107 
 
 'The happiest day of my life has ended,' he muttered. 
 
 *Tou 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 her again, before he again listens to that 
 music, watches that airy grace, and meets the bright flash- 
 ing of that fascinating eye. What misery was there in 
 this idea ? How little had he seemed hitherto to prize the 
 joy of being her companion. He cursed the hours which 
 had been wasted away from her in the morning's sport ; he 
 blamed himself that he had not even sooner quitted the 
 dining-room, or that he had left the saloon for a moment, 
 to commune with his own thoughts in the garden. "With 
 difficulty he restrained himself from re-opening the door, 
 to listen for the distant sound of her footsteps, or catch, 
 perhaps, along some corridor, the fading echo of her voice. 
 But Ferdinand was not alone ; Mr. Temple still remained. 
 That gentleman raised his face from the newspaper as 
 Captain Armine advanced to him ; and, after some obser- 
 vations about the day's sport, and a hope that he would 
 repeat his trial of the manor to-morrow, proposed their 
 retirement. Ferdinand of course assented, and in a naoment 
 he was ascending with his host the noble and Italian stair- 
 case : and he then was ushered from the vestibule into his 
 room. 
 
 His previous visit to the chamber had been so hurried, 
 that he had only made a general observation on its appear- 
 ance. Little inclined to slumber, he now examined it more 
 critically. In a recess was a French bed of simple furni- 
 ture. On the walls, which were covered with a rustic paper, 
 were suspended several drawings, representing views in the 
 Saxon Switzerland. They were so bold and spirited that 
 they arrested attention ; but the quick eye of Ferdinand 
 instantly detected the initials of the artist in the corner.
 
 108 HENRIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 They were letters that made his heart tremble, as he gazed 
 with admiring fondness on her performances. Before a 
 sofa, covered with a chintz of a corresponding pattern with 
 the paper of the walls, was placed a small French table, on 
 which were writing materials ; and his toilet-table and his 
 mantelpiece were profusely ornamented with rare flowers ; 
 on all sides were symptoms of female taste and feminine 
 consideration. 
 
 Ferdinand carefully withdrew from his coat the flower 
 that Henrietta had given him in the morning, and which 
 he had worn the whole day. He kissed it, he kissed it more 
 than once ; he pressed its somewhat faded form to his lips 
 with cautious delicacy ; then tending it with the iitmost 
 care, he placed it in a vase of water, which holding in his 
 hand, he threw himself into an easy chair, with his eyes 
 fixed on the gift ho most valued in the world. 
 
 An hour passed, and Fei'dinand Ai-mine remained fixed 
 in the same position. But no one who beheld that beautiful 
 and pensive countenance, and the dreamy softness of that 
 large grey eye, could for a moment conceive that his thoughts 
 were less sweet than the object on which they appeared to 
 gaze. No distant recollections disturbed him now, no 
 memory of the past, no fear of the future. The delicious 
 present monopolised his existence. The ties of duty, the 
 claims of domestic affection, the worldly considerations that 
 by a cruel dispensation had seemed, as it were, to taint even 
 his innocent and careless boyhood, even the urgent appeals 
 of his critical and perilous situation ; all, all were forgotten 
 in one intense delirium of absorbing love. 
 
 Anon he rose from his seat, and paced his room for some 
 minutes, with his eyes fixed on the ground. Then throwing 
 off' his clothes, and taking the flower from the vase, which 
 he had previously placed on the table, he deposited it iu 
 his bosom. ' Beautiful, beloved flower,' exclaimed he ; 
 • thus, thus will I win and wear your mistress I ' 
 
 !
 
 A LOVE STOKY. 109 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 A STI5AXGE DEEAM. 
 
 Restless are the dreams of th* lover that is young. Fer- 
 dinand Armine started awake from the agony of a terrible 
 slumber. He had been walking in a garden with Henrietta 
 Temple, her hand was clasped in his, her eyes fixed on the 
 ground, as he whispered delicious words. His face was 
 flushed, his speech panting and low. Gently he wound his 
 vacant arm round her graceful form ; she looked up, her 
 speaking eyes met his, and their trembling lips seemed 
 about to cling into a 
 
 "When lo ! the splendour of the garden faded, and all 
 seemed changed and dim ; instead of the beautiful arched 
 w^alks, in which a moment before they appeared to wander, 
 it was beneath the vaulted roof of some temple that they 
 now moved ; instead of the bed of glowing flowers from 
 which he was about to pluck an offering for her bosom, an 
 altar rose, from the centre of which upsprang a quick and 
 lurid tongue of fire. The dreamer gazed upon his com- 
 panion, and her form was tinted with the dusky hue of the 
 flame, and she held to her countenance a scarf, as if op- 
 pressed by the unnatural heat. Great fear suddenl}^ camo 
 over him. With haste, yet with tenderness, he himself 
 withdrew the scarf from the face of his companion, and this 
 movement revealed the visage of Miss, Grandison. 
 
 Ferdinand Armine awoke and started up in his bed. 
 Before him still appeared the unexpected figure. He 
 jumped out of bed, he gazed upon the form with staring 
 eyes and open mouth. She was there, assuredly she was 
 there ; it was Katherine, Katherine his betrothed, sad and 
 reproachful. The figure faded before hun ; he advanced 
 with outstretched hand ; in his desperation he determined 
 to clutch the escaping form : and ho found in his grasp his
 
 110 HENKIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 dressing-gown, whicli lie had thrown over the back of a 
 chair. 
 
 ' A dream, and but a dream, after all,' he muttered to 
 himself; ' and yet a strange one.' 
 
 His brow was heated ; he opened the casement. It was 
 still night ; the moon had vanished, but the stars were still 
 shining. He recalled with an effort the scene with which 
 he had become acquainted yesterday for the first time. 
 Before him, serene and still, rose the bowers of Ducie. And 
 their mistress ? That angehc form whose hand he had 
 clasped in his dream, was not then merely a shadow. She 
 breathed, she hved, and under the same roof. Henrietta 
 Temple was at this moment under the same roof as himself: 
 and what were her slumbers ? Were they wild as his own, 
 or sweet and innocent as herself? Did his form flit over 
 her closed vision at this charmed hour, as hers had visited 
 his ? Had it been scared away by an. apparition as awful ? 
 Bore anyone to her the same relation as Katherine Grandi- 
 son to him ? A fearful surmise, that had occurred to him 
 now for the first time, and which it seemed could never again 
 quit his brain. The stars faded away, the breath of morn 
 was abroad, the chant of birds arose. Exhausted in body 
 and in mind, Ferdinand Armine flung himself upon his bed, 
 and soon was lost in slumbers undisturbed as the tomb. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 WHICH I HOPE MAY PEOVE AS AGREEABLE TO THE READER AS 
 
 TO OUR HERO. 
 
 Ferdinand's servant, whom he had despatched the previous 
 evening to Armine, 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.
 
 A LOVE STOEY. Ill 
 
 Ferdinand opened these epistles with a trembling Land. 
 The sight of Katherine's, his Katherine's, handwriting was 
 almost as terrible as his dream. It recalled to him, with a 
 dreadful reality, his actual situation, which he had driven 
 from his thoughts. He had quitted his family, his family 
 who were so devoted to him, and whom he so loved, happy, 
 nay, triumphant, a pledged and rejoicing bridegroom. 
 What had occurred during the last eight-and-forty hours 
 seemed completely to have changed all his feelings, all his 
 wishes, all his views, all his hopes ! He had in that in- 
 terval met a single human being, a woman, a girl, a young 
 and innocent girl ; he had looked upon that girl and listened 
 to her voice, and his soul was changed as the earth by the 
 sunrise. As lying 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 melan- 
 cho]y father, his fond and confiding mother, the devoted 
 Glastonbury, all the mortifying circumstances of his illus- 
 trious race, rose in painful succession before him. Nor 
 could he forget his own wretched follies and that fatal visit 
 to Bath, of which the consequences clanked upon his 
 memory like degrading and disgraceful fetters. The burden 
 of existence seemed intolerable. That domestic love which 
 liad so solaced his existence, recalled now only the most 
 painful associations. In the wildness of his thoughts ho 
 Avished himself alone in the world, to struggle with his fate 
 and mould his fortunes. He felt himself a slave and a 
 sacrifice. He cursed Armine, his ancient house, and his 
 broken fortunes. He felt that death was preferable to life 
 without Henrietta Temple. But even supposing that ho 
 could extricate himself from his rash engagement ; even 
 admitting that all worldly considerations might be thrown 
 aside, and the pride of his father, and his mother's love, 
 and Glastonbury's pure hopes, might all be outraged; wliat
 
 112 HENRIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 cliance, wliat hope 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, and existing only 
 for the gratification of his own wild fancies ? A beggar, 
 worse than a beggar, without a home, without the possi- 
 bility of a home to offer the lady of his passion ; nay, not 
 even secure that the harsh process of the law might not 
 instantly claim its victim, and he himself be hurried from 
 the altar to the gaol ! 
 
 Moody and melancholy, he repaired to the saloon ; he 
 beheld Henrietta Temple, 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 fair flower with the 
 dew upon its leaves. Her voice penetrated his soul ; her 
 sunny smile warmed his breast. Her father greeted him too 
 with kindness, and inquired after his slumbers, which he 
 assured Mr. Temple had been satisfactory, 
 
 * I find,' continued ]\Ii*. Temple, ' that the post has brought 
 me some business to-day which, I fear, claims the morn- 
 ing to transact ; but I hope you will not forget your 
 promise. The keeper will be ready whenever you summon 
 him.' 
 
 Ferdinand muttered something about trouble and intru- 
 sion, and the expected arrival of his family ; but Miss 
 Temple begged him to accept the ofter, and refusal was 
 impossible. 
 
 After breakfast Mr. Temple retired to his library, and 
 Ferdinand found himself alone for the first time with Hen- 
 rietta Temple. 
 
 She was copying a miniature of Charles the First. Fer- 
 dinand looked over her shoulder. 
 
 ' A melancholy countenance ! ' he obse^'^'ed. 
 
 ' It is a favourite one of mine,' she replied. 
 
 ' Yet you are always gay.' 
 
 fl
 
 A LOVE STORi^. 113 
 
 ' Always.' 
 
 ' I envy you, Miss Temple' 
 
 ' What, are you melancholy ? ' 
 
 ' I have every cause.' 
 
 ' Indeed, I should have thought the rev(^rse.' 
 
 ' I look upon myself as the most unfortunate of human 
 beings,' replied Ferdinand. 
 
 He spoke so seriously, in a tone of such deep and bitter 
 feeling, that Miss Temple could not resist looking up at her 
 companion. His countenance was gloomy. 
 
 'You sui'prlse mo,' said Miss Temple ; 'I think that few 
 people ought to be unhappy, and I rather suspect fewer arc 
 than we imagine.' 
 
 ' All I wish is,' replied he, ' that the battle of Newbury 
 had witnessed the extinction of our family as well as our 
 peerage.' 
 
 ' A peei'ago, and such a peerage as yours, is a fine thing,' 
 said Henrietta Temple, ' a very fine thing ; but I would not 
 grieve, if I were you, for that. I would sooner be an 
 Armine without a coronet than many a brow I wot of with.' 
 
 ' You misconceived a silly phrase,' rejoined Ferdinand. 
 ' I was not thinking of the loss of our coronet, though that 
 is only part of the system. Our family, I am sui'c, aro 
 fated. Birth without honour, estates without fortune, Ufa 
 without happiness, that is our lot.' 
 
 ' As for the first,' said Miss Temple, ' the honourable aro 
 always honoured; money, in spite of what they say, I feel 
 is not the greatest thing in the world ; and a,s for misery, 
 I confess I do not very readily believe 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 turned away, and, taking 
 up a book, for a few minutes seemed wrapped in his re- 
 flections, 
 
 I
 
 114 HENEIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 He suddenly resumed the conversation in a more cheerful 
 tone. Holding a volume of Petrarch, in his hand, he touched 
 lightly, but with grace, on Italian poetry ; then diverged 
 into his travels, recounted an adventure with sprightliness, 
 and rephed to Miss Temple's lively remarks with gaiety and 
 readiness. The morning advanced ; Miss Temple closed 
 her portfolio, and visited her flowers, inviting him to follow 
 her. Her invitation was scarcely necessary, his movements 
 were regulated by hers ; he was as faithful to her as her 
 shadow. From the conservatory they entered the garden ; 
 Ferdinand was as fond of gardens as Miss Temple. She 
 praised the flower-garden of Armine. He gave her some 
 account of its principal creator. The character of Glaston- 
 bury highly interested Miss Temple. Love is confidential; 
 it has no fear of ridicule. Ferdinand entered with freedom 
 and yet with grace, into family details, from which, at 
 another time and to another person, he would have been 
 the first to shrink. The imagination of Miss Temple was 
 greatly interested by his simple, and, to her, ajffecting ac- 
 count of this ancient line living in their hereditary solitude, 
 with all their noble pride and haughty poverty. The scene, 
 the circumstances, were all such as please a maiden's fancy; 
 and he, the natural hero of this singular history, seemed 
 deficient in none of those heroic quaHties which the wildest 
 spirit 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 blended with the mournful melody of his 
 voice, and occasionally contrasted with the somewhat sub- 
 dued and chastened character of his demeanour. 
 
 'Well, do not despair,' said Henrietta Temple; 'riches 
 did not make Sir Ferdinand ha23py. I feel confident the 
 house will yet flourish.' 
 
 'I have no confidence,' replied Ferdinand; 'I feel the 
 struggle with our fate to be fruitless. Once indeed I felt
 
 A LOVE STOEY. 115 
 
 like you ; there was a time when I took even a fancied pride 
 in all the follies of my grandfather. But that is past ; I 
 have lived to execrate his memory.' 
 
 'Hush! hush!' 
 
 ' Yes, to execrate his memory I I repeat, to execrate his 
 memory ! His follies 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 a wretched one, and that his career has 
 entailed this cui-se of servitude upon me. But away with 
 this ! You must think me, Miss Temple, the most ego- 
 tistical of human beings ; and yet, to do myself justice, I 
 never remember having spoken of myself so much before.' 
 
 ' "Will you walk with me ? ' said iMiss Temple, after a 
 moment's silence ; ' you seem little inclined to avail your- 
 self of my father's invitation to 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 such occasions.' 
 
 So, crossing the lawn, they entered a beautiful wood of 
 considerable extent, which formed the boundary of the 
 grounds, and, after some time passed in agreeable conver- 
 sation, emerged upon a common of no ordinary extent or 
 beauty, for it was thickly studded in some parts with lofty 
 timber, while in others the furze and fern gave richness 
 and variety to the vast wilderness of verdant turf, scarcely 
 marked, except by the light hoof of Miss Temple's palfrey. 
 
 * It is not so grand as Armine Park,' said Miss Temple ; 
 * but we are proud of our common.' 
 
 The thin grey smoke that rose in different dii'ections was 
 a beacon to the charitable visits of Miss Temple. It was 
 evident that she was a visitor both habitual and beloved.
 
 116 HENRIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 Eacli cottage-door was familiar to lier entrance. Tho 
 cliildren smiled at lier approach ; their mothers rose and 
 courtseyed with affectionate respect. How many names 
 and how many wants had she to remember ! yet nothing 
 was forgotten. Some were rewarded for industry, some 
 were admonished not to be idle ; but all were treated 
 with an engaging suavity more eflBcacious than gifts or 
 punishments. The aged were solaced by her visit ; the sick 
 forgot their pains ; and, as she listened with sympathising 
 patience to long narratives of rheumatic gi'iefs, it seemed 
 her presence in each old chair, her tender enquii-ies and 
 sanguine hopes, brought even more comfort than her plen- 
 teous promises of succour from the Bower, in the shape of 
 arrowroot and gruel, port Avine and flannel petticoats. 
 
 This scene of sweet simplicity brought back old days and 
 old places to the 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 loved and looked after, 
 when a cloud upon her brow brought a tear into his eye, 
 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, rose up to his recollection ; all his 
 mother's passionate fondness, all her wild fear that the day 
 might come when her child would not love her so dearly as 
 he did then. That time had come. But a few hours back, 
 ay ! but a few hours back, and he had sighed to be alone 
 in the woi'ld, and had felt those domestic ties which had 
 been the joy of his existence a burthen and a curse. A 
 tear stole do-\vn his cheek ; he stepped forth from the cot- 
 tage to conceal his emotion. He seated himself on the 
 trunk of a tree, a few paces withdrawn ; he looked upon 
 the declining sun that gilded the distant landscape with its 
 rich yet pensive light. The scenes of the last five years 
 flitted across his mind's eye in fleet succession ; his dissi- 
 pation, his vanity, his desperate folly, his hollow worldlinoss,
 
 A LOVE STORY. 117 
 
 Why, oh ! why had he ever left liis unpolluted home ? 
 "Why could he not have lived and died in that sylvan para- 
 dise ? Why, oh ! Avhy was it impossible to admit his 
 beautiful companion into that sweet and serene society ? 
 Why should his love for her make his heart a rebel to 
 his hearth ? Money ! horrible money ! It seemed to hiru 
 that the contiguous cottage and the labour of his hands, 
 with her, were preferable to palaces and crowds of retainers 
 without her inspiring presence. And why not screw his 
 courage to the sticking-point, and commune in confidence 
 with his parents ? They loved him ; yes, they idolised 
 him ! For him, for him alone, they sought the restoration 
 of their house and fortunes. Why, Henrietta Temple was 
 a treasure richer than any his ancestors had counted. Let 
 them look on her, let them listen to her, let them breathe 
 as he had done in her enchantment ; and could they wonder, 
 could they murmur, at his conduct ? Would they not, oh ! 
 AYould they not, rather admire, extol it ! But, then, his 
 debts, his overwhelming debts. All the rest might be faced. 
 His desperate engagement might bo broken ; his family 
 might be reconciled to obscurity and poverty : but, ruin ! 
 what was to grapple with liis impending ruin ? Now his 
 folly stung him ; now the scoi'pion entered his soul. It 
 was not the profligacy of his ancestor, it waa not the prido 
 of liis family then, that stood between him and his love ; it 
 was his own culpable and heartless career ! He covercil 
 liis face with his hands ; something touched him lightly ; 
 it was the parasol of J\Iiss Temple. 
 
 ' I am afraid,' she said, ' that my visits have Avearied you ; 
 but you have been very kind and good.' 
 
 Ho rose rapid!}', with a slight blush. * Indeed,' he re- 
 plied, ' I have passed a most delightful morning, and I was 
 only regretting that life consisted of anything else but 
 cottages and yourself.' 
 
 They were late ; they heard the first dinner-bell at Dacie
 
 118 HENEIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 as they re-entered the wood. * "We must hurry on,' said 
 Miss Temple ; ' dinner is the only subject on which papa is 
 a tyrant. What a sunset ! I wonder if Lady Armine will 
 return on Saturday. When she returns, I hope you will 
 make 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 pecuHar smile. 
 Miss Temple looked a little confused. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Ali EVENING STKOLL. 
 
 In spite of his perilous situation, an indefinable sensation 
 of happiness pervaded the soul of Ferdinand Armine, as he 
 made his hurried toilette, and hastened to the domestic 
 board of Ducie, where he was now the solitary guest. His 
 eye caught Miss Temple's as he entered the room. It 
 seemed to beam upon him with interest and kindness. His 
 cotu'teous and agreeable host welcomed him with pohshed 
 warmth. It seemed that a fcehng of intimacy was already 
 established among them, and he fancied himself already 
 looked upon as an habitual member of their circle. All 
 dark thoughts were driven away. He was gay and plea- 
 sant, and duly maintained with Mr. Temple that conversa- 
 tion in which his host excelled. Mss Temple spoke little, 
 but listened with evident interest to her father and Ferdi- 
 nand. She seemed to delight in their society, and to be 
 gratified by Captain Armine's evident senae of her father's 
 agreeable qualities.
 
 A LOVE STORY. 119 
 
 When dinner was over they all rose together and repaired 
 to the saloon, 
 
 ' I wish Mr. Glastonbury were here,' said Miss Temple, 
 as Ferdinand opened the instrument. ' You must bring 
 him some day, and then our concert will be perfect.' 
 
 Ferdinand smiled, but the name of Glastonbury made 
 him shudder. His countenance changed at the future plans 
 of !Mis3 Temple. ' Some day,' indeed, when he might also 
 take the opportunity of introducing his betrothed ! But 
 the voice of Henrietta Temple drove all care from his 
 bosom ; he abandoned himself to the intoxicating present. 
 She sang alone ; and then they sang together ; and as he 
 arranged her books, or selected her theme, a thousand 
 instances of the interest with which she inspired him de- 
 veloped themselves. Once he touched her hand, and he 
 pressed his own, unseen, to his lips. 
 
 Though the room, was lit up, the windows were open 
 and admitted the moonlight. The beautiful saloon was 
 full of fragrance and of melody ; the fairest of women 
 dazzled Ferdinand with her pi-esence ; his heart was full, 
 his senses ravished, his hopes were high. Could there be 
 such a demon as caro in such a paradise ? Could sorrow 
 ever enter here ? Was it possible that these bright halls 
 and odorous bowers could be polluted by the miserable 
 considerations that reigned too often supremo in his un- 
 happy breast ? An enchanted scene had suddenly risen 
 from the earth for his delight and fascination. Could 
 he be unhappy ? Why, if all went darker even than 
 he sometimes feared, that man had not lived in vain 
 who had beheld Henrietta Temple ! AU the troubles 
 of the world were folly here ; this was fairy-land, 
 and he some knight who had fallen from a gloomy 
 globe upon some starry region flashing with perennial 
 lustre. 
 
 The hours flew on ; the servants brought in that light
 
 120 HENBIETTA TE]\IPLE : 
 
 banquet wliose entrance in tlie conntiy seems tlie only 
 raetliod of reminding our guests that there is a morrow. 
 
 ' 'Tis the last night,' said Ferdinand, smiHug, with a sigh. 
 ' One more song ; only one more. Mr. Temple, be indul- 
 gent ; it is the last night, I feel,' he added in a lower tone 
 to Henrietta, * I feel exactly as I did when I left Armina 
 for the first time.' 
 
 ' Because you are going to return to it ? That is wilfal.' 
 
 * 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 combination of art and nature and poetical associa- 
 tions I know ; it is indeed unique.' 
 
 ' I do not liko to differ with you on any subject.' 
 
 ' We should bo dull companions, I fear, if we agreed upon 
 everything.* 
 
 ' I cannot think it.' 
 
 ' Papa,' said Miss Temple, ' one little stroll upon the 
 lawn ; one littlo, little stroll. Tlie moon is so bright ; and 
 autumn, this year, has brought us as yet no dew.' And as 
 she spoke, she took up her scarf and wound it round her 
 head. ' There,' she said, ' I look like the portrait of the 
 Turkish page in Armine Gallery.' 
 
 There was a playful grace about Henrietta Temple, a 
 wild and brilliant simplicity, which was the more charming 
 because it was blended with peculiarly high breeding. No 
 person in ordinary society was more calm, or enjoyed a 
 more complete self-possession, yet no one in the more inti- 
 mate relations of life indulged more in those little unstudied 
 bursts of nature, which seemed almost to remind one of the 
 playful child rather than the polished woman ; and which, 
 under such circumstances, are infinitely captivating. As 
 for Ferdinand Armine, he looked upon the Turkish page 
 with a countenance beaming with admiration ; he wished 
 
 !
 
 A LOVE STOKY. 121 
 
 it was Turkey wlicreiu lie then bclield lier, or any other 
 strange land, where he could have placed her on liia 
 courser, and galloped away in pursuit of a fortune wild as 
 Lis soul. 
 
 Though the year was in decay, summer had lent this 
 
 nio-ht to autumn, it was so soft and sweet. The moon- 
 
 beam fell brightly npon Ducie Bower, and the illumined 
 
 saloon contrasted effectively Avith the natural splendour of 
 
 the exterior scene. Mr. Temple reminded Henrietta of a 
 
 brilliant fete which had been given at a Saxon palace, 
 
 and which some circumstances of similarity recalled to liis 
 
 recollection. Ferdinand could not speak, but found himself 
 
 unconsciously pressing Henrietta Temple's arm to his 
 
 heart. The Saxon palace brought back to Miss Temple a 
 
 wild melody which had been sung in the gardens on that 
 
 nio-ht. She asked her father if he recollected it, and 
 
 hummed the air as she made the enquiry. Her gentle 
 
 murmur soon expanded into song. It was one of those 
 
 Avild and natural lyrics that spring up in mountainous 
 
 countries, and which seem to mimic the prolonged echoes 
 
 that in such regions greet the ear of the pastor and the 
 
 huntsman. 
 
 Oh ! why did this night ever liave an end ! 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 A MOnXIXG WALK*. 
 
 It was solitude that brought despair to Ferdinand Armine. 
 The moment lie was alone his real situation thrust itself 
 upon him ; the moment he had quitted the presence of 
 Henrietta Temple he was as a man under the influence of 
 music when the orchestra suddenly stops. The source of 
 all his inspiration failed him ; this last night at Ducie was
 
 122 HENRIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 dreadful. Sleep was 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, when exhausted, 
 upon a restless sofa. Occasionally he varied these mono- 
 tonous occupations, by pressing his lips to the drawings 
 which bore her name ; then relapsing into a profound 
 reverie, he sought some solace in recalling the scenes of 
 the morning, all her movements, every word she had 
 uttered, every look which had illumined his soul. In vain 
 he endeavoured to find consolation in the fond belief that 
 he was not altogether without interest in her eyes. Even 
 the conviction that his passion was returned, in the situa- 
 tion 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 
 asrainst the wall : it was a volume of Corinne. The fervid 
 eloquence of the poetess sublimated his passion ; and with- 
 out disturbing the tone of his excited mind, relieved in 
 some degree its tension, by busying his imagination with 
 other, though similar emotions. As he read, his mind 
 became more calm and his feeUngs deeper, and by the time 
 his lamp grew ghastly in the purple light of morning that 
 now entered his chamber, his soul seemed so stilled that he 
 closed the volume, and, though sleep was impossible, 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, by whose aid he succeeded 
 in getting into the garden. He took his way to the com- 
 mon where he had observed, the preceding day, a fine 
 sheet of water. The sun had not risen more than an hour ; 
 it was a fresh and ruddy morn. The cottagers were just 
 abroad. The air of the plain invigorated him, and the 
 singing of the birds, and all those rural sounds that rise 
 with the husbandman, brought to his mind a wonderful
 
 A LOVE STOEY. 123 
 
 degree of freshness and serenity. Occasionally lie heard 
 the gun of an early sportsman, to him at all times an 
 animating sound ; but when he had plunged into the water, 
 and found himself struggling with that inspiring element, 
 all sorrow seemed to leave him. His heated brow became 
 cool and clear, his aching limbs vigorous and elastic, his 
 jaded soul full of hope and joy. He Kngered in the liquid 
 and vivifying world, playing with the stream, for he was 
 an expert and practised swimmer ; and often, after nights 
 of Southern dissipation, had recurred to this natural bath 
 for health and renovation. 
 
 The sun had now risen far above the horizon ; the village 
 clock had long struck seven ; Ferdinand was three miles 
 from Ducie Bower. It was time to return, yet he loitered 
 on his way, the air was so sweet and fresh, the scene so 
 pretty, and his mind, in comparison with his recent feehngs, 
 so calm, and even happy. Just as he emerged from the 
 woods, and entered the grounds of Ducie, he met Miss 
 Temple. She stared, and she had cause. Ferdinand 
 indeed presented rather an unusual figure ; his head un- 
 covered, his hair matted, and his countenance glowing 
 with his exercise, but his figure clothed with the identical 
 evening dress in which he had bid her a tender good 
 night. 
 
 * Captain Armine ! ' exclaimed Miss Temple, ' you are an 
 early riser, I sec.' 
 
 Ferdinand looked a httlo confused. * The truth is,' ho 
 replied, ' I have not risen at all. I could not sleep ; why, 
 I know not : the evening, I suppose, was too happy for so 
 commonplace a termination ; so I escaped from 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 tho 
 sake of my dreams.'
 
 124 HENRIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 * Pleasant I trust tliey were. " Rosy dreams and slum- 
 bers light " are for ladies as fair as you.' 
 
 ' I am grateful that I always fulfil the poet's wish ; and 
 what is more, I wake only to gather roses : see here ! ' 
 
 She extended to him a flower. 
 
 ' I deserve it,' said Ferdinand, 'for I have not neglected 
 your first gift ;' and he offered her the rose she had given 
 him the first day of his visit. ' 'Tis shrivelled,' he added, 
 ' but still very sweet, at least to me.' 
 
 ' It is mine now,' said Henrietta Temj)le. 
 
 ' 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 like to be hked.' 
 
 ' Then you can always gain your wish without an effort.' 
 
 'Kow 1 think we are very good friends,' said Ml«s 
 Temple, ' considering we have known each other bo short a 
 time. But then papa likes you so much.' 
 
 ' I am honoured as well as gratified by the kindly dispo- 
 sitions of so agreeable a person as Mr. Temple. I can assure 
 his daughter that the feeling is mutual. Your father's 
 opinion influences you ? ' 
 
 ' In everything. He has been so kind a father, that it 
 would be worse than 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 love my father as you love your mother.' 
 
 ' I have, however, lived to feel that no person's opinion 
 could influence me in everything j I have lived to find
 
 A LOVE STORY. 125 
 
 tliat even filial love, and God knows nniic Avas powerful 
 enough, is, after all, but a jiallid moonlight beam, compared 
 
 ' See ! my father kisses his hand to us from the ■window, 
 Let us run and meet him.' 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 COXXAIXIXG AN OMIXOUS IXCIDEXT. 
 
 The last adieus are bidden : Ferdinand is on his road to 
 Armine, %ing from the woman whom he adores, to meet 
 the woman to whom he is betrothed. He reined in his 
 horse as he entered the park. As he slowly approached 
 his home, he could not avoid feeling, that after so long an 
 absence, he had not treated Glastonbury with the kindness 
 and consideration he merited. While he was torturing his 
 invention for an excuse for his conduct he observed his old 
 tutor in the distance ; and riding up and dismounting, ho 
 joined that faithful friend. Whether it be that love and 
 falsehood are, under any circumstances, inseparable, Ferdi- 
 nand Armine, whose frankness was provei'bial, found him- 
 self involved in a long and confused narrative of a visit to 
 a friend, whom he had unexpectedly met, whom he had 
 known abroad, and to whom he was under the greatest 
 obligations. He even affected to regret this temporary 
 estrangement from Armine after so long a separation, and 
 to rejoice at his escape. No names were mentioned, and 
 the unsuspicious Glastonbury, delighted again to be his 
 companion, inconvenienced him with no cross-examination. 
 But this was only the commencement of the system of 
 degrading deception which awaited him. 
 
 Willingly would Ferdinand have devoted all his time atul 
 feelings to his companion ; but in vain he struggled with
 
 126 HENRIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 the absorbing passion of his soul. He dwelt in silence 
 upon the memory of the last three days, the most eventful 
 period of his existence. Ho was moody and absent, silent 
 when he should have spoken, wandering when he should 
 have listened, hazarding random observations instead of 
 conversing, or breaking into hurried and inappropriate 
 comments ; so that to any worldly critic of his conduct ho 
 would have appeared at the same time both dull and 
 excited. At length he made a desperate effort to accom- 
 pany Glastonbury to the picture gallery and listen to his 
 plans. The scene indeed was not ungrateful to him, for it 
 was associated with the existence and the conversation of 
 the lady of his heart : he stood entranced before the pic- 
 ture of the Turkish page, and lamented to Glastonbury 
 a thousand times, that there was no portrait of Henrietta 
 Armine. 
 
 ' I would sooner have a portrait of Henrietta Armine 
 than the whole gallery together/ said Ferdinand. 
 
 Glastonbury stared. 
 
 ' I wonder if there ever will be a portrait of Henrietta 
 Armine. Come now, my dear Glastonbury,' he continued, 
 with an air of remarkable excitement, ' let us have a wager 
 upon it. What are the odds ? "Will there ever be a por- 
 trait 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 be gratified, it should be to add a portrait of 
 Henrietta Armine to our gallery ? ' 
 
 ' She died very young,' remarked Glastonbury. 
 
 ' But my Henrietta Armine should not die young,' said 
 Ferdinand. ' She should live, breathe, smUe : she ' 
 
 Glastonbury looked very confused. 
 
 So strange is love, that this kind of veiled allusion to his 
 secret passion relieved and gratified the overcharged bosom 
 of Ferdinand. He pursued the subject with enjoyment. 
 Anybody but Glastonbury might have thought that he had
 
 A LOVE STORY. 127 
 
 lost Hs senses, lie laughed so loud, and talked so fast about 
 a subject whicb seemed almost nonsensical ; but tbe good 
 Glastonbury ascribed these ebullitions to the wanton spirit 
 of youth, and smiled out of sympathy, though he knew not 
 why, except that his pupil appeared happy. 
 
 At length they quitted the gallery ; Glastonbury resumed 
 his labours in the haU, where he was copying an escutcheon ; 
 and after hovering a short time restlessly around his tutor, 
 now escaping into the garden that he might muse over 
 Henrietta Temple undisturbed, and now returning for a 
 few minutes to his companion, lest the good Glastonbury 
 should feel mortified by his neglect, Ferdinand broke away 
 altogether and wandered far 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, and holding, as it were, its state 
 among its subject woods. It was the same scene, almost 
 the same hour : but where was she ? He waited for her 
 form to rise, and yet it came not. He shouted Henrietta 
 Temple, yet no fair vision blessed his expectant sight. Was 
 it all a dream ? Had he been but lying beneath these 
 branches in a rapturous trance, and had he only woke to 
 the shivering dulness of reality ? What evidence was there 
 of the existence of such a being as Henrietta Temple ? K 
 such a being did not exist, of what value was life ? After a 
 glimpse of Paradise, could he breathe again in this tamo 
 and frigid world ? Where was Ducie ? Where wei'e its 
 immortal bowers, those roses of supernatural fragrance, 
 and the celestial melody of its halls ? That garden, wherein 
 he wandered and hung upon her accents ; that wood, 
 among whose shadowy boughs she glided Like an antelope ; 
 that pensive twilight, on which he had gazed with such 
 subdued emotion; that moonlight walk, when her voice 
 floated, like Ariel's, iu the purple sky : were these all phan- 
 toms ? Could it be that this morn, this very morn, he had
 
 128 HENRIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 beheld Henrietta Temple, had conversed with her alono, 
 had bidden her a soft adieu ? What, was it this day that 
 she had given him this rose ? 
 
 He threw himself upon the turf, and gazed upon the 
 flower. The flower was young and beautiful as herself, and 
 just expanding into perfect life. To the fantastic brain of 
 love there seemed a resemblance between this rose and her 
 who had culled it. Its stem was tall, its countenance was 
 brilliant, an aromatic essence pervaded its being. As he 
 held it in his hand, a bee came hovering round its charms, 
 eager to revel in its fragrant loveliness. More than onco 
 had Ferdinand driven the bee away, when suddenly it 
 succeeded in alighting on the rose. Jealous of his rose, 
 Ferdinand, in his haste, shook the flower, and the fragile 
 head fell from the stem ! 
 
 A feeling of deep melancholy came over him, with which 
 he found it in vain to struggle, and which he could not 
 analyse. He rose, and pi-essing the flower to his heart, he 
 walked away and rejoined Glastonbury, whose task was 
 nearly accomplished. Ferdinand seated himself upon one 
 of the high cases which had been stowed away in the hall, 
 folding his arms, swinging his legs, and whisthng the 
 German aii' which Miss Temple had sung the preceding 
 night. 
 
 ' That is a wild and pretty air,' said Glastonbury, who 
 was devoted to music. ' 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 myself the same question the whole morning. 
 Sometimes I think I dreamt it.' 
 
 ' A few more such dreams would make you a rare com- 
 poser,' said Glastonbury, smiling. 
 
 ' Ah ! my dear Glastonbury, talking of music, I knoAv a 
 musician, such a musician, a musician whom I should liko 
 to introduce you to above all persons in the world.'
 
 A LOVE STOKY. 129 
 
 ' Tou always loved music, dear Ferdiuand ; 'tis in llio 
 blood. You come from a musical stock on your mother's 
 Bide. Is Miss Grandison musical?' 
 
 ' Yes, no, that is to say, I forget : some commonplace 
 accomplishment in the art she has, I believe ; but I was 
 not thinking of that sort of thing ; I was thinking of tlie 
 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 fine musical taste,' rejoined Ferdinand, recover- 
 ing from his blunder. 
 
 ' I like the Germans very miach,' said Glastonbury, ' and 
 I admire that air.' 
 
 ' ! 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 bad ever heard, or seen, or imagined, 
 of enchanted spirits floating in the air, and filling the 
 atmosphere with supernatui-al symphonies, was realised.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! ' said Glastonbury, ' a most accomplished pci'- 
 foi'mer, no doubt ! Was she professional ? ' 
 
 ' Who ? ' inquired Ferdinand. 
 
 ' Your songstress.' 
 
 ' Professional ! oh ! ah ! yes ! No ! she was not a pro- 
 fessional singer, but she was fit to be one ; and that is an 
 excellent idea, too ; for I would sooner, after all, be a pro- 
 fessional singer, and live by my art, than marry against my 
 inclination, or not marry according to it.' 
 
 ' !Marry ! ' said Glastonbury, rather astonished ; ' what, 
 is she going to be married against her will ? Poor devoted 
 thing ! '
 
 130 HENRIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 ' 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 feelings are 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 two days ? 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. His solitary dinner was an excuse for quitting 
 Glastonbury : but to eat is as impossible as to sleep, for a 
 man who is really in love. He took a spoonful of soup, 
 and then jumping up from his chair, he walked up and 
 down the room, thinking of Henrietta Temple. Then to- 
 morrow occurred to him, and that other lady that to- 
 morrow was to brino;. He drowned the thotiofht in a 
 bumper of claret. Wine, mighty wine ! thou best and 
 surest consolation ! "What care can withstand thy inspiring 
 influence ! from what sfcrape canst thou not, for the moment, 
 extricate the victim ! Who can deny that our spii'itual 
 nature in some degree depends upon our corporeal con- 
 dition ? A man without breakfast is not a hero ; a hero 
 well fed is full of audacious invention. Everything depends 
 upon the circulation. Let but the blood flow freely, and 
 a man of imagination is never without resources. A fine 
 pulse is a talisman ; a charmed life ; a balance at our
 
 A LOVE STORY. 131 
 
 bankers. It is good kick ; it is eternity ; it is "wealth. 
 Notliing can withstand ns ; nothing injure us ; it is in- 
 exhaustible riches. So felt Ferdinand Armine, though on 
 the verge of a moral precipice. To-morrow ! what of to- 
 morrow ? Did to-morrow daunt him ? Not a jot. Ho 
 would wrestle with to-morrow, laden as it might be with 
 curses, and dash it to the earth. It should not be a day ; 
 he would blot it out of the calendar of time ; he would effect 
 a moral eclipse of its influence. He loved Henrietta Temple. 
 She should be his. Who could prevent him ? Was he 
 not an Armine ? Was he not the near descendant of that 
 bold man who passed his whole life in the voluptuous in- 
 dulgence of his unrestrained volition ! Bravo ! ho willed 
 it, and it should be done. Everything yields to deter- 
 mination. What a fool ! what a miserable craven fool had 
 he been to have frightened himself with the flimsy shadows 
 of petty worldly cares ! He was born to follow his own 
 pleasure ; it was supreme ; it was absolute ; ho was a 
 despot ; he set everything and everybody at defiance ; and, 
 filling a huge tumbler to the health of the great Sir 
 Ferdinand, ho retired, glorious as an empci'or. 
 
 On the whole, Ferdinand had not committed so great an 
 indiscretion as the reader, of course shocked, might at first 
 imagine. For the first time for some days he slept, and 
 slept soundly. Next to wine, a renovating slumber perhaps 
 puts us in the best humour with our destiny. Ferdinand 
 awoke refreshed and sanguine, full of inventive life, which 
 soon developed itself in a flow of improbable conclusions. 
 His most rational scheme, however, apjicared to consist in 
 winning Henrietta Temple, and turning pirate, or engaging 
 in the service of some distant and disturbed state. Why 
 might he not free Greece, or revolutionise Spain, or conquer 
 the Brazils ? Others had embarked in these bold enter- 
 prises ; men not more desperate than himself, and not better 
 qualified for the career. Young, courageous, a warrior by 
 
 K 2
 
 132 HENRIETTA TE?»IPLE: 
 
 profession, "svltli a name of traditionary glory tlirouglaout 
 tlie courts of Christendom, perhaps even remembered in 
 Asia, he seemed just the individual to carve out a glorious 
 heritage with his sword. And as for his parents, they were 
 not in the vale of years ; let them dream on in easy ob- 
 scurity, and maintain themselves at Armine until he returned 
 to redeem his hereditary domain. All that was requisite 
 was the concurrence of his adored mistress. Perhaps, after 
 all his foolish fears and all his petty anxiety, he might live 
 to replace upon her brow the ancient coronet of Tewkesbury ! 
 Why not ? The world is strange ; nothing happens that 
 wo anticipate : when apparently stifled by the common- 
 place, we are on the brink of stepping into the adventurous. 
 If he married Miss Grandison, his career was closed : a 
 most unnatural conclusion for one so young and bold. It 
 was evident that he must marry Henrietta Temple : and 
 then ? Why then something would happen totally un- 
 expected and unforeseen. Who could doubt it ? 'Not he ! 
 
 He rose, he mounted his horse, and galloped over to 
 Ducie Common. Its very aspect melted his heart. He 
 called at the cottages he had visited two days before. 
 Without enquiring after Miss Temple, he contrived to hear 
 a thousand circumstances relating to her which interested 
 and charmed him. In the distance rose the woods of Ducie ; 
 he gazed upon them as if he could never withdraw his 
 sight from their deep and silent forms. 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. He sighed 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 his course to Armine. Had they arrived ? The 
 atern presence of reality was too much for all his slight
 
 A LOVE STORY. 133 
 
 and gHttcring visions. What was lie, aftei' all ? Tliis 
 future conqueror Avas a young officer on leave, obscure 
 except in Ms immediate circle, Avith no inlieritance, and 
 very much in debt ; awaited with anxiety by his aiFectiorjato 
 parents, and a young lady Avhom he was about to marry 
 for her fortune ! Most impotent epilogue to a magnificent 
 reverie ! 
 
 The post arrived at Armine in the afternoon. As Fer- 
 dinand, nervous as a child returning to school, tardily 
 regained home, he recognised the approaching postman. 
 Hah ! a letter ? What Avas its import ? The blessing of 
 delay ? or Avas it the herald of their instant arrival ? Pale 
 and sick at heart, he tore open the hurried lines of 
 Katherinc. The maiden aunt had stumbled Avhilc getting 
 out of a pony phaeton, and experienced a serious accident ; 
 their visit to Armine Avas necessarily postponed. Ho read 
 no more. The colour returned to his cheek, reinforced by 
 his heart's liveliest blood. A thousand thoughts, a thousand 
 Avild hopes and Avilder plans, came over him. Hei-e Avas, 
 at least, one interposition in his favour ; others would 
 occur. He felt fortunate. He rushed to the tower, to trll 
 the news to Glastonbury. His tutor ascribed his agitation 
 to the shock, and attempted to console him. In commu- 
 nicating the intelligence, he was obliged to finish the letter; 
 it expressed a hope that, if their visit Avere postponed for 
 more than a day or two, Katheriue's dearest Ferdinand 
 would return to Bath. 
 
 Ferdinand wandered forth into the park to enjoy his 
 freedom. A burden had suddenly fallen from his frame ; a 
 cloud that had haunted his vision had vanished. To-day, 
 that Avas so accursed, Avas to be marked noAV in his calendar 
 Avith red chalk. Even Armine pleased him ; its sky Avas 
 brighter, its woods more A-ast and green. They had not 
 arrived ; they would not arrive to-morroAV, that Avas certain ; 
 tlio third day, too, Avas a day of hope. Why ! three days,
 
 134 HENKIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 three whole days of unexpected, imlioped-for freedom, it 
 was eternity ! What might not happen in three days ! 
 For three days he might fairly remain in expectation of 
 fresh letters. It conld not be anticipated, it was not even 
 desired, that he should instantly repair to them. Come, 
 he would forget this curse, he would be happy. The past, 
 the future, should be nothing; he would revel in the 
 auspicious present. 
 
 Thus communing with himself, he sauntered along, 
 musing over Henrietta Temple, and building bright castles 
 in the air. A man engaged with his ideas is insensible of 
 fatigue. Ferdinand found himself at the Park gate that 
 led to Ducie ; intending only a slight stroll, he had already 
 rambled half way to his beloved. It was a delicious after- 
 noon : the heat of the sun had long abated ; the air was 
 sweet and just beginning to stir ; not a sound was heard, 
 except the last blow of the woodman's axe, or the occasional 
 note of some joyous bird waking from its siesta. Ferdinand 
 passed the gate; he entered the winding road, the road 
 that Henrietta Temple had so admired ; a beautiful green 
 lane with banks of flowers and hedges of tall trees. He 
 strolled along, our happy Ferdinand, indefinite of purpose, 
 almost insensible whether he were advancing or returning 
 home. He plucked the wild flowers, and pressed them to 
 his lips, because she had admired them ; rested on a bank, 
 lounged on a gate, cut a stick from the hedge, traced Hen- 
 rietta Temple in the road, and then turned the words into 
 Henrietta Armine, and so, and so, and so, he, at length, 
 stared at finding himself on Ducie Common, 
 
 Beautiful common ! how he loved it ! How familiar 
 every tree and rustic roof had become to him ! Could he 
 ever forget the morning ho had bathed in those fresh 
 waters ! What lake of Italy, what heroic wave of the mid- 
 land ocean, could rival in his imagination that simple basin ! 
 He drew near to the woods of Ducie, glovfing with the
 
 A LOVE STORY. 135 
 
 Betting sun. Surely there was no twilight like tlie twilight 
 of this land ! The woods of Ducie are entered. He recog- 
 nised the path over which she had glided ; he knelt down 
 and kissed that sacred earth. As he approached the plea- 
 sure grounds, he turned 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 that roof wherein he 
 had been so happy ; of that roof that contained all that he 
 cared for or thought of in this world, overcame him. He 
 leant ao^ainst a tree, and hid his face. 
 
 The twilight died away, the stars stole forth, and Fer- 
 dinand ventured in the spreading gloom of night to ap- 
 proach the mansion. He threw himself upon the turf, and 
 watched the chamber where she lived. The windows were 
 open, there were lights within the room, but the thin 
 curtains were drawn, and concealed the inmates. Happy, 
 happy chamber ! All that was bright and fair and sweet 
 were concentrated in those charming walls ! 
 
 The curtain is withdrawn ; an arm, an arm which cannot 
 be mistaken, pulls back 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 often praised ; her head 
 rests upon her arm, her brow seems pensive ; and in her 
 other hand she holds a volume that she scarcely appears to 
 read. Oh ! may ho gaze tipon her for ever ! May this 
 celestial scene, this seraphic hour, never pass away. Bright 
 stars ! do not fade ; thou summer wind that playest 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 has shut her from his sight ! It has all 
 vanished; tho stars seem dim, the autumnal air is dank 
 and harsh ; and where he had gazed on heaven, a bat flits
 
 136 HENRIETTA TE^IPLE : 
 
 wild and fleet. Poor Ferdinand, unhappy Ferdinand, how 
 dull and depressed our brave gallant lias become ! Was it 
 her father who had closed the 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 singular and admirable qualities, there was not 
 anything more remarkable about Henrietta Temple than 
 her voice. It was a rare voice ; so that in speaking, and 
 in ordinary conversation, though there was no one whose 
 utterance was more natural and less unstudied, it forcibly 
 affected you. She could not give you a greeting, bid you 
 an adieu, or make a routine remark, without impressing 
 you with her power and sweetness. It sounded like a bell, 
 sweet and clear and thrilling ; it was astonishing what 
 influence a little word uttered by this woman, without 
 thought, would have upon those she addressed. Of such 
 fine clay is man made. 
 
 That beautiful voice recalled to Ferdinand all his fading 
 visions ; it renewed the spell which had recently enchanted 
 him ; it conjured up again all those sweet spirits that had 
 a moment since hovered over him with their auspicious 
 pinions. He could not indeed see her ; her form was 
 shrouded, but her voice reached him ; a voice attuned 
 to tenderness, even to love ; a voice that ravished his eai", 
 melted his soul, and blended with his whole existence. His 
 heart fluttered, his pulse beat high, he sprang up, he ad- 
 vanced to the window ! Yes ! a few paces alone divide 
 them : a single step and he will be at her side. His hand 
 is outstretched to clutch the curtain, his , when sud- 
 denly the music ceased. His courage vanished with its 
 inspiration. For a moment he lingered, but his heart 
 misgave him, and he stole back to his solitude. 
 
 What Ji mystery is Love ! All the necessities and habits 
 of our life sink before it. Food and sleep, that seem to
 
 A LOVE STORY. 13 
 
 ►» 
 
 divicle our being as day and nit^ht divide Time, lose all 
 tlicir influence over the lover. He is a spiritualised being, 
 fit only to live upon ambrosia, and slumber in an imaginaiy 
 paradise. The cares of the world do not touch him ; its 
 most stirring events are to him but the dusty incidents of 
 bygone annals. All the fortune of the world without his 
 mistress is misery ; and with her all its mischances a tran- 
 sient dream. Revolutions, earthquakes, the change of go- 
 vernments, the fall of empires, are to him but childish games, 
 distasteful to a manly spirit. Men love in the plague, and 
 forget the pest, though it rages about them. They bear a 
 charmed life, and think not of destruction until it touches 
 their idol, and then they die without a pang, like zealots 
 for their persecuted creed. A man in love wanders in the 
 world as a somnambulist, with eyes that seem open to those 
 that watch him, yet in fact view nothing but their own 
 inward fancies. 
 
 Oh ! that night at Ducic, through whose long hours 
 Ferdinand Arminc, in a tumult of enraptured passion, 
 wandered in its lawns and groves, feeding on the imago of 
 its enchanting mistress, watching the solitary light in her 
 chamber that Avas to him as the pharos to a mariner in a 
 tumultuous voyage ! The morning, the grey cold morning, 
 came at last ; he had outwatched the stars, and listened to 
 ihe matins of the waking birds. It was no longer possible to 
 remain in the gardens unobserved ; he regained the 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 of Henrietta Temple. Yes ! 
 on that great venture he had now resolved ; on that mighty 
 hazard all should now be staked. Reckless of consequences, 
 ono vast object now alone sustained him. Existence with- 
 out her was impossible ! Ay ! a day, a day, a single, a 
 solitary day, should not elapse without his breathing to her 
 his passion, and seeking his fate from her dark eyes.
 
 138 HENEIETTA TEMPLE : 
 
 He strolled along to tlie extremity of the common. It 
 was a great table land, from whose boundary you look down 
 on small rich valleys ; and into one of these, winding his 
 way through fields and pastures, of which the fertile soil 
 was testified by their vigorous hedgerows, he now de- 
 scended. A long, low farm-house, with gable ends and 
 ample porch, an antique building that in old days might 
 have been some manorial residence, attracted his attention. 
 Its picturesque form, its angles and twisted chimneys, its 
 porch covered with jessamine and eglantine, its verdant 
 homestead, and its orchard rich with ruddy fruit, its vast 
 barns and long lines of ample stacks, produced altogether 
 a rural picture complete and cheerful. Near it a stream, 
 which Ferdinand followed, and which, after a devious and 
 rapid course, emptied itself into a deep and capacious pool, 
 touched by the early sunbeam, and grateful to the swimmer's 
 eye. Here Ferdinand made his natural toilet ; and after- 
 wards slowly returning to the farm-house, sought an 
 agreeable refuge from the sun in its fragrant porch. 
 
 The farmer's wife, accompanied by a pretty daughter 
 with downcast eyes, came forth and invited him to entei\ 
 While he courteously refused her ofier, he sought her 
 hospitality. The good wife brought a table and placed 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 had herself baked. Even a lover might 
 feed on such sweet food. This happy valley and this 
 cheerful settlement wonderfully touched the fancy of Fer- 
 dinand. The season was mild and sunny, the air scented 
 by the flowers that rustled in the breeze, the bees soon 
 came to rifle their sweetness, and flights of white and blue 
 pigeons ever and anon skimmed along the sky from the 
 neighbouring gables that were their dovecotes. Ferdinand 
 made a salutary, if not a plenteous meal ; and when the table 
 was removed, exhausted by the fatigue and excitement of
 
 A LOVE STOEY. 139 
 
 tlio last four-and-twcnty Lours, lie stretched himself at full 
 length in the porch, and fell into a gentle and dreamless 
 slumber. 
 
 Hours elapsed before he awoke, vigorous indeed, and 
 ■wonderfully refreshed ; but the sun had already greatly 
 decHued. To his astonishment, as he moved, there fell from 
 his breast a beautiful nosegay. He was charmed with this 
 dehcate attention from his hostess, or perhaps from her 
 pretty daughter with those downcast eyes. There seemed 
 a refinement about the gift, and the mode of its offering, 
 which scarcely could be expected from these kind yet simple 
 rustics. The flowers, too, were rare and choice ; geraniums 
 such as are found only in lady's bower, a cape jessamine, 
 some musky carnations, and a rose that seemed the sister 
 of the one that he had borne from Ducie. They were 
 delicately bound together, too, by a bright blue riband, 
 fastened by a gold and turquoise pin. Tliis was most 
 strange ; this was an adventure more suitable to a Sicilian 
 palace than an English farm-house ; to the gardens of a 
 princess than the clustered porch of his kind hostess. 
 Ferdinand gazed at the bouquet with a glance of blended 
 perplexity and pleasui'e ; then he entered the farm-house, 
 and made enquiries of his hostess, but they were fruitless. 
 The pretty daughter with the downcast eyes was there too; 
 but her very admiration of the gift, so genuine and unre- 
 strained, proved, if testimony indeed were necessary, that 
 she was not his unknown benefactor : admirer, he would 
 have said ; but Ferdinand was in love, and modest. All 
 agreed no one, to their knowledge, had been there ; and so 
 Ferdinand, cherishing his beautiful gift, was f\iin to quit hia 
 new friends in as much perplexity as ever.
 
 140 HENRIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 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 Armino 
 Bummoued up courage to call at Ducie Bower. He enquired 
 for Mr. Temple, and learned to his surjirise tliat Mr. Temple 
 had quitted Ducie yesterday morning for Scotland. 
 
 * And Miss Temple ? ' said Ferdinand. 
 
 ' Is at home, Sir,' replied the servant. 
 
 Ferdinand was ushered into the saloon. She was not 
 there. Our hero was very nervous ; he had been bold 
 enough in the course of his walk from the farm-house, and 
 indulged in a thousand imaginary conversations with his 
 mistress ; but, now that he was really about to meet her, 
 all his fire and fancy deserted him. Everything occurred 
 to him inauspicious to his suit; his own situation, the short 
 time she had known him, liis uncertainty of the state of 
 her affections. How did he know she was not eno^aofed to 
 another ? why should she not be betrothed as well as him- 
 self ? This contingency had occurred to him before, and 
 yet he had driven it from his thoughts. He began to be 
 jealous ; he began to -fehink himself a very great fool ; at 
 any rate, he resolved not to expose himself any further. 
 He was clearly premature ; he would call to-morroAv or 
 next day : to speak to her noAV was certainly impossible. 
 
 The door opened ; she entered, radiant as the day ! 
 What a smile ! what dazzling teeth ! what ravishing 
 dimples ! her eyes flashed like summer lightning ; she ex- 
 tended to him a hand white and soft as one of those doves 
 that had played about him in the morning. Surely never 
 was anyone endued with such an imperial jircsence. So 
 stately, so majestic, and yet withal so simply gracious ; full 
 of such airy artlessness, at one moment she seemed an
 
 A LOVE STORY. 141 
 
 empress, and then only a beautiful cliikl ; and the hand and 
 arm that seemed fashioned to wave a sceptre, in an instant 
 appeared only fit to fondle a gazelle, or pluck a flower. 
 
 ' How do you do ? ' she said ; and he really fancied she 
 Avas going to sing. He was not yet accustomed to thab 
 marvellous voice. It broke upon the silence, like a silver 
 bell just touched by the summer air. 'It is kind of you 
 to come and see a lone maiden,' she continued ; ' papa has 
 deserted me, and without any preparation. I cannot endure 
 to be separated from him, and this is almost the only time 
 that he has refused my solicitation to accompany him. 
 But he must travel far and quickly. My uncle 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 
 very agreeable. By the bye, I hope Lady Armine is 
 well ? ' 
 
 ' My papa has deserted me,' said Ferdinand, with a smile. 
 ' They have not yet arrived, and some days may yet elapse 
 before they reach Armine.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! I hope they arc well.' 
 
 ' Yes ; they are well.' 
 
 ' Did you ride hero ? ' 
 
 ' Xo.' 
 
 ' You did not walk ? ' 
 
 ' I hardly know how I came ; I bch'evc I walked.' 
 
 ' You must be very tired ; and you are standing ! pray 
 fi'.l down ; sit in that chair ; you know that is your favouiilo 
 chair.' 
 
 And Ferdinand seated himself in the very chair in which 
 he had watched her the preceding night. 
 
 'This is certainly my fovourite chair,' he said ; ' 1 know 
 no scat in the world I prefer to this.' 
 
 ' Will you take some refreshment ? I am sure you will ; 
 you must be very tired. Take some hock ; papa always 
 takes hock and soda water. I shall order some hock and
 
 142 HENEIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 soda water for you.' She rose and rang tlie bell in spite 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 you have called, for I wanted an excuse to be 
 idle.' 
 
 An hour passed away, nor was the conversation on either 
 side very brilHantly supported. Ferdinand seemed dull, 
 but, indeed, was only moody, revolving in his mind many 
 strange incidents and feelings, and then turning for con- 
 solation in his perplexities to the enchanting vision on 
 which he still could gaze. ITor was Miss Temple either in 
 her usually sparkling vein ; her liveliness seemed an effort ; 
 she was more constrained, she was less fluent than before. 
 Ferdinand, indeed, rose more 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 ? ' 
 
 ' IN^ay ! I think not ; I think I am rather fond of silent 
 people myself; I cannot bear to live with a person who 
 feels bound to talk because he is my companion. The whole 
 day passes sometimes without papa and myself exchanging 
 fifty words ; yet I am very happy ; I do not feel that we 
 are dull : ' and Miss Temple pursued her work which she 
 had previously taken up. 
 
 ' Ah ! but I am not your papa ; when we are very inti- 
 mate with people, when they interest ns, we are engaged 
 with their feehngs, we do not perpetually require their 
 ideas. But an acquaiutance, as I am, only an acquaintance,
 
 A LOVE STOEY. 143 
 
 a miserable acquaintance, unless I speak or listen, I have 
 no business to be here ; unless I in some degree contribute 
 to tbe amusement 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 is an excellent thing in woman ; it is a 
 charm that never palls, and better than all, it is a means of 
 fascination that never disappears. Women carry a beautiful 
 hand with them to the grave, when a beautifal face has 
 long ago vanished, or ceased to enchant. The expression 
 of the hand, too, is inexhaustible ; and when the eyes we 
 may have worshipped no longer flash or sparkle, the ring- 
 lets with which we may have played are covered with a 
 cap, or worse, a turban, and the symmetrical presence which 
 in our sonnets has reminded us so oft of antelopes and 
 wild gazelles, have all, all vanished; the hand, the immortal 
 hand, defjang alike time and care, still vanquishes, and 
 still triumphs ; and small, soft, and fail', by an airy attitude, 
 a gentle pressure, or a new ring, renews with untiring 
 grace the spell that bound our enamoured and adoring 
 youth ! 
 
 But in the present instance there were eyes as bright as 
 the hand, locks more 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 lips from which 
 stole forth a perfume sweeter than the whole conservatory, 
 Ferdinand sat down on a chair opposite Miss Temple, with 
 the extended skein. 
 
 ' Now this is better than doing nothing ! ' she said, 
 catching his eye with a glance half-kind, half-arch. ' I 
 suspect, Captain Armine, that your melancholy originates 
 in idleness.'
 
 144 HENKIETTA TEMPLE : 
 
 ' All ! if I could only be employed, every day in tlils 
 manner ! ' ejaculated Ferdinand. 
 
 ' Nay ! not with a distaff ; but you must do something. 
 You must get into parliament.' 
 
 ' 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 a giddy word. I feel it is wrong that 
 matters of taste should mingle with matters of belief ; but, 
 to speak the truth, I am not quite sure that a Howard, or 
 an Armine, who was a Protestant, like myself, would quite 
 please my fancy so much as in their present position, which, 
 if a little inconvenient, is very picturesque.' 
 
 Ferdinand smiled. ' My great grandmother was a 
 Protestant,' said Ferdinand, 'Margaret Armine. Do you 
 think Margaret a pretty name ? ' 
 
 ' Queen Margaret ! yes, a fine name, I think ; barring itg 
 abbreviation.' 
 
 ' I wish my great grandmother's name had not been 
 Margaret,' said Ferdinand, 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. 
 'Hemaetta Armine, You know there was a Henrietta 
 Armine once ? ' 
 
 ' Was there ? ' said Miss Temple rising. ' Our skein is 
 finished. You have been very good. I must go and see 
 my flowers. Come.' And as she said this little word, she 
 turned her fair and finely-finished neck, and looked over 
 her shoulder at Ferdinand with an arch expression of 
 countenance peculiar to her. That winning look, indeed,
 
 A LOVE ^roilt. 145 
 
 that clear, sweet voice, and that quick graceful attitude, 
 blended into a spell wliicli -was iiTesistible. His heart 
 yearned for Henrietta Temple, and rose at the bidding of 
 her voice. 
 
 From the conservatory they stepped into the garden. It 
 was a delicious afternoon ; the sun had sunk behind the grove, 
 and the air, which had been throughout the day somewhat 
 oppressive, was now warm, but mild. At Ducie there was 
 a fine old terrace facing the western hills, that bound the 
 valley in which the Bower was situate. These hills, a ridge 
 of moderate elevation, but of picturesque form, j^arted just 
 opposite the terrace, as if on purpose to admit the setting 
 sun, like inferior existences that had, as it were, made way 
 before the splendour of some mighty lord or conqueror. 
 The lofty and sloping bank which this terrace crowned was 
 covered with rare shrubs, and occasionally a group of tall 
 trees sprang up among them, and broke the view with an 
 interference which was far from ungraceful, while plants 
 spreading forth from large marble vases, had extended over 
 their trunks, and sometimes, in their play, had touched 
 even their topmost branches. Between the terrace and the 
 distant hills extended a tract of pasture land, green and 
 well-wooded by its rich hedge-rows; not a roof was visible, 
 though many farms and hamlets were at hand ; and, in the 
 heart of a rich and populous land, here was a region where 
 the shepherd or the herdsman was the only evidence of 
 human existence. It was thither, a grateful spot at such 
 an hour, that Miss Temple and her companion directed 
 their steps. The last beam of the sun flashed across the 
 flaming horizon as they gained the ten-ace ; the hills, well 
 wooded, or presenting a bare and acute outline to the sky, 
 rose sharply defined in form; while in another direction 
 some more distant elevations were pervaded with a rich 
 purple tint, touched sometimes with a rosy blaze of soft and 
 flickering light. Tiie whole scene, indeed, from the humble 
 
 L
 
 146 HENEIETTA TEIVIPLE : 
 
 pasture-land that was soon to creep into darkness, to tlic 
 proud liills whose sparkling crests were yet touched by the 
 living beam, was bathed with lucid beauty and lumiuous 
 softness, and blended with the glomng canopy of the 
 lustrous sky. But on the terrace, and the groves that rose 
 beyond it, and the glades and vistas into which they opened, 
 fell the full glory of the sunset. Each moment a new 
 shadow, now rosy, now golden, now blending in its shifting 
 tints all the glory of the iris, fell over the rich pleasui-e- 
 grounds, their groups of rare and noble trees, and their dim 
 or glittering avenues. 
 
 The vespers of the birds were faintly dying away, the 
 last low of the returning kine sounded over the lea, the 
 tinkle of the sheep-bell was heard no more, the thin white 
 moon began to gleam, and Hesperus glittered in the fading 
 sky. It was the twilight hour ! 
 
 That deHcious hour that softens the heart of man, what 
 is its magic ? Not merely its beauty ; it is not more beau- 
 tiful than the sunrise. It is its repose. Our tumultuous 
 passions sink with the sun, there is a fine sympathy between 
 us and our world, and the stillness of iN'ature is responded 
 to by the serenity of the soul. 
 
 At this sacred hour our hearts are pure. All worldly 
 cares, all those vulgar anxieties and aspirations that at othor 
 seasons hover hke vultures over our existence, vanish from 
 the serene atmosphere of our susceptibility. A sense of 
 beauty, a sentiment of love, pervade our being. But if at 
 such a moment solittide is full of joy, if, even when alone, 
 our native sensibility suffices to entrance us with a tranquil, 
 yet thrilling bliss ; how doubly sweet, how multiplied must 
 be our fine emotions, when the most dehcate influence of 
 human sympathy combines with the power and purity of 
 material and moral nature, and completes the exquisite and 
 enchanting spell ! 
 
 Ferdinand Armine turned from the beautiful world around
 
 h 
 
 A LOVE STORY. 147 
 
 Mm to gaze upon a countenance sweeter than tlie summer 
 air, softer than the gleaming moon, brigliter than the even- 
 ing star. The shadowy light of purple eve fell upon the 
 still and solemn presence of Hem'ietta Temple. Irresistible 
 emotion impelled him ; softly he took her gentle hand, and, 
 bending his head, he mui'mured to her, ' Most beautiful, I 
 love thee ! ' 
 
 As, in the oppressive stillness of some tropic night, a 
 single drop is the refi'eshing harbinger of a shower that 
 clears the heavens, so even this slight expression relieved in 
 an instant the intensity of his over-burthened feelings, and 
 warm, quick, and gushing flowed the words that breathed 
 his fervid adoration. ' Yes ! ' he continued, ' in this fair 
 scene, oh ! let me turn to something fairer still. Beautiful, 
 beloved Henrietta, I can repress no longer the emotions 
 that, since I first beheld you, have vanquished my exist- 
 ence. I love you, I adore you ; life in your society is 
 heaven; without you I cannot live. Deem me, oh! deem 
 me 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 to offer you my heart, if that 
 humblest of all possessions might indeed be yours, if my 
 adoration, if my devotion, if the consecration of my life to 
 you, might in some degree compensate for its little worth, if 
 I might Hvo even but to hope 
 
 ' You do not speak. Miss Temple, Henrietta, admirable 
 Henrietta, have I offended you ? am I indeed the victim of 
 hopes too high and fancies too supreme ? Oh ! pardon me, 
 most beautiful, I pray your pardon. Is it a crime to feel, 
 perchance too keenly, the sense of beauty like to thine, dear 
 lady ? All ! 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, pity me, dearest, 
 dearest Henrietta. If you but knew how I have suffered, 
 
 l2
 
 148 HENRIETTA TEMPLE : 
 
 if you but knew the uiglits that brought no sleep, the days 
 of fever that have been mine since first we met, if you but 
 knew how I have fed but upon one sweet idea, one sacred 
 image of absorbing life, since first I gazed on your tran- 
 scendent 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, my wretched and exhausted soul too surely feels ! 
 Is it my fault those eyes are like the dawn, that thy sweet 
 voice thrills through my frame, and but the slightest touch 
 of that hght hand falls like a spell on my entranced form ! 
 Ah ! Henrietta, be merciful, be kind ! ' 
 
 He paused for a second, and yet she did not answer ; but 
 her cheek fell upon his shoulder, and the gentle pressure of 
 her hand was more eloquent than language. That slight, 
 sweet signal was to him as the suni-ise on the misty earth. 
 Full of hope, and joy, and confidence, he took her in his 
 arms, sealed her cold lips with a burning kiss, and vowed 
 to her his eternal and almighty love ! 
 
 He bore her to an old stone bench placed on the terrace. 
 Still she was silent ; but her hand clasped his, and her head 
 rested on his bosom. The gleaming moon now glittered, 
 the hills and woods were silvered by its beam, and the far 
 meads were bathed with its clear, fair light. N"ot a single 
 cloud curtained the splendour of the stars. What a rap- 
 turous soul was Ferdinand Armine's as he sat that nis'ht 
 on the old bench, on Ducie Terrace, shrouding from the 
 rising breeze the trembling form of Henrietta Temple ! And 
 yet it was not cold that made her shiver. 
 
 The clock of Diicie Church struck ten. She moved, say- 
 ing, in a faint voice, ' We must go home, my Ferdinand ! ' 
 
 E^'D OF THE SECOND BOOK.
 
 A LOVE STORY. 149 
 
 BOOK III. 
 
 CILVPTER I, 
 
 IN WniCII CAPTAIN AEMINE PROVES HIMSELF A COMPLETE 
 
 TACTICLiN. 
 
 The midnight moon flung its broad beams over the glades 
 and avenues of Armine, as Ferdinand, riding Miss Temple's 
 horse, re-entered the pai-k. His countenance was paler 
 than the spectral light that guided him on his Avay. He 
 looked little like a pledged and triumphant lover ; but in 
 his contracted brow and compressed lip might be read the 
 determination of his soul. There was no longer a contest 
 between poverty and pride, between tho maintenance or 
 destruction of his ancient house, between his old enefaere- 
 ment and his present passion ; that was past. Henrietta 
 Temple was tho light in the Pharos, amid all his stormy 
 fortunes ; thither he directed all the energies of his being ; 
 and to gain that port, or sink, was his unflinching re- 
 solution. 
 
 It was deep in the night before ho again beheld the 
 towers and turrets of his castle, and the ivy-covered frag- 
 ment of tho old Place seemed to sleep in peace under its 
 protecting influence. A wild and beautiful event had hap- 
 pened since last he quitted those ancient walls. And what 
 would be its influence upon them ? But it is not for tho 
 passionate lover to moralise. For him, the regrets of tho 
 past and the chances of the future arc aHko lost in tho 
 ravisliing and absorbing present. For, a lover that has but
 
 150 HENEIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 just secured the object of his long and tumultuous hopes is 
 as a diver who has just plucked a jewel from the bed of 
 some rare sea. Panting and wild he lies upon the beach, 
 and the gem that he clutches is the sole idea that engrosses 
 his existence. 
 
 Ferdinand is within his little chamber, that little cham- 
 ber where his mother had bid him so passionate a farewell. 
 Ah. ! he loves another woman better than his mother now. 
 Nay, even a feeling of embarrassment and pain is asso- 
 ciated with the recollection of that fond and elegant being, 
 that ho had recognised once as the model of all feminme 
 perfection, and who had been to him so gentle and so de- 
 voted. He drives his mother from his thoughts. It is of 
 another voice that he now muses ; it is the memory of 
 another's glance that touches his eager heart. He falls 
 into a reverie ; the passionate past is acted again before 
 liim ; in his glittering eye and the rapid play of his features 
 may be traced the tumult of his soul. A doubt crosses his 
 brow. Is he indeed so happy ; is it not all a dream ? Ho 
 takes from his bosom the handkerchief of Henrietta Temple. 
 He recognises upon it her magical initials, worked in her 
 own fine dark hair. A smile of triumphant certainty irra- 
 diates his countenance, as he rapidly presses the memorial 
 to his lips, and imprints upon it a thousand kisses ; and 
 holding this cherished testimony of his felicity to his heart, 
 sleep at length descended upon the exhausted frame of 
 Ferdinand Armine. 
 
 But the night that brought dreams to Ferdinand Armine, 
 brought him not visions more marvellous and magical than 
 his waking life. He who loves, lives in an ecstatic trance. 
 The world that surrounds him is not the world of working: 
 man : it is faiiy land. He is not of the same order as the 
 labouring myriads on which he seems to tread. They 
 are to him but a swarm of humble-minded and humble- 
 mannered insects. For him, the human species is repre-
 
 A LOVE STORY. 151 
 
 eentccT hj a single individual, and of lier lie makes an idol. 
 All that is bright and rare is but invented and devised to 
 adorn and 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 ; and as to us life would now 
 appear intolerable, a burthen of insupportable and weary- 
 ing toil, without this transcendent sympathy, so we cannot 
 help fancying that were its sweet and subtle origin herself 
 to quit this inspired scene, the universe itself would not be 
 unconscious of its deprivation, and somewhat of the world's 
 lustre might be missed even by the most callous. 
 
 The morning burst as beautiful as such love. A rosy 
 tint suffused the soft and tremulous sky, and tinted with a 
 delicate hue the tall trees and the wide lawns, freshened 
 with the light and vanishing dew. The air was vocal with 
 a thousand songs ; all was bright and clear, cheerful and 
 golden. Ferdinand awoke from delicious dreams, and 
 gazed upon the scene that responded to his own bright and 
 glad emotions, and inhaled the balmy air, ethereal as his 
 own soul. Love, that can illumine the dai'k hovel and the 
 dismal garret, that sheds a ray of enchanting light over 
 the close and busy city, seems to mount with a lighter and 
 more glittering pinion in an atmosphere as brilliant as its 
 own plumes. Fortunate the youth, the romance of whose 
 existence is placed in a scene befitting its fair and mar- 
 vellous career ; fortunate the passion that is breathed in 
 palaces, amid the ennobling creations of surrounding art, 
 and greets the object of its fond solicitude amid perfumed 
 gardens, and in the shado of green and silent woods ! 
 Whatever may bo the harsher course of his career, however 
 the cold woi'ld may cast its dark shadows upon his future 
 path, he may yet consider himself thrice blessed to whom 
 this gi'aceful destiny has Mien, and amid the storms and 
 troubles of after-life may look back to these hours, fair as 
 the dawn, beautiful as the t-v^-ilight, with solace and satis-
 
 152 HENEIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 faction. Disappointment may wither up Ms energies, op- 
 pression may bi'uise liis spirit ; but baulked, daunted, 
 deserted, crushed, lone where once all was sympathy, gloomy 
 where all was light, still he has not lived in vain. 
 
 Business, however, rises with the sun. The morning 
 brings cares, and although with rebraced energies and 
 renovated strength, then is the season that we are best 
 qualified to struggle with the harassing brood, still Ferdi- 
 nand Armine, the involved son of a ruined race, seldom 
 rose from his couch, seldom I'ecalled consciousness after 
 repose, without a i^ang. Nor was there indeed magic withal, 
 in the sweet spell that now bound him, to preserve him 
 from this black invasion. Anxiety was one of the ingre- 
 dients of the charm. He might have forgotten his own 
 broken fortunes, his audacious and sanguine si^ii-it might 
 have built up many a castle for the future, as brave as that 
 of Armine ; but the very inspiring recollection of Henrietta 
 Temple, the very remembrance of the past and triumphant 
 eve, only the more forced upon his memory the conviction 
 that he was, at this moment, engaged also to another, and 
 bound to be married to two women. 
 
 Something must be done ; Miss Grandison might arrive 
 this very day. It was an improbable incident, but still it 
 might occur. While he was thus musing, his servant 
 brought him his letters, Avhich had arrived the preceding 
 day, letters from his mother and Katherine, his Katherine. 
 They brought present relief. The invalid had not amended ; 
 their movements were still uncertain. Katherine, ' his own 
 Kate,' expressed even a faint fond wish that he would 
 return. His resolution was taken in an instant. He de- 
 cided Avitli the prescient promptitude of one who has his 
 dearest interests at stake. He wrote to Katherine that he 
 would instantly fly to her, only that he daily exjDected his 
 attendance would be required in town, on military business 
 of urgent importance to their happiness. This might, tliis
 
 A LOVE STOEY. 153 
 
 must, necessarily delay their meeting. The moment ho 
 received his summons to attend the Horse Guards, he should 
 hurry off. In the meantime, she %ya3 to write to him here ; 
 and at all events not to quit Bath for Armine, without 
 giving him a notice of several days. Having despatched 
 this letter and another to his mother, Ferdinand repaired 
 to the tower to communicate to Glastonbury the necessity 
 of his immediate departure for London, but he also assured 
 that good old man of his brief visit to that city. The pang 
 of this unexpected departure was softened by the positive 
 promise of returning in a very few days, and returning with 
 his family. 
 
 Having made these arrangements, Ferdinand now felt 
 that, come what might, he had at least secured for himself 
 a certain period of unbroken bliss. He had a faithful servant, 
 an Italian, in whose discretion he had justly unlimited con- 
 fidence. To him Ferdinand intrusted the duty of bringing, 
 each day, his letters to his retreat, which he had fixed upon 
 should bo that same picturesque fixrmhouse, in whose 
 friendly porch ho had found the preceding day such a 
 hospitable shelter, and where he had experienced that 
 charming adventure which now rather delighted than 
 perplexed him. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 A DAY OP LOVE. 
 
 Meanwhile the beautiful Henrietta sat in her bower, her 
 music neglected, her drawing thrown aside. Even her 
 birds were forgotten, and her flowers untcnded. A soft 
 tunmlt filled her frame : now rapt in reverie, she leaned her 
 head upon her fair hand in charmed abstraction ; now rising 
 from her restless seat, she paced the chamber, and thought 
 of his quick coming. What was tliis mighty revolution
 
 154 HENEIETTA TEMPLE : 
 
 that a few sliort days, a few brief hoxirs had occasioned ? 
 How mysterious, yet how irresistible, how overwhekoing ! 
 Her father was absent, that father on whose fond idea she 
 had alone lived ; from whom the slightest separation had 
 once been pain ; and now that father claims not even her 
 thoughts. Another, and a stranger's image, is throned in 
 her soul. She who had moved in the world so variously, 
 who had received so much homage, and been accustomed 
 from her childhood to all that is considered accomplished 
 and fascinating in man, and had passed through the ordeal 
 with a calm clear spirit; behold, she is no longer the 
 mistress of her thoughts or feelings ; she had fallen before 
 a glance, and yielded in an instant to a burning word ! 
 
 But could she blame herself ? Did she repent the rapid 
 and ravishing past ? Did regret mingle with her wonder ? 
 Was there a pang of remorse, however slight, blending its 
 sharp tooth with all her bliss ? "No ! Her love was perfect, 
 and her joy was full. She offered her vows to that Heaven 
 that had accorded her happiness so supreme ; she felt only 
 unworthy of a destiny so complete. She mai'velled, in the 
 meekness and purity of her spirit, why one so gifted had 
 been reserved for her, and what he could recognise in her 
 imperfect and inferior quahties to devote to them the fond- 
 ness of his rare existence, 
 
 Ferdinand Armine ! Did there indeed ever breathe, had 
 the wit of poet ever yet devised, a being so choice ? So 
 young, so beautiful, so lively and accomplished, so deeply 
 and variously interesting! "Was that sweet voice, indeed, 
 only to sound in her enchanted ear, that graceful form to 
 move only for the pleasure of her watchful eye ? That 
 quick and airy fancy but to create for her dehght, and that 
 soft, gentle heart to own no solicitude but for her will and 
 infinite gratification ? And could it be 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 fond
 
 A LOVE STORY. 155 
 
 embrace still clung to her mute and trembKng lips ! "Would 
 he always love her ? "Would he always he so fond ? Would 
 he be as faithful as ho was now devoted ? Ah ! she would 
 not lose him. That heart should never escape her. Her 
 hfe should be one long vigilant device to enchain his 
 being. 
 
 "What was she five days past ? Is it possible that she 
 lived before she met him ? Of what did she think, what 
 do ? Could there be pursuits without this companion, plans 
 or feelings without this sweet friend ? Life must have 
 been a blank, vapid and dull and weary. She could not 
 recall herself before that morning ride to Armine. How 
 rolled away the day ! How heavy must have been the 
 hours ! All that had been uttered before she listened to 
 Ferdinand seemed without point ; all that was done befoi'e 
 he lingered at her side, aimless and without an object. 
 
 O Love ! in vain they moralise ; in vara they teach us 
 thou art a delusion ; in vain they dissect thine inspiring 
 sentiment, and would mortify us into misery by its degrad- 
 ing analysis. The sage may announce that gratified vanity 
 is thine aim and end ; but the lover glances with contempt 
 at his cold-blooded philosophy. Nature assures him thou 
 art a beautiful and subHme emotion ; and, he answers, canst 
 thou deprive the sun of its heat because its I'ay may be 
 decomposed ; or docs the diamond blaze with less splendour 
 because thou canst analyse its efiulgence ? 
 
 A gentle mstling sounded at the window : Henrietta 
 locked up, but the sight deserted her fading vision, as 
 Fei-dinand seized with softness her softer hand, and pressed 
 it to his lips. 
 
 A moment since, and she had longed for his presence as 
 the infant for its mother ; a moment since, and she had 
 murmured* that so much of the morn had passed without 
 liis society ; a moment since, and it had seemed that no 
 time could exhaust the expression of her feelings. How
 
 156 HENKIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 she Lad siglied for liis coming ! How she had hoped that 
 this day she might convey to him what last night she had 
 so weakly, so imperfectly attempted ! And now she sat 
 trembling and silent, with downcast eyes and changing 
 countenance ! 
 
 ' My Ilenrietta ! ' exclaimed Ferdinand, ' my beautiful 
 Henrietta, it seemed we never should meet again, and yet I 
 rose almost with the sun.' 
 
 ' My Ferdinand,' repKed 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 your handkerchief last night ? See ! here it is ; 
 when I slept, I kissed it and wore it next my heart.' 
 
 'Ah! give it me,' she faintly murmured, extending her 
 hand ; and then she added, in a firmer and livelier tone, 
 ' and did you really wear it near your 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 so brilliant, so very blue, so like 
 the violet ! There is nothing like your eyes ! ' 
 
 ' Except your own.' 
 
 ' You have taken away your hand. Give me back my 
 hand, my Henrietta. I will not quit it. The whole day it 
 shall be clasped in mine. Ah ! what a hand ! so soft, so 
 very soft ! There is nothing like your hand.' 
 
 ' Yours is as soft, dear Ferdinand.' 
 
 ' Henrietta ! I do love you so ! I wish that I could 
 tell you how I loved you ! As I rode home last night 
 it seemed that I had not conveyed to you a tithe, nay, a 
 thousandth part of what I feel.' 
 
 ' You cannot love me, Ferdinand, more than I love you.' 
 
 ' Say so again ! Tell mo very often, tell me a thousand 
 times, how much you love me. Unless you tell me a thousand 
 times, Henrietta, I never can believe that I am so blessed.'
 
 A LOVE STORY. 157 
 
 They went forth into the garden. Nature, with the 
 splendid sky and the sweet breeze, seemed to smile upon 
 their passion, Henrietta plucked the most 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 ? ' said Henrietta, with, downcast eyes. 
 
 ' I am not more in love now than I was then,' said Fer- 
 dinand, 
 
 ' I dare not speak of my feelings,' said Miss Temple. ' Ts 
 it possible that it can be but five days back since we first 
 met ! It seems another sera.' 
 
 ' I have no recollection of anything that occurred before 
 I saw you beneath the cedar,' replied Ferdinand: ' that is 
 the date of my existence. I saw you, and I loved. !My 
 love was at once complete ; I have no confidence in any 
 other ; I have no confidence in the love that is the creature 
 of observation, and reflection, and comparison, and calcu- 
 lation. Love, in my opinion, should spring from innate 
 sympathy ; it should be superior to all situations, all ties, 
 all circumstances,' 
 
 ' Such, then, wc must believe is ours,' replied Heni-ietta, 
 in a somewhat grave and musing tone : ' I would willingly 
 embrace your creed. I know not why I should be ashamed 
 of my feelings. They are natural, and they are pure. 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 ! ] 
 worship you, I reverence 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 Avithdrew her from the more public situa- 
 tion in which they wei'e then placed, and cntei-ed, by a 
 winding walk, those beautiful bowei'S that had given so fair
 
 158 HENEIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 and fitting a name to Ducie. Ah ! that was a ramble of 
 rich delight, as, winding his arm round her light waist, he 
 poured into her palpitating ear all the eloquence of his 
 passion. Each hour that they had known each other was 
 analysed, and the feelings of 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 been 
 mutually and unceasingly thinking of each other from the 
 first instant of their meeting. 
 
 The conversation of lovers is inexhaustible. Hour glided 
 away after hour, as Ferdinand alternately expressed his 
 passion and detailed the history of his past life. For the 
 curiosity of woman, lively at all times, is never so keen, so 
 exacting, and so interested, as in her anxiety to become 
 acquainted with the previous career of her lover. She is 
 jealous of all that he has done before sbe knew him ; of 
 every person to whom he has spoken. Ske will be assured 
 a thousand times that he never loved before, yet she 
 credits the first affirmation. She envies the mother who 
 knew him as a child, even the nurse who may have rocked 
 bis cradle. She insists upon a minute and finished por- 
 traiture of his character and hfe. 
 
 "Why did he not give it ? More than once it was upon 
 ]iis lips to reveal all ; more than once he was aboiit to pour 
 forth all his sorrows, all the ezitanglements of liis painful 
 situation ; more than once he was about to make the fiill 
 and mortifying confession, that, though his heart was hers, 
 there existed another, who even at that moment might 
 claim the hand tbat Henrietta clasped with so much tender- 
 ness. But he checked himself. He would not break the 
 charm that surrounded him ; he would not disturb the 
 clear and brilhant stream in which his life was at this 
 moment flowing ; he had not courage to change by a 
 worldly word the scene of celestial enchantment in which
 
 A LOVE STOEY. 159 
 
 te now moved and breathed. Let us add, in some degree 
 for his justification, that he was not altogether unmindful 
 of the feelings of Miss Graudison. Sufficient misery rc- 
 mai'ied, at all events, for her, without adding the misery 
 of making her rival a confidant in her mortification. The 
 deed must be done, and done promptly ; but, at least, 
 there should be no unnecessary witnesses to its harrowing 
 achievement. 
 
 So he looked upon the radiant brow of his Henrietta, 
 wreathed with smiles of innocent triumph, sparkling with 
 unalloyed felicity, and beaming with unbroken devotion. 
 Should the shade of a dark passion for a moment cloud that 
 heaven, so bright and so serene ? Should even a mo- 
 mentary pang of jealousy or distrust pain that pure and 
 unsullied breast ? In the midst of contending emotions, he 
 pressed her to his heart with renewed energy, and, bending 
 down his head, imprinted an embrace upon her blushing 
 forehead. 
 
 They seated themselves on a bank, which, it would seem, 
 Nature had created for the convenience of lovers. The 
 softest moss and the brightest flowers decked its elastic and 
 fragrant side. A spreading beech tree shaded their heads 
 from the sun, which now was on the decline ; and occa- 
 sionally its wide branches rustled with the soft breeze that 
 jiassed over them in renovating and gentle gusts. The 
 woods widened before them, and at the termination of a 
 well-contrived avenue, they caught the I'oofs of the village 
 and the tall grey tower of Ducie Church. They had wan- 
 dered for hours without weariness, yet the repose was 
 grateful, while they hstened to the bii-ds, and plucked 
 wildflowers. 
 
 * Ah ! I remember,' said Ferdinand, ' that it was not for 
 from here, while slumbering indeed in the porch of my 
 pretty farmhouse, that the fairy of the spot dropped on my 
 breast these beautiful flowers that I now wcai\ Did you
 
 160 HENRIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 not observe tliem, my sweet Henrietta ? Do yoti know tliat 
 I am rather mortified, that they have not made you. at least 
 a little jealous ? ' 
 
 ' I am not jealous of fairies, dear Ferdinand.' 
 
 'And yet I half believe that you are a fairy, my Hen- 
 rietta.' 
 
 ' A very substantial one, I fear, my Ferdinand. Is this a 
 compliment to my form ? ' 
 
 ' Well, then, a sylvan nymph, much more, I assure you, 
 to my fancy ; perhaps tho rosy Dryad of this fair troc ; 
 rambling in "woods, and bounding over commons, scattering 
 beautiful flowers, and dreams as bright.' 
 
 ' And were your dreams bright yesterday morning r ' 
 
 ' I dreamt of you.' 
 
 ' And when you awoke ? ' 
 
 ' I hastened to tho 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 ex- 
 pression of mirth and sentiment played over her features, 
 and then looking up "with a smile contending "with her 
 tearful eye, she hid her face in his breast and miu'murcd, 
 * 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 done to deserve bliss so ineflable ? 
 But tell me, beauty, tell me how you contrived to appear 
 and vanish -without "witnesses. For my enquiries were 
 severe, and these good people must have been less artless 
 than I imagined 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 upon him for a moment, 
 but I "was frightened and stole away unperceived. But I 
 left the flowers, more fortunate than your Henrietta.'
 
 A LOVE STOBY. 161 
 
 ' Sweet love ! ' 
 
 ' Never did I return Lome,' continued Misg Temple, 
 * more sad and more dispirited. A thousand times I 
 Avislied that I was a flower, that I might be gathered 
 and worn upon your heart. You smile, my Ferdinand. 
 Indeed I feel I am very foolish, yet I know not why, I am 
 now neither ashamed nor afraid to tell you anything. I 
 was so miserable when I aiiivcd liome, my Ferdinand, tliat 
 I went to my room and wept. And he then came ! Oh ! 
 what heaven was mine ! I wiped the tears from my face 
 and came down to see him. lie looked so beautiful and 
 happy ! ' 
 
 ' And you, sweet child, oh ! who could have believed, at 
 that moment, that a tear had escaped from those bright 
 eyes ! ' 
 
 ' Love makes us hypocrites, I fear, my Ferdinand ; for, a 
 moment before, I was so Avearied that I was lying on my 
 sofa cpiite wretched. And then, when I saw him, I pre- 
 tended that I had not been out, and was just thinking of a 
 Klroll. Oh, my Ferdinand ! will you pardon me ? ' 
 
 ' It seems to me that I never loved you until this moment. 
 Is it possible that human beings ever loved each other as 
 we do ? ' 
 
 Now camo the hour of twilight. "While in this fond 
 strain the lovers interchanged their hearts, the sun had 
 Blink, the birds grown silent, and the star of evening 
 twinkled over the tower of Ducie. The bat and the beetle 
 warned them to return. Tliey rose reluctantly and re- 
 traced their steps to Ducie, with hearts softer even than 
 the melting honr. 
 
 ' Must we tlien part ? ' exclaimed Ferdinand. ' Oh ! must 
 wc part! How can I exist even an instant without your 
 presence, without at least the consciousness of existing 
 under the same roof? Oh! would I were one of 3-our 
 serving- men, to listen to your footstep, to obey your bell, 
 
 M
 
 162 HENEIETTA TEMTLE . 
 
 and ever and anon to catch jour voice ! Oh ! now I wish 
 indeed Mr. Temple were here, and then I might be your 
 guest.' 
 
 ' My father ! ' exclaimed Miss Temple, in a somewhat 
 serious tone. * I ought to have written to him to-day ! 
 Oh ! talk not of my father, speak only of yourself 
 
 They stood in silence as they were about to emerge upon 
 the lawn, and then Mss 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 retire immediately, that 
 the morning may sooner come. God bless you, my Ferdi- 
 nand. May He guard over you, and keep you for ever and 
 ever. You weep ! Indeed you must not ; you so distress 
 me. Ferdinand, be good, be kind; for my sake do not 
 this. I love you ; what can I do more ? The time will 
 come we will not part, but now we must. Good night, my 
 Ferdinand. ISTay, if you will, these lips indeed are yours. 
 Promise me you will not remain here. "Well then, when 
 the light is out in my chamber, leave Ducie. Promise me 
 this, and early to-morrow, earlier than you think, I will pay 
 a visit to your cottage. 'Now be good, and to-morrow we 
 wiU breakfast together. There now ! ' she added in a gay 
 tone, ' you see woman's wit has the advantage.' And so 
 without another word she ran away. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 WHICH ON THE WHOLE IS FOUND VERT CONSOLING. 
 
 The separation of lovers, even with an immediate prospect 
 of union, involves a sentiment of deep melancholy. The 
 reaction of our solitary emotions, after a social impulse of 
 such peculiar excitement, very much disheartens and de- 
 presses us. Mutual passion is complete sympathy. Under
 
 A LOVE STOEY. 163 
 
 such an influence there is no feeling so strong, no fancy so 
 dehcate, that it is not instantly responded to. Our heart 
 has no secrets, though our life may. Under such an in- 
 fluence, each unconsciously labours to enchant the other ; 
 each struggles to maintain the reality of that ideal -which 
 has been reached in a moment of happy inspiration. Then 
 is the season when the voice is ever soft, the eye ever 
 bright, and every movement of the frame airy and pictu- 
 resque ; each accent is full of tenderness ; each glance, of 
 afi'ection ; each gesture, of gi^ace. We Hve in a heaven of 
 our own creation. All happens that can contribute to our 
 perfect satisfaction, and can ensure our complete self- 
 complacency. We give and we receive felicity. We adore 
 and we are adored. Love is the May-day of the heart. 
 
 But a cloud nevertheless will dim the genial lustre of 
 that soft and brilliant 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 longer moves before 
 our enraptured vision. Our happiness becomes too much 
 the result of reflection. Our faith is not less devout, but it 
 is not so fervent. We believe in the miracle, but we no 
 longer witness it. 
 
 And as the light was extinccuished in the chamber of 
 Henrietta Temple, Ferdinand Armine felt for a moment as 
 if his sun had set for ever. There seemed to be now no 
 evidence of her existence. Would to-morrow ever come ? 
 And if it came, would the rosy hours indeed bring her in 
 their radiant car ? What if this night she died ? Ho 
 shuddered at this wild imagination. Yet it might be ; such 
 dire calamities had been. And now he felt his life was 
 involved in hers, and that under such circumstances hia 
 instant death must complete the catastrophe. There was 
 then much at stake. Had it been yet his glorious privi» 
 lege that htr fair cheek should have found a pillow on hia 
 heart ; could he have been permitted to have rested with- 
 
 112
 
 1 64 HENRIETTA TEMPLE : 
 
 out lier cToor but as her guard ; even if the same roof at any 
 distance had screened both their heads ; such dark concep- 
 tions would not perhaps have risen up to torture him ; but 
 as it was, they haunted him hke evil spirits 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 had passed a dreamy night, and when he 
 woke he could not at first recognise the locality. It Avas 
 not Armine. Could it be Ducie ? As he stretched his 
 limbs and rubbed his eyes, lie might be excused for a mo- 
 ment fancying that all the hajopiness of yesterday was in- 
 deed a vision. He was, in truth, sorely joerplexed as he 
 looked around the neat but htimble chamber, and caught 
 the first beam of the sun struggling through a casement 
 shadowed by the jessamine. But on his heart there rested 
 a curl of dark and flowing hair, and held together by that 
 very turquoise of which he fancied he had been dreaming. 
 Happy, happy Ferdinand ! Why shouldst thou have 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 ? The sun is up, the lark is singing, the sky is 
 bluer than the love-jewel at his heart. She will be here 
 soon. ISTo 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 stood entranced ; to whose 
 mind the very idea of his existence had not then even 
 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 his dark fortunes with her wand ? 
 What talisman does he grasp to call up such bright adven- 
 tures of existence ? He does not err. He is an enchanted 
 being ; a spell indeed perA^ades his frame ; he moves in truth 
 in a world of marvels and miracles. For Avhat fairy has a
 
 A LOVE STORY. 165 
 
 wand like love, wliat talisman can acliicvo the deeds of 
 passion ? 
 
 Ho quitted the rustic porcli, and strolled up the lane that 
 led to Ducie. He started at a sound : it was but the springs 
 of a "wandering bird. Tlien the murmur of a distant wheel 
 turned him pale ; and he stopped and leant on a neighbour- 
 ing gate with a panting heart. Was she at hand ? There 
 is not a moment when the heart palpitates with such deli- 
 cate suspense as when a lo^^or awaits his mistress in the 
 spring days of his passion. Man watching the sun i-ise 
 from a mountain, awaits not an incident to him more beau- 
 tiful, more genial, and more impressive. With her presence 
 it would seem that both light and heat fall at the same 
 time upon his heart : his emotions are warm and sunny, 
 that a moment ago seemed dim and frigid ; a thrilling sense 
 of joy pervades liis frame ; the air is SAvcetcr, and his ears 
 seem to echo with the music of a thousand birds. 
 
 The sound of the approaching wheel became moi'c 
 audible ; it drew near, nearer ; but lost the delicacy that dis- 
 tance lent it. Alas ! it did not propel the car of a fairy, or the 
 chariot of a heroine, but a cart, w^hose taxed springs bowed 
 beneath the portly form of an honest yeoman wdio gave 
 Captain Armine a cheerful good-mori'ow as he jogged by, 
 and flanked his jolly whip with unmerciful dexterity. Tho 
 loudness of the unexpected salute, the crack of the echoing 
 thong, shook the fine nerves of a fanciful lover, and Ferdi- 
 nand looked so confused, that if the honest yeoman had 
 only stopped to observe him, the passenger might have 
 really been excused for mistaking him for a poacher, at tho 
 least, by his guilty countenance. 
 
 This little worldly inten'uptlon broke the wings of Fer- 
 dinand's soaring fancy. He fell to earth. Doubt camo 
 over him whether Henrietta would indeed come. He was 
 disaitpointcd, and so he became distrustful. He strolled on, 
 however, in the direction of Ducie, yet slowly, as there Avas
 
 166 HENRIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 more than one road, and to miss each other would have 
 been mortifying. His quick eye was in every quarter ; his 
 watchful ear listened in every direction : still she was not 
 seen, and not a sound was heard except the hum of day. 
 He became nervous, agitated, and began to conjure up a 
 crowd of unfortunate incidents. Perhaps she was ill ; that 
 was very bad. Perhaps her father had suddenly returned. 
 Was that worse ? Perhaps something strange had hap- 
 pened. Perhaps 
 
 Why ! why does his face turn so pale, and why is his 
 step so suddenly arrested ? Ah ! Ferdinand Armine, is not 
 thy conscience clear ? That pang was sharp. ISTo, no, it 
 is impossible ; clearly, absolutely impossible ; this is weak 
 indeed. See ! he smiles ! He smiles at his weakness. 
 He waves his arm as if in contempt. He casts away, with 
 defiance, his idle apprehensions. His step is more assured, 
 and the colour returns to his cheek. And yet her father 
 must return. Was he prepared for that occurrence ? This 
 was a searching question. It induced a long, dark train of 
 harassing recollections. He stopped to ponder. In what 
 a web of circumstances was he now involved ! Howsoever 
 he might act, self- extrication appeared impossible. Perfect 
 candour to Miss Temple might be the destruction of her 
 love ; even modified to her father, would certainly produce 
 his banishment from Ducie. As the betrothed of Miss 
 Grandison, Miss Temple would abjure him ; as the lover of 
 Miss Temple, under any circumstances, Mr. Temple would 
 reject him. In what light would he apjDear to Henrietta 
 were he to dare to reveal the truth ? Would she not look 
 upon him as the unresisting hbertine of the hour, engaging 
 in levity her heart as he had already trifled with another's ? 
 For that absorbing and overwhelming passion, pure, primi- 
 tive, and profound, to which she now responded with an 
 enthusiasm as frcsb, as ardent, and as immaculate,* she 
 would only recognise the fleeting fancy of a vain and
 
 A LOVE STORY. 167 
 
 worldly spirit, eager to add another triumph to a long list 
 of conquests, and proud of another evidence of his irresist- 
 ible influence. What security was there for her that she too 
 should not in turn be forgotten for another ? that another 
 eye should not shine brighter than hers, and another 
 voice sound to his ear with a sweeter tone ? Oh, no ! he 
 dared not disturb and sully the bright flow of his present 
 existence ; he shrank from the fatal word that would dis- 
 solve the spell that enchanted them, and introduce all the 
 calculating cares of a harsh world into the thoughtless Eden 
 in which they now wandered. And, for her father, 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 anxious consideration of a parent ? Was 
 he himself independent? Was he not worse than a beggar ? 
 Could he refer Mr. Temple to Sir Ratcliffe ? Alas ! it would 
 be an insult to both ! In the meantime, every hour Mr. 
 Temple might return, or something reach the ear of Hen- 
 rietta fatal to all his aspirations. Armine with all its cares, 
 Bath with all its hopes ; his melancholy father, his fond 
 and sanguine mother, the tender-hearted Katherine, the de- 
 voted Glastonbury, all rose up before him, and crowded on 
 his tortured imagination. In the agony of his mind he 
 wished liimself alone in the world : he sighed for some 
 earthquake to swallow up Armine and all its fatal fortunes ; 
 and as for those parents, so aflectionate and virtuous, and 
 to whom he had hitherto been so dutiful and devoted, lie 
 turned from their idea with a sensation of weariness, almost 
 of dislike. 
 
 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 Hen- 
 rietta. She had driven over ihe common in her pony- 
 chair, and unattended. She was but a few steps from him ;
 
 168 HENRIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 and as he looked up, he caught her fond smile. Ho sprang 
 from his seat ; he -was at her side in an instant ; his heart 
 beat so tumultuously that he could not speak ; all dark 
 thoughts were forgotten ; he seized with a trembling touch 
 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 never before done justice to her sur- 
 passing loveliness. There was a bloom upon her cheek, as 
 upon some choice and delicate fruit ; her violet eyes 
 sparkled like gems ; while the dimples played and quivered 
 on her cheeks, as you may sometimes watch the sunbeam 
 on the pure surface of fair water. Her countenance, in- 
 deed, was wreathed with smiles. She seemed the happiest 
 thing on earth ; the very personification of a poetic spring ; 
 lively, and fresh, and innocent ; sparkling, and sweet, and 
 soft. When he beheld 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 their cottage. Have I not managed well to come 
 alone ? We shall have such a charming drive to-day.' 
 
 ' You are so beautiful ! ' murmured Ferdinand. 
 
 ' I am content if you but think so. You did not hear me 
 approach ? What were you doing ? Plunged in medita- 
 tion ? Now tell me truly, Avere you thinking of her ? ' 
 
 ' Indeed, I have no other thought. Oh, my Henrietta ! 
 you are so beautiful to-day. I cannot talk of anything but 
 your beauty.' 
 
 ' And how did you sleep ? Are you comfortable ? I 
 have brought you some flowei'S to make your room look 
 pretty.' 
 
 They soon reached the farm-house. The good-wife 
 seemed a little surprised when she observed her guest 
 driving Miss Temple, but far more pleased. Henrietta ran 
 into the house to see the children, spoke some kind words
 
 A LOVE STORy. 169 
 
 to the litilc maiden, and asked if tlieir guest had brcak- 
 fosled. Then, turning to Ferdinand, she said, ' Have you 
 forgotten that you arc to give me a breakfast ? It shall be 
 in the porch. Is it not sweet and pretty ? See, here are 
 your flowers, and I have brought you some fruit.' 
 
 Tlie breakfast was aiTanged. ' But you do not play your 
 part, sweet Henrietta,' he said ; ' I cannot breakfast alone.' 
 
 She affected to share his rejiast, that he might partake 
 of it; but, in truth, she only busied herself in arranging 
 the flowers. Yet she conducted herself -with so much 
 dexterity, that Ferdinand had au opportunity of gratifying 
 his appetite, Avithout being placed in a position, awkward 
 at all times, insuS"ei'able for a lover, that of eating in the 
 presence of others "who do not join you in the occupation. 
 
 ' Now,' she suddenly said, sitting by his side, and placing 
 a rose in his dress, ' I have a little plan to-day, which I 
 think -will be quite dehghtful. You shall drive me to 
 Armine.' 
 
 Ferdinand started. He thought of Glastonbury. His 
 miserable situation recurred to him. This was the bitter 
 drop in the cup ; yes ! in the very plenitude of his rare 
 felicity he experienced a pang. His confusion was not 
 unobserved by Miss Temple ; for she was very qiiick in her 
 ])erception ; but she could not comprehend it. It did not 
 rest on her mind, particularly when Ferdinand assented to 
 her proposition, but added, ' I forgot that Armine is more 
 interesting to you than to me. All my associations with 
 Armine are painful. Ducie is my delight.' 
 
 'Ah ! my romance is at Armine ; yours at Ducie. ^Vliat 
 wc live among, we do not always value. And yet I love 
 my home,' she added, in a somewhat subdued, even serious 
 tone ; ' all my associations with Ducie are sweet and plea- 
 sant. Will they always be so ? ' 
 
 She hit upon a key to which the passing thoughts of 
 Ferdinand too completely responded ; but he restrained the
 
 170 HENRIETTA TEMPLE : 
 
 mood of his mind. As she grew grave, he affected cheer- 
 fulness. ' My Henrietta must always be happy,' 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's silence, she said, ' My Ferdinand must not be 
 low-spirited about dear Armine. I have confidence in our 
 destiny ; I see a happy, a very happy future.' 
 
 Who could resist so fair a prophet ? N'ot the sanguine 
 mind of the enamoured Ferdinand Armine. He drank 
 insj^iration from her smiles, and dwelt with delight on 
 the tender accents of her animating sympathy, ' I never 
 shall be low-spirited with you,' he repHed ; 'you are my 
 good genius. O Henrietta ! what heaven it is to be to- 
 gether ! ' 
 
 ' I bless you for these words. We will not go to Armine 
 to-day. Let us walk. And to speak the truth, for I am 
 not ashamed of saying anything to you, it would be hardly 
 discreet, perhaps, to be driving about the country in this 
 guise. And yet,' she added, after a moment's hesitation, 
 ' what care I for what people say ? Ferdinand ! I think 
 only of you ! ' 
 
 That was a delicious ramble which these young and 
 enamoured creatures took that sunny mom ! 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, and yet 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 it the falfilment of a happy destiny. For all 
 that I have sighed for now I meet, and more, much more 
 than my imagination could ever hope for.' 
 
 ' Only think of that morning drive,' resumed Henrietta, 
 * .such a little time ago, and yet it seems an age ! Let us
 
 A LOVE STORY. 171 
 
 believe in destiny, deai' Ferdinand, or yon must think of 
 me, I fear, that ■which I would not wish.' 
 
 ' My own Henrietta, I can think of you only as the 
 noblest and the sweetest 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 I have met many persons, and 
 seen something more, much more than falls to the lot of 
 women of my age. Believe me, indeed, my eye has hitherto 
 been undazzled, and my heaxt untouched.' 
 
 He pressed her hand. 
 
 ' And then,' sho resumed, ' in a moment ; but it seemed 
 not like common life. 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 if my 
 life and lot were bound up, as it were, with that strange 
 and silent scene. And then he came forward, and I beheld 
 him, so unlike all other men, 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, and sweetest, and loveliest of women, your 
 Ferdinand, at that moment, was not less moved than you 
 were. Speechless and pale I had watched my Henrietta, 
 and I felt that I beheld the being to whom I must dedicate 
 my existence.' 
 
 ' I shall never forget the moment when I stood before 
 the portrait of Sir Ferdinand. Do you know my heart was 
 prophetic ; I wanted not that confirmation of a strange con- 
 jecture. I felt that you must be an Armine. I had heard 
 so much of your grandfather, so much of your family. I 
 loved them for their glory, and for their lordly sorrows.' 
 
 'Ah ! my Henrietta, 'tis that alone that galls me. It is 
 bitter to introduce my bride to our house of cares.'
 
 172 HENRIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 * You shall never think it so,' she replied with animation. 
 * I "will prove a true Armine. Happier in the honour of 
 that name, than in the most rich possessions ! You do not 
 know me yet. Your wife shall not disgrace you or your 
 lineage. I have a spirit worthy of you, Ferdinand ; at 
 least, I dare to hoj^e so. I can break, but I will not bend. 
 "VVe will wrestle together with all our cares ; and my Fei-- 
 dinand, animated by his Henrietta, shall restore the house.' 
 
 ' Alas ! my noble-minded girl, I fear a severe trial awaits 
 us. I can offer you only love.' 
 
 ' Is there anything else in this woi'ld ? ' 
 
 ' But, to bear you from a roof of luxury, where you have 
 been cherished from your cradle, with all that ministers to 
 the delicate delights of woman, to — oh ! my Henrietta, you 
 know not the disheartening and depressing burthen of 
 domestic cares.' His voice fiiltered as he recalled his 
 melancholy father ; and the disappointment, perhaps the 
 destruction, that his passion was prepai-ing for his roof. 
 
 * There shall be no cares ; I will endure everything ; I 
 will animate all. I have energy; indeed I have, my Ferdi- 
 nand. I have, young as I may be, I have often inspirited, 
 often urged on my fiither. Sometimes, he says, that had it 
 not been for me, he woiild not have been what he is. He 
 is my father, the best and kindest parent that ever loved 
 his child ; yet, what are fathers to you, my Ferdinand ? 
 and, if I could assist him, what may I not do for ' 
 
 
 Alas ! my Henrietta, we have no theatre for action. 
 You forget our creed,' 
 
 ' 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, if the choice were in my power now to select a 
 life most grateful to my views and feelings, choose some 
 delightful solitude, even as Armine, and pass existence 
 with no other aim but to delight you. But we were speak-
 
 A LOVE STORY. 173 
 
 ing of otlicr circumstances. Such licappiness, it is said, ia 
 not for us. And I wislied to sliow you that I have a spirit 
 tliat can struggle with adversity, and a soul prescient of 
 overwhelming it.' 
 
 ' You have a spirit I reverence, and a soul I worship, 
 nor is there a happier being in the world this moment than 
 Ferdinand Armine. With such a woman as you every fate 
 must be a triumph. You have touched upon a chord of my 
 heart that has sounded before, though in solitude. It was 
 but the wind that played on it before ; but now that tone 
 rings with a purpose. 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 destiny worthy even of Hen- 
 rietta Temple.' 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 HENRIETTA VISITS ARMINE, WHICH LEADS TO A RATHER 
 rERPLEXIXG ENCOUNTER. 
 
 The communion of this day, of the spirit of which the con- 
 versation just noticed may convey an intimation, produced 
 an inspiriting cfTect on the mind of Ferdinand. Love is 
 inspiration; it encourages to great deeds, and develops the 
 creative faculty of our nature. Few great men have 
 flourished, who, were they candid, would not acknowledge 
 the vast advantages they have experienced in the earlier 
 yeai'S of their career from the spirit and sympathy of 
 woman. It is woman whose prescient admiration strings 
 the lyre of the desponding poet, whose genius is afterwards 
 to be recognised by his race, and which often embalms the 
 memory of the gentle mistress whose kindness solaced liim 
 in less glorious hours. How many an official portfolio 
 would never have been carried, had it not been for her 
 sanguine spirit and assiduous love ! How many a dc-
 
 174 HENEIETTA TEMPLE : 
 
 pressed and despairing advocate lias clutclied the Great 
 Seal, and taken his precedence before princes, borne onward 
 by the breeze of her inspiring hope, and illumined by the 
 sunshine of her prophetic smile ! A female friend, amiable, 
 clever, and devoted, is a possession more valuable than 
 parks and palaces ; and, vyithout such a muse, few men can 
 succeed in Hfe, none be content. 
 
 The plans and aspirations of Henrietta had relieved 
 Ferdinand from a depressing burthen. Inspired by her 
 creative sympathy, a new scene opened to him, adorned 
 by a magnificent perspective. His sanguine imagination 
 sought refuge in a triumphant future. That love, for which 
 he had hitherto schooled his mind to sacrifice every worldly 
 advantage, appeared suddenly to be transformed into the 
 very source of earthly success. 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, as it were, by a 
 beautiful retribution, to be already rewarded for having 
 devoted, with such unhesitating readiness, his heart upon 
 the altar of disinterested affection. Lying on his cottage- 
 couch, he indulged in dazzling visions ; he wandered in 
 strange lands with his beautiful companion, and offered at 
 her feet the quick rewards of his unparalleled achievements. 
 
 Recurring to his immediate situation, he resolved to lose 
 no time in bringing his affairs to a crisis. He was even 
 working himself up to his instant departure, solaced by the 
 certainty of his immediate return, when the arrival of his 
 servant announced to him that Glastonbury had quitted 
 Armine on one of those antiquarian rambles to which he 
 was accustomed. Gratified that it was now in his power 
 to comply with the wish of Henrietta to visit his home, and 
 perhaps, in truth, not very much mortified that so reason- 
 able an excuse had arisen for the postponement of his 
 intended departure, Ferdinand instantly rose, and as 
 speedily as possible took his way to Ducie.
 
 A LOVE STORY. 175 
 
 He found Henrietta in the garden. Ho had arriveil, 
 perhaps, earher than he was expected ; yet what joy to see 
 him ! And when he himself proposed an excursion to 
 Armine, her grateful smile melted his very heart. Indeed, 
 Ferdinand this morning was so gay and light-hearted, that 
 his excessive merriment might almost have been as sus- 
 picious as his passing gloom the previous day. Not less 
 tender and fond than before, his sportive fancy indulged in 
 infinite expressions of playful humour and dehcate pranks 
 of love. When he first recognised her, gathering a nosegay 
 too for him, himself unobserved, he stole behind her on tip- 
 toe, and suddenly clasping her delicate waist, and raising 
 her gently in the air, ' Well, lady-bird,' he exclaimed, ' I 
 too will pluck a flower ! ' 
 
 Ah ! when she turned round her beautiful face, full of 
 charming confusion, and uttered a faint cry of fond aston- 
 ishment, as she caught his bright glance, what happiness 
 was Ferdinand Ai'minc's, as he felt this enchanting creature 
 was his, and pressed to his bosom her noble and thi-obbing 
 form ! 
 
 ' Perhaps, this time next year, we may be travelling on 
 mules,' said Ferdinand, as ho flourished his whip, and the 
 little pony trotted along. Henrietta smiled. 'And then,' 
 continued he, ' we shall remember our pony-chair that we 
 turn up our noses at now. Donna Henrietta, jogged to 
 death over dull vegas, and picking her way across rocky 
 sierras, will be a very diflerent person from Mss Temple, of 
 Ducie Bower. I hope you will not be very irritable, my 
 child ; and pray vent your spleen upon your muleteer, and 
 not upon your husband.' 
 
 ' Now, I'erdinand, how can you be so ridiculous ? ' 
 
 ' Oh ! I have no doubt I sliall have to bear all the blame. 
 "You brought me here," it will be, "ungrateful man, is 
 this your love ? not oven post-horses ! " ' 
 
 *As for that,' said Henrietta, 'perhaps wo shall have to
 
 176 HENRIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 walk. I can fancy ourselves, you -witli an Andalusian 
 jacket, a long gun, and, I feai-, a cigar; and I witli all tho 
 baggage.' 
 
 'Children and all,' added Ferdinand, 
 
 Miss Temple looked somewhat demure, turned away her 
 face a little, but said nothing. 
 
 'But what think you of Vienna, sweetest?' enquired 
 Ferdinand in a more serious tone ; ' upon my honour, I 
 think we might do great things there. A regiment and a 
 chamberlainship at the least ! ' 
 
 ' In mountains or in cities I shall be alike content, pro- 
 vided you be my companion,' replied Miss Temjile. 
 
 Ferdinand let go the reins, and dropped his whip. ' My 
 Henrietta,' he exclaimed, looking in her face, ' what an 
 angel you are !' 
 
 This visit to Armine was so delightful to Miss Temjjle ; 
 she ex23erienced so much gratification in wandering about 
 tlie park and over the old castle, and gazing on Glaston- 
 bury's tower, and wondering when she should see him, and 
 talking to her Ferdinand about every member of his family, 
 that Captain Armine, unable to withstand the irresistible cur- 
 rent, postponed from day to day his decisive visit to Bath, 
 and, confident in the future, would not permit his soul to bo 
 the least daunted by any possible conjuncture of ill fortune. 
 A week, a Avhole happy week glided away, and spent almost 
 entirely at Armine. Their presence there was scarcely 
 noticed by the single female servant who remained ; and, if 
 her curiosity had been excited, she jiossessed no power of 
 communicating it into Somersetshii'e. Besides, she was 
 unaware that her young master was nominally in London. 
 Sometimes an hour was snatched by Henrietta from roam- 
 ing in the pleasaunce, and interchanging vows of mutual 
 love and admiration, to the picture-gallery, where she had 
 already commenced a miniature copy of the portrait of the 
 great Su- Ferdinand. As tho sun set they departed in their
 
 A LOVE STORY. 177 
 
 little equipage. Ferdinand wrapped Lis Henrietta in lug 
 fur cloak, for the autumn dews began to rise, and, thus 
 protected, the journey of ten miles was ever found too short; 
 It is the habit of lovers, however innocent their passion, to 
 grow every day less discreet ; for every day their almost 
 constant companionship becomes more a necessity. Miss 
 Temple had almost unconsciously contrived at first that 
 Captain Armine, in the absence of her father, should not be 
 observed too often at Ducie ; but now Ferdinand drove 
 her home every evening, and drank tea at the Bower, and 
 the evening closed with music and song. Each night he 
 crossed over the common to his farm-house more fondly and 
 devotedly in love. 
 
 One morninfr at Armine, Henrietta beinsr alone in the 
 gallery busied with her drawing, Ferdinand having left her 
 for a mor jnt to execute some slight commission for her, 
 she heard some one enter, and, looking up to catch his 
 glance of love, she beheld a venerable man, of a mild and 
 benignant appearance, and dressed in black, standing, as if 
 a little surprised, at some distance. Herself not less con- 
 fused, she nevertheless bowed, and the gentleman advanced 
 with hesitation, and with a faint blush returned her salute, 
 and apologised for his intrusion. ' lie tliought Captain 
 Armine might be there.' 
 
 ' He was here but this moment,' rei^lied Miss Temple ; 
 ' and doubtless will instantly return.' Then she turned to 
 her di'awing with a trembling hand. 
 
 ' I perceive, madam,' said the gentleman, advancing and 
 speaking in a soft and engaging tone, while looking at hev 
 labour with a mingled air of dinidence and admiration, 
 ' that you arc a fine artist.' 
 
 ' My vrish to excel may have assisted my performance,* 
 replied Miss Temple. 
 
 ' You ai'e copying the portrait of a very extraordinary 
 personage/ said the stranger. 
 
 V
 
 178 HENEIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 * Do you tliink that it is like Captain Armine ? ' enquired 
 Miss Temple with some hesitation. 
 
 ' It is always so considered,' replied the stranger. 
 
 Henrietta's hand faltered ; she looked at the door of the 
 gallery, then at the portrait ; never was she yet so anxious 
 for the reappearance of Ferdinand. There was a silence 
 which she was compelled to break, for the stranger was 
 both mute and motionless, and scarcely more assured than 
 herself. 
 
 ' Captain Armine will be here immediately, I have no 
 doubt.' 
 
 The strauger bowed. ' If I might presume to criticise 
 so finished a performance,' he remarked, ' I should say that 
 you had conveyed, madam, a more youthful character than 
 the original presents.' 
 
 Henrietta did not ventiu-e to confess that such was her 
 intention. She looked again at the door, mixed some 
 colour, and then cleared it immediately off her pallette. 
 ' What a beautiful gallery is this ! ' she exclaimed, as she 
 changed her brush, which was, however, without a fault. 
 
 ' 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,' repKed the gentle- 
 man ; ' I fancy we have often heard of each other. This a 
 most unexpected meeting, madam, but for that reason not 
 less delightful. I have myself just returned fi'om a ramble 
 of some days, and entered the gallery little aware that the 
 family had arrived. Tou met, I suppose, my Ferdinand on
 
 A LOVE STOEY. 179 
 
 the road. Ah ! you wonder, perhaps, at my familiar ex- 
 pression, madam. He has been my Ferdinand so many 
 years, that I cannot easily school myself no longer to stylo 
 him so. But I am aware that there are now other claims 
 
 ' My dearest Glastonbury,' exclaimed Ferdinand Arminc, 
 starting as he re-entered the gallery, and truly in as great 
 a fright as a man could well be, who perhaps, but a few 
 hours ago, was to conquer in Spain or Germany. At 
 the same time, pale and eager, and talking with excited 
 I'apidity, he embraced his tutor, and scrutinised the coun- 
 tenance of Henrietta to ascertain whether his fatal secret had 
 been discovered. That countenance was fond, and, if not 
 calm, not more confused than the unexpected appearance 
 imdcr the circumstances might account for. ' You haye often 
 heard me mention IVtr. Glastonbury,' he said, addressing 
 himself to Henrietta. ' Let me now have the pleasure of 
 making you acquainted. My oldest, my best friend, my 
 second father ; an admirable artist, too, I can assure jou. 
 He is qualified to decide even upon your skill. And when 
 did you arrive, my dearest friend ? and where have you 
 been ? Our old haunts ? Many sketches ? What abbey 
 have you explored, what antique treasures have you dis- 
 covered ? I have such a fine addition for your herbal ! 
 The Barbary cactus, just what you wanted ; I found it in 
 my volume of Shelley ; and beautifully dried, beautifully ; 
 it will quite charm you. What do you think of this 
 drawing ? Is it not beautiful ? quite the character, is it 
 not ?' Ferdinand paused for lack of breath. 
 
 ' I was just observing as you entered,' said Glastonbmy, 
 
 very quietly, ' to Miss ' 
 
 'I have several letters for you,' said Ferdinand, interrupt- 
 ing him, and trembling from head to foot lest he might say 
 Miss Orandison. ' Do you know you are just the person 
 I wanted to see ? How fortunate that you should just 
 
 N 2
 
 180 IIENEIETTA TEMPLE : 
 
 arrive ! I was so annoyed to find you were away. I 
 cannot tell you liow much I was annoyed ! ' 
 
 ' Your dear parents ? ' enquired Glastonbury. 
 
 ' Are quite well,' said Terdinand, ' perfectly well. Tliey 
 will be so glad to see you, so very glad. They do so long 
 to see you, my dearest Glastonbury. You cannot imagine 
 liow they long to see you.' 
 
 ' I shall find them within, think you ? ' enquired Glaston- 
 bury. 
 
 ' Oh ! they are not here,' said Ferdinand ; ' they have 
 not yet arrived. I expect them every day. Every day 1 
 expect them. I have prepared everything for them, every- 
 thing. What a wonderful autumn it has been ! ' 
 
 And Glastonbury fell into the lure, and talked about the 
 weather, for he was learned in the seasons, and prophe- 
 sied by many circumstances a hard winter. While he was 
 thus conversing, Ferdinand extracted from Henrietta that 
 Glastonbury had not been in the gallery more than a very 
 few minutes ; and he felt assured that nothing fatal had 
 transpired. All this time Ferdinand was reviewing his 
 painful situation with desperate rapidity and prescience. 
 All that he aspired to now was that Henrietta should quit 
 Armine in as happy ignorance as she had arrived : as for 
 Glastonbury, Ferdinand cared not what he might suspect, 
 or ultimately discover. These were future evils that sub- 
 sided into insignificance compared with any discovery on 
 the part of Miss Temple. 
 
 Comparatively composed, Ferdinand now suggested to 
 Henrietta to quit her drawing, which indeed was so ad- 
 vanced, that it might be finished at Ducie ; and, never 
 leaving her side, and watching every look, and hanging on 
 every accent of his old tutor, he even ventured to suggest 
 that they should visit the tower. The proposal, he thought, 
 might lull any suspicion that might have been excited 
 on the part of Miss Temple. Glastonbury expressed his
 
 A LOVE STOEY. 181 
 
 gratification at tlie suggestion, and thej quitted tiio gallery, 
 and entered the avenue of beccli trees. 
 
 ' I have heard so much of your tower, Mr. Glastonbury,' 
 said Miss Temple, 'I am sensible, I assui-e you, of tho 
 honour of being admitted.' 
 
 The extreme delicacy that was a characteristic of Glaston- 
 bury, preserved Ferdinand Armine from the dreaded danger. 
 It never for an instant entered Glastonbury's mind that 
 Henrietta was not Miss Graudison. He thought it a little 
 extraordinary, indeed, that she should arrive at Armino 
 only in the company of Ferdinand ; but much might be 
 allowed to plighted lovers ; besides, there might be some 
 female companion, some aunt or cousin, for aught he knew, 
 at the Place. It was only his parents that Ferdinand had 
 said had not yet arrived. At all events, ho felt at this 
 moment that Ferdinand, perhaps, even because he was 
 alone with his intended bride, had no desire that any formal 
 introduction or congratulations should take place; and only 
 pleased that the intended wife of his pupil should be one 
 so beautiful, so gifted, and so gracious, one apparently so 
 worthy in every way of his choice and her lot, Glastonbury 
 relapsed into his accustomed ease and simplicity, and 
 exerted himself to amuse the young lady with Avhom he 
 had become'so unexpectedly acquainted, and with whom, in 
 all probability, it was his destiny in future to be so intimate. 
 As for Henrietta, nothing had occurred in any way to give 
 rise to the slightest suspicion in her mind. Tho agitation 
 of Ferdinand at this unexpected meeting between his tutor 
 and his betrothed was in every respect natural. Their en- 
 gagement, as she knew, was at present a secret to all ; and 
 althousfh, under such circumstances, she herself at first was 
 disposed not to feel very much at her ease, still she was so 
 well acquainted with Mr. Glastonbury from report, and ho 
 was so unliko the common characters of the censorious 
 world, that sho Avas, from the first, far less annoyed than
 
 182 HENEIETTA TEMPLE : 
 
 she ofherwise would liave been, and soon regained her nsual 
 composure, and was even gratified and amused with the 
 adventure. 
 
 A load, however, fell from the heart of Ferdinand, when 
 he and his beloved bade Glastonbury a good afternoon. 
 This accidental, and almost fatal interview terribly re- 
 minded him of his difficult and dangerous position ; it 
 seemed the commencement of a series of misconceptions, 
 mortifications, and misfortunes, which it was absolutely 
 necessary to prevent by instantly arresting them with the 
 utmost energy and decision. It was bitter to quit Armine 
 and all his joys, but in truth the arrival of his family was 
 very doubtful : and, until the confession of his real situation 
 was made, every day might bring some disastrous dis- 
 covery. Some ominous clouds in the horizon formed a 
 capital excuse for hurrying Henrietta ofi" to Ducie. They 
 quitted Armine at an unusually eai'ly hour. As they drove 
 along, Ferdinand revolved in his mind the adventure of 
 the morning, and endeavoured to stimulate himself to the 
 exertion of instantly repairing to Bath. But he had not 
 courage to confide his purpose to Henrietta. When, how- 
 ever, they arrived at Ducie, they were welcomed with 
 intelligence which rendered the decision, on his part, abso- 
 lutely necessary. But we will reserve this for the next 
 chapter. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 WHICH CONTAINS . SOMETHING VERT UNEXPECTED. 
 
 Miss Temple had run up stairs to take ofi" her bonnet ; 
 Ferdinand stood before the wood fire in the saloon. Its 
 clear, fragrant flame was agreeable after the cloudy sky 
 of their somewhat chill di-ive. He was musing over the
 
 A LOVE STORY. 183 
 
 cbamis of his Henrietta, and longing for lier reappearance, 
 wlien she entered ; but her entrance filled him with alarm. 
 She was pale, her lips nearly as white as her forehead. An 
 expression of dread was impressed on her agitated counte- 
 nance. Ere he could speak she held forth her hand to his 
 extended grasp. It was cold, it trembled. 
 
 ' Good God ! you arc ill ! ' he exclaimed. 
 
 'No!' she faintly murmured, 'not ill.' And then she 
 paused, as if stifled, leaning down her head with eyes 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 slie leant upon his 
 shoulder. After a few minutes of haiTowins: silence, she 
 said in a smothered voice, ' Papa returns to-morrow.' 
 
 Ferdinand turned as pale as she ; the blood fled to his 
 heart, his fi-ame trembled, his knees tottered, his passive 
 hand scarcely retained hers ; he could not speak. All the 
 possible results of this return flashed across his mind, and 
 presented themselves in terrible array to his alarmed ima- 
 gination. He could not meet Mr. Temple ; that was out 
 of the question. Some explanation must immediately and 
 inevitably ensue, and that must precipitate the fatal dis- 
 coveiy. The great object Avas to prevent any communica- 
 tion between Mr. Temple and Sir Ratcliffe before Ferdinand 
 had broken his situation to his father. How he now wished 
 he had not postponed his departure for Bath ! Had be only 
 quitted Armino when first convinced of the hard necessity, 
 the harrowing future would now have been the past, tho 
 impending scenes, however dreadful, would have ensued ; 
 perhaps he might have been at Ducie at this moment, with 
 a clear conscience and a frank purpose, and with no diffi-
 
 184 HENRIETTA TElilPLE : 
 
 culties to overcome but those wlaicli mtist necessarily arise 
 from Mr. Temple's natural consideration for the welfare of 
 his child. These, however difficult to combat, seemed light 
 in comparison with the perplexities of his involved situa- 
 tit)n. Ferdinand bore Henrietta to a seat, and hung over 
 her in agitated silence, which she ascribed only to his 
 sympathy for her distress, but which, in truth, was rather 
 to be attribated to his own uncertain purpose, and to the 
 confusion of an invention which he now ransacked for 
 desperate expedients. 
 
 While he was thus revolving in his mind the course which 
 h.e must now pursue, he sat down on the ottoman on which 
 her feet rested, and pressed her hand to his lips while he 
 summoned to his aid all the resources of his imagination. 
 It at length appeared to him that the only mode by which 
 he could now gain time, and secure himself from dangerous 
 explanations, was to involve Henrietta in a secret engage- 
 ment. There was great difficulty, he was aware, in accom- 
 plishing this purpose. Miss Temple was devoted to her 
 father; and though for a moment led away, by the omni- 
 potent influence of an irresistible passion, to enter into a 
 compact without the sanction of her parent, her present 
 agitation too clearly indicated her keen sense that she had 
 not conducted herself towards him in her acciistomed spirit 
 of unswerving and immaculate duty ; that, if not absolutely 
 indelicate, her behaviour must appear to him very incon- 
 siderate, very rash, perhaps even unfeeling. Unfeeling ! 
 What, to that father, that fond and widowed father, of 
 whom she was the only and cherished child ! All his good- 
 ness, all his unceasing care, all his anxiety, his ready sym- 
 pathy, his watchfulness for her amusement, her comfort, 
 lier happiness, his vigilance in her hours of sickness, his 
 pride in her beauty, her accomplishments, her affection, the 
 smiles and tears of long, long years, all passed before her, 
 till at last she released herself with a quick movement from
 
 A LOVE STOEY. 185 
 
 tlie liolcl 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. 
 
 ' Henrietta ! ' ho 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 contending emotions. The severity of her voice, that 
 voice that hitherto had fallen upon liis ear like the warble 
 of a summer bird, filled him with consternation. The idea 
 of having offended her, of having seriously offended her, 
 of being to her, to Henrietta, to Henrietta, that divinity to 
 whom his idolatrous fancy clung with such rapturous devo- 
 tion, in whose very smiles and accents it is no exaggeration 
 to say he lived and had 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 cai'es, all his im- 
 pending sorrows, vanished into thin air, compared Avitli this 
 unforeseen and sudden visitation. Oh ! what was future 
 evil, what was to-morrow, pregnant as it might be with 
 misery, compared with the quick agony of the instant ? 
 So long as she smiled, every difficulty appeared sui-mount- 
 able ; so long as he could listen to her accents of tenderness, 
 there was no dispensation with which he could not struggle. 
 Come what may, throned in the palace of her heart, he was 
 a sovereign who miglit defy the Avorld in arms ; but, thrust 
 from that great scat, he was a fugitive 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 liim leave her ! Did he live ? AVas tliis 
 the same world in which a few hours back he breathed, 
 and blessed his God for breathing ? What had happened ? 
 "What strange event, what miracle had occm-red, to work 
 this awful, this portentous change? Wliy, if she had 
 known all, if she had suddenly shared that sharp and
 
 186 HENEIETTA TEjMPLE : 
 
 perpetual woe ever gnawing at his o^vn secret heart, oven 
 amid his joys ; if he had revealed to her, if anyone had 
 betrayed to her his distressing secret, could she have said 
 more ? Why ! it was to shun this, it was to spare him- 
 self this horrible catastrophe, that he had involved himself 
 in his agonising, his inextricable difficulties. Inextricable 
 they must be now ; for where, now, was the inspiration 
 that before was to animate him to such great exploits ? 
 How could he struggle any longer with his fate ? How 
 could he now carve out a destiny ? All that remained 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 lovO;, might have instantly quitted the presence of 
 a mistress who had treated him with such unexpected and 
 such undeserved harshness. But the thought of the mor- 
 row, the mournful conviction that this was the last oppor- 
 tunity for their undisturbed communion, the recollection 
 that, at all events, their temporary separation was impend- 
 ing ; all these considerations had checked his first impulse. 
 Besides, it must not be concealed that more than once it 
 occurred to him that it was utterly impossible to permit 
 Henrietta to meet her father in her present mood. With 
 her determined spirit and strong emotions, and her diffi- 
 culty of concealing her feelings ; smarting, too, under the 
 consciousness of having parted with Ferdinand in anger, 
 and of having treated him with injustice ; and, therefore 
 doubly anxious to bring affairs to a crisis, a scene in all 
 probabiKty would instantly ensue ; and Ferdinand recoiled 
 at present from the consequences of any explanations. 
 
 Unhappy Ferdinand ! It seemed to him that he had 
 never known misery before. He wrung his hands in 
 despair ; his mind seemed to desert him. Suddenly he 
 stopped ; he looked at Henrietta ; her face was still pale,
 
 A LOVE STOKY. 187 
 
 her eyes fixed upon tlie decaying embers of the fire, her 
 attitude unchanged. Either she was unconscious of his 
 presence, or she did not choose to recognise it. What were 
 her thoughts ? 
 
 Still of her father ? Perhaps she contrasted that fond 
 and faithful friend of her existence, to whom she owed such 
 an incalculable debt of gratitude, with the acquaintance of 
 the hour, to whom, in a moment of insanity, she had pledged 
 the love that could alone repay it. Perhaps, in the spu-it 
 of self-torment, she conjured up against this too successful 
 stranger all the menacing spectres of suspicion, distrust, 
 and deceit ; recalled to her recollection the too just and 
 too frequent tales of man's impurity and ingratitude ; and 
 tortured herself by her own apparition, the merited victim 
 of his harshness, his neglect, or his desertion. And when 
 she had at the same time both shocked and alarmed her 
 fancy by these distressful and degrading images, exhausted 
 by these imaginary vexations, and eager for consolation in 
 her dark despondency, she may have recurred to the yet 
 innocent cause of her sorrow and apprehension, and per- 
 haps accused herself of cruelty and injustice for visiting on 
 his head the mere consequences of her own fitful and mor- 
 bid temper. She may have recalled his unvarying tender- 
 ness, his unceasing admiration ; she may have recollected 
 those impassioned accents that thrilled her heart, those 
 glances of rapturous affection that fixed her eye with 
 fascination. She may have conjured up that form over 
 which of late she had mused in a trance of love, that form 
 bright with so much beauty, beaming with so many graces, 
 adorned with so much intelligence, and hallowed by every 
 romantic association that could melt the heart or mould the 
 spirit of woman ; she may have conjured up this form, that 
 was the god of her idolatry, and rushed again to the altar 
 in an ecstasy of devotion. 
 
 The shades of evening were fast dcscendmg, the curtains
 
 188 HENRIETTA TEMPLE : 
 
 of the cliamber wei'e not closed, the blaze of the fire had 
 died away. The flickering light fell upon the solemn 
 countenance of Henrietta Temple, now buried in the 
 shade, now transiently illumined by the fitful flame. 
 
 On a sudden he advanced, with a step too light even to 
 be heard, knelt at her side, and, not venturing to touch her 
 hand, pi'essed his lips to her arm, and with sti-eaming 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 her countenance ; then, burst- 
 ing into tears, she threw her arms round his neck, and hid 
 her face upon his breast. 
 
 He did not disturb this effusion of her suppressed emo- 
 tions. His throbbing heart responded to her tumultuous 
 soul. At length, when the strength of her passionate 
 affections had somewhat decreased, when the convulsive 
 sobs had subsided into gentle sighs, and ever and anon lie 
 felt the pressure of her sweet lips sealing her remorseful 
 love and her charming repentance upon his bosom, he dared 
 to say, ' Oh ! my Henrietta, you did not doubt your Ferdi- 
 2iand ? ' 
 
 'Dearest Ferdinand, you are too good, too kind, too 
 faultless, and I am very wicked.' 
 
 Taking her hand and covering it with kisses, he said in 
 a distinct, but very low voice, ' N"ow tell me, Avhy were you 
 unhappy ? ' 
 
 'Papa,' sighed Henrietta, 'dearest papa, that the day 
 should come when I should 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 is no crime to love ; it may be a misfortune ; 
 God knows that I have almost felt to-night that such it 
 was. But no, I never will believe it can bo either wrong 
 or unhappy to love you.'
 
 A LOVE STORY. 189 
 
 ' Bless you, for sucli sweet words,' replied Ferdinand. 
 If my heart can make you Lappy, felicity shall be your 
 lut.' 
 
 ' 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 when he said this), he Avill be hajipy too ?' 
 
 ' So I would hope.' 
 
 ' If the fulfilment of my duty can content him,' continued 
 Ferdinand, ' Mr. Temple shall not repent his son-in-laAV.' 
 
 ' Oh ! do not call him JMr. Temple ; call him father. I 
 love to hear you call him father.' 
 
 ' Then what alarms my child ? ' 
 
 ' I hardly know,' said Henrietta in a hesitating tone. ' I 
 think, I think it is the suddenness of all this. Ho hag 
 gone, he comes again ; he went, he returns ; and all has 
 happened. So short a time, too, Ferdinand. It is a life 
 
 to us ; to him, I fear,' and she hid her face, ' it is only ■ 
 
 a fortnight.' 
 
 ' Wc have seen more of each other, and known more of 
 each other, in this fortnight, than wc might have in an 
 acquaintance which had continued a life.' 
 
 ' That's true, that's very true. We feel this, Ferdinand, 
 because we know it. But papa will not feci like us : wo 
 cannot expect him to feel like us. He does not know my 
 Ferdinand as I know him. Papa, too, though the dearest, 
 kindest, fondest father tliat ever lived, though he has no 
 thought but for my happiness and lives only for his 
 daughter, papa naturally is not so young as Ave arc. He 
 is, too, what is called a man of the world. He has seen a 
 great deal ; ho has formed his opinions on men and life. 
 We cannot expect that he Avill change them in your, I 
 mean in our, favour. ^len of the world are of the world, 
 worldly. I do aot think they arc always right ; I do not 
 myself believe in their infallibility. There is no person
 
 190 HENKIETTA TEMPLE : 
 
 more clever and more judicious than papa, No person is 
 more considerate. But tliere are cliaracters so rare, tliat 
 men of the world do not admit them into tlieir general 
 calculations, and such is yours, 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,' continued Miss Temple. ' He will be mortified, per- 
 haps alarmed, when I inform him I am no longer his.' 
 
 ' Then do not inform him,' said Ferdinand. 
 
 She started. 
 
 ' Let me inform him,' continued Ferdinand, giving another 
 turn to his meaning, and watching her countenance with 
 an unfaltering eye. 
 
 ' Dearest Ferdinand, always prepared to bear every 
 burthen ! ' exclaimed Miss Temple. * How generous and 
 good you are ! No, it would be better for me to speak first 
 to my father. My soul, I will never have a secret from 
 you, and you, I am sure, will never have one from your 
 Henrietta. This is the truth ; I do not repent the past, 
 I glory in it ; I am yours, and I am proud to be yours. 
 Were the past to be again acted, I would not falter. But I 
 cannot conceal from myself that, so far as my father is con- 
 cerned, I have not conducted myself towards him with 
 frankness, with respect, or with khidness. There is no 
 fault in loving you. Even wei'e he to regret, he could not 
 blame such an occurrence : but he will regret, he will 
 blame, he has a right both to regret and blame, my doing 
 more than love you ; my engagement, without his advice, 
 his sanction, his knowledge, or even his suspicion ! ' 
 
 'You take too refined a view of our situation,' re^^Hed 
 Ferdinand. 'Why should you not spare your father the 
 pain of such a communication, if painful it would be ? 
 What has passed is between ourselves, and ought to be 
 between ourselves. If I request his permission to offer you
 
 A LOVE STORY. 191 
 
 my hand, and he yields his consent, is not that ceremony 
 enough ? ' 
 
 ' I have nerer concealed anything from papa,' said Hen- 
 rietta, ' but I will be guided by you.' 
 
 'Leave, then, all to me,' said Ferdinand; 'be guided 
 but by the judgment of your oAvn Ferdinand, my Henrietta, 
 and believe me all will go right, I will break this intelli- 
 gence to your father. So we will settle it ? ' he continued 
 enquiringly. 
 
 ' It shall be so.' 
 
 * Then arises the question,' said Ferdinand, * when it 
 would be most advisable for me to make the communication. 
 Now your father, Henrietta, who is a man of the world, 
 will of course expect that, when I do make it, I shall be 
 prepared to speak definitely to him upon all matters of 
 business. He will think, otherwise, that I am trifling 
 with him. To go and request of a man like your father, 
 a shrewd, experienced man of the world like Mr. Temple, 
 permission to marry his daughter, without showing to him 
 that I am prepared with the means of maintaining a family, 
 is little short of madness. He would be offended with me 
 he would be prejudiced against me, I must, therefore, 
 settle something fii'st with Sir Ratcliffc. Much, you know, 
 unfortunately, I cannot offer your father ; but still, sweet 
 love, there must at least be an appearance of providence 
 and management, Wc must not disgust your father with 
 our union.' 
 
 ' Oh I how can he be disgusted ? ' 
 
 ' Dear one ! This, then, is what I propose ; that, as to- 
 morrow we must comparatively be separated, I should take 
 advantage of the next few days, and get to Bath, and bring 
 affairs to some arrangement. Until my return 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 ; *hoAv can I
 
 1D2 HENEIETTA I^EJIPLE : 
 
 meet liis eye, liow can I speak to Mm witli the conscious* 
 ncss of a secret engagement, with the recollection that, all 
 the time he is lavishing his affection upon me, my heart is 
 yearning for another, and that, while he is laying plans of 
 future companionship, I am meditating, perhaps, an eternal 
 separation ! ' 
 
 ' Sweet Henrietta, listen to mc one moment. Suppose I 
 had quitted you last night for Bath, merely for this pur- 
 l^ose, as indeed we had once thought of, and that your 
 father had ai'rived at Ducie before I had returned to make 
 my communication ; would you style your silence, under 
 such circumstances, a secret engagement ? No, no, dear 
 love ; this is an abuse of terms. It would be a delicate 
 consideration for a parent's feelings,' 
 
 ' Ferdinand ! would we Avere united, and had no 
 cares ! ' 
 
 ' You would not consider our jDrojected union a secret 
 engagement, if, after passing to-morrow with your father, 
 you expected me on the next day to communicate to him 
 our position. Is it any more a seci^et engagement because 
 six or seven days are to elapse before this communication 
 takes place, instead of one ? My Henrietta is indeed fight- 
 ing with shadows !' 
 
 ' Ferdinand, I cannot reason like you; but I feel unhapjoy 
 when I think of this.' 
 
 ' Dearest Henrietta ! feel only that you are loved. Think, 
 darling, the day will come Avlien we shall smile at all these 
 cares. All will flow smoothly 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 you offended him.' 
 
 * Which I certainly should do if I were not to speak to 
 Sir Ratcliffe first.' 
 
 ' Do you, indeed, think so ? * 
 
 ' Indeed I am certain.'
 
 A LOVE STOEY. 193 
 
 ' But cannot you write to Sir RatcliSe, 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 considera- 
 tion alone reconciles me to the necessity : I know my 
 father well ; his only answer to a communication of tins 
 kind would be an immediate summons to his side. Now, 
 is it not better that this meeting should take place when 
 we must necessarily be much less together than before, than 
 at a later period, when we may, perhaps, be constant com- 
 panions with the sanction of our parents ? ' 
 
 ' Ferdinand ! you reason, I only feel.' 
 
 Such an observation from one's mistress is rather a 
 reproach than a compliment. It was made, in the present 
 instance, to a man whose principal characteristic was, 
 perhaps, a too dangei'ous susceptibility ; a man of profound 
 and violent passions, yet of a most sweet and tender temper; 
 capable of deep reflection, yet ever acting from the impulse 
 of sentiment, and ready at all times to sacrifice every con- 
 sideration to his heart. The prospect of separation from 
 Henrietta, for however short a period, was absolute agony 
 to him ; he found difficulty in conceiving existence without 
 the influence of her perpetual presence : their partuag even 
 for the night was felt by him as an onerous deprivation. 
 The only process, indeed, that could at present prepare and 
 console him for the impending sorrow, would have been 
 the frank indulgence of the feelings Avhich it called forth. 
 Yet behold him, behold this unhappy victim of circum- 
 stances, forced to deceive, even for her happiness, the being 
 whom he 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 con- 
 scious that not in the wide world, perhaps, existed a man 
 who Avas sacrificing more for his mistress, obliged to endure, 
 

 
 194 HENEIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 even from her lips, a remark wMcli seemed to impute to 
 him a deficiency of feeling. And yet it was too much ; he 
 covered his eyes with his hand, and said, in a low and 
 broken voice, ' Alas ! my Henrietta, if you knew all, yon 
 would not say this ! ' 
 
 ' My Ferdinand,' she exclaimed, touched by that tender 
 and melancholy tone, ' why, what is this ? you weep ! 
 What have I said, what done ? Dearest Ferdinand, do not 
 do this.' And she threw herself on her knees before him, 
 and looked up into his face with scrutinising affection. 
 
 He bent down his head, and pressed his lips to her fore- 
 head. ' Henrietta ! ' he exclaimed, ' we have been so 
 happy ! ' 
 
 'And shall be so, my own. Doubt not my word, all will 
 go right. I am so sorry, I am so miserable, that I made 
 you ujihappy to-night. I shall think of it when you are 
 gone. I shall remember how naughty I was. It was 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 a moment escape 
 from your memory.' 
 
 ' Tell me exactly your road ; let me know exactly where 
 you will be at every hour ; write to me on the road ; if it 
 be only a line, only a little word ; 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 every morning you must write, or I shall 
 die. Ferdinand, what is to be done ? ' 
 
 ' I will direct to you at the post-office. Ton must send 
 for your letters.' 
 
 ' I tremble. Believe me, it will be noticed. It will look 
 BO, so, so, so clandestine.'
 
 A LOVE STORY. 195 
 
 'I will direct them to your maid. She Binsfc be our 
 confidant.' 
 
 ' Ferdinand ! ' 
 
 ' 'Tis only for a -sveek.' 
 
 ' Ferdinand ! Love teaches iis strange things.' 
 
 ' My darUng, beheve me, it is wise and well. Think hov/- 
 desolate we should be without constant correspondence. 
 As for myself, I shah write to you every hour, and, unlcsa 
 I hear from you as often, I shall beheve only in evil I ' 
 
 ' Let it be as you wish. God knows my heart is pure. 
 I pretend no longer to regulate my destiny. I am yours, 
 Ferdinand. Be you responsible for all that affects my 
 honour or my heart.' 
 
 ' A precious trust, my Henrietta, and dearer to me than 
 all the glory of my ancestors.' 
 
 The clock sounded eleven. !Miss Temple rose. * It is so 
 late, and we in darkness here ! What will they think ? 
 Ferdinand, sweetest, rouse the fire. I ring the bell. Lights 
 will come, and then ' Her voice faltered. 
 
 ' And then ' echoed Ferdinand. He took up his 
 
 guitar, but he could not command his voice. 
 
 ' 'Tis your guitar,' said Henrietta ; ' I am happy that it is 
 left behind.' 
 
 The servant entered with lights, drew the cvirtains, 
 renewed the fire, arranged the room, and withdrew. 
 
 ' Little knows he our misery,' said Henrietta. ' It seemed 
 strange, when I felt my own mind, that there could bo 
 anything so calm and mechanical in the world.' 
 
 Ferdinand was silent. Ho felt that the hour of departure 
 had indeed arrived, yet he had not courage to move. Hen- 
 rietta, too, did not speak. She reclined on the sofa, as it 
 were, exhausted, and placed her handkerchief over her face. 
 Ferdinand leant over the fire. He was nearly tempted to 
 give up his project, confess all to his father by letter, and 
 await his decision. Then he conjured up the dreadful 
 
 o 2
 
 196 HENRIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 scenes at Batli, and then he remembered that, at all events, 
 to-morrcw he must not appear at Ducio, ' 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 Temple rose and said, ' Now, Ferdinand, I 
 am ready.' He looked round. Her countenance was quite 
 pale, but fixed and calm. 
 
 'Let us embrace,' she said, 'but let us say nothing.' 
 
 He pi'cssed her to his arms. She trembled. He im- 
 printed a thousand kisses on her cold lips ; she received 
 them with no return. Then she said in a low voice, ' Let 
 me leave the room first ; ' and, giving him one kiss upon 
 his forehead, Henrietta Temple disappeared. 
 
 When Ferdinand with a sinking heart and a staggei'ing 
 Btep quitted Ducie, he found the night so dark that it was 
 with extreme difficulty he traced, or rather groped, his "\\'ay 
 through the grove. The absolute necessity of watching 
 every step he took in some degree diverted his mind from 
 his painful meditations. The atmosphere of the wood was 
 80 close, that he congratulated himself when he had gained 
 its skirts ; but just as he was about to emerge upon the 
 common, and was looking forward to the light of some 
 cottage as his guide in this gloomy wilderness, a flash of 
 lightning that seemed to cut the sky in twain, and to 
 descend like a flight of fiery steps from the highest heavens 
 to the lowest earth, 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 perturbed as his own 
 heart. A clap of thunder, that might have been the herald 
 of Doomsday, woke the cattle from their slumbers, which 
 began to moan and low to the rising wind, and cluster 
 under the trees, that sent forth with their wailing branches 
 sounds scarcely less dolorous and wild. Avoiding the woods,
 
 A LOVE STOKY. 197 
 
 and strikiiig into tlic most open j^art of tlio country, Ferdi- 
 nand watclied the progress of the tempest. 
 
 For the wind had now risen to such a height that the 
 leaves and branches of the trees were carried about in vast 
 whirls and eddies, while the waters of the lake, where in 
 serener hours Ferdinand was accustomed to bathe, were 
 lifted out of their bed, and inundated the neighbouring 
 settlements. Lights were now seen moving in the cottages, 
 and then the forked liglitning, pouring down at the same 
 time from opposite quarters of the sky, exposed with an 
 awful distinctness, and a fearful splendour, the wide-spread- 
 ing scene of danger and devastation. ; 
 
 Now descended the rain in such overwhelming torrents, 
 that it was as if a waterspout had burst, and Ferdinand 
 gasped for breath beneath its oppressive power ; while the 
 blaze of the variegated lightning, the crash of the thunder, 
 and the roar of the wind, all simultaneously in movement, 
 indicated the fulness of the storm. Succeeded then that 
 strange lull that occurs in the heart of a tempest, when the 
 unruly and disordered elements pause, as it were, for breath, 
 and seem to concentrate their energies for an increased and 
 final explosion. It came at last ; and the very earth seemed 
 to rock in the passage of the hurricane. 
 
 Exposed to all the awful chances of the storm, one soli- 
 tary being alone beheld them without terror. The mind of 
 Ferdinand Armine grew calm, as nature became more dis- 
 turbed. He moralised amid the whirlwind. He contrasted 
 the present tumult and distraction with the sweet and 
 beautiful serenity which the same scene had presented when, 
 a short time back, he first beheld it. His love, too, had 
 commenced in stillness and in sunshine ; was it, also, to 
 ond in storm and in destruction ? 
 
 END OF THE THIED BOOK.
 
 198 HENEIETTA TEMPLE; 
 
 BOOK IY\ 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 WHICH CONTAINS A LOVE-LETTER. 
 
 Let 113 pause. We have endeavoured to trace, in the pro- 
 ceding portion of this history, the development of that 
 passion that is at once the principle and end of onr exist- 
 ence ; that passion compared to vrhose delights all the 
 other gratifications of our nature — wealth, and power, and 
 fame, sink into insignificance ; and which, nevertheless, by 
 the ineffable beneficence of our Creator, are open to his 
 creatures of all conditions, qualities, and chmes. Whatever 
 be the lot of man, however unfortunate, however oppressed, 
 if he only love and be loved, he must strike a balance in 
 favour of existence ; for love can illumine the dark roof of 
 poverty, and can lighten the fetter of the slave. 
 
 But, if the most miserable position of humanity be toler- 
 able with its support, so also the most splendid situations 
 of our life are wearisome without its inspiration. The 
 golden palace requires a mistress as magnificent ; and the 
 fairest garden, besides the song of birds and the breath of 
 fliowers, calls for the sigh of sympathy. It is at the foot of 
 woman that we lay the laurels that without her smile would 
 never have been gained : it is her image that strings the 
 lyre of the poet, that animates our voice in the blaze of 
 eloquent faction, and guides our brain in the august toils 
 of stately councils. 
 
 But this passion, so charming in its nature, so equal in
 
 A LOVE STOKY. 199 
 
 its dispensation, so universal in its influence, never assumes 
 a power so vast, or exerts an authoiity so captivating, as 
 ■when it is experienced for the first time. Then it is truly 
 irresistible and enchanting, fascinating and despotic ; and, 
 whatever may be the harsher feelings that life may develop, 
 there is no one, however callous or constrained he may have 
 become, whose brow will not grow pensive at the memory 
 
 of FIRST LOVE. 
 
 The magic of first love is our ignorance that it can ever 
 end. It is the dark conviction that feelings the most ardent 
 may yet gi'ow cold, and that emotions the most constant 
 and confirmed are, nevertheless, liable to change, that 
 taints the feebler spell of our later passions, though they 
 may spring from a heart that has lost little of its original 
 freshness, and be offered to one iafinitely more worthy of 
 the devotion than our first idolatry. To gaze upon a face, 
 and to believe that for ever we must behold it with the 
 same adoration ; that those eyes, in whose light we live, will 
 for ever meet ours with mutual glances of rapture and 
 devotedness ; to be conscious that all conversation with 
 others sounds vapid and spiritless, compared with the end- 
 less expression of our afibction ; to feel our heart rise at the 
 favoured voice ; and to believe that life must hereafter con- 
 sist 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 for them so full of hope ? no pity for them so abound- 
 ing with love ? 
 
 And can it be possible that the hour can ever arrive when 
 the former votaries of a mutual passion so exquisite and 
 engrossing can meet each other with indifference, almost 
 with unconsciousness, and recall with an effort their vanished 
 scenes of felicity, that quick yet profound sympathy, that 
 ready yet boundless confidence, all that charming abandon- 
 ment of self, and that vigilant and prescient fondness that
 
 200 HENEIETTA TEIVIPLE : 
 
 anticipates all om* wants and all onr wislies ? It makes 
 the heart ache but to picture such vicissitudes to the imagi- 
 nation. They are images full of distress, and misery, and 
 gloom. The knowledge that such changes can occur, flits 
 over the mind like the thought of death, obscuring all our 
 gay fancies with its bat-like wing, and tainting the healthy 
 atmosphere of our happiness with its venomous expirations. 
 It is not so much ruined cities that Avere once the capital 
 glories of the world, or mouldering temples breathing with 
 oracles no more believed, or arches of triumph that have 
 forgotten the heroic name they were piled up to celebrate, 
 that fill the mind with half so mournful an expression of 
 the instability of human fortunes, as these sad spectacles of 
 exhausted affections, and, as it were, traditionary fragments 
 of expired passion. 
 
 The morning, that broke sweet, and soft, and clear, 
 brought Terdinand, with its first glimmei-, a letter from 
 Henrietta. 
 
 Henrietta to Ferdinand. 
 
 Mine own! I have not laid down the whole ni<'-ht, 
 "What a terrible, what an 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 
 could only watch the tempest from my window, and strain 
 my eyes at every flash of lightning, in the vain hope that 
 it might reveal him ! Is he well, is he unhurt ? Until my 
 messenger return I can imagine only evil. How often I 
 was on the point of sending out the household, and yet I 
 thought it must be useless, and might displease him ! I 
 knew not what to do. I beat about my chamber Hke a 
 silly bird in a cage. Tell me the truth, my Ferdinand ; 
 conceal nothing. Do not think of moving to-day. If you 
 feel the least unwell, send immediately for advice. Write 
 to me one line, only one line, to tell mo you are well. I
 
 A LOVE STORY. 201 
 
 shall bo ill despaii' until I bear from you. Do not keep tbo 
 messenger an instant. He is on my pony. He promises to 
 return in a very, very sbort time. I pray for you, as I 
 prayed for you the wbole long nigbt, that seemed as if it 
 would never end. God bless you, my Ferdiiiand ! Write 
 only one word to your own 
 
 Henkietta. 
 
 Ferdinand io 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 I experienced no greater evil, does not frighten 
 me. The storm was magiuficent ; I would not have missed 
 it for tlie world. But I regret it now, because my Henrietta 
 did not sleep. Sweetest love, let me come on to you ! Your 
 page is inexorable. He will not let me write another line. 
 God bless you, my Henrietta, my beloved, my matchless 
 Henrietta ! "Words cannot tell you how I love you, h.ow I 
 dote upon you, my darling. 
 
 Thy Ferdinand. 
 
 Henrietta io Ferdinand. 
 
 No ! you must not come here. It would be unwise, it 
 would be silly. Wc could only be together a moment, and, 
 thoxigh a moment with you is heaven, I cannot endure again 
 the agony of parting. Ferdinand! what has that sepa- 
 ration not cost me ! Pangs that I could not conceive any 
 human misery could occasion. ]My Ferdinand, may wo 
 some day be happy ! It seems to me now that haj^pincss 
 can never come again. And yet I ought to be grateful that 
 he was uninjured last night. I dared not confess to you 
 before what evils I anticipated. Do you know I was so 
 foolish that I thought every flash of lightning must descend 
 on your head. I dare not now own how foolish I was.
 
 202 HEKRIEITA TEMPLE: 
 
 God be praised that he is well. But is he sure that he ia 
 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 ; you laugh at a woman's caution. Oh! 
 my Ferdinand, I am so selfish that I should not care if you 
 were ill, if I might only be your nurse. What happiness, 
 what exquisite happiness, would that be ! 
 
 Do not be angry with your Henrietta, but I am nervous 
 about concealing our engagement from papa. What I have 
 promised I will perform, fear not that ; 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, more than 
 I wish to express. I do not like to say anything that can 
 annoy you, especially at this moment, when I feel from my 
 own heart how you must require all the support and solace 
 of unbroken fondness. I have such confidence in your 
 judgment, my Ferdinand, that I feel convinced you have 
 acted wisely ; but come back as soon as you can. I know 
 it must be more than a week ; I know that that prospect 
 was only held out by your afiection. Days must elapse 
 before you can reach Bath ; and I know, Ferdinand, I 
 know your oflBce is more diflicult than you will confess. 
 But come back, my own, as soon as you can, and write to 
 me at the post-ofl&ce, as you settled. 
 
 If you are well, as you say, leave the farm directly. The 
 consciousness that you are so near makes me restless. 
 Remember, in a few hours papa will 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, they fall upon the page. Think of me 
 always. Never let your Henrietta be absent from your 
 thoughts. If you knew how desolate this house is ! Your 
 guitar is on the sofa ; a ghost of departed joy ! 
 
 Farewell, Ferdinand ! I cannot write, I cannot restrain
 
 A LOVE STORY. 203 
 
 my tears. I know not what to do. I almost wish papa 
 would return, though I dread to see Lim. I feel the 
 desolation of this house, I am so accustomed to see you 
 here ! 
 
 Heaven be with yon, and guard over you, and cherish 
 you, and bless you. Think always of me. "Would that 
 this pen could express the depth and devotion of my 
 feelings ! 
 
 Henrietta. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 WHICH, SUPPOSING THE READER IS INTERESTED IN THE 
 CORRESPONDENCE, PDHSUES IT. 
 
 Dearest ! A thousand, thousand thanks, a thousand, thou- 
 sand blessings, for your letter from Armine, dear, dear 
 Armine, where some day we shall be so happy I It was 
 such a darling letter, so long, so kind, and so clear. How 
 could you for a moment fancy that your Henrietta would 
 not be able to decipher that dear, dear handwriting ! 
 Always cross, dearest : your handwriting is so beautiful 
 that I never shall find the slightest difiiculty in making it 
 out, if your letters were crossed a thousand times. Besides, 
 to t/cll the truth, I should rather like to experience a 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 delight every now and then to find out some new expres- 
 Eion that escaped me in the 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 me now that I never loved you until this separa- 
 tion, that I have never been half grateful enough to you 
 for all your goodness. It makes me weep to remember all 
 the soft things you have said, all the kind things you have
 
 204 HENRIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 done for me, and to tliink that I have not conveyed to yon 
 at the time a tithe of my sense of all your gentle kindness. 
 Yon ai'e so gentle, Ferdinand ! I think that is the greatest 
 charm of your character. My gentle, gentle love ! so un- 
 like all other persons that I have met with ! Tour voice 
 is so sweet, your manner so tender, I am sure you ha-\'e 
 the kindest 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 I think of all 
 your love. I can sit for hours and recall the past, it is so 
 sweet. When I received your dear letter from Armine 
 yesterday, and knew indeed that you had gone, I went and 
 walked in our woods, and sat down on the very bank we 
 loved so, and read your letter over and over again ; and 
 then I thought of all you had said. It is so sti-ange ; I 
 think I could repeat every word you have uttered since we 
 first knew each other. The morning that began so miser- 
 able, wore away before T dreamed it could be noon. 
 
 Papa arrived about an hour before dinner. So kind and 
 good ! And why should he not be ? I Avas ashamed of 
 myself afterwards for seeming surprised that he was the 
 same as ever. He asked me if your family had returned to 
 Armine. I said that you had expected them daily. Then 
 he asked me if I had seen you. I said very often, but that 
 you had now gone to Bath, as their return had been pre- 
 vented by the illness of a relative. Did I right in this ? 
 I looked as unconcerned as I could when I 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 myself for this conversation. I knew it must 
 ensue. Believe me, Ferdinand, papa really likes you, and 
 is prepared to love you. He spoke of you in a tone of 
 genuine kindness. I gave him your message about the 
 shooting at Armine ; that you regretted his unexpected
 
 A LOVE STOllY. 205 
 
 departure had prevented you from 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 might 
 make up for the thinness of the game. He was greatly 
 pleased. 
 
 Adieu ! All good angels guard over jon. I will write 
 every day to the post-office, Bath. Think of me very much. 
 Your own faithful Henrietta. 
 
 Letter U. 
 
 Henrietta to Ferdinand. 
 
 Ferdinand, what heaven it is to think of you, and to read 
 your letters ! This morning brought me two ; the one 
 from London, and the few liiies you Avrote me as the mail 
 stopped on the road. Do you know, you will think me 
 very ungrateful, but those dear few lines, I believe I must 
 confess, I prefer them even to your beautiful long letter. 
 It was so kind, so tender, so sweetly considerate, so like 
 my Ferdinand, to snatch the few minutes that should have 
 been given to rest and food to write to his Henrietta, I 
 love you for it a thousand times more than ever ! I hope 
 you are really well : I hope you tell me truth. This is a 
 great fatigue, even for you. It is worse than our mules 
 that we once talked of. Does he recollect ? Oh ! what 
 joyous spirits my Ferdinand Avas in that happy day ! I 
 love him when he laughs, and yet I think he won my heart 
 with those pensive eyes of his ! 
 
 Papa is most kind, and suspects nothing. Yesterday 1 
 mentioned you first. I took up your guitar, and said to 
 whom it belonged. I thought it more natural not to bo 
 silent about you. Besides, dearest, papa really likes you, 
 and I am sure will love you very much when ho knows all, 
 and it is such a pleasure to me to hear you praised and 
 spoken of with kindness by those I love. I have, of course,
 
 206 HENEIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 little to say about myseK I visit my birds, tend my 
 flowers, and pay particular attention to all those I remem- 
 ber that you admired or touched. Sometimes I whisper to 
 them, and teU them that you will soon return, for, indeed, 
 they seem to miss you, and to droop their heads like their 
 poor mistress. Oh ! my Ferdinand, shall we ever again 
 meet ? Shall I, indeed, ever again Ksten to that sweet voice, 
 and will it tell me again that it loves me with the very 
 selfsame accents that ring even now in my fascinated ear ? 
 O Ferdinand ! this love is a fever, a fever of health. I 
 cannot sleep ; I can 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 shoot 
 to-morrow. My heart will throb, I fancy, when I see our 
 porch. God bless my own love ; the idol of his fond and 
 happy Henrietta, 
 
 Letter III. 
 
 Henrietta to Ferdinand. 
 
 Dearest ! ITo letter since the few hnes on the road, but 
 I suppose it was impossible. To-raorrow will bring me 
 one, I suppose, from Bath. I know not why I tremble 
 when I write that word. All is well here, papa most kind, 
 the same as ever. He went a little on your land to-day, a 
 very little, but it pleased me. He has killed an Armino 
 hare ! Oh ! what a morning have I spent ; so happy, so 
 sorrowful, so full of tears and smiles ! 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 my Ferdinand ! But so must everyone. The poor 
 woman has lost her heart to you, I suspect, and I am half 
 inclined to be a little jealous. She did so praise you ! So 
 kind, so gentle, giving such little trouble, and, as I fear,
 
 A LOVE STORY. 207 
 
 so mncli too generous ! Exactly like my Ferdinand ; but, 
 really, this was unnecessary. Pardon me, love, but I am 
 learning prudence. 
 
 Do you kno-w, I went into your room ? I contrived to 
 ascend alone ; the good woman followed me, hut I was 
 there alone a moment, and, and, and, what do you think 
 I did ? I pressed my lips to your pillow. I could not help 
 it ; when I thought that his dear head had rested there so 
 often and so lately, I could not refrain from pressing my 
 lips to that favoured resting-place, and I am afraid I shed 
 a tear besides. 
 
 When mine own love receives this he will be at Bath. 
 How I pray that you may find all your family well and 
 happy ! I hope they will love me. I already love them, 
 and dear, dear Armine. I shall never have courage to go 
 there again until your return. It is night, and I am writing 
 this in my own room. Perhaps the hour may have its 
 influence, but I feel depressed. Oh, that I were at your 
 side ! This house is so desolate without you. Everything 
 reminds me of the past. My Ferdinand, how can "I express 
 to you what I feel — the affection, the love, the rapture, the 
 passionate joy, with which your image inspires me ? I 
 will not be miserable, I will be grateful to Heaven that I 
 am loved by one so rare and gifted. Your portrait is 
 before me ; I call it yours ; it is so Hke ! 'Tis a great con- 
 solation. My heart is with you. Think of me as I think 
 of you. Awake or asleep my thoughts are ahke yours, and 
 now I am going to pray for you. 
 
 Thine own Heneietta. 
 
 Lettee IX. 
 
 ]\tT BEST BELOVED ! The Week is long past, but you say 
 nothing of returning. Oh ! my Ferdinand, your Henrietta is
 
 208 HENRIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 not happy. I read your dear letters over and over again. 
 They ought to make me happy. I feel in the consciousness 
 of your affection that I ougkt to be the happiest person in 
 the world, and yet, I know not why, I am very depressed. 
 You say that all is going well ; but why do you not enter 
 into detail ? There are difBculties ; I am prepared for 
 them. Believe me, my Ferdinand, that your Henrietta can 
 endure as well as enjoy. Your father, he frowns upon our 
 affection ? Tell me, tell me all, only do not leave me in 
 suspense. I am entitled to your confidence, Ferdinand. 
 It makes me hate myself to think that I do not share your 
 cares as well as your delights. I am jealous of your 
 Borrows, Ferdinand, if I may not share them. 
 
 Do not let your brow be clouded when you read this. 
 I could kill myself if I thought I could increase your 
 difficulties. I love you ; God knows how I love you. I 
 will be patient ; and yet, my Ferdinand, I feel wretched 
 when I think that all is concealed from papa, and my lips 
 are sealed until you give me permission to open them. 
 
 Pray write to me, and tell me really how affairs are. 
 Be not afraid to tell 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 so sorry, 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 you even a shade of annoyance. 
 Dearest, how I long to prove my love ! There is nothing 
 that I would not do, nothing that I would not endure, to 
 convince you of my devotion ! I v.ill do all that you wish.
 
 A LOVE STOEY. 209 
 
 I will be calm, I will be patient, I -will try to bo content. 
 You say that you are sure all will go right ; but you toll 
 me nothing. What said your dear father ? your mother ? 
 Be not afraid to speak. 
 
 You bid me tell you all that I am doing. Oh ! my Fer- 
 dinand, life is a Ijlank without you. I have seen no one, 
 I have spoken to no one, save papa. 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 deserted 
 place 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 cannot walk in them, 
 and the garden reminds me only of the happy past. I have 
 never been to the farm-house again. I could not go now, 
 dearest Ferdinand ; it would only make me weep. I think 
 only of the morning, for it brings me your letters. I feed 
 upon them, I live upon them. They ai-e my only joy 
 
 and solace, and yet but no complaints to-day, no 
 
 complaints, 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's strength. I 
 have no thought but for you, I exist only on your idea. 
 Write, write ; tell mo that you love mo, tell mo that you 
 are unchanged. It is so long since I heard that voice, so 
 long since I beheld that fond, soft eye ! Pity me, my Fer- 
 dinand. This is captivity. A thousand, thousand loves. 
 
 Your devoted Henrietta, 
 
 Letter XI. 
 
 FeRDixaxp, dearest Ferdinand, the post to-day has brought 
 mo no letter. I cannot credit my senses. I think the post- 
 master must liave thought me mad. Xo letter ! I could 
 
 P
 
 210 HENKIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 not believe his denial. I was annoyed, too, at the expres- 
 sion of his countenance. This mode of correspondence, 
 Ferdinand, I wish not to murmur, but when I consented to 
 this clandestine method of communication, it was for a few 
 
 days, a few, few days, and then But I cannot write. I 
 
 am quite overwhelmed. Oh ! will to-morrow ever come ? 
 
 Henrietta. 
 
 Letter XII, 
 
 Dearest Ferdinand, I wish to be calm. Tour letter occa- 
 sions me very serious uneasiness. I quarrel not with its 
 tone of affection. It is fond, very fond, and there were 
 moments when I could have melted over such expressions ; 
 but, Ferdinand, it is not candid. Why are we separated ? 
 For a purpose. Is that purpose effected ? Were I to judge 
 only from your letters, I should even suppose that you had 
 not spoken to your father ; but that is, of course, impossible. 
 Your father disapproves of our union. I feel it ; I knoAv 
 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 
 the dark ; it will be better, believe me, for yourself, that 
 he should share our confidence. Papa is not a rich man, 
 but he loves his daughter. Let us make him our friend. 
 Ah ! why did I ever conceal anything from one so kind and 
 good ? In this moment of desolation, I feel, I keenly feel, 
 my folly, my wickedness. I have no one to speak to, no 
 one to console me. This constant struggle to conceal my 
 feelings will kill me. It was painful when all was joy, 
 but now, Ferdinand ! I can endure this Kfe no longer. 
 My brain is weak, my spirit perplexed and broken. I wiU 
 not say if you love ; but, Ferdinand, if you pity me, write, 
 and write definitely, to your unhappy Henrietta. 
 
 *
 
 A LOVE STOKY. 211 
 
 Letter XVIII. 
 
 You tell me that, in compliance -witli my wishes, you will 
 write definitely. You tell me that circumstances have 
 occurred, since your arrival at Bath, of a very perplexing 
 and annoying nature, and that they retard that settlement 
 witli your father that you had projected and partly ar- 
 ranged ; that it is impossible to enter into detail in letters ; 
 and assuring me of your love, you add that you have been 
 R,nxious to preserve me from sharing your anxiety. O 
 Ferdinand ! what anxiety can you withhold like that you 
 have occasioned me ? Dearest, dearest Ferdinand, I will, I 
 must still believe that you are faultless ; but, believe me, a 
 Avant of candour in our situation, and, I believe, in every 
 situation, is a want of common sense. Never conceal any- 
 thing 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, I will trust to time, to 
 events, to the kindness of my friends, and to that over- 
 ruling Providence, which will not desert affections so pure 
 as ours, to bring about sooner or later some happier result. 
 Confident in your love, I can live in solitude, and devote 
 myself to your memory, I 
 
 Ferdinand ! kneel to your father, kneel to your kind 
 mother ; tell them all, tell them how I love 3'ou, how I will 
 love them ; tell them your Henrietta will have no thought 
 but for their happiness ; tell them she will be as dutiful to 
 them as she is devoted to you. Ask not for our union, ask 
 them only to permit you to cherish our acquaintance. Let 
 them return 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 trust not worldly, not selfish, 
 not quite insignificant, not quite unprepared to act the part 
 
 p 2
 
 212 HENRIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 tliat awaits a member of tlieir family, either in its splen- 
 dour or its proud humility ; and, if not worthy of their son, 
 (as who can be ?) yet conscious, deeply conscious of the 
 value and blessing of his affection, and prepared to prove it 
 by the devotion of my being. Do this, my Ferdinand, and 
 happiness will yet come. 
 
 But, my gentle love, on whatever course you may decide, 
 remember your Henrietta. I do not reproach you ; never 
 will I reproach you ; but remember the situation in which 
 you have placed me. All my happy life I have never 
 had a secret from my father ; and now I am involved in a 
 private engagement and a clandestine correspondence. Be 
 just to him ; be just to your Henrietta ! Eeturn, I 
 beseech you on my knees ; return instantly to Ducie ; 
 reveal everything. He will be kind and gracious ; he will 
 be our best friend ; in his hand and bosom we shall find 
 solace and support. God bless you, Ferdinand ! All will yet 
 go well, mine own, own love. 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 that Mr. Temple entered the breakfast-room 
 one morning, with an open note in his hand, and told Hen- 
 rietta to prepare for \'iaitors, as her old friend, LadyBellair, 
 had written, to apprise him of her intention to rest tho 
 night at Ducie, on her way to the IS'orth. 
 
 ' She brings with her also the most charming woman in 
 the world,' added Mr. Temple, with a. smile. 
 
 I)
 
 A LOVE STOEY. 213 
 
 ' I liave little doubt Lady Bellaii' deems Lor companiou 
 BO at present,' said Miss Temple, ' wlioever she may be ; 
 but, at any rate, I sball be glad to see her ladyship, who is 
 certainly one of the most amusing women in the world.' 
 
 This announcement of the speedy arrival of Lady Bellair 
 made some bustle in the household of Ducie Bower ; for 
 her ladyship was in every respect a memorable charactei-, 
 and the butler who had remembered her visits to Mr. 
 Temple before his residence at Ducio, very much interested 
 the curiosity of Ids fellow-servants by his intimations of her 
 ladyship's eccentricities. 
 
 ' 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 well cross-examined as to the state of the 
 establishment ; and so I advise you to be prepared. Her 
 ladyship is a rum one, and that's the truth.' 
 
 In due course of time, a handsome travelHng chariot, 
 emblazoned with a viscount's coronet, and carrying on 
 the seat behind a portly man-servant and a lady's maid, 
 ivrrived at Ducie. They immediately descended, and as- 
 sisted the assembled household of the Bower to disembark 
 the contents of the chariot ; but Mr. Templo and his 
 dauf»hter were too Avell acquainted with Lady Bellalr's 
 character to appear at this critical moment. First came 
 forth a stately dame, of ample proportions and exceed- 
 ingly magnificent attire, being dressed in the extreme 
 of gorgeous fashion, and who, after being landed on the 
 marble steps, was for some moments absorbed in the flut- 
 tering arrangement of her plumage ; smoothing her maroon 
 pelisse, shaking the golden riband of her emerald bonnet, 
 and adjusting the glittering pcleriuc of point device, that 
 shaded the fall of her broad but well-formed shoulders. In 
 one hand the stately dame lightly swung a bag that Avas 
 worthy of liolding the Great Seal itself, so rich and so 
 elaborate were its materials and embroidery; and in tho
 
 214 HENEIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 other she at length, took a glass, which was suspended from 
 her neck by a chain-cable of gold, and glanced with a flasli- 
 ing eye, as dark as her ebon curls and as brilliant as her 
 well-rouged cheek, at the surrounding scene. 
 
 The green parrot, in its sparkling cage, followed nest, 
 and then came forth the prettiest, liveliest, smallest, best- 
 dressed, and, stranger than all, oldest little lady in the 
 world. Lady Bellair was of child-like stature, and quite 
 erect, though ninety years of age ; the tasteful simplicity 
 of her costume, her little plain white silk bonnet, her grcj 
 silk dress, her apron, her grey mittens, and her Cinderella 
 shoes, all admirably contrasted with the vast and flaunting 
 splendour of her companion, not less than her ladyship's 
 small yet exquisitely proportioned form, her highly-finished 
 extremities, and her keen sarcastic grey eye. The expres- 
 sion of her countenance now, however, was somewhat 
 serious. An arrival was an important moment that re- 
 quired all her practised circumspection ; there was so much 
 to arrange, so much to remember, and so much to observe. 
 
 The portly serving-man had advanced, and, taking his 
 little mistress in his arms, as he would a child, had planted 
 her on the steps. And then her ladyship's cleai", shrill, 
 and now rather fretful voice was heard. 
 
 ' Here ! where's the butler ? I don't want you, stupid 
 (addressing her own servant), but the butler of the house. 
 Mister's butler ; what is his name, 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 
 charming lady ? Wliere is the parrot ? I don't want it. 
 Where's the lady ? Why don't you answer ? Why do 
 you stare so ? Miss Temple ! no ! not Miss Temple ! The 
 lady, my lady, my charming friend, Mrs. Floyd ! To be 
 sure so ; why did not you say so before ? But she has got 
 two names. Why don't you say both names ? My dear,' 
 continued Lady Bellair, addressing her travelling com-
 
 A LOVE STORY. 215 
 
 panion, ' I don't know your name. Tell all these good 
 people your name ; your two names ! I like people with 
 two names. Tell them, my dear, tell them ; tell them your 
 name, Mrs. Thingabob, or whateyer it is, Mrs. Thingabob 
 Twoshoes.' 
 
 Mrs. Montgomery Floyd, tliough rather annoyed by this 
 appeal, still contrived to comply with the request in the 
 most dis:nified manner ; and all the servants bowed to Mrs. 
 Montgomery Floyd. 
 
 To the great satisfaction of this stately dame, Lady Bellair, 
 after scanning everything and everybody with the utmost 
 scrutiny, indicated some intention of entering, when sud- 
 denly 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 thii-d. What is it ? You don't 
 know ! Here, you man, who are you ? Mr. Temple's 
 servant. I knew your master when he was not as high as 
 that cage. What do you think of that ? ' continued her 
 ladyship, with a triumphant smile. ' What do you laugh 
 at, sir? Did you ever see a woman ninety years old 
 before ? That I would wager you have not. What do I 
 want ? I want something. Wliy do you tease me by not 
 remembering what I want? Now, I knew a gentleman 
 who made his fortune by once remembering what a very 
 great man wanted. But then the great man was a minister 
 of state. I dare say if I were a minister of state, instead of 
 an old woman ninety years of age, you would contrive some- 
 how or other to find out what I wanted. Never mind, never 
 mind. Come, my charming friend, let me take j'our arm. 
 Now I will introduce you to the prettiest, the dearest, tho 
 most innocent and charming lady in the world. She is my 
 greatest favourite. She is always my favourite. Ton are 
 my favourite, too ; but you are only my favourite for tho 
 moment. I always have two favourites : one for tho
 
 216 HENRIETTA TEilPLE : 
 
 moment, and one that I never change, and that is my sweet 
 Henrietta Temple. You see I can remember her name, 
 though I couldn't yours. But you are a good creature, a 
 dear good soul, though you live in a bad set, my dear, a 
 very bad set indeed ; vulgar people, my dear ; they may be 
 rich, but they have no ton. This is a fine place. Stop, 
 stop,' Lady Bellair exclaimed, stamping her little foot and 
 shaking her Little arm, ' Don't drive away ; I remember 
 what it was. Gregory ! run, Gregory ! It is the page ! 
 There was no room for him behind, and I told him to lie 
 under the 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 a feather ? My page 
 has not got a feather, but he shall have one, because he 
 was not smothered. Here ! woman, who are you ? The 
 housemaid. I thought so. I always know a housemaid. 
 You shall take care of my page. Take him at once, and 
 give him some niilk and water ; and, page, be very good, 
 and never leave this good young woman, unless I send for 
 you. And, w^oman, good young Avoman, perhaps you may 
 find an old feather of Miss Temple's page. 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 the two centuries. Herself born of a noble 
 family, and distinguished both for her beauty and her wit, 
 nhe had reigned for a quarter of a century the favourite 
 .subject of Sir Joshua ; had flirted with Lord Carlisle, and 
 chatted with Dr. Johnson. But the most remarkable 
 
 II
 
 A LOVE STORY. 217 
 
 quality of her ladyship's destiny was her preservation. 
 Time, that had rolled on nearly a century since her birth, 
 had spared ahke her physical and mental powers. She was 
 almost as active in body, and quite as lively in mind, as 
 when seventy years before she skipped in Marylebone 
 Gardens, or puzzled the gentlemen of the Tuesday Night 
 Club at Mrs. Cornely's masquerades. Those wonderful 
 seventy years indeed had passed to Lady Bellair like one 
 of those very masked balls in which she had formerly 
 sparkled ; she had lived in a perpetual crowd of strange 
 and brilliant characters. All that had been famous for 
 beauty, rank, fashion, wit, genius, had been gathered round 
 her throne ; and at this very hour a fresh and admiring- 
 generation, distinguished for these qualities, cheerfully 
 acknowledged her supremacy, and paid to her their homage. 
 The heroes and heroines of her youth, her middle Hfe, even 
 of her old age, had vanished ; brilliant orators, profound 
 statesmen, inspired bards, ripe scholars, illustrious warriors ; 
 beauties whose dazzling charms had turned the world mad ; 
 choice spirits, whose flying words or whose fanciful manners 
 made every saloon smile or wonder, all had disappeared. 
 She had witnessed revolutions in every country in the 
 world ; she remembered Brighton a fishing-town, and 
 Manchester a village ; she had shared the pomp of nabobs 
 and the profusion of loan-mongers ; she had stimulated the 
 early ambition of Charles Fox, and had sympathised with 
 tho last aspirations of George Canning ; she had been the 
 confidant of tho loves alike of Byron and Alficri ; had worn 
 mourning for General Wolfe, and given a festival to the 
 Duke of Wellington ; had laughed with Georgo Selwyn, 
 and smiled at Lord Alvanlcy ; had known the first macaroni 
 and tho last dandy ; remembered the Gunnings, and intro- 
 duced tho Sheridans ! But she herself was unchanged ; 
 still restless for novelty, still eager for amusement; still 
 anxiously watching the entrance on the stage of some new
 
 218 HENRIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 stream of characters, and indefatigable in attracting the 
 notice of everyone whose talents might contribute to her 
 entertainment, or whose attention might gratify her vanity. 
 And, really, when one recollected Lady Bellair's long 
 career, and witnessed at the same time her diminutive form 
 and her unrivalled vitality, he might almost be tempted to 
 believe, that if not absolutely immortal, it was at least her 
 strange destiny not so much vulgarly to die, as to grow 
 like the 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 nothing- 
 ness, and so rather vanish than expire. 
 
 It was the fashion to say that her ladyship had no heart; 
 in most instances an unmeaning phrase ; in her case cer- 
 tainly an unjust one. Ninety years of experience had 
 assuredly not been thrown away on a mind of remarkable 
 acuteness ; but Lady Bellair's feelings were still quick and 
 warm, and could be even profound. Her fancy was so 
 lively, that her attention was soon engaged ; her taste so 
 refined, that her affection was not so easily obtained. 
 Hence she acquired a character for caprice, because she 
 repented at leisure those first impressions which with her 
 were irresistible ; for, in truth. Lady Bellair, though sho 
 had nearly completed her century, and had passed her 
 whole life in the most artificial circles, was the very 
 creature of impulse. Her first homage she always declared 
 was paid to talent, her second to beauty, her thii-d to blood. 
 The favoured individual who might combine these three 
 splendid qualifications, was, with Lady Bellair, a nymph or 
 a demi-god. As for mere wealth, she really despised it, 
 though she liked her favourites to be rich. 
 
 Her knowledge of human nature, which was consider- 
 able, her acquaintance with human weaknesses, which was 
 unrivalled, were not thrown away upon Lady Bellair. Her
 
 A LOVE STOHY. 219 
 
 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 sym- 
 pathy and the most generous actions, where her feelings 
 were not engaged she experienced no compunction in turn- 
 ing her companions to account, or, indeed, sometimes in 
 honouring them with her intimacy for that purpose. But 
 if you had the skill to detect her plots, and the courage to 
 make her aware of your consciousness of them, you never 
 displeased her, and often gained her friendship. For Lady 
 Bellair had a fine taste for humour, and when she chose to 
 be candid, an indulgence which was not rare with her, she 
 could dissect her own character and conduct with equal 
 spirit and impartiahty. In her own instance it cannot be 
 denied that she comprised the three great qualifications 
 she so much prized : for she was very witty ; had blood in 
 her veins, to use her own expression ; and was the prettiest 
 woman in the world, for her years. For the rest, though 
 no person was more highly bred, she could be very impei-- 
 tinent ; but if you treated her with servility, she absolutely 
 loathed you. 
 
 Lady Bellair, after the London season, always spent two 
 or three months at Bath, and then proceeded to her great 
 grandson's, the present viscount's, seat in the North, where 
 she remained until London was again attractive. Part of 
 her domestic diplomacy was employed each year, durin"- 
 her Bath visit, in discovering some old friend, or makin-i- 
 some new acquaintance, who would bear her in safety, and 
 save her harmless from all expenses and dangers of the 
 read, to Northumberland ; and she displayed often in these 
 arrangements talents which Talleyrand might have envied. 
 During the present season, Mrs. Montgomery Floyd, the 
 widow of a rich East Indian, whoso intention it was to 
 proceed to her estate in Scotland at the end of the autumn, 
 had been presented to Lady Bellair by a friend well
 
 220 HENRIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 acquainted with lier ladyship's desired arrangements. 
 What an invaluable acquaintance at such a moment for 
 Lady Bellair ! Mrs. Montgomery Floyd, very rich and 
 very anxious to he fashionable, was intoxicated with the 
 flattering condescension and anticipated companionship of 
 Lady Bellair. At first Lady Bellair had quietly suggested 
 that they should travel together to Northumberland. Mrs. 
 Montgomery Floyd was enchanted with the proposal. Then 
 Lady Bellair regretted that her servant was very ill, and 
 that she must send her to town immediately in her own 
 carriage; and then Mrs. Montgomery Floyd insisted, in 
 spite of the offers of Lady Bellair, that her ladyship should 
 take a seat in her carriage, and would not for an instant 
 hear of Lady Bellair defraying, under such circumstances, 
 any portion of the expense. Lady Bellau* held out to the 
 dazzled vision of Mrs. Montgomery Floyd a brilliant per- 
 spective of the noble lords and wealthy squires whose 
 splendid seats, under the auspices of Lady Bellair, they 
 were to make their resting-places during their progress ; 
 and in time Lady Bellair, who had a particular fancy for 
 her own carriage, proposed that 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 their mistress was to meet them, in that lady's own 
 carriao-e, and Lady Bellair travelling in her own chariot 
 with her own servants, and Mrs. Montgomery Floyd de- 
 fraying the expenditure of both expeditions. 
 
 I
 
 A LOVE STORY. 221 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 IN WHICH LADY BELLAIR GIVES SOME ACCOUKT OP SOME OP 
 
 HER FRIENDS. 
 
 IjADY Bellair really loved Henrietta Temple. She ^v.as 
 lier prime and her pci'niancnt fiivourite, and she was always 
 lamenting that Henrietta would not come and stay with 
 her in London, and marry a duke. Lady Bellair was a 
 great matchmaker. When, therefore, she Avas welcomed 
 by the fair mistress of Ducie Bower, Lady Bellair was as 
 genuine as she was profuse in her kind phrases. ' My 
 sweet, sweet young friend,' she said, as Henrietta 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 a sweet friend as I have ! Now let me look at 
 you. It does my heart good to see 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 Dcrandale, he is in lovo 
 with you already ; for I do nothing but talk of you. No, 
 you should not marry him, he is not good enough. He is 
 not good enough. He is not refined. I love a duke, but I 
 love a duke that is refined more. You shall many Lord 
 Fitzwarrene. He is my favourite; ho is worthy of you. 
 You laugh ; I love to see you laugh. You are so fresh and 
 innocent ! There is your worthy father talking to my 
 friend Mrs. Twoshoes ; a very good creature, my love, a 
 very worthy soul, but no ton ; I hate French words, but 
 what other can I use ; and she will wear gold chains which 
 1 detest. You never wear gold chains I am sure. Tho 
 Duke of would not have me, so I came to you,' con- 
 tinued her ladyship, returning the salutation of Mr. Temple. 
 'Don't ask me if I am tired ; I am never tired. Tlicre is
 
 222 HENRIETTA TEJIPLE: 
 
 notliing I hate so much as "being asked whether I am "well ; 
 I am always well. There, I have brought you a channing 
 friend ; give her your arm ; and you shall give me yours,' 
 said the old lady, smiling, to Henrietta ; ' We make a good 
 contrast ; I like a good contrast, but not an ugly one. I 
 cannot bear anything that is ugly ; unless it is a very ugly 
 man indeed, who is a genius and very fashionable. I liked 
 Wilkes, and I Hked Curran ; but tliey were famous, the 
 best company in the world. When I was as young as you. 
 Lady Lavington. and I always hunted in couples, because 
 she was tall, and I was called the Queen of the Fairies. 
 Pretty women, my sweet child, should never be alone. 
 Not that I was very pretty, but I was always with pretty 
 women, and at last the men began to think that I was 
 pretty too,' 
 
 ' A superbly pretty place,' simpered the magnificent Mrs. 
 Montgomery Floyd 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 too with Lady Bel- 
 lair ! 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 hour of dinner was at hand, and Mrs. Montgomery 
 Floyd indicated some anxiety not to be hurried in her 
 toilet. Indeed, when she reappeared, it might have been 
 matter of marvel how she could have effected such a com- 
 plete transformation in so short a period. Except a train, 
 ehe was splendid enough for a birthday at St. James', and 
 wore so many brilliants that she glittered like a chandelier. 
 However, as LadyBellair loved a contrast, this was perhaps 
 not unfortunate ; for certainly her ladyship, in her simple 
 costume which had only been altered by the substitution of 
 a cap that should have been immortalised by Mieris or 
 Gerard Douw, afforded one not a little startling to her 
 sumptuous fellow-ti'aveller.
 
 A LOVE STORY. 223 
 
 'Your dinner is very good,' said Lady Bellair to Mr. 
 Temple. * I eat very little and very plainly, but I hate a 
 bad dinner ; it dissatisfies everybody else, and tliey are all 
 dull. The best dinners now are a new man's ; I forget his 
 name ; the man who is so very rich. You never heard of 
 him, and she (pointing with her fork to Mi-s. Montgomery) 
 knows nobody. What is his name ? Gregory, what is the 
 name of the gentleman I dine with so often ? the gentleman 
 I send to when I have no other engagement, and he always 
 gives me a dinner, but "who never dines with me. He is 
 only rich, and I hate people who are only rich ; but I must 
 ask him next year. I ask him to my evening parties, 
 mind ; I don't care about them ; but I wUl not have stupid 
 people, who are only lich, at my dinners. Gregory, what 
 is his name ? ' 
 
 ' Mr. IVIillion de Stock ville, 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 had deer. Y^'ou should send a 
 haunch in my name to JMr. ^Million de Stockville, and that 
 ■would be as good as a dinner to him. If your neighbour, 
 the duke, had received me, I should have sent it from 
 thence. I will teU you what I will do ; I will write a note 
 from this place to the duke, and get him to do it for me. 
 He will do anything for me. Ho loves me, the duke, and 
 I love him ; but his wife hates me.' 
 
 * And you have had a gay season in town this year, 
 Lady Bellair ? ' enquh'ed Miss Temple. 
 
 ' My dear, I always have a gay season.' 
 
 ' What happiness ! ' softly exclaimed !Mrs. Montgomery 
 Floyd. * I think nothing is more dehghtful than gaiety.' 
 
 ' And how is our friend Mr. Bonmot this year ? ' said 
 Mr. Temple. 
 
 * My dear, Bonmot is growing very old. He tells the 
 Bfttio stoi'ies over again, and therefore I never see him. I
 
 224 nENEIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 cannot bear wits that liavo run to seed : I cannot ask 
 Bonmot to my dinners, and I told liim the reason why ; 
 hut I said I was at home every morning from two tDl six, 
 and that he might come then, for he does not go out 
 to evening parties, and he is huffy, and so we have 
 quarrelled.' 
 
 ' Poor Mr. Bonmot,' said Miss Temple. 
 
 ' My dear, there is the most wonderful man in the world, 
 I forget his name, but everybody is mad to have him. 
 He is quite the fashion. I have him to my parties instead 
 of Bonmot, and it is much better. Everybody has Bon- 
 mot ; but my man is new, and I love something new. 
 Lady Frederick Berrington brought him to me. Do you 
 know Lady Frederick Berrington ? Oh ! I forgot, poor 
 dear, yon are buried ahve in the country ; I must intro- 
 duce you to Lady Frederick. She is charixdng, 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. I won't introduce you to 
 Lady Frederick,' continued Lady Bellair to Mrs. Mont- 
 gomery Floyd ; ' she is not in your way, I shall introduce 
 you to Lady Splash and Dashaway ; she is to be your 
 friend.' 
 
 Mrs. Montgomery Floyd seemed consoled by the splendid 
 future of being the friend of Lady Splash and Dashaway, 
 and easily to endure, with such a compensation, the some- 
 what annoying remarks of her noble patroness. 
 
 ' But as for Bonmot,' continued Lady Bellair, ' I wiU 
 have nothing to do with him. General Faneville, he is a 
 dear good man, and gives me dinners. I love dinners : I 
 never dine at home, except when I have company. General 
 Faneville not only gives me dinners, but lets me alwaj-s 
 choose my own party. And he said to me the other day, 
 "Now, Lady Bellair, fix your day, and name your party." 
 I said directly, " General, anybody but Bonmot." You 
 know Bonmot is his particular friend.'
 
 A LOVE STORY. 225 
 
 * But surely thai is cruel,' said Henrietta Temple, 
 smiling. 
 
 ' I am cruel,' said Lady Bellair, ' wlicn I liate a person I 
 am very cruel, and I liato Bonmot. Mr. Fox wrote me a 
 copy of verses once, and called me " cruel fair ; " but I was 
 not cruel to him, for I dearly loved Charles Fox ; and I 
 love you, and I love your father. The first party your 
 father ever was at, was at my house. There, what do you 
 think of that ? And I love my grandchildren ; I call them 
 all ray grandchildren. I think great-grandchildren sounds 
 silly ; I am so happy that they have married so well. My 
 dear Selina is a countess ; you shall he 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 be rich some day; and Gren- 
 ville is a good name : it sounds well. That is a great 
 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. Montgomery Floyd was enthusiastically fond of music, 
 and very proud of her intimate friendship with Pasta. 
 
 ' Oh ! you know her, do you ? ' said Lady Bellair. 
 ' Very well ; you shall bring her to my house. She sh.all 
 sing at all my parties ; I love music at my evenings, but I 
 never pay for it, never. If she will not come in the evening, 
 I will try to ask her to dinner, once at least. I do not like 
 singers and tumblers at dinner, but she is very fashion- 
 able, and young men like her ; and what I want at my 
 dinners are young men, young men of very great fashion. 
 I rather want young men at my dinners. I have some ; 
 
 Q
 
 226 HENRIETTA TESIPLE : 
 
 Lord Languid always comes to me, and he is very fine, you 
 know, very fine indeed. He goes to very few places, but 
 lie 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 to obtain the notice of a gentle- 
 man whom Lady Bellair had assured her was of the first 
 ton. Her ladyship herself beckoned Henrietta Temple to 
 join her on the sofa, and, taking her hand very afiection- 
 ately, explained to her all the tactics by which she intended 
 to bring about a match between her and Lord Fitzwarrene, 
 very much regretting, at the same time, that her dear 
 grandson. Lord Bellair, was married ; for he, after all, was 
 the only person worthy of her. ' He would taste you, my 
 dear ; he would understand you. Dear Bellair ! he is so 
 very handsome, and so very witty. Why did he go and 
 marry ? And yet I love his wife. Do you know her ? 
 Oh ! she is charming : so very pretty, so very witty, and 
 such good blood in her veins. I made the match. Why 
 were you not in England ? K you had only come to En- 
 gland a year sooner, you should have married Bellair. How 
 provoking ! ' 
 
 ' But, really, dear Lady Bellair, your grandson is very 
 happy. What more can you wish ? ' 
 
 ' Well, my dear, it shall be Lord Fitzwarrene, then. I 
 shall give a series of parties this year, and ask Lord Fitz- 
 warrene to every one. Not that it is very easy to get 
 him, my child. There is nobody so difficult as Lord Fitz- 
 warrene. That is quite right. Men should always bo 
 difficult. I cannot bear men who come and dine with you 
 when you want them.' 
 
 ' What a charming place is Ducie ! ' sighed Mrs. Mont- 
 gomery Floyd to Mr. Temple. ' The country is so dehghtful.' 
 
 ' But you would not like to live in the country only,' 
 Baid Mr. Temple.
 
 A LOVE STORY. 227 
 
 * All ! you do not know me ! ' sigliecl the sentimentcal 
 "Mrs. Montgomery Floyd. * If you only knew how I love 
 flowers ! I wish you could but seo my conservatory in 
 Park-lane ! ' 
 
 * And how did you find Bath this year, Lady Bellair ? ' 
 enquired Miss Temple. 
 
 ' Oh ! my dear, I met a charming man there. I forget 
 his name, but the most distinguished person I ever met ; 
 so very handsome, so very Avitty, and with blood in his 
 veins, only I forget his name, and it is a very good 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 
 gi-eat 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. My 
 favourite, my Bath favourite. What is his name ? He is 
 to dine with me in town. What is the name of my Bath 
 favourite who is certainly to dine with me in town ? ' 
 
 ' Do you mean Captain Armine ? ' enquired ]\Irs. Mont- 
 gomery Floyd. Miss Temple turned pale. ' That is the 
 man,' said Lady Bellair. ' Oh ! such a charming man. 
 You shall marry him, my dear ; you shall not marry Lord 
 Fitzwarrene.' 
 
 '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 her head. She felt the fever in her cheek. ' Is our 
 engagement, then, so notorious ? ' 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 not rich, but he has got a very 
 fine place though, and I vnW go and stop there some day. 
 And, besides, he is over hcad-and-ears in debt, so they say. 
 However, he is going to many a very rich woman, and so 
 
 Q 2
 
 228 HENEIETTA TEMPLE : 
 
 all will be riglit. I like old families in decay, to get round 
 
 again.' 
 
 Henrietta dreaded that her father should observe her 
 confusion; she had recourse to every art to prevent it. 
 'Dear Ferdinand,' she thought to herself, ' 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 j^i'oper person,' said Lady Bellair. ' I for- 
 get her name. Miss Twoslioes, 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 the Grandisons. 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 Gran- 
 dison ? ' enquired Mr. Temple. 
 
 ' Oh ! there is no doubt in the world,' said Mrs. Mont- 
 gomery Floyd. ' Everything is quite settled. My most 
 particular friend. Lady Julia Hai'teville, is to be one of 
 the bridesmaids. I liave seen all the presents. Both the 
 families are at Bath at this very moment. I saw the happy 
 pair together every day. They are related, you know. It 
 is an excellent match, for the Armincs have great estates, 
 mortgaged to the very last acre. I have heard that Sir 
 Ratclifi'o Armine has not a thousand a year he can call his 
 own. We are all so pleased,' added Mrs. Montgomery 
 Floyd, as if she were cpiite one of the family. * Is it not 
 elelightful?'
 
 A LOVE STORY. 229 
 
 * Tliey are to be married next montli,' said Lady BcUair. 
 ' I did not quite make tlie match, but I did something. I 
 love the Grandisons, because Lord Grandison was my son's 
 friend fifty years ago.' 
 
 * I never knew a person so pleased as Lady Ai'mine is,' 
 continued Mrs. Montgomery Floyd. ' The truth is, Cap- 
 tain Ai-mine has been wild, very wild indeed ; a little 
 of a roue ; but then such a fine young man, so very hand- 
 some, so truly distinguished, as Lady Bellair says, what 
 could you expect ? But he has sown his wild oats now. 
 They have been engaged these six months ; ever since ho 
 came from abroad. He has been at Bath all the time, 
 except for a fortnight or so, Avhen he went to his Place to 
 make the necessary preparations. We all so missed him. 
 Captain Ai-mine was quite the life of Bath. I am almost 
 ashamed to repeat what was said of him,' added ]\Irs, 
 ^Montgomery Floyd, blushing tlu'ough her rouge ; ' but 
 they said 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 of conquests,' continued Mrs. JNIontgomery Floyd ; 
 ' how impertinent, is it not ? But Captain Armine says 
 such things ! He is quite a privileged person at Bath ! ' 
 
 Miss Temple rose and left the room. When the hour of 
 general retirement had arrived, she had not returned. Her 
 maid brought a message that her mistress was not very 
 well, and offered her excuses for not again descending.
 
 230 HENEIETTA TElilPLE : 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 IN WHICH MB. TEMPLE PATS A VISIT TO HIS DAUGHTER'S 
 
 CHAMBER. 
 
 Henrietta, when she quitted the room, never stopped imtil 
 she had gained her own chamber. She had no light, but 
 a straggling moonbeam revealed sufficient. She threw 
 herself upon her bed, choked with emotion. She was in- 
 capable of thought ; a chaos of wild images flitted over her 
 brain. Thus had she remained, perchance an hour, vpith 
 scarcely self-consciousness, when her servant entered with 
 a light to arrange her chamber, and nearly shrieked when, 
 on turning round, she beheld her mistress. 
 
 This intrusion impressed upon Miss Temple the absolute 
 necessity of some exertion, if only to preserve herself at 
 this moment from renewed interruptions. She remembered 
 where she was, she called back with an effort some recol- 
 lection of her guests, and she sent that message to her 
 father which we have already noticed. Then she was 
 again alone. How she wished at that moment that she 
 might ever be alone ; that the form and shape of human 
 being should no more cross her vision ; that she might 
 remain in this dark chamber until she died ! There was 
 no more joy for her ; her sun was set, the lustre of her life 
 was gone; the lute had lost its 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 her heart-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 end of beauty, for 
 beauty had been her bane. All that hitherto made life 
 delightful, all the fine emotions, all the bright hopes, and 
 the rare accomplishments of our nature, were dark delusions
 
 A LOVE STOIIY. 231 
 
 now, cruel mockeries, and false and cheating phantoms ! 
 What humiliation ! what despair ! And he had seemed 
 60 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, had adored her ? And she had hung upon his 
 accents, and Uved in the light of his enraptured eyes, and 
 pledged to him her heart, dedicated to him her life, devoted 
 to him all her innocent and passionate aflPections, worshipped 
 him as an idol ! Why, what was life that it could bring 
 upon its swift wing such dark, such agonising vicissitudes 
 as these ! It was not life ; it was frenzy ! 
 
 Some one knocked gently at her door. She did not 
 answer, she feigned sleep. Yet the door opened, she felt, 
 though her eyes were shut and her back turned, that there 
 was a Hght in the room. A tender step approached her 
 bed. It could be but one person, that person whom she 
 had herself deceived. She knew it was her father. 
 
 Mr. Temple seated himself by her bedside ; he bent his 
 head and pressed his hps upon her forehead. In her deso- 
 lation some one still loved her. She could not resist the 
 impulse ; she held forth her hand Avithout opening 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 alono 
 have cause to reproach me. Spare me ; spare your child.' 
 
 ' I came to console, not to reproach,' said 'Mr. Temple. 
 ' But if it please you, I will not speak ; let me, however, 
 remain.' 
 
 ' Father, we must speak. It reheves me even to confess 
 my indiscretion, my fatal foUy. Father, I feel, yet why, I 
 know not, I feel that you know 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
 
 232 HENRIETTA TEJVIPLE : 
 
 use to a fatliei' ; to a fatlicr, I would add, like me. No one 
 can love yon, Henrietta, as youi^ father loves you ; yet speak 
 to me not merely as a father ; si:)eak to me as your earliest, 
 your best, your fondest, your most faitliful 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 
 Avere not for you. I will speak ; I will answer any ques- 
 tions. 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 wp jour 
 courage to meet my question. Are you engaged to this 
 person ? ' 
 
 ' I was.' 
 
 ' Positively engaged ? ' 
 
 ' Long ere this I had supposed wo should have claimed 
 your sanction. He left me only to speak to his father.' 
 
 ' This may bo the idle tattle of women ? ' 
 
 ' No, no,' said Henrietta, in a voice of deep melancholy ; 
 ' my fears had foreseen 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 tills person was your constant companion in my 
 absence ; that you have corresponded with him. Has ho 
 written very recently ? ' 
 
 'Within two days.' 
 
 ' And his letters ? ' 
 
 ' Have been of late most vague. Oh ! my father, indeed, 
 indeed I have not conducted myself so ill as you j)erha2)3 
 imagine. I shrunk from this secret engagement ; I op-
 
 A LOVE STORY. 233 
 
 posed by every argument in my power, this clandestine 
 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 his views and conduct, and which, 
 when it crossed my mind, I dismissed with contempt, all 
 is now too clear.' 
 
 'Henrietta, he is unworthy of you.' 
 
 ' Hush ! hush ! dear father. An hour ago I loved him. 
 Spare him, if you only wish to spare me.' 
 
 ' Cling to my heart, my child. A father's love has com- 
 fort. Is it not so ? ' 
 
 ' I feel it is ; I feel calmer since you came and we have 
 spoken. I never can be happy again ; my spirit is quite 
 broken. And yet, I feel I have a heart now, which I 
 thought I had not before you came. Dear, dear father,' 
 she said, rising and putting her arms round Mr. Temple's 
 neck and leaning on his bosom, and speaking in a sweet 
 yet very mournful voice, ' henceforth your happiness shall 
 be mine. I will not disgrace you ; you shall not see me 
 grieve ; I will atone, I will endeavour to atone, for my great 
 sins, for sins they were towards you.' 
 
 'My child, the time will come, when we shall remember 
 this bitterness only as a lesson. But I know the hunnvu 
 heart too well to endeavour to stem your sorrow now ; I 
 only came to soothe it. My blcssirg 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 need appear no more.' 
 
 ' Oil ! that no human being might again see me ! ' 
 
 ' Hush! that is not a wise wish, lie calm ; wc shall yvt 
 be happy. To-morrow we will talk ; and so good night, my 
 child ; good night, my own Henrietta.'
 
 234 HENRIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 Mr. Temple left the room. He bade the maid go to her 
 mistress, in as calm a tone as if indeed her complaint had 
 been only a headache ; and then he entered his own apart- 
 ment. Over the mantel-piece was a portrait of his daughter, 
 gay and smiling as the spring ; the room was adorned with 
 her drawings. He drew the chair near the fire, and gazed 
 for some time abstracted upon the flame, and then hid his 
 weeping countenance in his hands. He sobbed convul- 
 sively. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 IN WHICH GLASTONBURY IS VERT MUCH ASTONISHED. 
 
 It was a gusty autumnal night ; Glastonbury sat alone in 
 his tower ; every now and then the wind, amid a chorus 
 of groaning branches and hissing raia, dashed against his 
 window ; then its power seemed gradually lulled, and perfect 
 stillness succeeded, until a low moan was heard agaia in the 
 distance, which gradually swelled into storm. The coun- 
 tenance of the good old man was not so serene as usual. 
 Occasionally his thoughts seemed to wander from the foHo 
 opened before him, and he fell into fits of reverie which 
 impressed upon his visage an expression rather of anxiety 
 than study. 
 
 The old man looked up to the portrait of the unhappy 
 Lady Armine, and heaved a deep sigh. 
 
 Were his thoughts of her or of her child ? 
 
 He closed his book, he replaced it upon its shelf, and, 
 taking from a cabinet an ancient crucifix of carved ivory, 
 he bent down before the image of his Redeemer. 
 
 Even while he was buried in his devotions, praying 
 perchance for the soul of that sinning yet sainted lady, 
 whose memory was never absent from his thoughts, or the
 
 A LOVE STOEY. 235 
 
 prosperity of that family to whom he had dedicated his 
 faithful Hfe, the noise of ascending footsteps was heard in 
 the sudden stillness, and immediately a loud knocking at 
 the door of his outer chamber. 
 
 Surprised at this unaccustomed interruption, Glaston- 
 bury rose, and enquired the object of his yet unseen visitor ; 
 but, on hearing a well-known voice, the door was instantly 
 unbarred, and Ferdinand Armine, pale as a ghost and 
 deluged to the skin, appeared before him. Glastonbury 
 ushered his guest into his cell, replenished the fire, re trimmed 
 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 Glastonbuiy. 
 
 But his companion did not reply. At length he said, in 
 a voice of utter wretchedness, ' Glastonbury, you see before 
 you the most miserable of human beings.' 
 
 The good father started. 
 
 ' Yes ! ' continued Ferdinand ; ' this is the end of all 
 your care, all your affection, all your hopes, all your sacri- 
 fices. It is over ; our house is fated ; my life draws to an 
 end.' 
 
 ' Speak, my Ferdinand,' said Glastonbury, for his pupil 
 seemed to have relapsed into moody silence, ' speak to 
 your friend and father. Disburden your mind of tho 
 weight that presses on it. Life is never without hope, 
 and, while this remains,' pointing to the crucifix, ' never 
 without consolation.' 
 
 ' I cannot speak ; I know not what to say. Mj braixi 
 sinks under the effort. It is a wild, a complicated tale ; 
 it relates to fccUngs with which you cannot sympathise, 
 thoughts that you cannot share, Glastonbury ! there 
 is no hope ; there is no solace.' 
 
 ' Calm yourself, my Ferdinand ; not merely as your 
 friend, but as a priest of our holy chui-ch, I call upon you
 
 236 HENKIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 to speak to me. Even to me, the humblest of its minlsterg, 
 is given a power tliat can sustain the falling and make 
 Avhole the broken in spirit. Speak, and speak fearlessly ; 
 nor shrink from exposing the very inmost recesses of your 
 breast ; for I can sympathise with your passions, bo they 
 even as wild as I believe them.' 
 
 Ferdinand turned his eyes from the fire on which ho 
 was gazing, and shot a scrutinising glance at his kind 
 confessor, but the countenance of Glastonbury was placid, 
 though serious. 
 
 ' You remember,' Ferdinand at length murmured, * that 
 we met, we met unexpectedly, 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 Glas- 
 tonbury, ' but who, it turned out, bore another name. 
 
 ' You know it ? ' 
 
 ' I know all ; for her father has been here.' 
 
 ' Whei'o are they ? ' exclaimed Ferdinand eagerly, start- 
 ing from his scat and seizing the hand of Glastonbury. 
 ' Only tell me where they are, only tell me where Henrietta 
 is, and you will save me, Glastonbury. You will restore 
 me to hfe, to hope, to heaven,' 
 
 ' I cannot,' said Glastonbury, shaking his head, ' It is 
 more than ten days ago that I saw this lady's father for a 
 few brief and painful moments ; for what purpose your 
 conscience may inform you. From the unexpected inter- 
 view between ourselves in the gallery, my consequent 
 misconception, and the conversation which it occasioned, 
 I was not so unprepared for this Laterview with him as I 
 otherwise might have been. Believe me, Ferdinand, I was 
 as tender to your conduct as was consistent with my dutj" 
 to my God and to my neighbour.' 
 
 * You betrayed me, then,' said Ferdinand.
 
 A LOVE STORY. 237 
 
 ' Ferdiuand ! ' said Glastonbury reproacLfully, ' I trust 
 that I am free from deceit of any kind. In the present 
 instance I had not even to communicate anything. Your 
 own conduct had excited suspicion ; some visitors from Bath 
 to this gentleman and his family had revealed everything ; 
 and, in deference to the claims of an innocent lady, I could 
 not refuse to confirm what Avas no secret to the world in 
 general, what was already known to them in particular, 
 what was not even doubted, and alas ! not dubitable.' 
 
 ' Oh ! my father, pardon me, pardon me ; pardon tho 
 only disrespectful expression that ever escaped the lips of 
 your Ferdinand toAvards 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 have 
 seen her. Was there ever on earth a being hke her ? So 
 beautiful, so highly-gifted, with a heart as fresh, as fra- 
 grant as the dawn of Eden ; and that heart mine ; and all 
 lost, all gone and lost ! Oh ! why am I alive ? ' He threw 
 liimself back in his chair, and covered his face and wept. 
 
 ' 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 me I never knew what virtue was till I knew 
 her. So frank, so generous ! I think I see her now, widi 
 that dear .smile of hers that never more may welcome 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, so mysterious, that it passes 
 my comprehension. There are others whose claims, v^hoao 
 feelings should be considered. You arc not, of coureo, 
 married ? * 
 
 Ferdinand shook his head, 
 
 'Does Miss Grandison know all ?' 
 
 ' Nothing.' 
 
 ' Your family ? '
 
 238 HENRIETTA TEiEPLE: 
 
 Ferdinand sliook his head again. 
 
 'What do you yourself wish? What object are you 
 aiming at ? What game have you yourself been playing ? 
 I speak not in harshness ; but I really do not understand 
 what you have been about. If you have your grandfather's 
 passions, you have his brain too. I did not ever suppose 
 that you were " infirm of purpose." ' 
 
 ' I have only one wish, only one object. Since I first 
 saw Henrietta, my heart and resolution have never for an 
 instant faltered ; and if I do not now succeed in them I 
 am determined not to live.' 
 
 * The God of all goodness have mercy on this dis- 
 tracted house ! ' exclaimed Glastonbury, as he piously 
 lifted his hands to heaven. 
 
 « You went to Bath to communicate this great change to 
 your father,' he continued. ' Why did you not ? Painful 
 as the explanation must be to Miss Grandison, the injustice 
 of your conduct towards her is aggravated by delay.' 
 
 ' There were reasons,' said Ferdinand, ' reasons which I 
 never intended anyone to know ; but now I have no secrets. 
 Dear Glastonbury, even amid all this overwhelming misery, 
 my cheek burns when I confess to you that I have, and 
 have had for years, private cares of my own of no slight 
 nature.' 
 
 ' Debts ? ' enquired Glastonbury. 
 
 ' Debts,' rephed Ferdinand, ' and considerable ones.' 
 
 ' Poor child ! ' exclaimed Glastonbury. ' And this drove 
 you to the marriage ? ' 
 
 ' To that every worldly consideration impelled me : my 
 heart was free then ; in fact, I did not know I had a heart ; 
 and I thought the marriage would make all happy. But 
 now, so far as I am myself concerned, oh ! I would sooner 
 be the commonest peasant in this county, with Henrietta 
 Temple for the partner of my life, than live at Armine with 
 all the splendour of my ancestors.'
 
 A LOVE STORY. 239 
 
 * Honour be to them ; tliey wero great men,' exclaimed 
 Glastonbury. 
 
 ' I am their victim,' replied Ferdinand. ' I owe my an- 
 cestors nothing, nay, worse than nothing ; I owe them ' 
 
 ' Hush ! hush ! ' said Glastonbury. ' If only for my 
 sake, Ferdinand, be silent.' 
 
 ' For yours, then, not for theirs.' 
 
 ' But why did you remain at Bath ? ' enquired Glaston- 
 bury. 
 
 ' I had not been there more than a day or two, when my 
 principal creditor came down from town and menaced me. 
 He had a power of attorney from an usui-er at Malta, 
 and talked of applying to the Horse Guards. The report 
 that I was going to marry an heiress had kept these 
 fellows quiet, but the delay and my absence from Bath 
 had excited his suspicion. Instead, therefore, of coming 
 to an immediate explanation with Katherine, brought 
 about as I had intended by my coldness and neglect, I was 
 obhged to be constantly seen with her in public, to prevent 
 myself from being arrested. Yet I wrote to Ducie daily. 
 I had confidence in my energy and skill. I thought that 
 Henrietta might be for a moment annoyed or suspicious ; 
 I thought, however, she would be supported by the fervour 
 of my love. I anticipated no other evil. Who could have 
 supposed that these infernal visitors would have come at 
 such a moment to this retired spot ? ' 
 
 * And now, is all known now ? ' enquired Glastonbury. 
 
 ' Nothing,' replied Ferdinand ; * the difficulty of my 
 position was so great that I was about to cut the knot, by 
 quitting Bath and leaving a letter addressed to Katherine, 
 confessing all. But the sudden silence of Henrietta drove 
 me mad. Day after day elapsed ; two, three, four, five, 
 six days, and I heard nothing. The moon was bright ; 
 the mail was just going off. I yielded to an irresistible 
 impulse. I bid adieu to no one. I jumped in. I was in
 
 240 HENRIETTA TEMPLE; 
 
 London only ten minutes. I daslied to Dacie. It was 
 deserted. An old woman told me the family liad gone, had 
 utterly departed ; she knew not where, but she thought for 
 foreign parts. I sank down ; I tottered to a seat in that 
 hall where I had been so happy. Then it flashed across 
 my mind that I might discover their course and pursue 
 them. I hurried to the nearest posting town. I found 
 out their route. I lost it for ever at the next stage. Tlie 
 clue was gone ; it was market-day, and in a great city, 
 where horses are changed every minute, there is so much 
 confusion that my enquiries were utterly baffled. And 
 here 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 no food ; but I have drank, 
 I have drank well. Here I am, and I have half a mind to 
 set fire to that accursed pile called Armine Castle for my 
 funeral 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. My bed is yours.' 
 
 ' JSTo ! 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 my mother say ? Would 
 there were only mother's love, and then I should not be 
 here or thus.' 
 
 ' I pray jou, my child, rest here.' 
 
 ' No ! let us to the Place, for an hour ; I shall not sleep 
 more than an hour. I am off again directly the storm is 
 over. If it had not been for this cursed rain I should havo 
 caught them. And yet, perhaps, they are in countries 
 where there is no rain. Ah ! who would believe what 
 happens in 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 that is un- 
 changed.' 
 
 I
 
 A LOVE STOEY. 241 
 
 Glastonbury, with an air of great tenderness and anxiety, 
 led his former pupil down the stairs. Tlie weather was 
 more calm. There were some dark blue rifts in the black 
 sky which revealed a star or two. Ferdinand said nothing- 
 in their progress to the Place except once, when he looked 
 up to the 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 waa 
 not very late, and, fortunately, they had not retired for tlio 
 night. Lights were brought into Lady Ai'mine's drawing- 
 room. Glastonbury led Ferdinand to a sofa, on which ho 
 rather permitted others to place him than seated himself. 
 He took no notice of anything that was going on, but 
 remained with his eyes open, gazing feebly with a rather 
 vacant air. 
 
 Then the good Glastonbury looked to the arraugemeiit 
 of his sleeping- room, drawing the curtains, seeing that the 
 bed was Avell aired and Avarmed, and himself addintr blocks 
 to the wood fire wliich soon kindled. Nor did he forcret to 
 prepare, with the aid of the good woman, some hot iJotion 
 that might soothe and comfort his stricken and exhausted 
 charge, Avho in this moment of distress and desolation had 
 come as it were and thrown himself on the bosom of his 
 cai'liest friend. When all was arranged Glastonbury de- 
 scended to Ferdinand, whom he found in exactly the samo 
 position as that in which he left him. He offered no 
 resistance 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, relieved him from 
 his wet garments, and placed him in his earliest bed. When 
 Glastonbury bade him good night, Ferdinand faintly pressed 
 his hand, but did not speak ; and it was remarkable, that 
 while he passively submitted to their undressing him, and 
 
 R
 
 242 HENRIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 Beemed incapable of affording tlieni the slightest aid, yet 
 he thrust forth his hand to gnard a lock of dark hair that 
 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 the good Glastonbury generally ensured, were 
 sadly broken this night, as he lay awake meditating over 
 the distracted fortunes of the house of Armine. They 
 seemed now to be most turbulent and clouded ; and that 
 brilHant and happy future, in which of late he had so fondly 
 indulged, offered nothing but gloom and disquietude. Nor 
 was it the menaced disruption of those ties whose consum- 
 mation was to restore the greatness and sj)lendour of the 
 family, and all the pain and disappointment and mortifica- 
 tion and misery that must be its consequence, that alone 
 made him sorrowful. Glastonbury had a reverence for 
 that passion which sheds such a lustre over existence, and 
 is the pure and proHfic source of much of our better con- 
 duct ; the time had been when he, too, had loved, and with 
 a religious sanctity worthy of his character and office ; he 
 had been for a long life the silent and hopeless votary of a 
 passion almost ideal, yet happy, though * he never told his 
 love ; ' and, indeed, although the unconscious mistress of 
 his affections had been long removed from that world where 
 his fidelity was almost her only comfort, that passion had 
 not waned, and the feelings that had been inspired by her 
 presence were now cherished by her memory. His tender 
 and romantic natui-e, which his venerable grey hairs had
 
 A LOVE STORY. 243 
 
 neither dulled nor hardened, made him deeply sympathise 
 with his tmhappy pupil ; the radiant image of Henrietta 
 Temple, too, vividly impressed on his memory as it was, 
 rose up before him ; he recollected his joy that the chosen 
 partner of his Ferdinand's bosom should be worthy of her 
 destiny; he thought of this fair creature, perchance in 
 soKtude and sickness, a prey to the most mortifying and 
 miserable emotions, with all her fine and generous feelings 
 thrown back upon herself; deeming herself deceived, de- 
 serted, outraged, where she had looked for nothing but 
 fidelity, and fondness, and support ; losing all confidence 
 in the world and the world's ways ; but recently so lively 
 with expectation and airy with enjoyment, and now aimless, 
 hopeless, wretched, perhaps broken-hearted. 
 
 The tears trickled down the pale cheek of Glastonbuiy 
 as he revolved in his mind these mournful thoughts ; and 
 almost unconsciously he wrung his hands as he felt his 
 utter want of power to remedy these sad and piteous cir- 
 cumstances. Yet he was not absolutely hopeless. There 
 was ever open to the pious Glastonbury one perennial 
 source of trust and consolation. This was a fountain that 
 was ever fresh and sweet, and he took refuge from the 
 world's harsh courses and exhausting cares in its salutary 
 flow and its refreshing shade, when, kneeling before his 
 crucifix, he commended the unhappy Ferdinand and his 
 family to the superintending care of a merciful Omnipo- 
 tence. 
 
 The morning brought fresh anxieties. Glastonbuiy was 
 at the Place at an early hour, and found Ferdinand in a 
 high state of fever. He had not slept an instant, was very 
 excited, talked of departing immediately, and rambled in 
 his discourse. Glastonbury blamed himself for having left 
 laim a moment, and resolved to do so no more. He en- 
 deavoured to soothe him ; assured him that if he would bo 
 calm all would yet go well ; that they would consult to- 
 
 b2
 
 244 HENRIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 getlicr what was best to be done ; and that lac would make 
 enquiries after the Temple family. In the meantime ho 
 despatched the servant for the most eminent physician of 
 the county ; but as hours must necessarily elapse before his 
 arrival, the difficulty of keeping Ferdinand still was very 
 great. Talk he would, and of nothing but Henrietta. It 
 was really agonising to hsten to his frantic appeals to 
 Glastonbury to exert himself to discover her abode ; yet 
 Glastonbury never left his side ; and with promises, ex- 
 pressions of confidence, and the sway of an affected calmness, 
 for in truth dear Glastonbury was scarcely less agitated 
 than his patient, Ferdinand was prevented from rising, and 
 the physician at length arrived. 
 
 After examining Ferdinand, with whom he remained a 
 very short space, this gentleman invited Glastonbury to 
 descend below, and they left the patient in charge of a 
 servant. 
 
 ' This is a bad case,' said the physician. 
 
 ' Almighty God preserve him ! ' exclaimed the agitated 
 Glastonbtiry. ' Tell me 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 then blister ; but I can do little. We must 
 trust to nature. I am afraid of the bz-ain. I cannot account 
 for his state by his getting wet or his rapid travelling. 
 Has he anything on his mind ? ' 
 
 ' Much,' said Glastonbury. 
 
 The physician shook his head. 
 
 ' It is a precious life ! ' said Glastonbuiy, seizing his arm. 
 'My dear doctor, you must not leave us.' 
 
 They returned to the bedchamber. 
 
 ' Captain Armine,' said the physician, taking his hand
 
 A LOVE STOEY. 245 
 
 and seating In'mself on tlio bed, ' yon have a bad cold and 
 some fever ; I think yon should 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 miist.' 
 
 * If you set off early to-morrow you will got over aa 
 much ground in foui^-and-twcnty hours as if you went this 
 evening,' said the physician, fixing the bandage on tho 
 arm as he spoke, and nodding to Mr. Glastonbury to pre- 
 pare the basin. 
 
 ' To-morrow morning ? ' said Ferdinand. 
 
 'Yes, to-mori-ow,' said the physician, opening his lancet. 
 
 * Are you sure that I shall be able to set oil' to-morrow ? ' 
 iaid Ferdinand. 
 
 ' Quite,' said the physician, opening the vein. 
 
 Tho dark blood flowed sullenly ; the i:»hysician exchanged 
 an anxious glance with Glastonbury ; at length the arm 
 was bandaged up, a composing draught, with which tho 
 physician had been prepared, given to his patient, and tho 
 doctor and Glastonbury withdrew. The former now left 
 Armine for three hours, and Glastonbury prepared himself 
 for his painful office of communicating to the parents tho 
 imminent danger of their only child. 
 
 Never had a more difficult task devolved upon an in- 
 dividual than that which now fell to the lot of tho fjood 
 Glastonbixry, in conducting the affairs of a family labour- 
 ing under such remarkable misconceptions as to the po- 
 sition and views of its various members. It immediately 
 occurred to him, that it was highly probable that Miss 
 Grandison, at such a crisis, would choose to accompany tho 
 parents of her intended husband. What incident, under 
 the present circumstances, could be more awkward and 
 moi'c painful ? Yet how to prevent its occurrence ? How
 
 246 HENEIETTA TElVrPLE : 
 
 crude to communicate tlie real state of such affairs at any 
 time by letter ! How impossible 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 all 
 their energy and promptitude, would only be occasioning 
 at Bath scenes scarcely less distracting and disastrous than 
 those occurring at Armine. It was clearly impossible to 
 enter into any details at present ; and yet Glastonbury, 
 while he penned the sorrowful lines, and softened the sad 
 communication with his sympathy, added a somewhat sly 
 postscript, wherein he impressed upon Lady Ai-mine the 
 advisability, for various reasons, that she should only be 
 accompanied by her husband. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 IN WHICH FERDINAND ARMINE IS MUCH CONCERNED. 
 
 The contingency which Glastonbury feared, surely hap- 
 pened ; Miss Grandison insisted upon immediately rushing 
 to her Ferdinand ; and as the maiden aunt was still an in- 
 valid, and was incapable of enduring the fatigues of a rapid 
 and anxious journey, she was left behind. "Within a few 
 hours of the receipt of Glastonbury's letter, Sir Ratcliffe 
 and Lady Armine, and their niece, were on their way. 
 They found letters fi'om Glastonbury in London, which 
 made them travel to Armine even through the night. 
 
 Li spite of all his remedies, the brain fever which the 
 physician foresaw had occurred; and when his family 
 arrived, the life of Ferdinand was not only in danger but 
 desperate. It was impossible that even the parents could 
 see their child, and no one was allowed to enter his 
 
 I
 
 A LOVE 'STORY. 247 
 
 cliamber but his nurse, the physician, and occasionally 
 Glastonbury ; for this name, with others less familiar to 
 the household, sounded so often on tho frenzied lips of the 
 sufferer, that it was recommended that Glastonbury should 
 often be at his bedside. Yet he must leave it, to receive 
 the wretched Sir Ratcliffe and his wife and their discon- 
 solate companion. Never was so much unhappiness con- 
 gregated together under one roof; and yet, perhaps 
 Glastonbury, though the only one who retained the least 
 command over himself, was, with his sad secret, the most 
 woe-begone of the tribe. 
 
 As for Lady Armino, she sat without the door of her 
 son's chamber the whole day and night, clasping a crucifix 
 in her hands, and absorbed in silent prayer. Sir Ratcliffe 
 remained below prostrate. The unhappy Katherine in vain 
 offered the consolation she herself so needed ; and would 
 have wandered about that Armine of which she had heard 
 so much, and where she was to have been so happy, a 
 forlorn and sohtary being, had it not been for the atten- 
 tions of the considerate Glastonbuiy, who embraced every 
 opportunity of being her companion. His patience, his 
 heavenly resignation, his pious hope, his vigilant care, his 
 spiritual consolation, occasionally even the gleams of agi'ee- 
 ablo converse with which he attempted to divert her mind, 
 consoled and maintained her. How often did she look at 
 his benignant countenance, and not wonder that the Ar- 
 mines were so attached to this engaging and devoted 
 friend ? 
 
 For three days did the unhappy family expect in terrible 
 anticipation that each moment would witness tho last 
 event in the life of their son. His distracted voice caught 
 too often tho vigilant and agonised ear of his mother ; yet 
 she gave no evidence of the pang, except by clasping her 
 crucifix with increased energy. She had promised the 
 physician that she would command herself, that no sound
 
 248 HENRIETTA TEMPLE : 
 
 sliould escape her lips, and she rigidly fulfilled the contract 
 on which she was permitted to remain. 
 
 On the eve of the fourth day Ferdinand, who had never 
 3'et closed his eyes, but who had become during the last 
 twelve hours somewhat more composed, fell into a slumber. 
 The physician lightly dropped the hand which he had 
 scarcely ever quitted, and, stealing out of the room, 
 beckoned, his finger pressed to his lips, to Lady Ai*mine 
 to follow him. Assured by the symbol that the worst had 
 not yet happened, she followed the physician to the end of 
 the gallery, and he then told her that immediate danger 
 was past. 
 
 ' And now, my dear madam,' said the physician to her, 
 * you must breathe some fresh air. Oblige me by descend- 
 ing.' 
 
 Lady Armine no longer refused ; she repaired -^vith a 
 slow step to Sir Ratcliffe ; she leant upon her husband's 
 breast as she murmured to him her hopes. They went 
 forth togetlier. Katherine and Glastonbury were in the 
 garden. The appearance of Lady Armine gave them hopes. 
 There was a faint smile on her face which needed not words 
 to explain it. Katherine sprang forward, and threw her 
 arms round her aunt's neck. 
 
 ' He may be saved ! he may be saved,' whispered the 
 mother ; for in this hushed house of impending death they 
 Lad lost almost the power as well as 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 Glas- 
 tonbury advanced and caught in his arms her insensible 
 form.
 
 A LOVE STORY. 249 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 IN WHICH FERDINAND BEGINS TO BE A LITTLE TROUBLESOME. 
 
 From tlio moment of this happy slumber Ferdinand con- 
 tinued to improve. Eacli day the bulletin was more favour- 
 able, until his progress, though slow, was declared certain, 
 and even relapse was no longer apprehended. But his 
 physician would not allow him to see any one of his family. 
 It was at night, and during his slumbers, that Lady 
 Armine stole into his room to gaze upon her beloved child ; 
 and, if he moved in the slightest degree, faithful to her 
 promise and the injunction of the physician, she instantly 
 glided behind his curtain, or a large Indian screen Avhich 
 she had placed there purposely. Often, indeed, did she 
 remain in this fond lurking-place, silent and trembling, 
 when her child was even awake, listening to every breath, 
 and envying the nurse that might gaze on him undis- 
 turbed; nor would she allow any sustenance that he was 
 ordered to be prepared by any but her own fair, fond hands; 
 and she brought it herself even to his door. For Ferdinand 
 himself, though his replies to the physician sufficiently 
 attested the healthy calmness of his mind, he indeed other- 
 wise never spoke, but lay on his bed without repining, and 
 seemingly plunged in mild and pensive abstraction. At 
 length, one morning he enquired for Glastonbury, who, with 
 the sanction of the physician, immediately attended him. 
 
 Wlion 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,' ho said, in a faint 
 voice. 
 
 ' I think only of the happiness of your recovery,' said 
 Glastonbury.
 
 250 HENKIETTA TEIVIPLE : 
 
 'Yes, I am recovered,' murmured Ferdinand; 'it was 
 not my wisli.' 
 
 ' Oh ! be grateful to God for this great mercy, my For- 
 dinand.' 
 
 ' You have heard nothing ? ' enquired Ferdinand. 
 
 Glastonbury shook his head. 
 
 ' Fear not to speak ; I can struggle no more. I am re- 
 signed. I am very much changed.' 
 
 ' You will be happy, dear Ferdinand,' said Glastonbury, 
 to whom this mood gave hopes. 
 
 ' Never,' he said, in a more energetic tone ; ' never.' 
 
 * There are so many that love you,' said Glastonbury, 
 leading his thoughts to his family. 
 
 ' Love ! ' exclaimed Ferdinand, with a sigh, and in a tone 
 almost reproachful. 
 
 ' Your dear mother,' said Glastonbury. 
 
 ' Yes ! my dear mother,' replied Ferdinand, musingly. 
 Then in a quicker tone, ' 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 you have seen,' and here 
 his voice faltered, ' you have seen her.' 
 
 ' My Ferdinand, think only of your health ; and happi- 
 ness, believe me, will yet be yours.' 
 
 'If you could only find out where she is,' continued 
 Ferdinand, * and go to to her. Yes ! my dear Glastonbury, 
 good, dear, Glastonbury, go to her,' he added in an implor- 
 ing tone ; ' she would beheve you ; everyone believes you. 
 I cannot go ; I am powerless ; and if I went, alas ! she 
 would not believe me.' 
 
 ' It is my wish to do everything you desire,' said Glas- 
 tonbury, 'I should be content to be ever labouring for your 
 happiness. But I can do nothing unless you are calm.'
 
 A LOVE STORY. 251 
 
 ' I am calm ; I will be calm ; I mil act entirely as you 
 wish ; only I beseech you see her.' 
 
 ' On that head let us at present say no more,' replied 
 Glastonbury, who feared that excitement might lead to 
 relapse ; yet anxious to soothe him, ho added, ' Trust in 
 my humble services ever, and in the bounty of a merciful 
 Providence.' 
 
 ' I have had frightful dreams,' said Ferdinand. ' I 
 thought I was in a farm-house ; everything was so clear, 
 so vivid. Night after night she seemed 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 
 forgiven me ! ' 
 
 ' 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, ho added with some earnestness, ' Do not 
 deceive me, Glastonbury ; see what deceit has brought me 
 to. Are you sure that they are quite alone.' 
 
 ' There are none here but your dearest friends ; none 
 whose presence should 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 to-moiTow 
 was brighter even than to-day.' He turned his back and 
 spoke no more. Glastonbury glided out of the room.
 
 252 HENRIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 CONTAINING THE INTIMATION OF A SOMEWHAT MYSTEraOUS 
 
 ADVENTURE. 
 
 It was absolutely necessary that Lady Armine's interview 
 with her son should be confined merely to observations 
 about his health. Any allusion to the past might not only 
 produce a relapse of his fever, but occasion explanations, at 
 all times most painful, but at the present full of difficulty 
 and danger. It was therefore with feelings of no common 
 anxiety that Glastonbury prepared the mother for this first 
 visit to her son, and impressed ujjon her the absolute 
 necessity of not making any allusion at present to Miss 
 Grandisou, and especially to her presence in the house. 
 He even made for this purpose a sort of half-confidant of 
 the physician, who, in truth, had heard enough dui'ing the 
 fever to excite his suspicions ; but this is a class of men 
 essentially discreet, and it is 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 Armine was established as nurse to 
 her son ; Sir Ratclifie, easy in mind, amused himself with 
 his sports ; and Glastonbury devoted himself to Miss 
 Grandison. The intimacy, indeed, between the tutor of 
 Ferdinand and his intended bride became daily more 
 complete, and Glastonbury was almost her inseparable 
 companion. She found him a very interesting one. Ho 
 was the most agreeable guide amid all the haunts of Armine 
 and its neighbourhood, and drove her delightfully in Lady 
 Armine's pony plmoton. Ho 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 Adi'ian 
 Glastonbury, it still w^as wondrous sweet ; his musical
 
 A LOVE STORY. 253 
 
 .occoraplislimcnts were complete ; and lie could guide tlio 
 pencil or prepare tLc herbal, and indite fair stanzas in liia 
 fine Italian hand- writing in a lady's album. All his collec- 
 tions, too, were at Miss Grandison's service. She handled 
 with rising curiosity his medals, copied his choice drawings, 
 and even began to study heraldry. His interesting con- 
 versation, his mild and benignant manners, his captivating 
 simplicity, and the elegant purity of his mind, secured her 
 confidence and won her heart. She loved him as a father, 
 and he soon exercised over her an influence almost irre- 
 sistible. 
 
 Every morning as soon as he awoke, every evening before 
 he composed himself again for the night's repose, Ferdinand 
 sent for Glastonbury, and always saw him alone. At first 
 he requested his mother to leave the room, but Lady Armine, 
 who attributed these regular visits to a spu'itual cause, 
 scarcely needed the expression of this desire. His first 
 questions to Glastonbury were ever the same. 'Had ho 
 heard anything? 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 he was answered 
 in the negative, he usually dwelt no more upon the subject. 
 One mornmg he said to Glastonbury, ' I know Katberinc 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 kno^^^l ? ' 
 
 ' At my suggestion, her name has not been mentioned. 
 I was unaware how you might receive the intelligence ; but 
 the true cause of my suggestion is still a secret.' 
 
 *I must sec her,' said Ferdinand, ' I must speak to her.' 
 
 * You can see her when you please,' replied Glastonbury ; 
 'but I woukl not speak upon the great suliject at present.'
 
 254 HENRIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 ' But she is existing all tliis time Tinder a delusion. Every 
 day makes my conduct to lier more infamous.' 
 
 ' Miss Grandison is a wise and most admirable young 
 lady,' said Glastonbury. ' I love lier from the bottom of 
 my heart; I would recommend no 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, however anxious she may be to see you, there 
 are plausible reasons for your not meeting. Be patient, my 
 Ferdinand.' 
 
 * Good Glastonbury, good, dear Glastonbury, I am too 
 quick and fretful. Pardon me, dear friend. Tou 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 playing with 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 hand instead of Christmas, he would soon bo 
 himself again ; but I dread the winter.' 
 
 ' And yet the sun shines ? ' said Miss Grandison. 
 
 Glastonbury went to the window and looked at the sky. 
 ' I think, my dear lady, we might almost venture upon, our 
 promised excursion to the Abbey to-day. Such a day as 
 this may not quickly be repeated. "We might take our 
 sketch-book.' 
 
 ' It would be delightful,' said Miss Grandison ; ' but 
 before I go, I must pick 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 Glaston- 
 bury. * Ah ! my dear Glastonbury, you know not what 
 happiness I experience in the thought that she will soon be 
 my daughter.'
 
 A LOVE STOEY. 255 
 
 Glastonbury could not' refrain from sighing. He toolc 
 up the pencil and touched her drawing. 
 
 ' Do you know, dear Glastonbury,' resumed Sir Ratcliffe, 
 ' I had little hope in our late visitation. I cannot say I 
 had prepared myself for the worst, but I anticipated it. 
 We have had so much unhappiness in our family, that I 
 could not persuade myself that the cup was not going to 
 be dashed from our lips.' 
 
 * God is merciful,' said Glastonbury. 
 
 * You are his minister, dear Glastonbury, and a worthy 
 one. I know not what 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 Glas- 
 tonbury. 
 
 ' And his mother, his poor mother, what would havo 
 become of her ? She never could have sui-vivcd his loss. 
 As for myself, I would have quitted England for ever, and 
 gone into a monastery.' 
 
 ' Let us only remember that he lives,' said Glastonbiiry. 
 
 * And that we shall soon all be happy,' said Sir RatclitTe, 
 in a more animated tone. ' The future is, indeed, full of 
 solace. But we must take care of him ; he is too rapid in 
 his movements. He has my father's blood in him, that is 
 clear. I never coiild well make out why he left Bath so 
 suddenly, and mshed down in so strange a manner to this 
 place.' 
 
 * Youth is impetuous,' said Glastonbury. 
 
 ' It was lucky you were here, Glastonbur}'.' 
 
 'I thank God that I was,' said Glastonbury, earnestly; 
 
 then checking himself, ho added, * that I have been of any 
 
 use.' 
 
 * You are always of use. Wliat should we do without 
 you ? I should long ago have sunk. Ah ! Glastonbmy, 
 God in his mercj sent you to us.'
 
 256 nENRIETTA TEMPLE : 
 
 ' See here,' said Kathcrine, entering, licr fair clieek 
 glowing with animation, * only dahlias, but they will look 
 jn-etty, and enliven his room. Oh ! that I might write him 
 a little word, and tell him I am here ! Do not you think I 
 juight, Mr. Glastonbury ? ' 
 
 ' Ho will know that you arc here to-day,' said Glaston-' 
 bury. ' To-morrow ' 
 
 * Ah ! you always postpone it,' said Miss Graudison, in a 
 tone half playful, half reproachful ; ' and yet it is scltish to 
 murmur. It is for his good that I bear this bereavement, 
 and that thought should console me. Heieho ! ' 
 
 Sir Ratcliffe stepped forward and kissed his niece. 
 Glastonbury was busied on the drawing : he tui-ned away 
 his face. 
 
 Sir Ratcliffe took up his gun. * God bless you, dear 
 Kate,' he said ; ' a pleasant drive and a choice sketch. Wo 
 shall meet at dinner.' 
 
 ' At dinner, dear uncle ; and better sport than yesterday.' 
 
 ' Ha ! ha ! ' said Sir Ratcliffe. ' But Armine is not like 
 Graudison. If I were in the old preserves, you should have 
 no cause to jeer at my sportsmanship.' 
 
 Miss Grandison's good wishes ivere prophetic : Sir Rat- 
 cliffe found excellent sport, and returned home very late, 
 and in capital spirits. It was the dinner-hour, and yet 
 Katherino and Glastonbury had not returned. He was 
 rather surprised. The shades of evening were fast descend- 
 ing, and the distant lawns of Armine were already invisible; 
 tlie low moan of the rising wind might be just distin- 
 guished; and the coming night promised to be raw and 
 cloudy, perhaps tempestuous. Sir Ratcliffe stood before 
 the crackling fire in the dining-room, otherwise in darkness, 
 but the flame threw a bright yet glancing light upon the 
 Snyders, so that the figures seemed really to move in the 
 shifting shades, the eye of the infuriate boar almost to emit 
 sparks of rage, and there wanted but the shouts of tho 
 
 I
 
 < A LOVE STOEY. 257 
 
 huntsmen and the panting of the dogs to complete tho 
 tumult of the chase. 
 
 Just as Sir Ratcliffo was anticipating some mischance to 
 liis absent friends, and was about to steal upon tip-toe to 
 Lady Armine, who was with Ferdinand, to consult her, tlie 
 practised ear of a man who lived much in the air caught 
 the distant sound of wheels, and he went out to welcome 
 them. 
 
 ' Why, you are late,' said Sir RatclifTe, as the phaetou 
 approached the house. 'All right, I hope?' 
 
 He stepped forward to assist ]\Iiss Grandison. Tho 
 darkness of the evening prevented him from observing her 
 swollen eyes and agitated countenance. She sprang out 
 of the carriage in silence, and immediately ran up into her 
 room. As for Glastonbury, he only observed it was very 
 cold, and entered the house with Sir Ratcliffe. 
 
 ' This fire is hearty,' said Glastonbury, warming himself 
 before it : ' you have had good sport, I hope ? AVe are not 
 to wait dinner for JMiss Grandison, Sir Ratcliffe, She will 
 not come down this evening ; she is not very well.' 
 
 'Not very well: ah! the cold, I fear. You have been 
 imprudent in staying so late. I must run and tell Lady 
 Armine.' 
 
 ' Oblige me, I pray, by not doing so,' said Glastonbury ; 
 * Miss Grandison most particularly requested that she should 
 not be disturbed.' 
 
 It was with some difficulty that Glastonbury could con- 
 trive that Miss Graudison's Avishes should be complied 
 with ; but at length he succeeded in getting Sir Ratcliffo 
 to sit down to dinner, and affecting a cheerfulness wliicli 
 was far from his spirit, the hour of ten at length arrived, 
 and Glastonbury, before retiring to liis toNver, paid his 
 evening visit to Ferdinand.
 
 258 
 
 HENRIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 IN WHICH THE FAMILY PERPLEXITIES BATHER INCREASE THAIT 
 
 DIMINISH. 
 
 If ever tliere were a man who deserved a serene and 
 Lappy life it was Adrian Glastonbury. He had pursued a 
 long career without injuring or offending a human being ; 
 Ms character and conduct were alike spotless ; he was void 
 of guile ; he had never told a falsehood, never been en- 
 tangled in the slightest deceit ; he was easy in his circum- 
 stances ; he had no relations to prey upon his purse or his 
 feelings ; and, though alone 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 con- 
 tented. And yet, by a strange contrariety of events, it 
 appeared that this excellent person was now placed in a 
 situation which is generally the consequence of impetuous 
 passions not very scrupulous in obtaining their ends. That 
 breast, which heretofore would have shrunk from being 
 analysed only from the refined modesty of its nature, had 
 now become the depository of terrible secrets : the day 
 could scarcely pass over without finding him in a position 
 which rendered equivocation on his part almost a necessity, 
 while all the anxieties inseparable from pecuniaiy embar- 
 rassments were forced upon his attention, and his feehngs 
 were racked from sympathy with individuals who were 
 bound to him. by no other tie, but to whose welfare he felt 
 himself engaged to sacrifice all his pursuits, and devote all 
 his time and labour. And yet he did not murmur, although 
 he had scarcely hope to animate him. In whatever light 
 he viewed coming events, they appeai'ed ominous only of 
 evil. All that he aimed at now was to soothe and support,
 
 A LOVE STOEY. 259 
 
 and it was his unshaken confidence in Providence that 
 alone forbade him to despair. 
 
 When he repaired to the Place in the morning ho found 
 everything in confusion. Miss Grandison was very un-well ; 
 and Lady Armine, frightened by the recent danger from 
 which they had escaped, very alarmed. She could no 
 longer conceal from Ferdinand that his Katherine was here, 
 and perhaps Lady Armine was somewhat surprised at the 
 calmness with which her son received the intelligence. 
 But Miss Grandison was not only very unwell but very 
 obstinate. She would not leave her room, but insisted that 
 no medical advice should be called in. Lady Armine pro- 
 tested, supplicated, adjured; Miss Grandison appealed to 
 Mr. Glastonbury ; and Glastonbury, who was somewhat of 
 a physician, was called in, and was obliged to assure Lady 
 Armine that Miss Grandison was only suffering from a cold 
 and only required repose. A warm friendship subsisted 
 between Lady Armine and her niece. She had always been 
 Katherine's favourite aunt, and during the past year there 
 had been urgent reasons why Lady Armine should have 
 cherished tliis predisposition in her favour. Lady Armino 
 was a fascinating person, and all her powers had been 
 employed to obtain an influence over the heiress. They had 
 been quite successful. Miss Grandison looked forward 
 almost with as much pleasure to being Lady Ai'mine's 
 dauofhter as her son's bride. The intended mother-in-law 
 was in turn as warm-hearied as her niece was engaging ; and 
 eventually Lady Armine loved Katherine for herself alone. 
 
 In a few days, however, Miss Gi'andison announced that 
 she was quite recovered, and Lady Armine again devoted 
 her unbroken attention to her son, who was now about to 
 rise for the first time from his bed. But although Miss 
 Grandison was no longer an invalid, it is quite certain that 
 if the attention of the other members of the family had not 
 been so entirely engrossed, that a very great change in her 
 
 s2
 
 260 HENRIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 behaviour could not liave escaped their notice. Her flowers 
 and drawings seemed to have lost their relish ; her gaiety 
 to have deserted her. She passed a great portion of the 
 morning in her room ; and although it was announced to 
 her that Ferdinand was aware of her being an inmate of 
 ■ the Place, and that in a day or two they might meet, she 
 scarcely evinced, at this prospect of resuming his society, 
 so much gratification as might have been expected ; and 
 though she daily took care that his chamber should still be 
 provided with flowers, it might have been remarked that the 
 note she had been so anxious to send him was never written. 
 But how much, under the commonest course of circum- 
 stances, happens in all domestic circles that is never ob- 
 served or never remai'ked till the observation is too late ! 
 
 At length the day arrived when Lady Armine invited 
 her niece to visit her son. Miss Grandison expressed her 
 readiness to accompany her aunt, but took an opportunity 
 of requesting Glastonbury to join them ; and all three 
 proceeded to the chamber of the invalid. 
 
 The white curtain of the room was drawn ; but though 
 the light was softened, the apartment was by no means 
 obscure. Ferdinand was sitting in an easy-chair, supported 
 by pillows. A black handkerchief was just twined round 
 his forehead, for his head had been shaved, except a few 
 curls on the side and front, which looked stark and lustre- 
 less. He was so thin and pale, and his eyes and cheeks 
 were so wan and hollow, that it Avas scarcely credible 
 that in so short a space of time a man could have become 
 such a wreck. When he saw Katherine he involuntarily 
 dropped his eyes, but extended his hand to her with some 
 effort of earnestness. She w^as almost as pale as he, but 
 she took his hand. It was so light and cold, it felt so mucli 
 like death, that the tears stole down her cheek. 
 
 ' Ton hardly know me, Katherine,' said Ferdinand, feebly. 
 * This is good of you to visit a sick man.'
 
 A LOYE STORY. 261 
 
 Miss Grandison could not reply, and Lady Arniine made 
 an observation to break the awkward pause. 
 
 ' And liow do you like Armine ? ' said Ferdiuaud, ' I 
 ■wish that I could be your guide. Eut Glastonbury is so 
 kind ! ' 
 
 A hundred times Miss Grandison tried to rejdy, to speak, 
 to raakc the commonest 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. This visit,' she added in a whisper to 
 Ferdinand, 'is a little too much for her.' 
 
 Ferdinand sighed. 
 
 ' Mother,' he at length said, ' you must ask Katheriuc to 
 come and sit here with you ; if indeed she will not feel the 
 imprisonment.' 
 
 j\liss Grandison turned in her chair, and hid her fiico 
 with her handkerchief. 
 
 'My sweet child,' said Lady Ai-mine, rising and kissing 
 lier, ' this is too much for yon. You really must restrain 
 yourself. Ferdinand will soon be himself again ; he will 
 indeed.' 
 
 Miss Grandison sobbed aloud. Glastonbury was much 
 distressed, but Ferdinand avoided catching his eye ; and 
 yet, at last, Ferdinand said with an effort and in a very 
 kind voice, ' Dear Kate, come and sit by me.' 
 
 Jliss Grandison went into hysterics ; Ferdinand sprang 
 from his chair and seized her hand ; Lady Armine tried 
 to restrain her son ; Glastonbiiry held the agitated Kathe- 
 rine. 
 
 ' For God's sake, Ferdinand, be calm,' exclaimed Lady 
 Armine. ' This is most unfortunate. Dear, dear Kathc- 
 rine, but she has such a heart ! All the women have in 
 our family, and none of the men, 'tis so odd. Mr. Glaston- 
 bury, water if you please, that glass of ivatcr ; sal volatile j
 
 262 HENRIETTA TEIVEPLE : 
 
 ■where is tlie sal volatile ? My own, own Katherine, pray, 
 pray restrain yourself ! Ferdinand is here ; remember, 
 Ferdinand is here, and he will soon be well ; soon quite 
 ■well. Believe me, he is already quite another thing. 
 There, drink that, darling, drink that. You are better 
 now ? ' 
 
 'I am so foolish,' said Miss Grandison, in a mournful 
 voice. ' I never can pardon rayself for this. Let me go.' 
 
 Glastonbury bore her out of the room ; Lady Armine 
 turned to her son. He was lying back in his cbair, his 
 hands covering his eyes. The mother stole gently to him, 
 and wiped tenderly his brow, on -which hung the light 
 drops of persj)iration, occasioned by his recent exertion. 
 
 * We have done too much, my own dear Ferdinand. Yet 
 who could have expected that dear girl would have been 
 so affected ? Glastonbury was indeed right in preventing 
 you so long from meeting. And yet it is a blessing to see 
 that she has so fond a heart. You are fortunate, ray 
 Ferdinand : 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. Think how much better you are ; think, my 
 Ferdinand, what a change there is for the better. You will 
 soon be well, dearest, and then, my love, you know you 
 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 for it, that you ai'e getting better every 
 day. But you have done too much, that is the truth. I 
 will leave you now, love, and send the nurse, for my pi'c- 
 sence excites you. Try to sleep, love.' And Lady Armine 
 rang the bell, and quitted the room.
 
 A LOVE STOEY. 263 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 IN WHICH SOME LIGHT IS THROWN UPON SOME CIRCUMSTANCES 
 WHICH WERE BEFORE RATHER MYSTERIOUS. 
 
 Ladt Armine now proposed that the family should meet 
 in Ferdinand's room after dinner ; but Glastonbury, whoso 
 opinion on most subjects generally prevailed, scarcely 
 approved of this suggestion. It was therefore but once 
 acted upon during the week that followed the scene de- 
 scribed in our last chapter, and on that evening Miss Gran- 
 dison had so severe a head-ache, that it was quite impossible 
 for her to join the cii'cle. At length, however, Ferdinand 
 made his appearance below, and established himself in the 
 library : it now, therefore, became absolutely necessary that 
 Miss Grandison should steel her nerves to the altered stato 
 of her betrothed, which had at first apparently so much 
 afiected her sensibility, and, by the united influence of 
 habit and Mr. Glastonbury, it is astonishing what progress 
 she made. She even at last could so command her feelings, 
 that she apparently greatly contributed to his amusement. 
 She joined in the family concerts, once even read to him. 
 Every morning, too, she brought liim a flower, and often 
 ofiered him her arm. And yet Ferdinand could not resist 
 observing a great dificrence in her behaviour towards him. 
 since he had last quitted her at Bath. Far from conduct- 
 ing herself, as he had nervously apprehended, as if her 
 claim to be his companion were ix'resistible, her carriage, 
 on the contrary, indicated the most retiring disposition ; 
 she annoyed him with no expressions of fondness, and 
 listened to the kind words which ho occasionally urged 
 himself to bestow upon her -with a sentiment of gravo 
 regard and placid silence, which almost filled him with 
 astonishment.
 
 264 HENRIETTA TEMPLE : 
 
 One morning, the weathci' being clear and fine, FerdiuanJ 
 insisted that his mother, who had as yet scarcely quitted 
 his side, shonld drive ont with Sir Ratcliffe ; and, as he 
 ■would take no refusal, Lady Armine agreed to comply. 
 The carriage was ordered, was at the door ; and as Lady 
 Armine bade him adieu, Ferdinand rose from his seat and 
 took the arm of Miss Grandison, who seemed on the point 
 of retiring ; for Glastonbury remained, and therefore Fer- 
 dinand was not without a companion. 
 
 ' I will see you go oflT,' said Ferdinand. 
 
 ' Adieu ! ' said Lady Armine. ' Take care of him, dear 
 Kate,' and the phaeton was soon oiit of sight. 
 
 * It is more like May than January,' said Ferdinand to 
 his cousin. ' I fancy I should like to walk a little.' 
 
 ' Shall I send for Mr. Glastonbury ? ' said Katherine. 
 
 ' IN'ot if my arm be not too heavy for you,' said Ferdinand. 
 So they walked slowly on, perhaps some fifty yards, until 
 they arrived at a garden-seat, very near the rose-tree whose 
 flowers Henrietta Temple so much admired. It had no 
 flowers now, but seemed as desolate as their unhappy loves. 
 
 ' A moment's rest,' said Ferdinand, and sighed. ' Dear 
 Kate, I wish to speak to you.' 
 
 Miss Grandison turned pale. 
 
 ' I have something on my mind, Katherine, of which I 
 would endeavour to relieve myself.' 
 
 Miss Grandison did not rej)ly, but she trembled. ' Ifc 
 concerns you, Katherine.' 
 
 Still she was silent, and expressed no astonishment at 
 tliis strange address. 
 
 ' If I were anything now but an object of pity, a miser- 
 able and broken-hearted man,' continued Ferdinand, ' I 
 might shrink from this communication ; I might delegate 
 to another this office, humihating as it then roight be to 
 me, painful as it must, under any circumstances, be to you. 
 But,' and here his voice faltered, ' but I am far beyond the
 
 A LOVE STORY. 265 
 
 power of any mortification now. The world and tho world's 
 ways toTicli me no more. There is a duty to fulfil ; I will 
 fulfil it. I have offended against you, my sweet and gentle 
 cousin ; gi'ievously, bittei'ly, infamously ofi'ended.' 
 
 ' No, no, no ! ' murmured Miss Grandison, 
 
 ' Katherinc, I am unworthy of you ; I have deceived you. 
 It is neither for your honour nor your happiness that these 
 ties which our friends anticipate should occur between us. 
 But, Katherine, you are avenged.' 
 
 ' Oh ! I want no vengeance ! ' muttered Miss Grandison, 
 her face pale as marble, her eyes convulsively closed. ' Cease, 
 cease, Ferdinand; this conversation 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 a systematic villain, or tliat my feelings 
 were engaged to another when I breathed to you those 
 vows.' 
 
 ' Oh I anything but that ; speak of anything but that ! ' 
 
 Ferdinand took her hand. 
 
 ' Katherine, listen to me. I honour you, my gentle 
 cousiu, I admire, I esteem you ; I could die content if I 
 could but sec you happy, "With your charms and virtues, 
 I thought that we might be happy. !My intentions were 
 as sincere as my belief in our future felicity. Oh ! no, dear 
 Katherine, I could not ti-ifle 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 liand fell from the Avcak and trembling gi-asp 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 voico 
 torture to you ? Do you not hate and despise me ? '
 
 266 HENEIETTA TEMPLE : 
 
 * It is not my nature to liate anything ; least of all could 
 I hate you.' 
 
 ' And could you, knowing ail, still minister to my wants 
 and watch my sad necessities ? This gentle arm of yours ; 
 could you, knowing all, let me lean upon it this morning ? 
 O Katherine ! a happy lot be yours, for you deserve one ! ' 
 
 ' Ferdinand, I have acted as duty, religion, and it may 
 be, some other considerations prompted me. My feelings 
 have not been so much considered that 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, I sincerely pity you.' 
 
 ' Glastonbury has told you ? ' said Ferdinand. 
 
 ' That communication is among the other good offices we 
 owe him,' replied Miss Grandison. 
 
 ' He told you ? ' said Ferdinand, enquiringly. 
 
 'All that it was necessary I should know for your 
 honour, or, as some might thiuk, 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 is another'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. 
 
 ' Katherine ! ' said Ferdinand, after a moment's pause, 
 ' tell me that you do not hate me ; tell me that you pardon 
 me ; tell me that you thinlc me more mad than wicked ! ' 
 
 ' Ferdinand,' said Miss Grandison, ' I think we are both 
 unfortunate.' 
 
 'I am without hope,' said Ferdinand ; ' but you, Katherine, 
 your life must still be bright and fair.' 
 
 ' I can never be happy, Ferdinand, if you are not. I am
 
 A LOVE STORY. 267 
 
 alone in tlie world. Your family ai'c my only relations ; I 
 cling to them. Your mother is my mother; I love her 
 ■\vith the passion of a child. I looked upon our union only 
 as the seal of that domestic feeling that had long bound us 
 all. My happiness now entirely depends upon your family ; 
 theirs I feel is staked upon you. It is the conviction of 
 the total desolation that must occur if our estrangement 
 be suddenly made known to them, and you, who are so 
 impetuous, decide upon any rash course, in consequence, 
 that has induced me to sustain the painful part that I now 
 uphold. This is the reason that I would not reproach you, 
 Ferdinand, that I would not quarrel with you, that I would 
 not desert them in this hour of their affliction.' 
 
 ' Katherine, beloved Katherine ! ' exclaimed the distracted 
 Ferdinand, ' why did 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. In my 
 opinion, Ferdinand, it is better to be despised for a moment 
 than to be neglected for a life.' 
 
 ' Despised ! Katherine, for God's sake, spare me ; for 
 God's sake, do not use such language ! Despised ! Kathe- 
 rine, at this moment I declare most solemnly all that I feel 
 is, how thoroughly, how infamously unworthy I am of you ! 
 Dearest Katherine, we cannot recall the past, we cannot 
 amend it ; but let me assure you that at this very hour 
 there is no being on earth I more esteem, more reverence 
 than yourself.' 
 
 'It is well, Fei'dinand. I would not willingly believe 
 that your feelings towards nie were otherwise than kind 
 and generous. But let us understand each other. I shall 
 remain at present under this roof. Do not misapprehend 
 ray views. -I seek not to recall your affections. The past 
 h.us proved to me that we are completely unfitted for each
 
 268 HENRIETTA TExMPLE : 
 
 otlier. I have not those dazzling qualities that could 
 enchain a fiery brain like yours. I know myself; I know 
 you; and there is nothing that would fill me with more 
 terror now than our anticipated union. And now, after 
 this frank conversation, let our future intercourse be cordial 
 and unembarrassed; let us remember we are kinsfolk. 
 The feelings between us should by nature be amiable : no 
 incident has occurred to disturb them, for I have not 
 injured or offended you ; and as for your conduct towards 
 me, from the bottom of my heart I pardon and forget it.' 
 
 'Katherine,' said Ferdinand, with streaming eyes, 'kind- 
 est, most generous of women! My heart is too moved, 
 my spirit too broken, to express what I feel. We are 
 kinsfolk ; let us be more. You say my mother is your 
 mother. Let me assert the privilege of that admission. 
 Let me be a brother to you ; you shall find me, if I live, a 
 faithful one.' 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 WHICH LEAVES AFEAIES IS GENERAL IN A SCARCELY MORE 
 SATISFACTORY POSITION THAN THE FORMER ONE. 
 
 Ferdinand felt much calmer in his mind after this conver- 
 Bation with his cousin. Her affectionate attention to him 
 now, instead of filling him as it did before with remorse, 
 was really a source of consolation, if that be not too strong 
 a phrase to describe the state of one so thoroughly wretched 
 as Captain Armine ; for his terrible illness and impending 
 death, had not in the slightest degree allayed or affected 
 his profound passion for Henrietta Temple. Her image 
 unceasingly engaged his thoughts ; he still clung to the 
 wild idea that she might yet be his. But his health im- 
 proved so slowly, that there was fain t hope of his speedily
 
 A LOVE STOEY. 269 
 
 taking any steps to induce such a result. All liis enquiries 
 after her, and Glastonbury, at liis 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 ? Often 
 when he brooded over these terrible contingencies, he re- 
 gretted his recovery. 
 
 Yet his family, thanks to the considerate conduct of Lis 
 admirable cousin, were still contented and happy. His 
 slow convalescence was now their only source of anxietv. 
 They regretted the unfavourable season of the year ; they 
 looked forward with hope to the genial Influence of the 
 coming spring. That was to cure all their cares ; and yet 
 they might well suspect, wLen they watched his ever 
 pensive, and often suffering countenance, that there Avero 
 deeper causes than physical debility and bodily pain to 
 account for that moody and woe-begone expression, Alas ! 
 how changed from that Ferdinand Armlne, so full of hope, 
 and courage, and youth, and beauty, that had burst on 
 their enraptured vision on his return from Malta. Where 
 was that gaiety now that made all eyes sparkle, that vi^'a- 
 cious spirit that kindled energy in every bosom ? How 
 miserable to see him crawling about with a wretched stick, 
 with his thin, pale face, and tottering limbs, and scarcely 
 any other pursuit than to creep about the pleasaunce, 
 where, when the day was fair, his servant would place a 
 camp-stool opposite the cedar tree where he had first 
 beheld Henrietta Temple ; and there he would sit, until 
 tlie unkind winter breeze would make him shiver, frazintr 
 on vacancy ; yet peopled to his mind's eye with beautiful 
 and fearful apparitions. 
 
 And It is love, it is the most delightful of human passions, 
 that can bring about such mi-sery ! ^^'lly will its true 
 course never run smooth ? Is there a sjx'll over our heart, 
 that Its finest emotions should lead only to despair ? When
 
 270 HENMETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 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 sonnd of her voice, his visit to Ducie, all 
 the passionate scenes to which it led, those sweet wander- 
 ings through its enchanted bowers, those bright mornings, 
 so full of expectation that was never baulked, those soft 
 eyes, so redolent of tenderness that could never cease ; when 
 from the bright, and glowing, and gentle scenes his memory 
 conjured up, and all the transport and the thrill that sur- 
 rounded them like an atmosphere of love, he turned to his 
 shattered and broken-hearted self, the rigid heaven above, 
 and what seemed to his perhaps unwise and ungrateful 
 spirit, the mechanical sympathy and common-place affection 
 of his companions, it was as if he had wakened from some 
 too vivid and too glorious dream, or as if he had fallen 
 from some brighter and more favoured planet upon our 
 cold, dull earth. 
 
 And yet it would seem the roof of Armine Place pro- 
 tected a family that might yield to few in the beauty and 
 engaging qualities of its inmates, their happy accomplish- 
 ments, their kind and cordial hearts. And all were de- 
 voted to him. It was on him alone the noble spirit of his 
 father dwelt still with pride and joy : it was to soothe and 
 gratify him that his charming mother exerted all her 
 graceful care and all her engaging gifts. It was for him, 
 and his sake, the generous heart of his cousin had sub- 
 mitted to mortification without a murmur, or indulged her 
 unhappiness only in solitude ; and it was for him that 
 Glastonbury exercised a devotion that might alone induce 
 a man to think with complacency both of his species and 
 himself. But the heart, the heart, the jealous and despotic 
 heart ! It rejects all substitutes, it spurns all compromise, 
 and it will have its purpose or it will break. 
 
 END OF THE FOURTH BOOK. 
 
 I
 
 A LOVE STOEY. 271 
 
 BOOK V. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 CONTAINING THE APPEAKANCE ON OUR STAGE OF A NEW AND 
 IMPORTANT CHARACTER. 
 
 The Marquis of Montfort was the grandson of that noble- 
 man who had been Glastonbury's earliest patron. The old 
 duke had been dead some years ; his son had succeeded to his 
 title, and Digby, that youth whom the reader may recollect 
 was about the same age as Ferdinand Annine, and was his 
 companion during the happy week in London which pi'c- 
 ceded his first military -visit to the Mediterranean, now bore 
 the second title of the family. 
 
 The young marquis was an excellent specimen of a class 
 inferior in talents, intelligence, and accomplishments, in 
 public spirit and in private virtues, to none in the world, 
 the English nobility, llis complete education had been 
 carefully conducted ; and although his religious creed, for 
 it will bo remembered he was a Catholic, had deprived him 
 of the advantage of matriculating at an English university, 
 the zeal of an able and learned tutor, and the resources of 
 a German Alma "Mater, had afforded every opportunity for 
 the development of his considerable talents. Nature had 
 lavished upon him other gifts besides his distinguished in- 
 telligence and his amiable temper : his personal beauty was 
 remarkable, and his natural grace was not less evident than 
 his many acquired accomplishments.
 
 272 HENRIETTA TE3IPLE : 
 
 On quitting tlie University of Bonn, Lord Montfort liad 
 passed several years on tlie continent of Europe, and had 
 visited and resided at most of its courts and capitals, an 
 admired and claerislied guest ; for, debarred at the period 
 of our story from occupying the seat of his ancestors in the 
 senate, his native country offered no very urgent claims 
 upon his presence. He had ultimately fixed upon Rome as 
 his principal residence, for he was devoted to the arts, and 
 in his palace Avere collected some of the rarest specimens of 
 ancient and modern invention. 
 
 At Pisa, Lord Montfort had made the acquaintance of 
 Mr. Temple, who was residing in that city for the benefit 
 of his daughter's health, who, it Avas feared by her phy- 
 sicians, was in a decline. I say the acquaintance of Mr. 
 Temple ; for Lord Montfort was aware of the existence of 
 his daughter only by the occasional mention of her name, 
 as Miss Temple was never seen. The agreeable manners, 
 varied infoi-mation, and accomplished mind of Mr, Temple, 
 had attracted and won the attention of the young nobleman, 
 who shrank in general from the travelling English, and all 
 their arrogant ignorance. Mr. Temple was in turn equally 
 pleased with a companion alike refined, amiable, and en- 
 lightened ; and their acquaintance would have ripened into 
 intimacy, had not the illness of Henrietta and her repug- 
 nance to see a third person, and the unwillingness of her 
 father that she should be alone, offered in some degree a bar 
 to its cultivation. 
 
 Yet Henrietta was glad that her father had found a friend 
 and was amused, and impressed upon him not to think of 
 her, but to accept Lord Montfort's invitations to his villa. 
 But Mr. Temple invariably declined them. 
 
 ' I am always uneasy when I am away from you, dearest,' 
 said Mr. Temple ; ' I wish you would go about a little. 
 Believe mc, it is not for myself that I make the suggestion, 
 but I am sure you would derive benefit from the exertion.
 
 A LOVE STORY. 273 
 
 I wish you would go wltli mo and see Lord JMontfort's 
 ^■illa. There -would be no one there bat himself. He M'ould 
 not in the least annoy yon, he is so quiet; and he and I 
 could stroll about and look at the busts and talk to each 
 other. You would hardly know lie was present, he is 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 
 Hennetta Temple should become acquainted. She had 
 more than once expressed a wish to see the Campo Santo ; 
 it was almost the onlyAvish that she had expressed since she 
 left England. Her father, pleased to find that anything 
 could interest her, was in the habit of reminding her of this 
 desire, and suggesting that she should gratify it. But there 
 was ever an excuse for ])i-ocrastination. When the hour of 
 exertion came, she would say, with a ftunt smile, *I!^ot to- 
 day, dearest papa ;' and then, arranging her shawl, as if 
 even in this soft clime she shivered, composed herself upon 
 tliat sofa which now she scarcely ever quitted. 
 
 And this was Henrietta Temple ! That gay and glorious 
 being, so full of graceful power and beautiful energy, that 
 seemed boi-n for a throne, and to command a nation of 
 adoring subjects! What are those political revolutions, 
 whose strange and mighty vicissitudes we arc ever dilatino- 
 on, compared with the moral mutations that arc passing 
 daily under our own eye ; uprooting the hearts of families, 
 shattering to pieces domestic circles, scattering to the 
 winds the plans and prospects of a generation, and blasting 
 as with a mildew the ripening harvest of long cherished 
 affection ! 
 
 ' It is here that I would be buried,' said Henrietta 
 Temple. 
 
 They were standing, the father and the daughter, in tlio 
 Campo Santo. She had been gayer that morning; her 
 
 T
 
 274 HENEIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 father Lad seized a happy moment, and she liad gone forth, 
 to visit the dead. 
 
 That vast and cloistered cemeteiy was silent and undis- 
 turbed ; not a human being was there, save themselves and 
 the keeper. The sun shone brightly on the austere and 
 ancient frescoes, and Henrietta stood opposite that beautiful 
 sarcophagus, that seemed prepared and fitting to receive 
 her destined ashes. 
 
 ' It is here that I would be buried,' said she. 
 Her father almost unconsciously turned his head to gaze 
 upon the countenance of his daughter, to see if there were 
 indeed reason that she should talk of death. That coun- 
 tenance was changed since the moment we first feebly 
 attempted to picture it. That flashing eye had lost some- 
 thing of its brilliancy, that superb form something of its 
 roundness and its stag-like state ; the crimson glory of that 
 mantling cheek had faded like the fading eve ; and yet it 
 might be thought, it might be suffering, perhaps, the antici- 
 pation of approaching death, and as it were the imaginary 
 contact with a serener existence, but certainly there was a 
 more spiritual expression diffused over the whole appear- 
 ance of Henrietta Temple, and which by many might be 
 preferred even to that more lively and glowing beauty 
 which, in her happier houi'S, made her the very queen of 
 flowei"S and sunshine. 
 
 ' It is strange, dear papa,' she continued, ' that my first 
 visit should be to a cemetery.' 
 
 At this moment their attention was attracted by the 
 sound of the distant gates of the cemetery opening, and 
 several persons soon entered. This party consisted of 
 some of the authorities of the city and some porters, bear- 
 ing on a slab of verd antique a magnificent cinerary vase, 
 that was about to be placed in the Campo. In reply to 
 his enquiries, Mr. Temple learned that the vase had 
 been recently excavated in Catania, and that it had been
 
 A LOVE STORY. 275 
 
 purcliased and presented to the Campo by tlie Marquis of 
 Montfort. Henrietta would haye hurried her father awaj, 
 hut -with all her haste tbey had not reached the gates 
 before Lord Montfort appeared. 
 
 Mr. Temple found it impossible, although Henrietta 
 pressed his arm in token of disapprobation, not to present 
 Lord Montfort to his daughter. He then admired his lord- 
 sldp's urn, and then his lordship requested that he might 
 have the pleasure of showing it to them himself. They 
 turned ; Lord Montfort exjjlained to them its rarity, and 
 pointed out to them its beauty. His voice was soft and 
 low, his manner simple but rather reserved. While he 
 l)aid that deference to Henrietta which her sex demanded, 
 he addressed himself chiefly to her father. She was not 
 half so much annoyed as she had imagined; she agreed 
 with her father that he was a very quiet man ; she was even 
 a little interested by his conversation, which was refined 
 and elegant ; and she was pleased that he did not seem to 
 require her to play any part in the discourse, but appeared 
 quite content in being her father's friend. Lord Mont- 
 fort seemed to be attached to her father, and to appreciate 
 him. And this was always a recommendation to Henrietta 
 Temple. 
 
 The cinerary urn led to a little controversy between ]\Ir. 
 Temple and his friend ; and Lord Montfort wished that Mr. 
 Temple would some day call on him at his house in the 
 Lung' Arno, and he would show him some specimens which 
 he thought might influence his opinion, ' I hardly dare to 
 ask you to come now,' said his lordship, looking at Miss 
 Temple ; 'and yet Miss Temple might like to rest.' 
 
 It was evident to Henrietta that her father would be 
 pleased to go, and yet that he was about to refuse for her 
 sake. She could not bear that he should be deprived of so 
 much and such refined amusement, and bo doomed to an 
 uninteresting morning at home, merely to gratify her hvuuour. 
 
 t2
 
 276 HENRIETTA TEMPLE : 
 
 She tried to speak, but could not at first command hcv 
 voice ; at length slie expressed her wish that Mr. Temple 
 should avail himself of the invitation. Lord Montfort 
 howed lowlj, Mr. Temple seemed gratified, and they all 
 turned together and quitted the cemetery. 
 
 As they walked along to the bouse, conversation did 
 not flag. Lord Montfort expressed his admiration of Pisa. 
 ' Silence and art are two great charms,' said his lordshiji. 
 
 At length they arrived at his joalace. A venerable 
 Italian received them. They passed through a vast hall, in 
 Avhich were statues, ascended a magnificent double stair- 
 case, and entered a range of saloons. One of them was 
 furnished with more attention to comfort than an Italian 
 cares for, and herein was the cabinet of urns and vases his 
 lordship had mentioned. 
 
 ' This is little more than a barrack,' said Lord Montfort ; 
 ' but I can find a sofa for Miss Temple.' So saying, he 
 arranged with great care the cushions of the couch, and, 
 when she seated herself, placed a footstool near 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. There was one vase which Mr. Temple 
 greatly admired for tlie elegance of its form. His host 
 immediately brought it and placed it on a small pedestal 
 near Miss Temple. Yet he scarcely addressed himself to 
 her, and Henrietta experienced none of that troublesome 
 attention from which, in the present state of her health and 
 mind, she shrank. While Mr. Temple was interested with 
 his pursuit, Lord Montfort went to a small cabinet opposite, 
 and brought forth a curious casket of antique gems. 
 ' Perhaps,' he said, placing it by Miss Temjile, ' the con- 
 tents of this casket might amuse you ;' and he walked away 
 to her father,
 
 A LOVE STOEY. 2 
 
 77 
 
 In tlic course of an hour a servant brought in some fruits 
 and wine. 
 
 ' The grapes are from my viUa,' said Lord Montfort. ' I 
 ventured to order them, because I have heard their salutary 
 effects have been marvellous. Besides, at this season, even 
 in Italy they are rare. At least you cannot accuse me of 
 prescribing a disagreeable remedy,' he added with a slight 
 smile, as he handed a plate to Miss Temple, She moved 
 to receive them. Her cushions slipped from behind her, 
 Lord Montfort immediately arranged them with skill and 
 care. He Avas so kind that she really wished to thank him ; 
 but before she could utter a word ho was again conversiug 
 Avith her father. 
 
 At length Mr. Temple indicated his intention to retire, 
 and spoke to his daughter. 
 
 'This has been a great exertion for you, Henrietta,' he 
 said ; ' this has indeed been a busy day.' 
 
 ' I am not wearied ; and we have been mucli pleased.' It 
 was the firmest tone in Avhich she had spoken for a long 
 time. There Avas something in her manner Avhicli recalled 
 to Mr. Temple her vanished animation. The aiil'ctionate 
 father looked for a moment happy. The SAveet music of 
 these simple Avords dAvelt on his ear. 
 
 He Avent forward and assisted Henrietta to rise. She 
 closed the casket Avith care, and delivered it herself to her 
 considerate host. Mr. Temple bade him adieu ; Henrietta 
 bowed, and nearly extended her hand. Lord ]\Iontfort 
 atteiided them to the gate ; a carriage Avas Availing there. 
 
 'Ah! Ave have kept your lordship at home,' said ^Mr. 
 Temple. 
 
 ' I took the liberty of ordering the carriage for Miss 
 Temple,' he replied. ' I feel a little responsible for her kind 
 exertion to-day.'
 
 278 HENRIETTA TEMPLE : 
 
 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 they drove home. 
 
 ' I like your friend much, papa. He is quite as quiet as 
 you said ; he is almost the only person I have seen since 
 I quitted England who has not jarred my nerves. I felt 
 quite sorry that I had so long prevented you both from 
 cultivating each other's acquaintance. He does not inter- 
 fere with me in the least.' 
 
 ' I wish I had asked him to look in upon us in the even- 
 ing,' said Mr. Temple, rather enquiringly. 
 
 ' Not to-day,' said Henrietta. ' Another day, dearest 
 pa^a.' 
 
 The next day Lord Montfort sent a note to Mr. Temple, 
 to enquire after his daughter, and to impress upon hira the 
 importance of her eating his grapes. His servant left a 
 basket. The rest of the note was about cinerary urns. Mr. 
 Temple, while he thanked him, assured him of the pleasure 
 it would give both his daughter and himself to see him in 
 the evening. This was the first invitation to his house 
 that Mr. Temple had ventured to 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 gentle- 
 men talked a httle on foreign politics ; and discussed the 
 character of several of the most celebrated foreign ministers. 
 Lord Montfort gave an account of his visit to Prince Ester- 
 hazy. Henrietta was amused. German politics and society 
 led to German literature. Lord Montfort, on this subject,
 
 A LOVE STORY. 279 
 
 seemed completely informed. Henrietta could not refrain 
 from joining in a conversation for which she was fully 
 quahfied. She happened to deplore her want of books. 
 Lord Montfort had a library ; but it was at Rome : no 
 matter ; it seemed that he thought nothing of sending to 
 Rome. He made a note very quietly of some books that 
 Henrietta expressed a wish to see, and begged that Mr. 
 Temple would send the memorandum to his servant. 
 
 ' But surely to-morrow will do,' said Mr. Temple. ' Rome 
 is too far to send to this evening.' 
 
 ' That is an additional reason for instant departure,' said 
 his lordship calmly. 
 
 Mr. Temple summoned a servant, 
 
 ' Send this note to my house,' said his lordship. ' My 
 courier will bring us the books in four days,' he added, 
 turning to Miss Temple. ' I am sorry 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. If she spoke to him 
 he was always ready to converse with her, yet he never 
 obtruded his society. He seemed perfectly contented "vvith 
 the company of her father. Yet with all this calmness and 
 reserve, there was no air of affected indifference, no intoler- 
 able nonchalance ; he was always attentive, always con- 
 siderate, often kind. However apparently engaged with 
 her father, it seemed that his vigilance anticipated all her 
 wants. If she moved, he was at her side ; if she required 
 anything, it would appear that he read hor thoughts, for it 
 was always offered. She found her sofa awanged as if by 
 magic. And if a shawl were for a moment missing, Lord 
 Montfort always knew where it had been placed. In the 
 meantime, every morning brought something for the amuse- 
 ment of Mr. Temple and his daughter ; books, prints, draw- 
 ings, newspapers, journals of all countries, and caricatures
 
 280 HENRIETTA TE3IPLE : 
 
 from Paris and London, were mingled -witli engra\dngs of 
 Henrietta's favourite Campo Santo. 
 
 One evening Mr. Temple and his guest were speaking of 
 a celebrated Professor of the University. Lord Montfort 
 described bis extraordinary acquirements and discoveries, 
 and bis rare simplicity. He was one of tbose eccentric 
 geniuses tbat are sometimes found in decayed cities with 
 ancient institutions of learning. Henrietta was interested 
 in bis description. Almost without thought she expressed 
 a wish to see him. 
 
 ' He shall come to-morrow,' said Lord Montfort, ' if you 
 please. Believe me,' be added, in a tone of great kindness, 
 *that if you could j)revail upon yourself to cultivate Italian 
 society a little, it would repay yon.' 
 
 The Professor was brought. Miss TemjDle was much 
 entertained. In a few days he came again, and introduced 
 a fiiend scarcely less distinguished. The society was so 
 easy, that even Henrietta found it no burthen. She 
 remained njDon her sofa ; the gentlemen drank their cofi'ee 
 and conversed. One morning Lord Montfort had prevailed 
 upon her to visit the studio of a celebrated sculptor. The 
 artist was full of enthusiasm for his pursuit, and showed 
 them with pride his great work, a Diana that might have 
 made one envy Endymion. The sculptor declared it was 
 the perfect resemblance of Miss Temple, and appealed to 
 her father. Mr. Temple could not deny the striking like- 
 ness. Miss Temple smiled ; she looked almost herself 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 really was the model.' 
 
 They were bidding the sculptor farewell. 
 
 ' Do you like him ? ' whispered Lord Montfort of Miss 
 Temple. 
 
 * Extremely ; he is full of ideas.'
 
 A LOVE STORY. 281 
 
 ' Shall I ask liim to come to yon tin's evening ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, do ! ' 
 
 And so it turned out that in time Henrietta found herself 
 the centre of a little circle of eminent and accomplished 
 men. Her health improved as she brooded less over her 
 sorrows. It gratified her to witness the pleasure of her 
 father. She was not always on her sofa now. Lord 
 Montfort had sent her an English chair, Avhich suited her 
 delightfully. 
 
 They even began to take drives with him in the country 
 an hour or so before sunset. The country around Pisa is 
 rich as well as picturesque ; and their companion always 
 contrived that there should be an object in their brief 
 excursions. He spoke, too, the dialect of the country ; and 
 they paid, under his auspices, a visit to a Tuscan farmer. 
 All this was agreeable ; even Henrietta was persuaded 
 that it was better than staying at home. The variety of 
 pleasing objects diverted her mind in spite of herself. She 
 had sonae duties to perform in this world yet remaining. 
 There was her father : her father who had been so devoted 
 to her, who had never uttered a single reproach to her for 
 all her faults and follies, and who, in her hour of tribu- 
 lation, had clung to her with such fidelity. "Was it not 
 some source of satisfaction to see bim again comparatively 
 happy ? How selfish for her to mar this graceful and 
 innocent enjoyment ! She exerted herself to contribute to 
 the amusement of her father and his kind fi-iend, as well as 
 to share it. The colour returned a little to her cheek ; 
 sometimes she burst for a moment into something like 
 her old gaiety ; and though these ebullitions were often 
 followed by a gloom and moodiness, against which she 
 found it in vain to contend, still, on the whole, the change 
 for the better, was decided, and Mr. Temple yet hoped that 
 in time his sicfht miLrht a<i-ain be blessed and his life illus- 
 trated bv his own brilliant Henrietta.
 
 282 HENEIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 IN WHICH MR. TEMPLE AND HIS DAUGHTER, WITH THEIR NEW 
 FRIEND, MAKE AN UNEXPECTED EXCURSION. 
 
 One delicious morning, remarkable even in tlie south. 
 Lord Montfort called upon tliem in liis 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 three friends had soon quitted the city and entered its 
 ao'reeable environs. 
 
 'It was wise to pass the winter in Italy,' said Lord 
 Montfort, ' but to see Tuscany in perfection I should choose 
 the autumn. I know nothing more picturesque than the 
 carts laden vnth grapes, and drawn by milk-white steers.' 
 
 They drove gaily along at the foot of green hills, crowned 
 ever and anon by a convent or a beautiful stone-pine. The 
 landscape attracted the admiration of Miss Temple. A 
 palladian villa rose from the bosom of a gentle elevation, 
 crowned with these picturesque trees. A broad terrace of 
 marble extended in front of the villa, on which were ranged 
 orange trees. On either side spread an olive-grove. The 
 sky was without a cloud, and deeply blue ; bright beams of 
 the sun illuminated the building. The road had wound so 
 curiously into this last branch of the Appenines, that the 
 party found themselves in a circus of hills, clothed with 
 Spanish chestnuts and olive trees, from which there was 
 apparently no outlet. A soft breeze, which it was evident 
 had passed over the wild flowers of the mountains, refreshed 
 and charmed their senses. 
 
 ' Could you believe we were only two hours' drive from 
 a city ? ' said Lord Montfort. 
 
 ' Indeed,' said Henrietta, 'if there be peace in this world,
 
 A LOVE STOEY. 283 
 
 one would tliink that the dweller in that beautiful villa 
 enjoyed it.' 
 
 'He has Kttle to disturb him,' said Lord Montfort : ' thanks 
 to his destiny and his temper.' 
 
 'I believe we make our miseries,' said Henrietta, witli 
 a sigh. ' After all, 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 you much.' 
 
 They stopped, they ascended the terrace, they entered 
 the villa. A few rooms only were furnished, but their 
 appearance indicated the taste and pm^suits of its occupier. 
 Busts and books were scattered about ; a table was covered 
 Avith the implements of art ; and the principal apartment 
 opened into an English garden. 
 
 ' This is one of my native tastes,' said Lord Montfort, 
 ' that will, I think, never desert me.' 
 
 The memory of Henrietta was recalled to the flowers of 
 Ducie and of Ai-mine. Amid all the sweets and sunshino 
 she looked sad. She walked away from her companions ; 
 she seated herself on the terrace ; her eyes were suffused 
 with tears. Lord Montfort took the arm of Mr. Temple, 
 and led him 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 of Henrietta had not escaped his quick eye. 
 
 'Miss Temple has made a great exertion,' he said. ' Do 
 not thiak me pedantic, but I am something of a physician. 
 I have long perceived that, although Miss Temple should 
 be amused, she must sometimes be left alone.'
 
 284 HENRIETTA TEMPLE : 
 
 Mr. Temple looked at liis companion, but the counten- 
 ance of Lord Montfort was inscrutable. His lordship 
 offered him a medal and then opened a portfolio of Marc 
 Antonios. 
 
 ' These are very rare,' said Lord Montfort ; ' I bring them 
 into the country 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 somewhat hesitating tone ; ' I wish I could 
 induce you and Miss Temple to visit me at Rome.' 
 
 Mr. Temple shrugged his shoulders, and sighed. 
 
 ' I feel confident that a residence at Rome won.ld benefit 
 Miss Temple,' said his lordship, in a voice a little less calm 
 than usual. ' There is much to see, and I would take care 
 that she should see it in a manner which would not exhaust 
 her. It is the most delightful climate, too, at this period. 
 The sun shines here to-day, but the air of these hills at 
 this season is sometimes treacherous. A calm life, with a 
 variety of objects, is what she requires. Pisa is calm, but 
 for her it is too dull. Believe me, there is something 
 in the blended refinement and interest of Rome that she 
 would find exceedingly beneficial. She Avould see no one 
 but ourselves; society shall be at her command if she 
 desire it.' 
 
 'My dear lord,' said Mr. Temple, 'I thank you from 
 the bottom of my heart for all your considerate sympathy ; 
 but I cannot flatter myself that Henrietta could avail 
 herself of your really friendly offer. My daughter 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 some wood-nymph, or some 
 river- god.' 
 
 The first classic ruin that she had yet beheld attracted
 
 A LOVE STORY. 285 
 
 the attention of Miss Temple. It was not far, and she 
 acceded to the projiosition of Lord Montfort to visit it. 
 That little ramble Avas delightful. The novelty and the 
 beauty of the object greatly interested her. It was charm- 
 ing also to view it under the auspices of a guide so full of 
 information and feelinsr. 
 
 ' Ah ! ' said Lord Montfort, ' if I might only bo your 
 cicerone at Rome !' 
 
 ' What say you, Henrietta ? ' said Mr. Temple, with a 
 smile. ' Shall we go to Rome ? ' 
 
 The proposition did not alarm Miss Temple as much as 
 her father anticipated. Lord Montfort pressed the sugges- 
 tion with deHcacy ; he hinted at some expedients by which 
 the journey might be rendered not very laborious. But as 
 she did not reply, his lordship did not press the subject ; 
 sufficiently pleased, perhaps, that she had not met it witli 
 an immediate and decided necative. 
 
 When they returned to the villa they found a collation 
 pi-epared for them worthy of so elegant an abode. In his 
 capacity of a host. Lord Montfort departed a little from 
 that placid and even consti-ained demeanour which generally 
 cbaractcrised him. His manner was gay and flowing ; and 
 he poured 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. 
 
 SlIOWIXG TltAT IT IS THE FIRST STEP THAT IS EVER THE 
 MOST DIEFICULT. 
 
 About a week after this visit to the villa, Mr. Temple and 
 his daughter were absolutely induced to accompany Lord 
 Montfort to Rome. It is impossible to do justice to tho
 
 286 HENKIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 tender soKcitude with wliicli lie made all the arrangements 
 for the journey. Wherever they halted they found prepara- 
 tions for their reception ; and so admirably had everything 
 been concerted, that Miss Temple at length found herself in 
 the Eternal City with almost as little fatigue as she had 
 reached the Tuscan villa. 
 
 The palace of Lord Montfort was in the most distinguished 
 quarter of the city, and situate in the midst of vast gardens 
 full of walls of laurel, arches of ilex, and fountains of Hons. 
 They arrived at twilight, and the shadowy hour lent even 
 additional space to the huge halls and galleries. Yet in the 
 suite of rooms intended for Mr. Temple and his daughter, 
 every source of comfort seemed to have been collected. The 
 miarble floors were covered with Indian mats and carpets, 
 the windows were well secured from the air which migbt 
 have proved fatal to an invalid, while every species of chair 
 and couch, and sofa, courted the languid or capricious form 
 of Ivliss Temple, and she was even favoured with an English 
 stove, and guarded by an Indian screen. The apartments 
 were supplied with every book which it could have been 
 supposed might amuse her ; there were guitars of the city 
 and of Florence, and even an EngHsh piano ; a library of 
 the choicest music ; and all the materials of art. The air of 
 elegance and cheerful comfort that pervaded these apart- 
 ments, so unusual in this land, the bright blaze of the fire, 
 even the pleasant wax-hghts, all combined to deprive the 
 moment of that feeling of gloom and exhaustion which 
 attends an arrival at a strange place at a late hour, and 
 Henrietta looked around her, and almost fancied she was 
 once more at Ducie. Lord Montfort introduced his fellow- 
 travellers to their apartments, presented to them the servant 
 who was to assume the management of their httle household, 
 and then reminding them of their mutual promises that 
 they were to be entirely their own masters, and not trouble 
 themselves about hiTn any more than if they were at Pisa,
 
 ^ « 
 
 A LOVE STOEY. 287 
 
 Jtie shook tliem both by tlie band, and bade tbem good- 
 nigbt. 
 
 It must be confessed tbat the acquaintance of Lord Mont- 
 fort had afibrded consolation to Henrietta Temple. It was 
 impossible to be insensible to the sympathy and sohcitudo 
 of one so highly gifted and so very amiable. N"or should it 
 be denied that this homage, from one of his distinguished 
 rank, was entirely Avithout its charm. To find ourselves, 
 when deceived and deserted, unexpectedly an object of 
 regard and consideration, will bring balm to most bosoms ; 
 but to attract in such a situation the friendship of an indi- 
 vidual whose deferential notice under any circumstances 
 must be flattering, and to be admired by one whom all 
 admire, these are accidents of fortune which few could ven- 
 ture to despise. And Henrietta had no-\v few opportunities 
 to brood over the past ; a stream of beautiful and subhmo 
 objects passed unceasingly before her vision. Her lively 
 and refined taste, and her highly cultui-ed mind, could not 
 refrain fi*om responding to these glorious spectacles. She 
 saw before her all that she had long read of, all that she had 
 long mused over. Her mind became each day more serene 
 and harmonious as she gazed on these ideal creations, and 
 dwelt on their beautiful i-epose. Her companion, too, exerted 
 every art to prevent these amusements from degenerating 
 into fatiguing expeditions. The Vatican was open to Lord 
 Montfort when it was open to none others. Short visits, but 
 numerous ones, was his system. Sometimes they entered 
 merely to see a statue or a picture they were reading or 
 conversing about the pi'ccediiig eve ; and then tbey repaired 
 to some modern studio, where their entrance always made 
 the sculptor's eyes sparkle. At dinner there was always 
 some distinguished guest whom Henrietta wished to see ; 
 and as she thoroughly understood the language, and spoke 
 it with fluency and grace, she was tempted to enter into 
 conversations, where all seemed debghted that she played
 
 288 HENRIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 her part. Sometimes, indeed, Henrietta would fly to lier 
 cliamber to sigh, bnt suddenly the palace resounded with 
 tones of the finest harmony, or the human voice, with itg 
 most felicitous skill, stole upon her from the distant galleries. 
 Although Lord Montfort was not himself a musician, and 
 his voice could not pour forth those fatal sounds that had 
 ravished her soul from the lips of Ferdinand Armine, he was 
 well acquainted with the magic of music ; and while he hated 
 a formal concert, the most eminent performers were often at 
 hand in his palace, to contribute at the fitting moment to 
 the delight of his guests. Who could withstand the soft 
 influence of a Hfe so elegant and serene, or refuse to yield 
 up the spirit to its gentle excitement and its mild distrac- 
 tion? The colour returned to Henrietta's cheek and the 
 lustre to her languid eye : her form regained its airy spring 
 of health ; the sunshine of her smile burst forth once more. 
 It would have been impossible for an indifferent person 
 not to perceive that Lord Montfort witnessed these changes 
 with feelings of no shght emotion. Perhaps he prided him- 
 self upon his skill as a physician, but he certainly watched 
 the apparent convalescence of his friend's daughter with 
 zealous interest. And yet Henrietta herself was not aware 
 that Lord Montfort's demeanour to her differed in any 
 dea-ree from what it was at Pisa. She had never been alone 
 with him in her life ; she certainly spoke more to him than 
 she used, but then, she spoke more to everybody ; and Lord 
 Montfort certainly seemed to think of nothing but her plea- 
 sure and convenience and comfort ; but he did and said 
 everything so quietly, that all this kindness and solicitude 
 appeared to be the habitual impulse of his generous nature. 
 He certainly was more intimate, much more intimate, than 
 during the first week of their acquaintance, but scarcely 
 more kind ; for she remembered he had aiTanged her sofa 
 the very first day they met, though he did not even remain 
 to receive her thaid-cs.
 
 A LOVE STORY. 289 
 
 One day a discussion rose about Italian society between 
 Mr. Temple and Lis host. His lordship was a gi'cat admii-er 
 of the domestic character and private life of the Italians, 
 lie maintained that there Avas no existinr^ people who moro 
 completely fulfilled the social duties than this much scan- 
 dalised nation, respecting whom so many silly prejudices 
 are entertained by the English, whose travelling fellow- 
 countrymen, by the bye, seldom enter into any society but 
 that tainted circle that must exist in all capitals. 
 
 'You have no idea,' he said, turning to Henrietta, 'what 
 amiable and accomplished people are the better order of 
 Italians. I wish you would let me light up this dark house 
 some night, and give you an Italian party.' 
 
 'I should like it very much,' said Mr. Temple. 
 
 Whenever Henrietta did not enter her negative Lord 
 Montfort always implied her assent, and it was resolved tliat 
 the Italian jiarty should be given. 
 
 All the best families in Home were present, and not a 
 single English person. There were some, perhaps, whom 
 Lord Montfort might have wished to have invited, but ]\Iis3 
 Temple had chanced to express a wish that no English might 
 be there, and he instantly acted upon her suggestion. 
 
 The palace was magnificently ilhiminated. Henrietta had 
 scarcely seen before its splendid treasures of art. Lord 
 Montfort, in answer to her curiosity, had alwaj-s playfully 
 depreciated them, and said that they must be left for rainy 
 days. The most splendid pictures and long rows of graceful 
 or solemn statues were suddenly revealed to her ; rooms and 
 galleries were opened that had never been observed before ; 
 on all sides cabinets of vases, groups of imperial busts, rare 
 bronzes, and vivid masses of tesselated pavement. Over aU 
 these choice and beautiful objects a clear yet soft lirrht was 
 diffused, and Henrietta never recollected a spectacle more 
 complete and effective. 
 
 Tiiese rooms and galleries were soon filled with guests, 
 
 U
 
 290 HENEIETTA TEMPLE : 
 
 and Henrietta could not be insensible to tbe graceful and 
 engaging dignity witb wliich. Lord Montfort received the 
 Roman world of fashion. That constraint wbich at first she 
 had attributed to reserve, but which of late she had ascribed 
 to modesty, now entirely quitted him. Frank, yet always 
 dignified, smiHng, apt, and ever fehcitous, it seemed that 
 he had a pleasing word for every ear, and a particular smile 
 for every face. She stood at some distance leaning on her 
 father's arm, and watching him. Suddenly he turned and 
 looked around. It was they whom he wished to catch. He 
 came up to Henrietta and said, ' I wish to introduce you to 
 the Princess . She is an old lady, but of the first dis- 
 tinction here. I would not ask this favour of you unless I 
 thought you would be pleased.' 
 
 Henrietta could not refuse his request. Lord Montfort 
 presented her and her father to the princess, the most agree- 
 able and important person in Rome ; and having now pro- 
 vided for their immediate amusement, he had time to attend 
 to his guests in general. An admirable concert now, in some 
 degree, hushed the general conversation. The voices of the 
 most beautiful women in Rome echoed in those apartments. 
 "When the music ceased, the guests wandered about the 
 galleries, and at length the principal saloons were filled with 
 dancers. Lord Montfort approached Miss Temple. ' There 
 is one room in the palace you have never yet visited,' he said, 
 ' my tribune ; 'tis open to-night for the first time.' 
 
 Henrietta accepted his profiered arm. ' And how do you 
 like the princess ? ' he said, as they walked along. ' It is 
 agreeable to live in a country where your guests amuse 
 themselves.' 
 
 At the end of the principal gallery, Henrietta perceived 
 an open door which admitted them into a small octagon 
 chamber, of Ionic architecture. The walls were not huns- 
 with pictures, and one work of art alone solicited their 
 attention. Elevated on a pedestal of porphyry, surrounded
 
 A LOVE STORY. 291 
 
 by a rail of bronze arrows of the ligbtest workmansLip, was 
 that statue of Diana wbich tliey bad so much admired at 
 Pisa. The cheek, by an ancient process, the secret of which 
 has been recently regained at Rome, was tinted with a deli- 
 cate glow. 
 
 ' Do you approve of it ? ' said Lord Montfort to the ad- 
 miring Henrietta. 'Ah, dearest Miss Temple,' he continued, 
 *it is my happiness that the rose has also returned to a 
 fairer cheek than this.' 
 
 CHAPTER Y. 
 
 ^VHICH CONTAINS SOME RATHER PAINFUL EXPLANATIONS. 
 
 The reader will not perhaps be much surprised that the 
 !Marquis of Montfort soon became the declared admirer of 
 Miss Temple. He made the important declaration after a 
 very different fashion from the unhappy Ferdinand AiTuine : 
 he made it to the lady's father. Long persuaded that Miss 
 Temple's illness had its origin in the mind, and believing 
 that in that case the iadisj^osition of the young lady had 
 probably arisen, from one cause or another, in the disap- 
 pointment of her affections, Lord Montfort resolved to spare 
 her feelings, unprepared, the pain of a personal appeal. The 
 beauty, the talent^ the engaging disposition, and the languid 
 melancholy of Miss Temple, had excited his admu-ation and 
 pity, and had finally won a heart capable of deep affections, 
 but gifted -R-ith great self-contx-ol. He did not conceal from 
 Mr. Temple the conviction that impelled him to the course 
 which he had thought proper to pursue, and this delicate 
 conduct relieved i\Ir. Temple greatly from the unavoidable 
 embarrassment of his position. ]\Ir. Temple contented himself 
 with communicating to Lord ]\Iontfoi't, that his daughter had 
 indeed entered into an engagement with one who was not 
 
 V 2
 
 292 HENEIETTA TE5IPLE : 
 
 •worthy ol her affections, and that the moment her father had 
 been convinced of the character of the individual, ho had 
 quitted England with his daughter. He expressed his unquali- 
 fied approbation of the overture of Lord Montfort, to Avhom 
 he was indeed sincerely attached, and which gratified all 
 those worldly feelings from which Mr. Temple was naturally 
 not exempt. In such an alliance Mr. Temple recognised the 
 only mode by which his daughter's complete recovery could 
 bo secured. Lord Montfort in himself offered everything 
 which it would seem that the reasonable fancy of 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 reasonable gratification of vanity from which none are 
 free, which is a fertile soiirce of happiness, and which would, 
 at all times, subdue any bitter recollections which might 
 occasionally arise to cloud the retrospect of his daughter. 
 
 It was Mr. Temple, who, exerting all the arts of his 
 abandoned profession, now indulging in intimations and 
 now in panegyric, conveying to his daughter, with admir- 
 able skill, how much the intimate acquaintance with Lord 
 Montfort contributed to his happiness, gradually fanning 
 the feeling of gratitude to so kind a friend, which already 
 had been excited in his daughter's heart, into one of zealous 
 regard, and finally seizing his opportunity with practised 
 felicity, it was Mr. Temple who at length ventured to com- 
 municate to his daughter the overture which had been con- 
 fided 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 
 impracticable view of affairs. Lord Montfort must be the 
 best judge of what will contribute to his own happiness.'
 
 A LOVE STORY. 293 
 
 * Loi"d Montfort is acting tinder a delusion,' replied Miss 
 Temple. ' If lie knew all that had occurred he would shrink 
 from blending his life with mine.' 
 
 ' Lord Montfort knows everytliing,' said the father, ' that 
 is, everything he should know.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! ' said Miss Temple. ' I wonder he does nofc 
 look upon me with contempt ; at the least, with pity.' 
 
 ' He loves you, Henrietta,' said her father. 
 
 ' Ah ! love, love, love ! name not love to me, ISTo, Lord 
 Montfort cannot love mo. It is not love that he feels.' 
 
 ' You have gained his heart, and he offers you his hand. 
 Are not these proofs of love ? ' 
 
 'Generous, good young man!' exclaimed Henrietta; 
 ' I respect, I admire him ; 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, but for your happiness. Lean 
 upon your father, listen to him, be guided by his advice. 
 Lord Montfort possesses every quality which can contributo 
 to the happiness of woman. A man so rarely gifted I never 
 met. There is not a woman in the world, however exalted 
 her rank, however admirable lier beauty, however gifted 
 her being, who might not feel happy and honoured in tho 
 homage of such a man. Believe me, my dearest daughter, 
 that this is an union which must lead to happiness. Indeed, 
 were it to occur, I could die content. I should have no 
 more cares, no more hopes. All would then have happened 
 that the most sanguine parent, even with such a child as 
 you, could wish or imagine. We should be so happy ! For 
 his sake, for my sake, for all our sakes, dearest Henrietta, 
 grant his wish. Believe me, believe me, he is indeed worthy 
 of you.' 
 
 ' I am not worthy of him,' said lluniictta, in a melan- 
 choly voice.
 
 294 HENRIETTA TEJVIPLE : 
 
 ' Ah, Henrietta, who is like you ! ' exclaimed the fond and 
 excited father. 
 
 At this moment a servant announced that Lord Montfort 
 would, with their permission, wait upon them, Henrietta 
 seemed plunged in thought. Suddenly she said, ' I cannot 
 rest until this is settled. Papa, leave me with Mm a few 
 moments alone.' Mr. Temple retired. 
 
 A faint blush rose to the cheek of her visitor when he 
 perceived that Miss Temple was alone. He seated himself 
 at her side, but he was unusually constrained. 
 
 'My dear Lord Montfort,' said Miss Temple, calmly, 'I 
 have to speak upon a painful subject, but I have undergone 
 so mucii suffering, that I shall not shrink from this. Papa 
 has informed me this morning that you have been pleased 
 to pay me the highest compliment that a man can pay a 
 woman. I wish to thank you for it. I wish to acknowledge 
 it in terms the strongest and the warmest I can use. I am 
 sensible of the honour, the high honour that you have in- 
 tended me. It is indeed an honour of which any woman 
 might be proud. You have offered me a heart of which I 
 know the worth. No one can appreciate the value of your 
 character better than myself. I do justice, full justice, 
 to your virtues, your accomplishments, your commanding 
 talents, and your generous soul. Except my father, there 
 is no one who holds so high a place in my affection as your- 
 self. Tou have been my kind and true friend ; and a kind 
 and true friendship, faithful and sincere, I return you. 
 More than friends we never can be, for I have no heart to 
 give.' 
 
 ' Ah, dearest Miss Temple,' said Lord Montfort, agitated, 
 * I ask nothing but that friendship ; but let me enjoy it in 
 your constant society ; let the world recognise my right to 
 be your consoler.' 
 
 ' You deserve a better and a brighter fate. I should not 
 be your friend if I could enter into sucb an engagement.'
 
 A LOVE STORY. 295 
 
 ' The only aim of my liie is to make you happy,' said Lord 
 Montfort. 
 
 ' I am sure that I ought to be happy with such a friend,' 
 said Henrietta Temple, ' and I am happy. How different 
 is the world to me from what it was before I knew you ! 
 Ah, why will you disturb this life of consolation ? Why 
 will you call me back to recollections that I would fain 
 banish ? Why ' 
 
 ' Dearest Miss Temple,' said Lord Montfort, ' do not re- 
 proach me ! Tou make me wretched. Remember, dear 
 lady, that I have not sought this conversation ; that if I 
 were presumptuous in my plans and hopes, I at least took 
 precautions that I should be the only sufferer by their non- 
 fulfilment.' 
 
 ' Best and most generous of men ! I would not for the 
 world be unkind to j'ou. Pardon my distracted words. But 
 you know all ? Has papa told you all ? It is my wish.' 
 
 ' It is not mine,' replied Lord Montfort ; ' I wish not to 
 penetrate your sorrows, but only to soothe them.' 
 
 ' Oh, if we had but met earlier,' said Hem-ietta Temple ; 
 ' if we had but known each other a year ago ! when I was, 
 not worthy of you, but more worthy of you. But now, with 
 health shattered, the lightness of my spirit vanished, the 
 freshness of my feehngs gone, no, my kind friend, my dear 
 and gentle fi'iend ! my affection for you is too sincere to ac- 
 cede to your request ; and a year hence Lord Montfort will 
 thank me for my denial.' 
 
 ' I scarcely dare to speak,' said Lord Montfort, in a low 
 tone, as if suppressing his enaotion, ' if I were to express my 
 feelings, I might agitate you. I wiU not then venture to 
 reply to what you have urged ; to tell you I think you the 
 most beautiful and engaging being that ever bi'eathed ; or 
 how I dote upon your pensive spii-it, and can sit for hours 
 together gazing on the language of those dark eyes. 
 !Miss Temple, to me you never could have been more beau-
 
 296 HENRIETTA TEMPLE : 
 
 tifal, more fascinating. Alas ! I may not even breathe my 
 love ; I am unfortunate. And yet, sweet lady, pai'don this 
 ao-itation I have occasioned you ; try to love me yet ; endure 
 at least my presence ; and let me continue to cherish that 
 intimacy that has thrown over my existence a charm so in- 
 expressible.' So saying, he ventured to take her hand, and 
 pressed it with devotion to his lips. 
 
 CHAPTER TI. 
 
 WHICH CONTAINS AN EVENT NOT LESS IMPORTANT THAN THE ONE 
 WHICH CONCLUDED OUR SECOND BOOK. 
 
 Lord Montfort was scarcely disheartened by this interview 
 with Miss Temple. His lordship was a devout believer in 
 the influence of time. It was unnatural to suppose that one 
 BO young and so gifted as Henrietta could ultimately main- 
 tain that her career was terminated because her affections 
 had been disappointed by an intimacy which was confessedly 
 of so recent an origin as the fatal one in question. Lord 
 Montfort differed from most men in this respect, that the 
 consciousness of this intimacy did not cost him even a pang. 
 He preferred indeed to gain the heart of a woman like Miss 
 Temple, who, without having in the least degree forfeited 
 the innate purity of her nature and the native freshness of 
 her feelings, had yet learnt in some degree to penetrate the 
 mystery of the passions, to one so untutored in the world's 
 ways, that she might have bestowed upon him a heart less 
 experienced indeed, but not more innocent. He was con- 
 vinced that the affection of Henrietta, if once obtained, 
 might be relied on, and that the painful past would only 
 make her more finely appreciate his high-minded devotion, 
 and amid all the dazzling characters and seducing spectacles 
 of the world, cling to him with a firmer gratitude and a
 
 A LO\'E STORV. 297 
 
 more faitbful fondness. And yet Lord Montfort was a man 
 of deep emotions, and of a very fastidious taste. He "svas a 
 man of as romantic a temperament as Ferdinand Armine ; 
 but with Lord Montfort, life was the romance of reason ; 
 with Ferdinand, the romance of imagination. The first was 
 keenly alive to all the imperfections of our nature, hut ho 
 also gave that nature credit for all its excellencies. Ho 
 observed finely, he calculated nicely, and his result was 
 generally happiness. Ferdinand, on the contrary, neither 
 observed nor calculated. His imagination created fantasies, 
 and his impetuous passions struggled to realise them. 
 
 Although Lord ^Montftn-t carefully abstained from pur- 
 suing the subject which nevertheless engrossed his thoughts, 
 he had a vigilant and skilful ally in j\Ir. Temple. That 
 gentleman lost no opportunity of pleading his lordship's 
 cause, while ho appeared only to advocate his own; and 
 this was the most skilfid mode of controlling the judgment 
 of his daughter. 
 
 Henrietta Temple, the most affectionate and dutiful of 
 childi'en, left to reflect, sometimes asked herself whether 
 she wei'c justified, from what she endeavoured to believe 
 was a mere morbid feeling, in not accomplishing the happi- 
 ness of that parent who loved her so well ? There had 
 been no concealment of her situation, or of her sentiments. 
 There had been no deception as to the past. Lord Mont- 
 fort knew all. She told him that she could only bestow a 
 broken spirit. Lord ;^[ontfbrt aspired only to console it. 
 She was young. It was not probaijie that the death which 
 she had once sighed for would be accorded to her. AVas 
 she always to lead this life ? Was her father to pass the 
 Btill long career which probably awaited him in ministering 
 to the wearisome caprices of a querulous invalid ? Tliis 
 was a sad return for all his goodness : a gloomy catastrophe 
 to all his bright liope.s. And if she could ever consent to 
 blend her life with another's, what individual could offer
 
 298 HENEIETTA TEiCPLE : 
 
 pretensions which might ensure her tranquillity, or even 
 happiness, equal to those proffered by Lord Montfort ? 
 Ah ! who was equal to him ? so amiable, so generous, so 
 interesting ! 
 
 It was in such a mood of raind that Henrietta would 
 sometimes turn with a glance of tenderness and gratitude 
 to that being who seemed to breathe only for her solace and 
 gratification. If it be agonising to be deserted, there is at 
 least consolation in being cherished. And who cherished 
 her ? One whom all admired ; one, to gain whose admira- 
 tion, or even attention, every woman sighed. What was 
 she before she knew Montfort ? If she had not known 
 Montfort, what "v/ould she have been even at this present ? 
 She recalled the hours of anguish, the long days of bitter 
 mortification, the dull, the >,earisome, the cheerless, hope- 
 less, uneventful hours that were her lot when lying on her 
 solitary sofa at Pisa, brooding over the romance of Armine 
 and all its passion; the catastrophe of Ducie, and. all its 
 baseness. And now there was not a moment without kind- 
 ness, without sympathy, without considerate attention and 
 innocent amusement. If she were querulous, no one mur^- 
 mured ; if she were capricious, everyone yielded to her 
 fancies ; but if she smiled, everyone was happy. Dear, 
 noble Montfort, thine was the magic that had worked this 
 change ! And for whom were all these choice exertions 
 made ? For one whom another had trifled with, deserted, 
 betrayed ! And Montfort knew it. He dedicated his life 
 to the consolation of a despised woman. Leaning on the 
 arm of Lord Montfort, Henrietta Temple might meet the 
 eye of Ferdinand Armine and his rich bride, at least with- 
 out feeling herself an object of pity ! 
 
 Time had flown. The ItaHan spring, with all its splen- 
 dour, illumined the glittering palaces and purple shores of 
 Naples. Lord Montfort and his friends were returning from 
 Capua in his galley. Miss Temple was seated between her
 
 A LOVE STORY. 299 
 
 father and their host. The Ausonian clime, the beautiful 
 scene, the sweet society, had all combined to produce a day 
 of exquisite enjoyment. Henrietta Temple could not refrain 
 from expressing her delight. Her eye sparkled like the star 
 of eve that glittered over the glo'ndng 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 her exclamation had afforded one of her com- 
 panions. With a trcmbhng heart Lord Montfort leant 
 back in the galley ; and yet, ere the morning sun had flung 
 its flaming beams over the city, Henrietta Temple was his 
 betrothed. 
 
 END OF THE FIFTH BOOK.
 
 300 HENEIETTA TE3IPLE ; 
 
 BOOK VI. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 WHICH coNTArN's A ee:\iarkable change of fortune. 
 
 Although Lord Moutfort was now tlie received and recog- 
 nised admirer of Miss Temple, their intended union was 
 not immediate. Henrietta was herself averse from sucli an 
 arrangement, but it was not necessary for lier to urge this 
 somewhat ungracious desire, as Lord Montfort was anxious 
 that she should be introduced to his family before their 
 marriage, and that the ceremony should be performed in 
 his native country. Their return to England, therefore, 
 was now meditated. The event was hastened by an extra- 
 ordinary occurrence. 
 
 Good fortune in this world, they say, is seldom single, 
 Mr. Temple at this moment was perfectly content with his 
 destiny. Easy in his own circumstances, with his daughter's 
 future prosperity about to be provided for by an union with 
 the heir to one of the richest peerages in the kingdom, he 
 had nothing to desire. His daughter Avas happy, he enter- 
 tained the greatest esteem and affection for his futui-e son- 
 in-law, and the world went well with him in every respect. 
 
 It Avas in this fulness of happiness that destiny, with its 
 usual wild caprice, resolved ' to gild refined gold, and paint 
 the lily;' and it was determined that Mr. Temple should 
 wake one morning among the wealthiest commoners of 
 England. 
 
 There happened to be an old baronet, a great humourist,
 
 A LOTE STORY. 301 
 
 witLout any very near relations, avIio had been a godson of 
 Mr. Temple's grandfather. He had never invited or en- 
 coiiraged any intimacy or connection with the Temple family, 
 but had always throughout life kept himself aloof from any 
 acquaintance with them. Mr. Temple indeed had only seen 
 him once, but certainly under rather advantageous circum- 
 stances. It was Avhen Mr. Temple was minister at the 
 German Court, to which we have alluded, that Sir Temple 
 Devereux was a visitor at the capital at which Mr. Temple 
 was Resident. The minister had shown him some civihties, 
 which was his duty ; and Henrietta had appeared to please 
 him. But he had not remained long at this place ; and 
 refused at the time to be more than their ordiuaiy guest ; 
 and had never, by any letter, message, or other mode of 
 communication, conveyed to them the slightest idea that 
 the hospitable minister and his charming daugliter had 
 dwelt a moment on his memory. And yet Sir Temple 
 Devereux had now departed from the world, where it had 
 apparently been the principal object of his career to avoid 
 ever making a friend, and had left the whole of his large 
 fortune to the Right Honourable Pelliam Temple, by this 
 bequest proprietor of one of the finest estates in the 
 county of York, and a very considerable personal pro- 
 perty, the accumulated savings of a large rental and a 
 long life. 
 
 This was a great event. Mr. Temple had the most pro- 
 found respect for property. It was impossible for the lato 
 baronet to have left his estate to an individual who could 
 more thoroughly appreciate its possession. Even personal 
 property was not without its charms ; but a large landed 
 estate, and a large lauded estate in the county of York, and 
 that large landed estate flanked by a good round sum of 
 Three per Cent. Consols duly recorded in the Rotunda of 
 Threadncedle Street, it was a combination of wealth, power, 
 consideration, and convenience which exactly hit the ideal
 
 302 HENKIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 of Mr. Temple, and to tlie fascination of wliicli perhaps the 
 taste of few men would be insensible. Mr. Temple being 
 a man of family, had none of the awkward embarrassments 
 of a parvenu to contend with. ' It was the luckiest thing 
 in the world,' he would say, ' that poor Sir Temple was my 
 grandfather's godson, not only because in all probability it 
 obtained us his fortune, but because he bore the name of 
 Temple : we shall settle down in Yorkshire scarcely as 
 strangers, we shall not be looked upon as a new family, 
 and in a little time the whole affair 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 I rejoice. 
 I think it will please your family. I will settle everything 
 immediately on Henrietta. They shall have the gratifi- 
 cation of knowing that their son is about to marry the 
 richest heiress in England.' 
 
 The richest heiress in England ! Henrietta Temple the 
 richest heiress in England ! Ah ! how many feehngs vnth 
 that thought arise ! Strange to say, the announcement of 
 this extraordinary event brought less joy than might have 
 been supposed to the heiress herself. 
 
 It was in her chamber and alone, that Henrietta Temple 
 mused over this freak of destiny. It was in vain to conceal 
 it, her thoughts recurred to Ferdinand. They might have 
 been so happy ! Why was he not true ? And perhaps he 
 had sacrificed himself to his family, perhaps even personal 
 distress had driven him to the fatal deed. Her kind femi- 
 nine fancy conjured up every possible extenuation of his 
 dire offence. She grew very sad. She could not believe 
 that he was false at Ducie ; oh, no ! she never 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 have been the means of saving him from all his sorrows ! 
 She recalled his occasional melancholy, his desponding 
 words, and how the gloom left his brow and his eye bright- 
 
 I
 
 A LOVE STOEY. 303 
 
 ened wlien she fondly prophesied that she would restore 
 the house. She might restore it now ; and now he was 
 another's, and she, what was she ? A slave Hke him. No 
 longer her own mistress, at the only moment she had the 
 power to save him. Say what they like, there is a pang 
 in balked affection, for which no wealth, power, or place, 
 watchful indulgence, or sedulous kindness, can compensate. 
 Ah ! the heart, the heart ! 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 IN WHICH THE READEK IS AGAIX INTRODUCED TO CAPTAIN 
 AEMINE, DCJRINQ HIS VISIT TO LONDON. 
 
 Miss Grandison had resolved upon taking a house in London 
 for the season, and had obtained a promise from her uncle 
 and aunt to be her guests. Lady Armine's sister was to 
 join them from Bath. As for Ferdinand, the spring had 
 gradually restored him to health, but not to his former 
 frame of mind. He remained moody and indolent, incap- 
 able of exertion, and a prey to the darkest humours ; cir- 
 cumstances however occurred, which rendered some energy 
 on his part absolutely necessary. His creditors grew impor- 
 tunate, and the arrangement of his affairs or departure from 
 his native land was an alternative now inevitable. The 
 month of April, which witnessed the arrival of the Temples 
 and Lord Montfort in England, welcomed also to London 
 Miss Grandison and her guests. A few weeks after, Fer- 
 dinand, who had evaded the journey vrith his family, and 
 who would not on any account become a guest of his cousin, 
 settled himself down at a quiet hotel in the vicinity of 
 Grosvenor-square ; but not quite alone, for almost at the 
 last hour Glastonbury had requested permission to accom-
 
 304 HENRIETTA TEMPLE : 
 
 pany liim, and Ferdinand, wlio duly valued the society of 
 tlie only person with whom he could converse about his 
 broken fortunes and his blighted hopes without reserve, 
 acceded to his Avish with the greatest satisfaction. 
 
 A sudden residence in a vast metropolis, after a life of 
 rural seclusion, has without doubt a very peculiar effect 
 upon the mind. The immense population, the multiplicity 
 of objects, the important interests hourly impressed upon 
 the intelligence, the continually occurring events, the noise, 
 the bustle, the general and widely-spread excitement, all 
 combine to make us keenly sensible of our individual in- 
 significance ; and those absorbing passions that in our 
 solitude, fed by our imagination, have assumed such gi- 
 gantic and substantial shapes, rapidly subside, by an almost 
 imperceptible process, into less colossal proportions, and 
 seem invested as it were with a more shadowy aspect. As 
 Ferdinand Armine jostled his way through the crowded 
 streets of London, urged on hy his own harassing and 
 inexorable affairs, and conscious of the imjjending peril of 
 his career, while power and wealth dazzled his eyes in all 
 directions, he began to look back upon the passionate past 
 with feelings of less keen sensation than heretofore, and 
 almost to regret that a fatal destiny or his impetuous soul 
 had entailed upon him so much anxiety, and prompted 
 him to reject the glittering cup of fortune that had been 
 proffered to him so opportunely. He sighed for enjoyment 
 and repose ; the memory of his recent sufferings made him 
 shrink from that reckless indulgence of the passions, of 
 which the consequences had been so severe. 
 
 It was in this mood, exhausted by a visit to his lawyer, 
 that he stepped into a military club and took up a news- 
 I^aper. Caring little for politics, his eye wandered over, 
 uninterested, its pugnacious leading articles and tedious 
 parliamentary reports ; and he was about to throw it down 
 when a paragraph caught his notice which instantly en-
 
 A LOVE STORY. 305 
 
 grossed all bis attentiou. It was in the * j\Iorniug Post ' 
 that be thus read : 
 
 ' The Marquis of Montfort, the eldest son of tbe Duke 
 
 t>f , wbose retui-n to England wo recently noticed, 
 
 Las resided for several years in Italy. His lordship is con- 
 sidered one of tbe most accomplished noblemen of tbe day, 
 and was celebrated at Rome for bis patronage of tbe arts. 
 Lord Montfort will shortly .bo united to tbe beautiful Miss 
 Temple, the only daughter of tbe Right Honourable Pel- 
 bam Temple. Miss Temple is esteemed one of the richest 
 beiresses in England, as she will doubtless inherit the 
 whole of tbe immense fortune to which her father so unex- 
 pectedly acceded ; Mr. Temple is a widower, and has no 
 son, Mr. Temple was formerly our minister at several of 
 tbe German Courts, where bo was distinguished by his 
 abilities and his hospitality to bis travelling countrymen. 
 It is said that the rent-roll of the Yorkshire estates of tbe 
 late Sir Temple Devereux is not less than 15,000Z. per 
 annum. Tbe personal property is also very considerable. 
 \Ye understand that Mr. Temple has purchased tbe mansion 
 
 of the Duke of , in Grosvenor-square. Lord Montfort 
 
 accompanied Mr. Temple and bis amiable daughter to this 
 countiy.' 
 
 "What a wild and fiery chaos was the mind of Ferdinand 
 Armine when be read this paragraph. The wonders it 
 revealed succeeded eacb other with such rapidity that for 
 some time bo Avas deprived of tbe power of reflection. 
 Heni-ictta Temple in I^lngland ! Henrietta Temple one of 
 tbe greatest heiresses in the country ! Henrietta Templo 
 about to he immediately man-ied to another! His Hen- 
 rietta Temple, the Henrietta Temple whom he adored, and 
 by whom be bad been worshipped ! The Henrietta Templo 
 whose beautiful lock of hair was at this very moment on 
 bis heart ! The Henrietta Temple for whom be bad for- 
 feited fortune, family, power, almost life ! 
 
 X
 
 306 HENKIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 Woman, Woman ! Put not tliy trust in woman ! And 
 yet, could lie reproach, her ? Did she not believe herself 
 trifled with by him, outraged, deceived, deluded, deserted ? 
 Ajid did she, could she love another ? Was there another 
 to whom she had poured forth- her heart as to him, and all 
 that beautiful flow of fascinating and unrivalled emotion ? 
 Was there another to whom she had piledged her pure and 
 passionate soul ? Ah, no ! he would not, he could not 
 believe it, Lio-ht and false Henrietta could never 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 her pique, perhaps of her despair. 
 
 But she was not yet married. They were, according to 
 these lines, to be soon united. It appeared they had 
 travelled together ; that thought gave lum a pang. Could 
 he not see her ? Could he not explain all ? Could he not 
 prove that his heart had ever been true and fond ? Could 
 he not teU her all that had happened, all that he had 
 suffered, all the madness of his misery ; and could she 
 resist that voice whose accents had once been her joy, that 
 glance which had once filled her heart with rapture ? And 
 when she found that Ferdinand, her own Ferdinand, had 
 indeed never deceived her, was worthy of her choice affec- 
 tion, and suffering even at this moment for her sweet sake, 
 what were all the cold-blooded ties in which she had since 
 involved herself ? She was his by an older and more 
 ardent bond. Should he not claim his right ? Could she 
 deny it ? 
 
 Claim what ? The hand of an heiress. Should it be 
 said that an Armine came crouching for lucre, where he 
 ought to have commanded for love ? JS'ever ! Whatever 
 she might think, his conduct had been faultless to her. It 
 was not for Henrietta to complain. She was not the 
 \dctim, if one indeed there might chance to be. He had 
 loved her, she had returned his passion; for her sake ho 
 
 fl
 
 A LOVE STORY. 307 
 
 had maae the greatest of saci'ifices, forfeited a splendid in- 
 heritance, and a fond and faithful heart. When he had 
 thought of her before, pining perhaps in some foreign 
 solitude, he had never ceased reproaching himself for his 
 conduct, and had accused himself of deception and cruelty ; 
 l)ut now, in this moment of her flush prosperity, ' esteemed 
 one of the richest heiresses in England ' (he ground his 
 teeth as he recalled that phrase), and the affianced bride 
 of a great noble, (his old companion, Lord Montfort, too ; 
 Avhat a strange thing is life !) proud, smiling, and pros- 
 perous, while he was alone, with a broken heart and worse 
 than desperate fortunes, and all for her sake, his soul 
 became bitter : he reproached her Avith want of feeling ; he 
 pictured her as void of genuine sensibility ; he dilated on 
 her indifference since they had jjarted ; her silence, so 
 strange, now no longer inexplicable ; the total want of 
 interest she had exhibited as to his career ; he sneered at 
 the lightness of her temperament ; he cursed her caprice ; 
 he denounced her infernal treachery ; in the distorted 
 phantom of his agonised imagination she became to him 
 even an object of hatred. 
 
 Poor Ferdinand Armine ! it was the first time he had 
 experienced the maddening pangs of jealousy. 
 
 Yet how he had loved this woman ! How he had doated 
 on her ! And now they might have been so happy ! There 
 is nothing that dcpi-esses a man so much as the conviction 
 of bad fortune. There seemed, in this sudden return, great 
 wealth, and impending marriage of Henrietta Temple, such 
 a combination, so far as Ferdinand Armine was concerned, 
 of vexatious circumstances ; it would appear that he had 
 been so near perfect happiness and missed it, that he felt 
 quite weary of existence, and seriously 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 com- 
 
 X 2
 
 308 HENEIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 paniou, Lad accepted an invitation this day to diue "vvitli 
 the noble widow of his old patron. Ferdinand, however, 
 found himself quite incapable of entering into any society, 
 and ho hurried to his hotel to send a note of excuse to 
 Brook-street. As he ari'ived, Glastonbury was just fibout 
 to step into a hackney-coach, so that Ferdinand had no 
 opportunity of communicating his sorrows to his friend, 
 even had he been inclined. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 IX WHICH GLASTONBURY MEETS THE VERT LAST PERSON IN THE 
 WORLD HE EXPECTED, AND THE STRANGE CONSEQUENCES. 
 
 "When Glastonbury arrived at the mansion of the good old 
 duchess, he found nobody in the drawing-room but a young 
 man of distinguished appearance, whose person was un- 
 known to him, but who nevertheless greeted him with 
 remarkable cordiality. The good Glastonbury returned, 
 with some confusion, his warm salutation. 
 
 ' It is many years since we last met, Mr. Glastonbury,' 
 5aid the young man. ' I am not surprised you have for- 
 gotten me. I am Digby ; perhaps you recollect 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 I 
 find now that my memory has not deceived me.' 
 
 Glastonbury and his companion fell into some conversa- 
 tion about the latter's travels, and residence at Rome, in 
 the midst of which their hostess entered. 
 
 ' I have asked you, my dear sir, to meet our family 
 circle,' said her grace, ' for I do not think I can well ask 
 
 II
 
 A LOVE STORY. 309 
 
 yon to meet any who love you better. 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, 
 ^Ir. Glastonbury,' said the duchess ; ' but they are very 
 good. And as for Digby, 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 gi-ace ; ' but I thought I should soon 
 hear of you at grandmamma's.' 
 
 ' And, dear Mr. Glastonbury, why did you not come np 
 and see me ? ' said the younger duchess. 
 
 ' And, dear Mr. Glastonbury, do you remember me ? ' said 
 one beautiful daughter. 
 
 ' And me, Mr. Glastonbiiry, me ? I am Isabella.' 
 
 Blushing, smiling, bowing, constrained from the novelty 
 of his situation, and yet every now and then quite at ease 
 when his ear recalled a familiar voice, dear Mr. Glaston- 
 bury was gratified and happy. The duke took him aside, 
 and they Avere 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 you all. She will be here immediately.' 
 
 There was a knock, and soon the drawing-room door 
 opened, and Miss Temple was announced. 
 
 ' I must make papa's apologies,' said Henrietta, advanc- 
 ing and embracing the old duchess. ' I hope he may get 
 here in the evening : but he bade me remind your grace 
 that your kind invitation was only provisionally accepted.' 
 
 * He is quite right,' said the old lady ; ' and indeed I 
 hardly expected him, for he told me there was a public 
 dinner whicli he wa-:- obliged to attend. I am sure that our
 
 310 HENRIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 dinner is a very private one indeed,' continued tlie old 
 lady witli a smile. * It is really a family party, tiiough 
 there is one member of the family here whom yon do not 
 know, my dear Miss Temple, and whom, I am snre, you 
 will love as much as all of us do. Digby, where is ' 
 
 At this moment dinner was announced. Lord Montfort 
 ofiered his arm to Henrietta. ' There, lead the way,' said 
 the old lady ; ' the girls must beau themselves, for I have no 
 young men to-day for them. I suppose man and 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 was mentioned Henrietta was half-way down stairs. 
 
 The duke and his son presided at the dinner. Henrietta 
 sat on one side of Lord Montfort, his mother on the other. 
 Glastonbury sat on the right hand of the duke, and opposite 
 their hostess ; the two young ladies in the middle. All the 
 guests had been seated without Glastonbury and Henrietta 
 recoa'nisinsr each otlier : and, as he sat on the same side of 
 the table as Miss Temple, it was not until^ Lord Montfort 
 asked Mr. Glastonbury to take wine with him, that Henrietta 
 heard a name that might well indeed turn her pale. 
 
 Glastonbury ! It never entered into her head at the 
 moment that it was the Mr. Glastonbury whom she had 
 known. Glastonbury ! what a name ! What dreadful as- 
 sociations did it not induce ! She looked forward, she 
 caught the well-remembered visage ; she sunk back in her 
 chair. But Henrietta Temple had a strong mind ; this was 
 surely an occasion to prove it. Mr. Glastonbury's attention 
 was not attracted to her : he knew, indeed, that there was 
 a lady at the table called Henrietta, but he was engrossed 
 with his neighbours, and his eye never caught the daughter 
 of Mr. Temple. It was not until the ladies rose to retire 
 that Mr. Glastonbury beheld that form which he had not 
 forgotten, and looked upon a lady whose name was associ- 
 ated in his memory with the most disastrous and mournful 
 
 II
 
 A LOVE STORY. 311 
 
 moments of his life. ^liss Temple followed, tlie ducliesa 
 out of the 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 state of her heart until this sudden 
 apparition of Glastonbury. How his image recalled the 
 past ! She had schooled herself to consider it all a di^eam ; 
 now it lived before her. Here was one of the principal per- 
 formers in that fatal tragedy of Armine. Glastonbmy in 
 the house, under the same roof as she ? Where was Ferdi- 
 nand ? There was one at hand who could tell her. Was he 
 married ? She had enjoyed no opportunity of ascertaining 
 it since 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, knew so much. How strange it must 
 be to Glastonbury to meet her ! Dear Glastonbury ! She 
 had not forgotten the days when she so fondly listened to 
 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, he would, perhaps, 
 look upon her with pity, cei'tainly with pain. Life ! what 
 a heart-breaking thing is life ! And our affections, our sweet 
 and pure affections, fountains of such joy and solace, that 
 nourish all things, and make the most barren and rigid soil 
 teem with life and beauty, oh ! why do we disturb the flow 
 of their sweet waters, and pollute their immaculate and 
 salutary source ! Ferdinand, Ferdinand Armine, why were 
 you false ? 
 
 The door opened. !M>. Glastonbury entered, followed by 
 the duke and his son. Henrietta was sitting in an easy chair, 
 one of Lord Montfort's sisters, seated on an ottoman at her 
 side, held her hand. Henrietta's eye met Glastonbury's ; 
 she bowed to him.
 
 312 HENRIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 * How youv hand trembles, Henrietta ! ' said the young 
 ladj. 
 
 Glastonbury approacbed ber witb a besitating step. He 
 blusbed faintly, be looked exceedingly perplexed. At length 
 he reached her, and stood before ber, and said nothing. 
 
 'Ton have forgotten me, Mr. Glastonbury,' said Henri- 
 etta ; for it was absolutely necessary that some one should 
 break the awkward silence, and she pointed to a chair at her 
 Bide. 
 
 ' 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.' 
 
 ' "VYe were neighbou.rs in ITottinghamsliire,' said Henrietta, 
 in a quick tone. 
 
 * Isabella,' said her sister, who was seated at the piano., 
 ' the harp awaits 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 mur- 
 mured, but not very much to the purpose. ' Have you been 
 in Nottinghamshire lately ? ' said Henrietta. 
 
 ' I left it about ten days back with ,' and here Glas- 
 tonbury stopped, ' witb a friend,' he concluded. 
 
 ' I trust all your fi-iends are well,' said Henrietta, in a 
 tremulous voice. 
 
 ' 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 a lively remembrance of all your kindness.' 
 
 ' Kindness, I fear,' said Glastonbury, in a melancholy 
 tone, ' that was most unfortunate.' 
 
 ' We do not deem it so, si'*,' Avas the reply.
 
 A LOVE STORY, 313 
 
 * My dear young lady,' said Glastonbury, liut his voice 
 faltered as lie added, ' we have liad great uuhappiness.' 
 
 ' I regret it,' said Henrietta, ' You liad a marriage, 1 
 believe, expected in your family? ' 
 
 ' It Las not occurred,' said Glastonbury. 
 ' Indeed ! ' 
 
 * Alas ! madam,' said lier companion, ' if I migbt venture 
 indeed to speak of one whom I will not name, and yet ' 
 
 ' Pray speak, sii',' said Miss Temple, in a kind, yet hushed 
 voice, 
 
 ' The child of our affections, madam, is not what he was. 
 God, in His infinite mercy, has visited him with great afflic- 
 tions.' 
 
 ' You speak of Captain Armine, sir ? ' 
 
 ' I speak indeed of my liroken-hearted Ferdinand ; I would 
 I could say yours, Miss Temjile, he is a wreck,' 
 
 ' Yes ! yes ! ' said Henrietta in a low tone. 
 
 ' What he has endui-ed,' continued Glastonbury, ' passes 
 all description of mine. His life has indeed been spared, 
 but under circumstances that almost make me regret ho 
 lives,' 
 
 * He has not married ! ' muttered Henrietta. 
 
 ' He came to Ducie to claim his bride, and she was gone,' 
 said Glastonbury ; ' his mind sunk under the terrible be- 
 reavement. For weeks he was a maniac ; and, though Pro- 
 vidence spared him again to us, and his mind, thanks to 
 God, is again whole, ho is the victim of a profound melan- 
 choly, that seems to defy ahke medical skill and worldly 
 vicissitude,' 
 
 ' Digby, Digby ! ' exclaimed Isabelhi, who was at the hs rp, 
 ' Henrietta is fainting.' Lord Montfort rushed forward just 
 in time to seize her cold hand, 
 
 ' The room is too hot,' said one sister, 
 
 ' The coffee is too strong,' said the other. 
 
 'Air,' said the vouiilt duchess.
 
 o 
 
 14 HENRIETTA TEIVIPLE 
 
 Lord Montfort carried. Henrietta into a distant room. 
 There was a balcony opening into a garden. He seated her 
 on a bench, and never quitted her side, but contrived to 
 prevent anyone approaching her. The women clustered 
 togetlier. 
 
 ' Sweet creature ! ' said the old duchess, * she often makes 
 me tremble ; she has but just recovered, Mr. Glastonbury, 
 from a long and terrible illness.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! ' said Glastonbury. 
 
 'Poor dear Digby,' continued her grace, 'this will quite 
 upset him again. 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 ad- 
 vantage of the confusion, he effected his escape. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 IN WHICH MR. GLASTONBUET INFORMS CAPTAIN ARMINE OF HIS 
 MEETING WITH MISS TEMPLE. 
 
 It was still an early hour when Mr. Glastonbury arrived at 
 his hotel. He ujiderstood, however, that Captain Armine 
 had already returned and retired. Glastonbury knocked 
 gently at his door, and was invited to enter. 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 expres- 
 sion of countenance.
 
 A LOVE STORY. 315 
 
 ' Wliat lias happened ? what did she say ? ' asked Ferdi- 
 nand 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 ; ' but I fear that would do you no good.' 
 
 * Is there any hope ? ' said Ferdinand. 
 
 ' N'ono ! ' said Glastonbury. ' Prepare yourself, my dear 
 clrild, 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 cui'ses ' 
 
 ' God forbid,' said Glastonbury, interrupting him. 
 
 ' Unfeeling, fickle, false, treacherous ' 
 
 ' She is an angel,' said Glastonbury, 'a very angel. She 
 has fainted, and nearly 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 eager voice and sparkling eyes. ' Does she love me ?' 
 
 'I fear so,' said Glastonbury. 
 
 * Fear ! ' 
 
 ' Oh, how I pity her poor innocent heart ! ' said Glaston- 
 bury. 
 
 ' When I told her of all your sufferings ' 
 
 ' Did you teU her ? What then ? ' 
 
 ' And slie herself has barely recovered from a long and 
 terrible illness.' 
 
 * -My o^vn Henrietta ! Now I could die happy,' said Fer- 
 dinand.
 
 316 HENRIETTA TE]VIPLE : 
 
 *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,' 
 said Glastonbury. ' I really never meant to tell you any- 
 thing-. I do not know how I came into your room.' 
 
 ' Dear, dear Glastonbury, I am myself again.' 
 
 ' Only think ! ' said Glastonbury ; ' I never was so un- 
 happy 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 be married to another ; that she was 
 happy, proud, prosperous, totally regardless of me, perhaps 
 utterly forgetful of the past ; and that I was dying like a 
 dog in this cursed caravanserai! Glastonbury! nothing 
 that I have ever endured has been equal to the hell of this 
 day. And now you have come and made me comparatively 
 happy. I shall get up directly.' 
 
 Glastonbury looked quite astonished ; he could not com- 
 prehend how his fatal intelligence could have produced 
 effects so directly contrary fi'om those he had anticipated. 
 However, in answer to Ferdinand's reiterated enquiries, he 
 contrived to give a detailed account of everything that had 
 occurred, and Ferdinand's running commentary continued 
 to be one of constant self-congratulation. 
 
 ' There is, however, one misfortune,' said Ferdinand, 
 'with which you are unacquainted, 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 soul of my grandfather, I would tear her from 
 the arms of this stripling.' 
 
 'StripHng!' said Glastonbury. 'I never saw a truer 
 nobleman in my life.'
 
 A LOVE STORY. 317 
 
 'All!' exclaimed rcrdinand. 
 
 ' Nay, second scarcely to yourself ! I could not believe 
 my eyes,' continued Glastonbury, ' He "svas but a child 
 ■when I saw him last ; but so were you, Ferdinand. Be- 
 lieve me, he is no ordinary rival.' 
 
 'Good-looking?' 
 
 'Altogether of a most princely presence. I have rarely 
 met a personage so highly accomplished, or who more 
 quickly impressed you with, his moral and intellectual 
 excellence.' 
 
 ' And they are positively engaged ?' 
 
 ' To be married next month,' replied Glastonbury. 
 
 ' Glastonbury ! why do I live ? ' exclaimed Ferdinand ; 
 ' why did I recover ? ' 
 
 ' My dear child, but just now you were comparatively 
 happy.' 
 
 ' Happy ! Tou cannot mean to insult me. Happy ! Oh, 
 is there in this world a tking so deplorable as I am ! ' 
 
 ' I thought I did wrong to say anything,' said Glaston- 
 bur}', speaking as it were to himself. 
 
 Ferdinand made no observation. He turned himself iu 
 his bed, witli his face 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. 
 
 \VniCn, ON THE WHOLE, IS rERIIAPS AS REMARKABLE A 
 CHArXER A3 ANT IN THE WORK. 
 
 Wretched as he was, the harsh business of life could 
 not be neglected ; Captain Arminc was obliged to be in 
 Lincoln's Inn by ten o'clock the next morning. Ii was on
 
 318 HENKIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 his return from liis lawyer, as lie was about to cross Berke- 
 ley-square, that a carriage suddenly stopped in the middle 
 of the road, and a female hand apparently beckoned to him 
 from the window. He was at first very doubtful whether ho 
 were indeed the person to whom the signal was addressed, 
 but as on looking around there was not a single human 
 being in sight, he at length slowly approached the equipage, 
 from which a white handkerchief now waved with consider- 
 able agitation. 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 I hate you ! I could cut you up into minced 
 meat; that I could. Here I have been giving parties 
 every night, all for you too. And you have been in town, 
 and never called on me. Tell me your name. How is your 
 wife ? Oh ! you are not married. You should marry ; I 
 hate a cidevant jeune homme. However, you can wait a 
 little. Here, James, Thomas, Peter, what is your name, 
 open the door and let him in. There get in, get in ; I have 
 a great deal to say to you.' And Ferdinand found that it 
 was absolutely necessary to comply. 
 
 ' Now, where shall we go ? ' said her ladyship ; ' I have 
 got till two o'clock. I make it a rule to be at home every 
 day from two tiU six, to receive my friends. You must come 
 and call upon me. You may come every day 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 who leave 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 Sir Peter 
 or Sir Paul ? Well, never mind, you know whom I mean. 
 And your charraing mother, my favourite friend ? She is 
 charming ; she is quite one of my favourites. And were 
 not you to marry ? Tell me, why have you not ? Miss,
 
 A LOVE STOEY. 319 
 
 Miss, you know "wliom I mean, wliose grandfatlier was my 
 son's friend. In town are they ? Where do they live ? 
 Brook-street! I will go and call upon them. There, pull 
 the string, and tell him where they live.' 
 
 And so, in a few minutes, Lady BeUair's carriage stopped 
 opposite the house of Miss Grandison. 
 
 ' Are they early risers ? ' said her ladyship ; * I get up 
 every morning at six. I dare say they will not receive me ; 
 but do you show yourself, and then they cannot refuse.' 
 
 In consequence of this diplomatic movement Lady Bel- 
 lair effected an entrance. Leaning on the arm of Ferdi- 
 nand, her ladyship was ushered into the morning-room, 
 where she found Lady Armine and Katherine. 
 
 ' My dear lady, how do you do ? And my sweet miss ! 
 Oh ! your eyes are so bright, that it quite makes me young 
 to look upon them! I quite love you, 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 been giving parties every night, and all for you ; 
 all for my Bath friends ; telling everybody about you ; 
 talking of nothing else ; everybody longing to 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 evenings yet; to-night, you must come to me to- 
 night, and Thiu'sday, 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 Lord Colonnade and Lady Ionia ! They would have 
 just suited you ; they would have tasted you ! But I 
 tell you what I will do ; I will come and dine with 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 her inseparable companion in London. 
 ' All this week I am ticketed ; ^Monday, the Derricourts, 
 dull, but then ho is a duke. Tuesday I dine with Bonmot ;
 
 3i'-0 IIEXEIETTA TE3IPLE : 
 
 we have made it up ; he gives me a dinuer. Wednesday, 
 Wednesday, where is Wednesday? General Faneville, 
 my own party, Thursday, the Maxburys, bad dinner, but 
 good company. Friday, Waring Cutts, a famous house 
 for eating ; but that is not in my way ; however, I must 
 go, for he sends me pines. And Saturday, I dine off a 
 rabbit, by myself, at one o'clock, to go and see my dear 
 darling Lady St. Julians at Richmond. So it cannot be 
 this or next week. I will send you a note ; I will tell you 
 to-night. And now I must go, for it is five minutes to two, 
 I am always at home from two till six; I receive my 
 friends ; you may come every day, and you must come to 
 see my new squirrel ; my darling, funny, little grandson 
 gave it me. And, my dear miss, where is that wicked 
 Lady Grandison ? Do you ever see her, or are you enemies ? 
 She has got the estate, has not she ? She never calls upon 
 me. Tell her she is one of my greatest favourites. Oh ! 
 why does not she come ? I should have asked her to 
 dinner ; and now all my dinners are over till June. Tell 
 me where she lives, and I will call upon her to-morrow.' 
 
 So saying, and bidding them all farewell very cordially, 
 her ladyship took Ferdinand's arm and retired. 
 
 Captain Armine returned to his mother and cousin, and 
 sat an hour with them, until their cari'iage was announced. 
 Just as he was going away, he observed Lady Bellair's little 
 red book, which she had left behind. 
 
 * Poor Lady Bellair, what will she do ? ' said Miss Gran- 
 dison ; * we must take 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 long building, 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 diffi- 
 cult to believe that you were in a great city. The house 
 was furnished and adorned with all that taste for which
 
 A LOVE STORY. 321 
 
 Lady Bellair -was distiuguislied. All tlie reception rooms 
 Avere on the gi'ouncl floor, and were all connected, Ferdi- 
 nand, who remembered Lady Bellair's injunctions not to 
 leave cards, attracted by tlie spot, and not knowing what 
 to do with himself, determined to pay her ladyship a visit, 
 and Avas ushered into an octagon library, lined with well- 
 laden dwarf cases of brilliant volumes, crowned Avith no 
 lack of marble busts, bronzes, and Etruscan vases. On 
 each side opened a magnificent saloon, furnished in that 
 classic style Avhich the late accomplished and ingenious 
 Mr. Hope first rendered popular in this country. The 
 wings, projecting far into the gardeus, comprised re- 
 spectively a dining-room and a conservatory of considerable 
 dimensions. Isolated in tlic midst of the gardens Avas a 
 lono- buildinsr, called the summer-room, lined Avith Indian 
 matting, and screened on one side from the air, merely by 
 Venetian blinds. The AA'alls of this chamber Avere almost 
 entirely covered Avith caricatures and prints of the country 
 seats of Lady Bellair's friends, all of Avliicli she took care 
 to visit. Here also were her parrots, and some birds of a 
 SAveeter voice, a monkey, and the famous squirrel. 
 
 Lady Bellair Avas seated in a chair, the back of Avhich 
 Avas much higher than her head ; at her side AA'as a little 
 table Avith Avriting materials, and on AA-hich also Avas placed 
 a magnificent bell, by Benvenuto Cellini, with Avhich licr 
 ladyship summoned her jiage, Avho, in the meantime, 
 loitered in the hall. 
 
 'You have brought mo my book!' she exclaimed, as 
 Feidinand entered Avith the mystical volume. ' Give it me, 
 give it me. Hero I cannot tell Mrs. Fancourt Avhat day I 
 can dine Avith her. I am engaged all this week and all 
 next, and I am to dine Avith your dear family when I like. 
 But Mrs. Fancourt must choose her day, because they Avill 
 keep. You do not knoAV this gentleman,' she said, turning 
 to Mrs. Fancourt. ' Well, I shall not introduce you ; ho 
 
 Y
 
 322 HENRIETTA TEMPLE : 
 
 will not suit you. ; lie is a fine gentleman, and only dines 
 with dukes.' 
 
 Mrs. Fancourt consequently looked very anxious for an 
 introduction. 
 
 ' General Faneville,' Lady Bellair continued, to a gentle- 
 man on her left, ' what day do I dine with you ? "Wednesday. 
 Is our party full ? You must make room for him ; he is my 
 greatest favourite. All the ladies are in love with him.' 
 
 General Faneville expressed his deep sense of the high 
 honour ; Ferdinand protested he was engaged on Wednes- 
 day ; Mrs. Fancourt looked very disappointed that she had 
 thus lost another opportunity of learning the name of so 
 distinguished a personage. 
 
 There was another knock. Mrs. Fancourt departed. 
 Lady Maxhury, and her daughter. Lady Selina, were an- 
 nounced. 
 
 ' Have you got him?' asked Lady Bellair, very eagerly, as 
 her new visitors entered. 
 
 ' He has promised most positively,' answered Lady Max- 
 bur}^. 
 
 ' Dear, good creature! ' exclaimed Lady Bellair, ' you are 
 the dearest creature that I know. And you are channing,' 
 she continued, addressing herself to Lady Selina ; ' if I were 
 a man, I would marry you directly. There now, he (turning 
 to Ferdinand) cannot marry you, because he is married 
 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, and will he bring liis bows and arrows ? Lord Dor- 
 field protests 'tis nothing without the bows and arrows.' 
 
 ' What, the New Zealand chief, Lady Bellair ? ' enquired 
 the general.
 
 A LOVE STORY. 323 
 
 * Have yoiT seen liim?' enquired Lady Bellair, eagerly. 
 
 ' Not yet,' replied the gentleman, 
 
 ' Well then, yon -will see him to-night,' said Lady Bellair, 
 with an air of trinmph. ' 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, ' that my 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 you way to my summer-room, 
 and there you will find my squirrel.' 
 
 The restless Ferdinand was content to quit the library, 
 even with the stipulation of first visiting the squii'rel. He 
 walked through a saloon, entered the conservatory, emerged 
 into the garden, and at length found himself in the long 
 summenroom. At the end of the room a lady was seated, 
 looking over a book of prints ; as she heard a footstep she 
 raised her eyes, and Ferdinand beheld Henrietta Temple. 
 
 He was speechless ; he felt rooted to the ground ; all 
 power of thought and motion alike deserted him. There 
 he stood, confounded and aghast. Nor indeed was his 
 companion less disturbed. She remained udth her eyes 
 fixed on Ferdinand with an expression of fear, astonish- 
 ment, and distress impressed upon her features. At length 
 Ferdinand in some degree rallied, and he followed the first 
 impulse of his mind, when mind indeed returned to him : 
 he moved to retire. 
 
 He had retraced half his steps, when a voice, if human 
 voice indeed it were that sent forth tones so full of choking 
 anguish, pronounced his name. 
 
 ' Captain Armine ! ' said the voice. 
 
 How he ti'cmbled, yet mechanically obedient to liis first 
 impulse, he still proceeded to the door. 
 
 ' Ferdinand ! ' said the voice. 
 
 He stopped, he turned, she waved her hand wildly, and 
 
 V 2
 
 324 HENRIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 then leaniii"' her arm on the table, buried her face in it. 
 Ferdinand walked to the table at which she was sitting ; 
 she heard his footstep near her, yet she neither looked np 
 nor spoke. At length he said, in a still yet clear voice, ' 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, her face still concealed, and speaking in a hushed 
 tone. Ferdinand made no reply, and there was another 
 pause, which Miss Temple broke. 
 
 ' I would that we were at least friends,' she said. The 
 tears came into Ferdinand's eyes when she said this, for 
 her tone, though low, was now sweet. 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, Miss Temple.' 
 
 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 in his turn averted 
 his eyes. 
 
 ' Our misery is, has been great,' she said in a firmer tone, 
 * but was it of my making ? ' 
 
 'The miserable can bear reproaches; do not spare mc. 
 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 the past: I wish not to dwell on it. I desire only to 
 express to you the interest I take in your welfai'c, my hope 
 that you may yet be happy. Tes ! you can be happy, 
 Ferdinand ; Ferdinand, for my sake you will be happy.'
 
 A LOVE STORY. 325 
 
 * Henrietta, if Henrietta I indeed may call yon, this 
 is worse than that death I curse myself for having es- 
 caped.' 
 
 ' No, Ferdinand, say not that. Exert yourself, only 
 exert yourself, bear up against irresistible fate. Your 
 cousin, everyone says she is so amiable ; surely ' 
 
 ' Fai'ewell, madam, I thank you for your counsel.' 
 
 *No, Ferdinand, you shall not go, jou shall not go, in 
 anger. Pardon me, pity me, I spoke for your sake, I spoke 
 for the best.' 
 
 'I, at least, vrill never be false,' said Ferdinand with 
 energy. ' It shall not be said of me that I broke vows 
 consecrated by the finest emotions of our nature. No, no, 
 I liave had my dream ; it was biit a dream : but while I 
 live, I wnll live upon its sweet memory.' 
 
 ' Ah ! Ferdinand, why were you not frank ; why did you 
 conceal your situation from me?' 
 
 'No explanation of mine can change our respective situa- 
 tions,' said Ferdinand ; ' I content myself thei^efore by saj-ing 
 that it was not Miss Temple who had occasion to criticise 
 my conduct.' 
 
 ' You are bitter.' 
 
 ' The lady whom I injured, pardoned me. She is the 
 most generous, the most amiable of her sex ; if only in gra- 
 titude for all her surpassing goodness, I would never alfect 
 to offer her a heart w^hicli never can be hers. Kathcrine is 
 indeed more than woman. Amid my many and almost un- 
 paralleled sorrows, one of my keenest jDangs is the recollec- 
 tion that I should have clouded the life, even for a moment, 
 of that admirable person. Alas ! alas! that in all my misery 
 the only woman who sympathises Avith my wTctchedness 
 is the woman I have injured. And so delicate as well 
 as so generous! She would not even enquire the namo 
 of the individual who had occasioned our niulual deso- 
 lation.'
 
 326 HENRIETTA TEIMPLE : 
 
 ' Would that she knew all,' murmured Henrietta ; 'would 
 that I knew her.' 
 
 ' Tour acquaintance could not influence afiairs. My very- 
 affection for my cousin, the complete appreciation which I 
 now possess of her character, before so little estimated and 
 BO feebly comprehended by me, is the very circumstance that, 
 with my feehngs, would prevent our union. She may, I 
 am confident she will, yet be happy. I can never make her 
 so. Our engagement in old days was rather the result of 
 family arrangements than of any sympathy. I love her far 
 better now than I did then, and yet she is the very last 
 person in the world that I would marry. I trust, I believe, 
 that my conduct, if it have clouded for a moment her life, 
 will not ultimately, will not long obscure it ; and she has 
 every charm and virtue and accident of fortune to attract 
 the admiration and attention of the most favoured. Her 
 feelings towards me at any time could have been but mild 
 and calm. It is a mere abuse of terms to style such senti- 
 ments love. But,' added he sarcastically, 'this is too deli- 
 cate a subject for me to dilate on to Miss Temple.' 
 
 ' Eor God's sake do not be so bitter,' she exclaimed ; and 
 then she added, in a voice half of anguish, half of tender- 
 ness, ' Let me never be taunted by those lips ! Ferdinand, 
 why cannot we be friends ? ' 
 
 ' Because we are more than friends. To me such a word 
 from your lips is mere mockery. Let us never meet. That 
 alone remains for us. Little did I suppose that we ever 
 should have met again. I go nowhere, I enter no single 
 house ; my visit here this morning was one of those whim- 
 sical vagaries which cannot be counted on. This old lady 
 indeed seems, somehow or other, connected with our des- 
 tiny. I believe I am greatly indebted to her,' 
 
 The page entered the room. 'Miss Temple,' said the 
 lad, ' my lady bid me say the duchess and Lord Montfort 
 were here,'
 
 A LOVE STORY. 327 
 
 Ferdinand started, and darting, almost "unconsciously, a 
 glance of fierce reproach at the miserable Henrietta, he 
 rushed, out of the room and made his escape from Bellair 
 House without re-entering the Kbrary. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 CONTAINING AN EVENING ASSEMBLY AT BELLAIR HOUSE. 
 
 Seated on an ottoman in the octagon Hbrary, occasionally 
 throwing a glance at her illuminated and crowded saloons, 
 or beckoning, with a fan almost as long as herself, to a dis- 
 tant guest. Lady Bellair received the woi'ld on the evening 
 of the day that had witnessed the strange rencontre between 
 Henrietta Temple and Ferdinand Armine. Her page, who 
 stood at the library-door in a new fancy dress, received the 
 announcement of the company from the other servants, and 
 himself communicated the information to his mistress. 
 
 * Mr. MiUion de Stockville, my lady,' said the page. 
 
 ' Hem ! ' said her ladyship, rather gruffly, as, with no very 
 amiable expression of countenance, she bowed, with her 
 haughtiest dignity, to a rather common-looking personage 
 in a gorgeously-embroidered waistcoat. 
 
 ' Lady Ionia Colonnade, my lady.' 
 
 Lady Bellaii* bestowed a smiling nod on this fair and 
 classic dame, and even indicated, by a movement of her fan, 
 that she might take a seat on her ottoman. 
 
 ' Sir RatclifTe and Lady Ai'mine, my lady, and !RIis3 
 Grandison.' 
 
 ' Dear, good people ! ' exclaimed Lady Bellair, ' how late 
 you are ! and where is your wicked son ? There, go into 
 the next room, go, go, and see the wonderful man. Lady 
 Ionia, you must know Lady Armine ; she is like you ; she 
 is one of my favourites. Now then, there all of you go
 
 328 HENRIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 togetlier. I "VAall not have anybody stay here except my 
 niece. This is my niece,' Lady Bellair added, pointing to 
 a young lady seated by her side ; ' I give this party for 
 her.' 
 
 * General Faneville, my lady.' 
 
 ' Ton are very late,' said Lady Bellair. 
 
 'I dined at Lord Rochfort's,' said the general, bowing. 
 
 ' Rochfort's ! Oh ! where are they ? where are the 
 Rochforts ? they ought to be here. I must, I will sec 
 them. Do you think Lady Rochfort wants a nui'sery 
 governess ? Because I have a charming person who woiild 
 just suit her. Gro and find her out. General, and enquire ; 
 and if she do not want one, 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 darhng ! 
 sit by me. I sent Lady Ionia away, because I determined 
 to keep this place for you. I give this party entirely in 
 your honour, so you ought to sit here. You are a good 
 man,' she continued, addressing Mr. Temple; 'but I can't 
 love you so 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. Montgomery appeared more gorgeous than ever. The 
 sjilendour of her sweeping train almost required a page to 
 support it ; she held a bouquet which might have served 
 for the centre-piece of a dinner- table. A slender youth, 
 rather distinguished in appearance, simply dressed, with a 
 rose-bud just twisted into his black coat, but whose person 
 distilled odours whose essence might have exhausted a 
 conservatory, lounged at her side. 
 
 ' May I have the honour to present to your ladyship Lord
 
 A LOVE STOEY. 329 
 
 Catcliimwliocan,' breatlied forth Mrs. Montgomery, exult- 
 ing in her companion, perhaps in her conquest. 
 
 Lady Bellair gave a short and ungracious nod. Mrs, 
 Montgomery recognised Mr. and Miss Temple. ' There, 
 go, go,' said Lady Bellair, interrupting her, 'nobody must 
 stop here ; go and sec the ^vonderful man in the next 
 room.' 
 
 ' Lady Bellair is so strange,' whimpered Mrs. Mont- 
 gomery, in an apologetical whisper to Miss Temple, and she 
 moved away, covering her retreat by the graceful person of 
 Lord Catchimwhocan. 
 
 ' Some L-ish guardsman, I suppose,' said Lady Bellair. 
 ' I never heard of him ; 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 the last word. ' I will ask him for Thursday 
 and Saturday. I think I must have known his grand- 
 father. I must tell him not to go about with that hori'id 
 woman. She is so very fine, and she uses musk ; she puis 
 me in mind of the Queen of Sheba,' said the little lady, 
 laughing, ' all precious stones and frankincense. I quite 
 hate her.' 
 
 ' I thought she was q^iitc one of your favourites. Lady 
 Bellair?' said Henrietta Temple, rather maliciously. 
 
 ' A Bath favourite, my dear ; a Bath favourite. I wear 
 my old bonnets at Bath, and use my new friends ; but in 
 town I have old friends and new dresses.' 
 
 ' Lady Fi'cderick Berrington, my lady.' 
 
 * Oh ! my dear Lady Frederick, noAV I 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 will taste her ; there, sit down, sit by her, 
 and talk to her, and make love to licr.' 
 
 'Lady Womaudevillc, my lady.'
 
 330 HENRIETTA TEIVIPLE : 
 
 * Ah ! slie will do for tlie lord ; slie loves a lord. My 
 dear lady, you come so late, and yet I am always so glad to 
 see you. I have such a charming frieuvd for you, the hand- 
 somest, most fashionable, witty person, quite captivating, 
 and his grandfather was one of my dearest friends. What 
 is his name ? what is his name ? Lord Catchimwhocan. 
 Mind, I introduce you to 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 the ottoman. 
 
 ' Is the duchess here ? ' enquired Henrietta, as she shook 
 hands with him. 
 
 ' And Isabella,' he replied. Henrietta rose, and taking 
 his arm, bid adieu to Lady Bellair. 
 
 ' God bless you,' said her ladyship, with great emphasis. 
 'I will not have you speak to that odious Mrs. Floyd, mind.' 
 "When Lord Montfort and Henrietta succeeded in dis- 
 covering the duchess, she was in the conservatory, which 
 was gaily illuminated with coloured lamps among the 
 shrubs. Her grace was conversing with cordiahty with a 
 Jady of very prepossessing appearance, and in whom the 
 traces of a beauty once distinguished were indeed still con- 
 siderable, and her companion, an extremely pretty person, 
 in the very bloom of girlhood. Lord Montfort and Hen- 
 rietta were immediately introduced to these ladies, as Lady 
 Armine and Miss Grandison, After the scene of the morn- 
 ing, it was not easy to deprive Miss Temple of her equa- 
 nimity ; after that shock, no incident connected with the 
 Armine family could be surprising ; she was even desirous 
 of becoming acquainted with Miss Grandison, and she con- 
 gratulated herself upon the opportunity which had so 
 speedily offered itself to gratify her wishes. The duchess 
 was perfectly delighted -with Lady Armine, whose manners
 
 A LOVE STOKY, 33 i 
 
 were fascinating ; between the families there was some 
 connection of blood, and Lady Armine, too, had always 
 retained a lively sense of the old duke's services to her son. 
 Henrietta had even to listen to enquiries made after Ferdi- 
 nand, and she learnt that he was slowly recovering from an 
 almost fatal illness, that he could not endure the fatigues of 
 society, and that he was even living at an hotel for the sake 
 of qmet. Henrietta watched the countenance of Katherino, 
 as Lady Armine gave this information. It was serious, but 
 not disturbed. Her grace did not separate from her new 
 friends the whole of the evening, and they parted with a 
 mutually expressed wish that they might speedily and often 
 meet. The duchess pronounced Lady Armine the most 
 charming person she had ever met; wliile, on the other 
 hand. Miss Grandisou was warm in her admiration of 
 Hem-ietta Temple and Lord Montfort, whom she thought 
 quite worthy even of so rare a prize. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 COKTAINING A VERT IMPORTANT COMIHINICATION. 
 
 Between the unexpected meeting with Captain Armino in 
 the morning and the evening assembly at Bellair House, a 
 communication had been made by Miss Temple to Lord 
 !Montfort, which ought not to be quite unnoticed. She had 
 returned home with his mother and himself, and her silence 
 and depression had not escaped him. Soon after their 
 arrival they were left alone, 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 had not detected her suppressed agitation.
 
 332 HENEIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 'Dearest Digby,' she continued, 'you are so generous 
 and so kind, that I ought to feel no reluctance in speaking 
 to you upon this subject ; and yet it pains nie 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 frankness which so much delights 
 me.' 
 
 ' Let your thoughts recur to the most pcainful 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 circum- 
 stance connected with that unhappy event should be un- 
 known to you, I wished originally that you should know 
 all. I have a thousand times since regretted that your 
 consideration for my feelings should ever have occasioned 
 an imperfect confidence between us ; and something has 
 occu-rred to-day which makes me lament it bitterly.' 
 
 ' N"o, no, dearest Henrietta ; you feel too keenly,' said 
 Lord Montfort. 
 
 ' Indeed, Digby, it is so,' said Henrietta very mourn- 
 fully. 
 
 ' Speak, then, dearest Henrietta.' 
 
 ' It is necessary that you should know the name of that 
 person who once exercised an influence over my feelings, 
 Avhich I never affected to disguise to you.' 
 
 ' Is it indeed necessary? * enquii^d Lord Montfort. 
 
 ' It is for my happiness,' replied Henrietta. 
 
 ' Then, indeed, I am anxious to learn it.' 
 
 ' He is in this coimtry,' said Henrietta, * he is in tliis 
 town ; he may be in the same room with you to-morrow j 
 he has been in the same room with me even this day.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! ' said Lord Montfort. 
 
 ' He bears a name not unknown to you,' said Hen-
 
 A LOVE STORY. 333 
 
 rief(a, 'a name, too, tliat I must teach myself to mention, 
 and 3'et ' 
 
 Lord Montfort rose and took a pencil and a sheet of 
 paper from the table, 'Write it,' he said in a kind tone. 
 
 Henrietta took the peneil, and wrote, 
 
 'Armine.' 
 
 ' The son of Sir Ratchffe ? ' said Lord Montfort. 
 
 ' The same,' replied Henrietta. 
 
 ' You heard then of him last night ? ' enquired her com- 
 panion, 
 
 ' Even so ; of that, too, I was about to speak.' 
 
 ' I am aware of the connection of Mr. Glastonbury with 
 the Armine family,' said Lord ilontfort, quietly. 
 
 There was a dead pause. At length Lord Montfort said, 
 ' Is there anything you wish me to do ? ' 
 
 ' Much,' said Henrietta. ' Dearest Digby,' she continued, 
 after a moment's hesitation, ' do not misinterpret me ; my 
 heart, if such a heart be worth possessing, is yours. I can 
 never forget who solaced me in my misery ; I can never 
 forgot all your delicate tenderness, Digby. Would that I 
 could make a return to you more worthy of all your good- 
 ness ; but if the grateful 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 your happiness that I can alone tliiiik,' he murmured. 
 
 ' Now let me tell you all,' said Henrietta, with desperate 
 firmness. ' I have done this person great injustice.' 
 
 ' Hah ! ' said Lord Montfort. 
 
 ' It cuts me to tiio heart,' said Henrietta. 
 
 'You have then misconceived his conduct?' enquired 
 Lord Montfort. 
 
 ' Utterly.' 
 
 'It is indeed a terrible situation for you,' said Lord 
 Montfort; 'for all of us,' he added, in a lower tone. 
 
 * No, Digby ; not fur all uf us ; not even for myself; for
 
 334 HENEIETTA TEIVIPLE : 
 
 if you are liappy I will be. But for him, yes ! I will not 
 conceal it from you, I feel for him.' 
 
 ' Tour 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 not desert me in 
 this moment of trial. It is for support I speak ; it is for 
 consolation. We are bound together by ties the purest, the 
 holiest. Who shall sever them ? JSTo ! Digby, we will be 
 happy ; but I am interested in the destiny of this unhappy 
 person. Tou, you can assist me in rendering it more 
 serene ; in making him, perhaps, not less happy than our- 
 selves.' 
 
 ' I would spare no labour,' said Lord Montfort. 
 
 ' Oh, that you would not ! ' exclaimed Miss Temple. 
 ' Tou are so good, so noble ! You would sympathise even 
 with him. What other man in your situation would ? ' 
 
 ' What can be done ? ' 
 
 ' Listen : he was engaged to his cousin even on that fatal 
 day when we first met ; a lady with every charm and 
 advantage that one would think could make a man happy ; 
 young, noble, and beautiful ; of a most amiable and generous 
 disposition, as her subsequent conduct has proved ; and of 
 great wealth.' 
 
 ' Miss Grandison ? ' said Lord Montfort. 
 
 ' Yes : his parents looked forward to their union with 
 delight, not altogether unmixed with anxiety. The Armines, 
 with all their pruicely possessions, are greatly embarrassed 
 from the conduct of the last head of their house. Fer- 
 dinand himself has, I grieve to say, inherited too much of 
 his grandfather's imprudent spirit ; his affairs, I fear, are 
 terribly involved. When I knew him, papa was, as you 
 are aware, a poor man. This marriage would have cured 
 all ; my Digby, I wish it to take place.'
 
 A LOVE STOKY. 335 
 
 * How can we effect it ? ' asked Lord Montfort. 
 
 'Become his friend, dear Digbj. I always tliink 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 in profound meditation. At length he said, 
 ' Rest assured, Henrietta, that to secure your happiness 
 nothing shall ever be wanting on my part. I will see Mr. 
 Glastonbury on this subject. At present, dearest, let us 
 think of lighter things.' 
 
 CHAPTER Vm. 
 
 WHICH IS RATHER STRANGE. 
 
 It was on the morning after the assembly at Bellair House 
 that Ferdinand was roused from his welcome slumbers, 
 for he had passed an almost sleepless night, by his ser- 
 vant bringing him a note, and telling him that it had been 
 left by a lady in a carriage. He opened it, and read as 
 follows : — 
 
 ' Silly, silly Captain Armine ! why did you not come to 
 my Yauxhall last night ? I wanted to present you to the 
 fairest damsel in the world, who has a great fortune too ; 
 but that you don't care about. When are you going to be 
 married ? Miss Grandison looked cliai-miRg, but disconso- 
 late without her kulght. Your mother is an angel, and 
 
 the Duchess of is quite in love with her. Your father, 
 
 too, is a worthy man. I love your family 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. Has charming Lady Armine got a page ? I have 
 one that would just suit her. He teases my poor squirrel 
 eo that I am obhged to turn him away ; but ho is a real
 
 336 EENRIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 treasure. That fine lady, Mrs. Montgomery Floyd, -woald 
 give her ears for liim ; but I love your mother much more, 
 and so she shall have him. 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 in Brook-street, and save my mother from this 
 threatened infliction. Heigho ! Day after day, and each 
 more miserable than the other. How will this end ? ' 
 
 When Ferdinand arrived in Brook-sti^eet, he went up 
 stairs without being announced, and found in the drawing- 
 room, besides his mother and Katherine, the duchess. 
 Lord Montfort, and Henrietta Temple. 
 
 The young ladies were in their riding-habits. Heni'ietta 
 appeared before him, the same Henrietta whom he had 
 met, for the first time, in the pleasaunce at Armine. 
 Retreat was impossible. Her grace received Ferdinand 
 cordially, and reminded him of old days. Henrietta bowed, 
 but she was sitting at some distance with Miss Grandison, 
 looking at some work. Her occupation covered her con- 
 fusion. Lord Montfort came forward Avith extended hand. 
 
 ' I have the pleasure of meeting an old friend,' said his 
 lordship. 
 
 Ferdinand just touched his lordship's finger, and bowed 
 rather stiflfly ; then, turning to his mother, he gave her 
 Lady Bellair's note, * It concerns you more than myself,' 
 he observed. 
 
 ' You were not at Lady Bellair's last night, Captain 
 Armine,' said her grace. 
 
 ' 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 comes near us.' 
 
 ' He goes every day to the British Museum.' 
 
 'I wish he would take me,' said Katherine. 'I have
 
 A LOVE STORY. 337 
 
 never been there. Have jou ? ' she euquii-ed, turning to 
 Henrietta. 
 
 'I am ashamed to say never,' rejolied Henrietta. ' Ifc 
 seems to me that London is the onlj city of which I know 
 nothing.' 
 
 ' Ferdinand,' said Katherine, * I wish you would go with 
 us to the Museum some day. Miss Temple would like to 
 go. You know Miss Temple,' she added, as if she of course 
 supposed he had not that pleasure. 
 
 Ferdinand bowed; Lord Montfort came forwai'd, and 
 turned the conversation to Egy]itian antiquities. When a 
 quarter of an hour had passed, Ferdinand thought that he 
 might now withdraw. 
 
 ' Do you dine at home, Katherine, to-day ? ' he enquired. 
 
 Miss Grandlson 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 bo very happy, but I have some business to 
 attend to.' 
 
 'Dear Ferdinand, that is what you always say. You 
 really appear to me to be the most busy person in the 
 world.' 
 
 ' Pray come. Captain Armiue,' said Lord Montfort. 
 
 * Thank you ; ifc is really not in my power.' IL's hat 
 was in his hand ; he was begging her grace to bear Lis 
 compliments to the duke, when Henrietta rose from her 
 scat, and, coming up to him, said, ' Do, Captain Arminc, 
 come with us ; I ask you as a favour.' 
 
 That voice ! Oh! it came o'er his car ' lilce the sweet 
 south ; ' it unmanned him quite. Ho scarcely knew where 
 he was. He trembled from head to foot. His colour 
 deserted him, and the unlucky hat fell to the ground j and 
 
 Z
 
 338 HENEIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 yet she stood before him, awaiting his replj, calm, quite 
 calm, serious, apparently a little anxious. The duchess 
 was in earnest conversation with his mother. Lord Mont- 
 fort had walked up to Miss Grandison, and was engaged 
 in arranging a pattern for her. Ferdinand and Henrietta 
 were quite unobserved. He looked up ; he caught her 
 eye ; and then he whispered, ' 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 admit no doubt, ' Captain Armine 
 will ride with us ; ' and she seated herself by Lady Ai^mine. 
 
 The expedition was a little delayed by Ferdinand having 
 to send for his horse ; the others had, in the meantime, 
 arrived. Yet this half-hour, by some contrivance, did at 
 length disappear. Lord Montfort continued talking to 
 Miss Grandison. Henrietta remained seated by Lady 
 Armine. Ferdinand revolved a great question in his mind, 
 and it was this : Was Lord Montfort aware of the intimate 
 acquaintance between himself and ]\Iiss Temple ? And 
 what was the moving principle of her present conduct ? 
 Ee conjured up a thousand reasons, but none satisfied 
 him. His curiosity was excited, and, instead of regretting 
 his extracted promise to join the cavalcade, he rejoiced 
 that an opportunity was thus afforded him of perhaps 
 solving a problem in the secret of which he now began to 
 feel extremely interested. 
 
 And yet in truth when Ferdinand found himself really 
 mounted, and riding by the side of Henrietta Temple once 
 more, for Lord Montfort was very impartial in his atten- 
 tions to his fair companions, and Ferdinand continually 
 found himself next to Henrietta, he really began to think 
 the world was bewitched, and was almost sceptical whether 
 he was or was not Ferdinand Armine. The identity of his 
 companion too was so complete : Henrietta Temple in her 
 riding-habit was the very image most keenly impressed
 
 A LOVE STORY. 3 3D 
 
 ■upon his memory. He looked at her and stared at her 
 ■with a face of curious perplexity. She did not, indeed, 
 Bpeak much ; the conversation was always general, and 
 chiefly maintained by Lord Montfort, who, though usually 
 silent and reserved, made on this occasion successful efforts 
 to be amusing. His attention to Ferdinand too was re- 
 markable ; it was impossible to resist such genuine and 
 unaffected kindness. It smote Ferdinand's heart that he 
 had received his lordship's first advances so ungraciously. 
 Compunction rendei^ed him now doubly courteous ; he was 
 even once or twice almost gay. 
 
 The day was as fine as a clear sky, a warm sun, and a 
 western breeze could render it. Tempted by so much enjoy- 
 ment, their ride was long. It was late, much later than 
 they expected, when they returned home by the green lanes 
 of pretty Willesden, and the Park was quite empty when 
 they emerged from the Edgware-road into Oxford-street. 
 
 ' Now the best thing we can all do is to dine in St. 
 James'-square,' said Lord 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. 
 What say 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 to desert us now, after all our adven- 
 tures.' 
 
 * Really you are very kind, but I never dine out.' 
 
 ' Dine out ! What a phrase ! You -will not meet a 
 human being; perhaps not even my father. If you will 
 not come, it will spoil eveiytliing.' 
 
 ' I cannot dine in a frock,' said Ferdinand. 
 
 * I shall,' said Lord Montfort, * and these ladies must 
 dine in their habits, I suspect.' 
 
 ' Oh ! certainly, certainly,' said the ladies. 
 
 * Do come, Ferdinand,' said Katherine. 
 
 z2
 
 340 HENRIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 ' I ask you as a favour,' said Henrietta, turning to Mm 
 and speaking in a low voice. 
 
 ' Well,' said Ferdinand, witli a sigli. 
 
 ' TLiat is well,' said Montfort ; ' now let us trot tlirougli 
 the Park, and the groom can call in Grosvenor-square and 
 Brook-street, and gallop after us. This is amusing, is 
 it not?' 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 WHICH IS ON THE WHOLE ALMOST AS PERPLEXING AS THE 
 
 PRECEDING ONE. 
 
 When Perdinand found himself dining in St. James'- 
 square, in the very same room where he had passed so 
 many gay hours during that boyish month of glee which 
 preceded his first joinmg his regiment, and then looked 
 opposite him and saw Henrietta Temple, it seemed to him 
 that, by some magical process or other, his life was acting 
 over again, and the order of the scenes and characters had, 
 by some strange mismanagement, got confused. Yet he 
 yielded himself up to the excitement which had so un- 
 expectedly influenced him ; he was inflamed by a species of 
 wild delight which he could not understand, nor stop to 
 analyse ; and when the duchess retired with the young 
 ladies to their secret conclave in the drawing-room, she 
 said, * I like Captain Armine very much ; he is so full of 
 spirit and imagination. When we met him this morning, 
 do you know, I thought him rather stiS" and fine. I 
 regretted the bright boyish flow that I so well recollected, 
 but I see I was mistaken.' 
 
 ' Ferdinand is much changed,' said Miss Grandison. 
 ' He was once the most brilliant person, I think, that ever 
 lived : almost too brilliant ; everybody by him seemed so 
 tame. Cut since his illness he has q^iite changed. I havo
 
 A LOVE STORY. 341 
 
 scarcely heard liim speak or seen Llm smile these six 
 months. There is not in tho 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 
 exactly that. Poor Ferdinand ! he is to be pitied. I fear 
 he will never be happy again.' 
 
 ' ]\Iiss Grandison should hardly say that,' said tho 
 duchess, ' if report speaks truly.' 
 
 Katherine was about to reply, but checked herself. 
 
 Henrietta rose from, her seat rather suddenly, and askod 
 Katherine to touch the piano. 
 
 The duchess took up the ' Morning Post ! ' 
 
 ' Poor Ferdinand ! he used to sing once so beautifully, 
 too ! ' said Katherine 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 Miss Grandison, ' Dearest Miss Temple, the world is 
 in error with respect to myself and my cousin ; and yet I 
 ought not to say to you what I have not thought 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 will respect your secret.' 
 
 The gentlemen at this moment entered tho room, and 
 interrujited this interesting conversation. 
 
 ' You must not quit the instrument, Miss Grandison,*
 
 342 HENRIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 said Lord Montfort, seating Himself by her side. Ferdi- 
 nand fell into conversation -with the duchess ; and Miss 
 Temple was the amiable victim of his grace's passion for 
 ecarte.' 
 
 ' Captain Armine is a most agreeable person,' said Lord 
 Montfort. 
 
 Miss Grandison rather stared. ' We were just speaking 
 of Ferdinand,' she repUed, 'and I was lamenting his sad 
 change.' 
 
 ' Severe illness, illness so severe as his, must for the 
 moment change anyone ; we shall soon see him himself 
 again.' 
 
 ' Never,' said Miss Grandison mournfully. 
 
 ' You must inspire him,' said Lord Montfort. ' I per- 
 ceive you have great influence with him.' 
 
 ' I give Lord Montfort credit for much acuter percep- 
 tion than that,' said Miss Grandison. 
 
 Their eyes met : even Lord Montfort's dark vision shrank 
 before the searching glance of Miss Grandison. It con- 
 veyed to him that his purjDOse was 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 general invitation, and was frequently in the habit 
 of paying an evening visit when the family were dis- 
 engaged. When he found Ferdinand, Henrietta, and 
 Katherine, all assembled together, and in so strange a garb, 
 his perplexity was wondrous. The tone of comparative 
 ease, too, with which Miss Temple addi'essed him, com- 
 pleted his confusion. He began to suspect that some 
 critical explanation had taken place. He looked around 
 for information. 
 
 ' We have all been riding,' said Lord Montfort. 
 
 ' So I perceive,' said Glastonbury.
 
 A LOVE STOKY. 343 
 
 * And as we were too late for dinner, took refuge here,' 
 continued Ms lordship. 
 
 ' I observe it,' said Glastonbuiy. 
 
 ' Miss Grandison is an admirable musician, sir.' 
 
 * She is an admirable lady in every respect,' said Glaston- 
 bury. 
 
 'Perhaps you will join her in some canzonette; I am so 
 stupid as not to be able to sing. I wish I could induce 
 Captain Arinine.' 
 
 ' He has left off singing,' said Glastonbury mournfully. 
 ' But Miss Temple ? ' added Glastonbury, bowing to that 
 lady. 
 
 ' Miss Temple has left off singing too,' said Lord Mont- 
 fort, quietly. 
 
 ' Come, Mr. Glastonbury,' said the duchess, ' time was 
 when you and I have sung together. Let us try to shame 
 these young folks.' So sajdng her grace seated herself at 
 the piano, and the gratified Glastonbury summoned all his 
 energies to accompany her. 
 
 Lord Montfort seated himself by Ferdinand. ' Ton have 
 been severely ill, I am sorry to hear.' 
 
 ' Yes ; I have been rather shaken.' 
 
 ' This spring a\411 bring you round.' 
 
 ' So everyone tells me. I cannot say I feel its beneficial 
 influence.' 
 
 'Ton should,' said Lord Montfort. *At our age avo 
 ought to rally quickly.' 
 
 * Yes ! Time is the great physician. I cannot say I havo 
 much more faith in 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 her eyes off the cards. 'Whatever is, 
 
 is best.'
 
 344 HENRIETTA TE:MPLE : 
 
 ' Tliafc Is not my creed, Miss Temple,' said Ferdinand, 
 and lie rose and was about to retire. 
 
 ' Must you go ? Let us all do something to-morrow ! ' 
 said Lord Moiitfort, interclianging a glance witli Henrietta. 
 ' The British Museum ; Miss Grrandison wishes to go to 
 the British Museum, Pray come -with. u.s.' 
 
 ' You are very good, but ' 
 
 ' Well ! I will write you a little note in the morning and 
 tell you our plans,' 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 long remain. 
 
 ' To-day has been a day of trial,' said Henrietta, as she 
 was about to bid Lord Montfort farewell. ' What do you 
 think of affairs ? I saw you speaking to Katherine. What 
 do you think ? ' 
 
 ' I think Ferdinand Armine is a formidable rival. Do 
 you know I am rather jealous ? ' 
 
 ' Digby ! can you be ungenerous ? ' 
 
 ' My sweet Henrietta, pardon my levity. I spoke in the 
 merest playfulness, Nay,' he continued, for she seemed 
 really hurt, ' say good night very sweetly.' 
 
 ' Is there any hope ? ' said Henrietta. 
 
 ' All's well that ends well,' said Lord Montfort, smiling ; 
 ' God bless you.' 
 
 Glastonbury was about to retii'e, when Lord Montfort 
 returned and asked him to come up to his lordship's own 
 apartments, as he wished to show him a curious antique 
 carvino". 
 
 ' You seemed rather sur^orised at the guests you found 
 here to-night,' said Lord Montfort when they were alone. 
 
 Glastonbury looked a little confused. ' It was certainly 
 
 I
 
 A LOYE STORY. 345 
 
 a curious meeting, all tilings considered,' continued Lord 
 Montfort : ' Henrietta lias never concealed anything of tlie 
 past from mc, but I have always wished to spare her details. 
 I told her this morning I should sjicak to you upon the 
 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 ; ' never- 
 theless, it must be told. When did you first meet Miss 
 Temple ? ' 
 
 ' I shall never forget it,' said Glastonbury, sighing and 
 moving very uneasily in his chair. ' I took her for Miss 
 Grandison.' And Glastonbury now entered into a com- 
 plete history of everything that had occurred. 
 
 ' It is a strange, a wonderful story,' said Lord ]\Iontfort, 
 'and you communicated everything to Miss Grandison ?' 
 
 'Everything but the name of her rival. To that she 
 would not listen. It was not just, she said, to one so 
 unfortunate and so unhappy.' 
 
 ' She seems an admhable person, that ]Mis3 Grandison,' 
 said Lord Montfort. 
 
 ' She is indeed as near an angel as anything earthly can 
 be,' said Glastonbury. 
 
 ' Then it is still a secret to the parents ? ' 
 ' Thus she would have it,' said Glastonbury. ' She 
 clings to them, who love her indeed as a daughter ; and 
 she shrank from the desolation that was preparing for 
 them.' 
 
 ' Poor girl ! ' said Lord jMoutfort, ' and poor Armine ! 
 By heavens, I pity him from the bottom of my licart.' 
 
 ' If you had seen him as I have,' said Glastonbury, 
 
 ' wilder than the wildest Bedlamite ! It was an awful siHit.' 
 
 ' Ah ! the heart, the heart,' said Lord Montfort : ' it is 
 
 a delicate organ, Mr. Glastonbury. And think you his 
 
 father and mother suspect nothing ?'
 
 346 HENEIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 ' I know not wliat they think,' said Glastonbury, ' but 
 tliey must soon know all.' And lie 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 ? ' said Lord ]!(Iontfort ; ' cannot we again bring 
 together these young and parted spirits ? ' 
 
 ' It is my only hope,' said Glastonbury, ' and yet I some- 
 times deem it a forlorn one.' 
 
 'It is the sole desire of Henrietta,' said Lord Montfort ; 
 ' cannot you assist us ? Will you enter into this con- 
 spiracy of affection with us ? ' 
 
 ' I want no spur to such a righteous work,' said Glaston- 
 bury, 'but I cannot conceal from myself the extreme 
 difficulty. Ferdinand is the most impetuous of human 
 beings. His passions are a whirlwind ; his volition more 
 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 the temperament of Miss Grandison, she has 
 heroic qualities. Oh ! what have I not seen that admirable 
 young lady endure ! Alas ! my Digby, my dear lord, few 
 passages of this terrible story are engraven on my memory 
 more deeply than the day when I revealed to her the fatal 
 secret. Yet, and chiefly for her sake, it was my duty.' 
 
 ' It was at Armine ? ' 
 
 * At Armine. I seized an opportunity when we were 
 alone together, and without fear of being disturbed. We 
 had gone to view an old abbey in the neighbourhood. We 
 were seated among its ruins, when I took her hand and 
 endeavoured to prepare her for the fatal intelligence. " All 
 is not right with Ferdinand," she immediately said ; "there 
 is some mystery. I have long suspected it." She listened 
 to my recital, softened as much as I could for her sake, in
 
 A LOVE STORY. 347 
 
 silence. Yet her paleness I never can forget. She looked 
 like a saint in a niche. When I had finished, she whis- 
 pered me to leave 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 was twilight, in 
 a state of mournful suspense that I recall even now with 
 anguish. 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 her hand and pressed it, and 
 led her to the carriage. When I approached our unhappy 
 home, she begged me to make her excuses to the family, 
 and for two or three days we saw her no more. At length 
 she sent for me, and told me she had been revolving all 
 these sad circumstances in her mind, and she felt for others 
 more even than for herself; that she forgave Ferdinand, 
 and pitied him, and would act towards him as a sister ; 
 that her heart was distracted with the thoughts of the 
 unhappy young lady, whose name she would never know, 
 but that if by her assistance I could effect their union, 
 means should not be wanting, though their soui'ce mast be 
 concealed ; that for the sake of her aunt, to whom she is 
 indeed passionately attaclied, she would keep the secret, 
 imtil it could no longer be maintained ; and that in the 
 meantime it was to be hoped that health might be restored 
 to her cousin, and Providence in some way interfere in 
 favour of this unhappy family.' 
 
 ' Angelic creature ! ' said Lord Montfort. ' So young, 
 too; I think so beautiful. Good God! with such a heart 
 what could Armine desire ? ' 
 
 'Alas!' said Glastonbury, and he shook his head. ' Tou 
 know not the love of Ferdinand Ai-mine for Henrietta 
 Temple. It is a -wild and fearful thing ; it passeth human 
 comprehension . ' 
 
 Lord Montfort leant back in his chair, and covered his 
 face with his hands. After some minutes he looked up,
 
 348 HENRIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 and said in liis usual placid tone, and with an unruffled 
 brow, ' Will you take anything before you go, Mr. Glaston- 
 bury ? ' 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 IS WHICH CAPTAIN AEMINE INCREASES HIS KNOWLEDGE OF THE 
 VALUE Oi' MONEY, AND ALSO BECOMES AWARE OF THE ADVAN- 
 TAGE OF AN ACQUAINTANCE WHO BURNS COALS. 
 
 Ferdinand returned to his hotel in no very good humour, 
 revolving in his mind Miss Temj^le's advice about optimism. 
 What could she mean ? Was there really a conspiracy to 
 make him marry his cousin, and Avas Miss Temple one of 
 tlie conspirators ? He could scarcely believe this, and yet 
 it was the most probable deduction from all that had been 
 said and done. He had lived to witness siich strange 
 occurrences, that no event ought now to astonish him. 
 Only to think that he had been sitting quietly in a drawing- 
 room with Henrietta Temple, and she avowedly engaged to 
 be married to another person, who was present ; and that 
 he, Ferdinand Armine, should be the selected companion 
 of their morning ride, and be calmly invited to contribute 
 to their daily amusement by his social presence ! "What 
 next ? If this were not an insult, a gross, flagrant, and 
 unendurable outrage, he was totally at a loss to comprehend 
 what was meant by ofiended pride. Optimism, indeed ! 
 He felt far more inclined to embrace the faith of the 
 Manichee ! And what a fool was he to have submitted 
 to such a despicable, such a degrading situation ! What 
 infinite weakness not to be able to resist her influence, the 
 influence of a woman who had betrayed him ! Yes ! be- 
 trayed him. He had for some period reconciled his mind 
 to entertain the idea of Henrietta's treachery to him.
 
 A LOVE STORY. 349 
 
 Softened by time, atoned for by long suffering, extenuated 
 by the constant sincerity of his purpose, his original im- 
 prudence, to use his OAvn phrase in describing his miscon- 
 duct, had gradually ceased to figure as a valid and sufficient 
 cause for her behaviour fo him. When he recollected hovr 
 he had loved this woman, what he had sacrificed for her, 
 and what misery he had in consequence entailed upon 
 himself and all those dear to him ; when he contrasted his 
 present perilous situation with her triumphant prosperity, 
 and i^emembered that while he had devoted himself to a 
 love which proved false, she who had deserted him was, by 
 a capi'icc of fortune, absolutely rewarded for her fickleness ; 
 he was enraged, he was disgusted, he despised himself for 
 hvaing been her slave ; he began even to hate her. Terrible 
 moment when we first dare to view with feelings of repug- 
 nance the being that our soul has long idolised ! It is the 
 most awful of revelations. We start back in horror, as if 
 in the act of profanation. 
 
 Other annoyances^ however, of a less ethereal character, 
 awaited our hero on his return to his hotel. There he 
 found a letter from his lawyer, informing him that he could 
 no longer parry the determination of one of Captain Armine's 
 principal creditors to arrest him instantly for a consider- 
 able sum. Poor Ferdinand, mortified and harassed, with 
 his heart and spirit alike broken, he could scarcely refrain 
 from a groan. However, some step must be taken. Ho 
 drove Henrietta from his thoughts, and, endeavouring to 
 rally some of his old energy, revolved in his mind what 
 desperate expedient yet remained. 
 
 His sleep was broken by dreams of bailiffs, and a vague 
 idea of Henrietta Temple triumpln'ng in his misery; but ho 
 rose eai'ly, wrote a diplomatic note to his menacing creditor, 
 which he felt confident must gain him time, and then, 
 making a careful toilet, for when a man is going to try to 
 borrow money it is wise to look prosperous, he took hid
 
 350 EENEIETTA TE3IPLE : 
 
 y\'aj to a quarter of the town where lived a gentleman 
 ■with, -whose brother he had had some previous dealings at 
 Malta, and whose acquaintance he had made in England 
 in reference to them. 
 
 It was in that gloomy quarter called Golden-square, the 
 murky repose of which strikes so mysteriously on the 
 senses after the glittering bustle of the adjoining Regent- 
 street, that Captain Armine stopped before a noble yet 
 now dingy mansion, that in old and happier days might 
 probably have been inhabited by his grandfather, or some 
 of his gay friends, A brass plate on the door informed 
 the world that here resided ]\Iessrs. Morris and Levison, 
 follo-^ing the not very ambitious calling of coal merchants. 
 But if all the pursuers of that somewhat humble trade 
 could manage to deal in coals with the same dexterity as 
 Messrs. Morris and Levison, what very great coal mer- 
 cliants they would be ! 
 
 The ponderous portal obeyed the signal of the bell, and 
 apparently opened without any human means ; and Cap- 
 tain Armine, proceeding down a dark yet capacious passage, 
 opened a door, which invited him by an inscription on 
 ground glass that assured him he was entering the counting- 
 house. Here several clerks, ensconced within lofty walls of 
 the darkest and dullest mahogany, were busily employed ; 
 yet one advanced to an aperture in this fortification and 
 accepted the card which the visitor offered him. The clerk 
 surveyed the ticket with a peculiar glance ; and then, begging 
 the visitor to be seated, disappeared. He was not long 
 absent, but soon invited Ferdinand to follow him. Captain 
 Armine was ushered up a noble staircase, and into a saloon 
 that once was splendid. The ceiling was richly carved, 
 and there still might be detected the remains of its once 
 gorgeous embellishment in the faint forms of faded deities 
 and the traces of murky gilding. The walls of this apart- 
 ment were crowded with pictui^es, arranged, however, with
 
 A LOVE STORY. 351 
 
 little regard to taste, effect, or style. A sprawling copy 
 of Titian's Venus flanked a somewhat prim peeress by 
 Hoppner ; a landscape tLat smacked of Gainsborough was 
 the companion of a dauby moonlight, that must have 
 figured in the last exhibition ; and insipid Roman matrons 
 by Hamilton, and stifl' English heroes by Northcote, con- 
 trasted with a vast quantity of second-rate delineations of 
 the orgies of Dutch boors and portraits of favourite racers 
 and fancy dogs. The room was crowded with ugly furni- 
 ture of all kinds, very solid, and chiefly of mahogany ; 
 among which were not less than three cscritoii-es, to say 
 nothing of the huge horsehair sofas. A sideboard of Baby- 
 lonian proportions was crowned by three massive and 
 enormous silver salvers, and immense branch candlesticks 
 of the same precious metal, and a china punch-bowl which 
 might have suited the dwarf in Brobdignag. The floor was 
 covered with a faded Turkey carpet. But amid all this 
 solid splendour there were certain intimations of feminine 
 elegance in the veil of finely-cut pink paper which covered 
 tlie nakedness of the empty but highly-polished fire-place, 
 and in the hand-screens, which were profusely ornamented 
 with ribbon of the same hue, and one of which afforded a 
 most accurate if not picturesque view of Margate, while 
 the other glowed with a huge wreath of cabbage-roses and 
 jonquils. 
 
 Ferdinand was not long alone, and Mr. Levison, the 
 proprietor of all this splendour, entered. He was a short 
 stout man, with a grave but handsome countenance, a little 
 bald, but nevertheless with an elaborateness of raiment 
 which might better have become a younger man. He wore 
 a plum-coloured frock coat of the finest cloth ; his green 
 velvet waistcoat was guarded by a gold cbain, which would 
 liave been the envy of a new town council ; an immcnso 
 opal gleamed on the breast of his embroidered shirt ; and 
 his fingers were covered with very fine rings.
 
 352 HEXniETTA TESEPLE: 
 
 * Tour sarvant, Captin,' said Mr. Levison, and he placed 
 a chair for liis guest. 
 
 ' 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 as with you. By Jove, Levison, you must be 
 making an immense fortune.' 
 
 Mr. Levison shook his head, as he groaned out, ' I work 
 hard, Captin ; but times is terrible.' 
 
 ' Fiddlededee ! Come ! I want you to assist me a little, 
 old fellow. No humbug between us.' 
 
 * Oh ! ' groaned Mr. Levison, ' you could not come at a 
 worse time ; I don't know 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 ? ' sloAvly spoke Mr. Levison, 
 with an expression of misery. 
 
 ' Oh ! I want rather a tolerable sum, and that is the 
 truth ; but I only want it for a moment.' 
 
 ' It is not the time, 'tis the money,' said Mr. Levison. 
 ' You know me and my pardner, Captin, are always anxious 
 to do what we can to sarve you.' 
 
 ' Well, now you can do me a real seiwice, and, by Jove, 
 you shall never repent it. To the point; I must have 
 1,500Z.' 
 
 ' One thousand five hundred pounds ! ' exclaimed Mr. 
 Levison. ' 'Tayn't in the country.' 
 
 ' Humbug. It must be found. What is the use of all 
 this stuff with me ? I want 1,500?., and you must give it 
 me.' 
 
 ' I tell you what it is, Captin,' said Mr. Levison, leaning 
 over the back of a chair, and sjDeaking vnth. callous com- 
 posure ; ' I tell you what it is, mc and my pardner are very
 
 A LOVE STOEY. 353 
 
 willing always to assist you ; but we want to know wLon 
 the marriage is to come off, and that's the truth.' 
 
 ' Damn the marriage,' said Captain Ai-mine, rather stag- 
 gered, 
 
 ' There it is though,' said Mr. Levison, very quietly. 
 'You know, Captin, there is the arrears on that 'ere an- 
 nuity, three years next Michaelmas. I think it's Michael- 
 mas ; let me see.' So saying, Mr. Levason opened 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 Avill 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 the money. Why ! that's the raw, Captin, 
 With this here new bill annuities is nothink. Me and my 
 pardner don't do no annuities now. It's giving money 
 away ; 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.' 
 
 ' AVell now, Captin, when is this marriage to come off ? ' 
 
 ' Have I not told j-ou a thousand times, and ^lorris too, 
 that my cousin is not to marry until one year has passed 
 since my grandfather's death. It is barely a ^-car. But of 
 course, at this moment, of all others, I cannot afford to be 
 short,' 
 
 ' Very true, Captin ; and we are the men to sarve you, if 
 we could. But wo cannot. Kevcr 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's tlio 
 truth. There's that young Catchimwhocau, we ai'e in with 
 
 A A
 
 554 HENRIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 liim wery deep ; and now he has left the Fusileers and got 
 into Parliament, he don't care this for ns. If he would 
 only pay us, you should have the money ; 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 three hundred pound at his bankers, and he might 
 lend it us ; but we shall have to pay for it.' 
 
 I suppose so,' said Ferdinand. ' Well, three hundred.' 
 
 ' I have not got a shilling myself,' said Mr. Levison. 
 ' Young Touchemup left us in the lurch yesterday for 7501., 
 so help me, and never gave us no notice. Now, you are a 
 gentleman, Captin ; you never pay, but you always 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 ; ' I can depend on that.' 
 
 ' Well, that is five.' 
 
 'And you want fifteen hundred,' said Mr. Levison. 
 ' Well, me and my pardner always like to sarve you, and it 
 is very awkward certainly for you to want money at this 
 moment. But if you want to buy jewels, I can get 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 we must make it 7001. somehow or other, 
 and you must take the rest in coals.' 
 
 ' 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 to do with 800 Z. worth of coals ? '
 
 A lo\t; story. 355 
 
 ( 
 
 Lord ! My dear Captin, 800?. worth of coals is a mere 
 notliink. With your connection, you will get rid of them 
 in a morning. All you have got to do, you know, is to 
 give your friends an order on us, and we will let you have 
 cash at a Httle discount.' 
 
 ' Then you can let me have the cash now at a little dis- 
 count, or even a great ; I cannot get rid of 8001. worth of 
 coals.' 
 
 ' "Whj^, 'tayn't four hundred chaldron, Caj)tm,' rejoined 
 Mr. Levison. ' Three or four friends would do the thing. 
 Why, Baron Squash takes ten thousand chaldron of us 
 every year ; but he has such a knack, he gits the Clubs to 
 take them.' 
 
 ' Baron Squash, indeed ! Do you know whom you are 
 talking to, Dilr. Levison ? Do you think that I am going 
 to turn into a coal merchant ? your working partner, by 
 Jove ! No, sir ; give me the 700Z., 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 me have 
 the money, or will you not ? ' 
 
 ' Now, Captin, don't bo so high and mighty ! 'Tayn't 
 the way to do business. Me and my pardncr wish to sarve 
 you ; Ave does indeed. And if a hundred pound will be of 
 any use to you, you shall have it on your acceptance ; and 
 we won't be curious about any name that draws ; we won't 
 indeed.' 
 
 ' Well, !Mr. Levison,' said Ferdinand, rising, ' I see we 
 can do notliing to-day. The Lundred pounds would be of 
 no use to me. I will think over your proposition. Good 
 morning to you.' 
 
 ' Ah, do ! ' said Mr. Levison, bowing and opening the 
 door, ' do, Captin ; we wish to sarve you, we does indeed. 
 See how we behave about that arrears. Tliink of the 
 coals ; now do. Now for a bargin j come ! Come, Captin, 
 
 A A. 2
 
 356 HENEIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 I dare say now you could get us the business of the Junior 
 Sarvice Ckib ; and theu you shall have the seven hundred 
 on your acceptance for three months, at two shillings in 
 the pound ; come ! ' 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 IN WHICH CAPTAIX ARMINE UNEXPECTEDLY RESUMES HIS AC- 
 QUAINTANCE WITH LORD CATCHIMWHOCAN, WHO INTRODUCES 
 HDI 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 painied, of a brilliant green colour 
 picked out with a somewhat cream-coloured white, and 
 drawn by a showy Holstein horse of tawny tint, with a 
 flowing and milk-white tail and mane, and caparisoned in 
 harness almost as precious 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 Catchim- 
 whocan. * At the old work, eh ? Is " me and my pard- 
 ner" troublesome ? for your countenance is not very 
 I'adiant.' 
 
 ' By Jove, old fellow ! ' said Ferdinand, in a depressed 
 tone, * I am in a scrape, and also in a rage. Nothing is to 
 be done here.' 
 
 'Nevermind,' said his lordship; 'keep up your spii-its, 
 jump into my cab, and we will see how Ave can carry on the 
 war. I am only going to speak one word to " me and my 
 pardner." ' 
 
 So saying, his lordship skipped into the house as gay as 
 
 I 
 
 I
 
 A LOVE STORY. 357 
 
 a lark, although he had a bill for a good round sum about 
 to be dishonoured in the course of a few hours. 
 
 ' Well, my dear Armine,' he resumed, when he re- 
 appeared and took the reins ; ' now as I drive along, tell 
 me all about it ; for if there be a man in the world whom I 
 should lilve to " sarve," it is thyself, my noble Ferdinand.' 
 
 With this encoui'agement. Captain Ai'mine was not long 
 in pouring his cares into a congenial bosom. 
 
 ' I know the man to "saiwe" you,' said Catchimwhocan. 
 ' The fact is, these fellows here are regular old-fashioned 
 humbugs. The only idea they have is money, money. 
 They have no enlightened notions. I will introduce you to 
 a regular trump ; and if ho does not do our business, I am 
 much mistaken. Courage, old fellow ! How do j^ou Hko 
 this start?' 
 
 'Deuced neat. By the bye, Catch, my boy, you are 
 going it rather, I see.' 
 
 ' To be sure. I have always told you there is a certain 
 S3'stem in affairs which ever prevents men being floored. 
 No fellow is ever dished who has any connection. What 
 man that ever had his run Avas really ever fairly put Jwrs 
 cle combat, unless he was some one who ought never to have 
 entered the arena, blazing away without any set, making 
 himself a damned fool and everybody his enemy. So long 
 as a man bustles about and is in a good set, something 
 always turns up. I got into Parliament you see ; and you, 
 you are going to bo mai'ried.' 
 
 All this time the cabriolet was dashing down Regent- 
 street, twisting tlirough the Quadrant, whirling along Pall 
 Mall, until it finally entered Cleveland-row, and stopped 
 before a ne^Yly painted, newly pointed, and exceedingly 
 compact mansion, the long brass knocker of whose dark 
 green door sounded beneath the practised touch of his 
 lordship's tiger. Even the tawny Holsteui horse, with tho 
 white flowing mane, seemed conscious of the locality, and
 
 358 HENEIETTA TEINIPLE : 
 
 stopped before the accustomed resting-place in tlie most 
 natural manner imaginable. A tall serving-man, well 1|| 
 powdered, and in a dark and well-appointed livery, imme- 
 diately appeared. ^| 
 
 ' At home ? ' enquired Lord Catchimwhocan, with a 
 peculiarly confidential expression. 
 
 ' 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 
 the dining-room, ' but he shall have your lordship's card 
 immediately. There are several gentlemen waiting in the 
 third drawing-room ; so I have shown your lordship in 
 here, and shall take care that he sees your lordship before I 
 anyone.' 
 
 ' That's a devilish good fellow,' said Lord Catchimwhocan, 
 putting his hand into his waistcoat pocket to give him a 
 sovereign ; but not finding one, he added, ' I shall remem- . 
 ber you.' *l 
 
 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 little confusion at this moment, 
 for their host gave a dinner to-day, and his dinners were 
 famous. The table was arranged for eight guests ; its ap- 
 pointments indicated refined taste. A candelabra of Dresden 
 china was the centre piece ; there was a whole service of 
 the same material, even to the handles of the knives and 
 forks ; and the choice variety of glass attracted Ferdinand's j 
 notice. The room was lofty and spacious ; it was simply 
 and soberly furnished ; not an object which could distract 
 the taste or disturb the digestion. But the sideboard, 
 which filled a recess at the end of the apartment, presented 
 a crowded group of gold plate that might have become a 
 palace ; magnificent shields, tall vases, ancient tankards,
 
 A LOVE STORY. 359 
 
 goblets of carved ivory set in precious metal, and cups of 
 old ruby glass mounted on pedestals, glitieiing with. gems. 
 This accidental display certainly offered an amusing con- 
 trast to the perpetual splendour of Mr. Levison's beaufet ; 
 and Ferdinand was wonderins? whether it would turn out 
 that there was as marked a difference between the two 
 owners, when his companion and himself were summoned 
 to the presence of Mr. Bond Sharpe. 
 
 They ascended a staircase perfumed with flowers, and 
 on each landing-place was a classic tripod or pedestal 
 crowned with a bust. And then they were ushered into a 
 drawing-room of Parisian elegance ; buhl cabinets, marque- 
 terie tables, hangings of the choicest damask suspended 
 from bui'uished cornices of old carving. The chairs had 
 been rifled from a Venetian palace ; the couches were part 
 of the spoils of the French, revolution. There were glass 
 screens in golden frames, and a clock that represented the 
 death of Hector, the chariot wheel of Achilles conveniently 
 telling the hour. A round table of mosaic, mounted on a 
 golden pedestal, was nearly covered with papers ; and from 
 an easy-chair-, supported by air cushions, half rose to 
 welcome them Mr. Bond Sharpe. He was a man not many 
 years the senior of Captain Armiiie and his friend; of 
 elegant appearance, pale, pensive, and prepossessing. Deep 
 thought was impressed upon his clear and protruding brow, 
 and the expression of his grey sunk eyes, which were 
 dcHcately arched, was singularly searching. His figure 
 was slight but compact. His dress plain, but a model in 
 its fashion. He was habited entirely in black, and his only 
 ornament were his studs, which were turquoise and of great 
 size : but there never were such, boots, so brOliant and so 
 email ! 
 
 He welcomed Lord Catchimwhocan in a voice scarcely 
 above a Avhisper, and received Captain Armiue in a manner 
 alike graceful and dignified.
 
 360 HEiN'RIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 '!My dear SLarpe,' said his lordship, ' I am going to in- 
 troduce to jou my most particular friend, and an old 
 brother officer. This is Captain Armine, the only son of 
 Sir EatclifFe, and the heir of Armine Castle. He is going 
 to be married very soon to his cousin, Miss Grandison, the 
 greatest heiress in England.' 
 
 ' Hush, hush,' said Ferdinand, shrinking under this folso 
 representation, and Mr. Sharpe with considerate delicacy 
 endeavoured to check bis lordship. 
 
 ' Well, never mind, I will say nothing about that,' con- 
 tinued Lord Catchimwhocan. ' The long and the short of 
 it is this, that my fi-iend Armine is hard up, and we must 
 carry on the war till we get into winter quarters. 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 warmest friends, you will do everything for Armine 
 that human energy can possibly effect.' 
 
 ' What is the jiresent difficulty that you have ? ' en- 
 quired Mr. Sharpe of our hero, in a calm whisper. 
 
 ' Why, the present difficulty that he has,' said Lord 
 Catchimwhocan, ' is that he wants 1,5001.' 
 
 ' I su.ppose you have raised money. Captain Armine ? ' 
 said Mr. Sharpe. 
 
 ' Li every way,' said Captain Armine. 
 
 ' Of course,' said Mr. Sharpe, ' at your time of life one 
 naturally does. And I supj-jose you are bothered for this 
 1,-500^. ? ' 
 
 * I am threatened with immediate ari'est, and arrest in 
 execution.' 
 
 ' Who is the party ? ' 
 
 ' Why, I fear an unmanageable one, even by yon. It is 
 a house at Malta.' 
 
 * Mr. Bolus, I suppose ? ' 
 ' Exactly.' 
 
 'I thought so.'
 
 A LOVE STORY. 361 
 
 ' "Well, wliat can be done r ' said Lord Catcliimwliocan. 
 'Oh! there is no difficulty,' said Mr. Sharpe quietly. 
 ' Captain Armine can have any money he likes.' 
 
 'I shall he happy,' said Captain Armine, 'to pay any 
 consideration you think fit.' 
 
 ' Oh ! my dear sir, I cannot think of that. Money is a 
 drug now. I shall bo happy to accommodate you without 
 giving you any trouble. You can have the 1,500?., if you 
 please, this moment.' 
 
 ' Really, you are very generous,' said Ferdinand, much 
 surprised, ' but I feel 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 you like. Give me your note of hand.' 
 So saying, Mr. Sharpe opened a drawer, and taking out his 
 cheque-book drew a draft for the 1,500?. 'I believe I 
 have a stamp in the house,' he continued, looking about. 
 ' Yes, here is one. If you will fill this up, Captain Armine, 
 the affair may be concluded at once.' 
 
 ' Upon my honour, Mr. Sharpe,' said Ferdinand, very 
 confused, ' I do not like to appear insensible to this extra- 
 ordinary kindness, but really I came here by the merest 
 accident, and without any intention of soliciting or re- 
 ceiving such favours. And my kind friend here has given 
 vou much too glowing an account of my resources. It is 
 very probable I shall occasion you great inconvenience.' 
 
 ' Really, Captain Armine,' said Mr. Sharpe with a slight 
 smile, ' if we were talking of a sum of any importance, Avhy, 
 one might be a little more punctilious, but for such a baga- 
 telle we have already wasted too much time in its discus- 
 sion. I am happy to serve you.' 
 
 Ferdinand stared, remembering Mr. Levison and the 
 coals. Mr. Sliarpe himself drew up the note, and presented 
 it to Ferdinand, who signed it and pocketed the draft. 
 ' I have several gentlemen waiting,' said Mr. Bond
 
 3G2 HENRIETTA TEIVEPLE : 
 
 Sliarpe ; ' I am sorry I cannot take this opportunity of cul- 
 tivating your acquaintance, Captain Armine, but I stoulJ 
 esteem it a great honour if you would dine with me to-daj^. 
 Your friend Lord Catchimwhocan favours me with his 
 company, and you 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 once more in the cab. 
 
 ' I am so astonished,' said Ferdinand, ' that I cannot 
 speak. Who in the name of fortune is tliis great man ? ' 
 
 ' A genius,' said Lord Catchimwhocan. ' Don't you 
 think he is a deuced good-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 best dinner 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, he is a lawyer by inspiration.' 
 
 ' He is a wonderful man,' said Ferdinand. ' He must bo 
 very rich.'
 
 A LOVE STORY. 363 
 
 * Yes ; Sharpe must be worth liis quarter of a million. 
 And he has made it in 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 hckcd everybody. But he was too great a 
 genius for the I'ing, and took to the tui'f.' 
 
 '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 he is the first usui*er in the world, and will be 
 in the next Parliament.' 
 
 ' But if he lends money on the terms he accommodates 
 me, he will hardly increase his fortune.' 
 
 ' Oh ! he can do the thing when lie hkes. He took a 
 fancy to you. The fact is, 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 a few 
 thousands now and then. By dining with him to-day you 
 have quite repaid 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 has placed himself 
 there.' 
 
 ' Well, this has been a remarkable morning,' said Ferrli- 
 nand Armine, as Lord Catchimwhocan set him down at his 
 club. ' I am very much obliged to you, dear Catch ! ' 
 
 ' Not a word, my dear fellow. You have helped mo 
 before this, and glad am I to be the means of assisting the 
 best fellow in the world, and that we all tliink you. An 
 revoir ! We dine at eight.'
 
 364 HENRIETTA TEMPLE 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 MISS GRANDISON MAKES A REMARKABLE DISCOVERT. 
 
 In the meantime, while the gloomy morning which Ferdi- 
 nand had anticipated terminated with so agreeable an 
 adventure, Henrietta and Miss Grandison, accompanied by 
 Lord ]\Iontfort and Glastonbury, paid their promised visit 
 to the British Museum. 
 
 ' I am sorry that Captain Armine could not accompany 
 us,' said Lord Montfort. ' I sent to him this morning early, 
 but ha was already out.' 
 
 ' He has many affairs to attend to,' said Glastonbuiy. 
 
 Miss Temple looked grave ; she thought of poor Ferdi- 
 nand and all his cares. She knew well what were those 
 affairs to which Glastonbury alluded. The thought that 
 perhaps at this moment he was struggling with rapacious 
 creditors made her melancholy. The novelty and strange- 
 ness of the objects which awaited her, diverted, however, 
 her mind from these painful reflections. Miss Grandison, 
 who had never quitted England, was delighted with every- 
 thing she saw ; but the Egyptian gallery principally at- 
 tracted the attention of Miss Temple. Lord Montfort, 
 regardful of his promise to Henrietta, was very attentive 
 to Miss Grandison. 
 
 ' I cannot help regretting that your cousin is not here,' 
 said his lordship, returning to a key that ho had already 
 touched. But Katherine made no answer. 
 
 ' He seemed so much better for the exertion he made 
 yesterday,' resumed Lord Montfort. ' I thiak 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 con- 
 ceive a happier life than we all lead.'
 
 A LOVE STOKY. 3G5 
 
 * You have cause to be Lappj, and Ferdinand lias not,' 
 said Miss Graudison, calmly. 
 
 ' I should have thought that he had very great cause,' 
 said Lord Montfort, enquiringly. 
 
 ' No person in the world is so ujihappy as Ferdinand,' 
 said Katherine. 
 
 ' But cannot we cure his unhappiness ? ' said his lord- 
 ship. ' We are his friends ; it seems to nie, with such 
 friends as Miss Grandison and Miss Temple one ought 
 never to he unhappy.' 
 
 ' Miss Temple can scarcely be called a friend of Ferdi- 
 nand,' said Katherine. 
 
 ' Indeed a very Avarm 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 I am,' said his lordship. 
 
 ' Indeed ! ' said Miss Grandison, with an air of considex-- 
 able astonishment. 
 
 ' You know they were neighbours in the country.' 
 
 * In the country ! ' repeated iliss 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 mo- 
 ment, ' tell Mr. Glastonbury about your sphinx at Home. 
 It was granite, was it not ? ' 
 
 'And most delicately carved. I never remember having 
 observed an expression of such beautiful serenity. Tho 
 discovery that, after all, they are male countenances is 
 quite mortifying. I loved their mysterious beaut}'.' 
 
 What Lord Montfort had mentioned of the preWous 
 acquaintance of Henrietta and her cousin made Itliss 
 Grandison muse. Miss Temple's address to Ferdinand
 
 366 HENEIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 yesterday Lad struck her at the moment as somewhat 
 singular ; but the impression had not dwelt upon her 
 mind. Bat now it occurred to her as very strange, that 
 Henrietta should have become so intimate with the Armine 
 family and herself, and never have mentioned that she was 
 previously acquainted with their nearest relative. Lady 
 Armine was not acquainted with Miss Temple until they 
 met at Bellair House. That was certain. Miss Grandison 
 had witnessed their mutual introduction. Nor Sir Rat- 
 clifie. And yet Henrietta and Ferdinand were friends, 
 warm friends, old friends, intimately acquainted: so said 
 Lord Montfort, and Lord Montfort never coloured, never 
 exaggerated. All this was very mysterious. And if they 
 were friends, old friends, warm friends, and Lord Montfort 
 said they were, and, therefore, there could be no doubt of 
 the truth of the statement, their recognition of each other 
 yesterday was singularly frigid. It was not indicative of a 
 very intimate acquaintance. Katherine had ascribed it to 
 the natural disrelish of Ferdinand now to be introduced 
 to anyone. And yet they were friends, old friends, warm 
 friends. Henrietta Temple and Ferdinand Armine ! Miss 
 Grandison was so perplexed that she scarcely looked at 
 another object in the galleries. 
 
 The ladies were rather tired when they returned from 
 the Museum. Lord Montfort walked to the Travellers, and 
 Henrietta agreed to remain and dine in Brook- street. 
 Katherine and herself retired to Miss Grandison's boudoir, 
 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 a purse 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 
 Miss Temple ; ' the author has observed but he has not felt.'
 
 A LOVE STORY. 367 
 
 ' It is satirical,' said Miss Grandison ; ' I wonder "wliy all 
 this class of writers aim now at tlie sarcastic. I do not 
 find life the constant sneer tlicy make it.' 
 
 ' It is because they do not understand Hfe,' said Hen- 
 rietta, ' but have some little experience of society. There- 
 fore their works give a perverted impression of human 
 conduct ; for they accept as a principal, that which is only 
 an insignificant accessory ; and they make existence a suc- 
 cession of frivolities, when even the career of the most 
 frivolous has its profounder moments.' 
 
 ' How vivid is the writer's description of a ball or a 
 dinner,' said Miss Grandison; ' everything lives and moves. 
 And yet, when the hero makes love, nothing can be more 
 unnatural. His feelings are neither deep, nor ardent, nor 
 tender. All is stilted, and yet ludicrous.' 
 
 ' I do not despise the talent which describes so vividly a 
 dinner and a ball,' said IMiss Temple. ' As far as it goes it 
 is very amusing, but it should be combined with higher 
 materials. In a fine novel, manners should be observed, 
 and morals should be sustained ; we require thought and 
 passion, as well as costume and the lively representation 
 of conventional arrangements ; and the thought and passion 
 will be the better for these accessories, for they will be 
 reHeved in the novel as they are relieved in life, and the 
 whole will be more true.' '^' ' 
 
 ' But have you read that love scene, Henrietta ? It 
 appeared to me so ridiculous ! ' 
 
 ' I never read love scenes,' said Henrietta Temple. 
 
 ' Oh, I love a love story,' said Miss Grandison, smiling, 
 ' if it be natural and tender, and touch my heart. Wlien I 
 i-cad such scenes, I weep.' 
 
 *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 ? '
 
 368 HENRIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 ' Lord Moutfort knows it. We never have love scenes.' 
 
 ' And ycfc you love him ? ' 
 
 ' Dearly ; I love and esteem him,' 
 
 ' Well,' said Miss Grandison, ' I may be wrong, but if I 
 were a man I do not 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 most 
 witty, believe me, mine are the most wise.' 
 
 ' I wish my cousin would wake from his dream,' said 
 Katherine. ' To tell you a secret, love is the cause of his 
 unhappiness. Don't move, dear Henrietta,' added Miss 
 Grandison ; ' we are so happy here ; ' for Miss Temple, in 
 truth, seemed not a little discomposed. 
 
 ' You should marry your cousin,' said Miss Templo. 
 
 ' You little know Ferdinand or myself, when you give 
 that advice,' said Katherine. ' We shall never many ; 
 nothing is more certain than that. In the first place, to bo 
 frank, Ferdinand would not marry me, nothing would 
 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 to her face. 
 
 ' Because I am sure that we should not be happy,' said 
 Miss Grandison. ' I love Ferdinand, and once could have 
 married him. He is so brilliant that I could not refuse his 
 proposal. And yet I feel it is better for me that we have 
 not married, and I hope it may yet prove better for him, 
 for I love him very dearly. He is indeed my brother.' 
 
 ' But why should you not be happy ? ' enquired Miss 
 Temple.
 
 A LOVE STOrvY. 369 
 
 ' Because v,e are not suited to eacli other. Ferdinaiid 
 must ruaiTy some one Avlioni lie looks up to, somebody 
 brilliant like himself, some one who can sympathise with 
 all his fancies. I am too calm and quiet for him. You. 
 would suit liim much better, Henrietta.' • 
 
 * You arc his cousin ; it is a misfortune ; if you wcro 
 not, he would adore you, and you would sympathise Avith 
 him.' 
 
 * I think not : I should like to marry a very clever man,' 
 said Kathcrine. ' I could not endure marrying a fool, or a 
 common-place person ; I should like to marry a person veiT 
 superior in talent to myself, some one whose opinion would 
 guide me on all points, one from whom I could not differ. 
 But not Ferdinand ; he is too imaginative, too impetuous; 
 he would neither guide me, nor be guided by me.' 
 
 JMiss Temple did not reply, but turned over a page of 
 her book. 
 
 ' Did you know Ferdinand before you met him yester- 
 day at our house?' cnquii-ed Miss Grandison, very in« 
 nocently. 
 
 ' Yes ! ' said JMiss Temple. 
 
 * I thought you did,' said Miss Grandison. * I thought 
 there was something in your manner that indicated you 
 had met before. I do not think you loiew my aunt before 
 you met her at Bellair House ? ' 
 
 ' I did not.' 
 ' Nor Sir Ratcliffo ? ' 
 ' Nor Sir RatcliiTe.' 
 
 ' 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 Icnown Ferdinand before.' 
 'Not at all odd. He came over one day to shoot at papa'i'i. 
 I remember him very well.' 
 
 B B
 
 370 HENEIETTA TEIVIPLE : 
 
 ' Oil,' said ]VIiss Grandison, ' And did JVIr. Glastonbury 
 come over to slioot ? ' 
 
 ' I met Mr. Glastonbury one morning tliat I went to see 
 tlie picture gallery at Armine. It is the only time I ever 
 saw him.' 
 
 ' Oh ! ' said Miss Grandison again, 'Armine is a beautiful 
 
 place, is it not ? ' 
 
 ' Most interesting.' 
 
 ' Ton know the pleasaunce.' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' I did not see you when I was at Armine.' 
 
 ' 1^0 ; we had just gone to Italy.' 
 
 ' How beautiful you look to-day, Henrietta ! ' said Miss 
 Grandison. 'Who could believe that you ever were so 
 ill!' 
 
 ' I am grateful that I have recovered,' said Henrietta. 
 ' And yet I never thought that I should return to England.' 
 
 ' You must have been so very ill in Italy, about the same 
 time as poor Ferdinand was at Armine. Only think, how 
 odd you should both have been so 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 length said in a low tone. 
 
 ' Hem-ietta Temple,' said Miss Grandison, with great 
 earnestness, ' I have discovered a secret ; you are the lady 
 with whom my cousin is in love.'
 
 A LOVE STORY. 371 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 IN NYHICH FERDINAND HAS THE HONOUR OF DINING WITH 
 MR. BOND SHARPE. 
 
 "When Ferdinand arrived at Mr. Bond Sliarpe's, lie was 
 ■welcomed by his host in a magnificent suite of saloons, and 
 introduced to two of the guests who had previously arrived. 
 The first was a stout man, past middle age, whose epicu- 
 rean countenance twinkled with humour. This was Lord 
 Castlefyshe, an Irish peer of great celebrity in the world of 
 luxury and play, keen at a bet, still keener at a dinner. 
 Nobody exactly knew who the other gentleman, Mr. Bland- 
 ford, really was, but he had the reputation of being enor- 
 mously rich, and was proportionately respected. He had 
 been about town for the last twenty years, and did not look 
 a day older than at his first appearance. He never spoke 
 of his family, was unmanned, and apparently had no rela- 
 tions ; but he had contrived to identify himself with the 
 first men in London, was a member of every club of great 
 repute, and of late years had even become a sort of 
 authority ; which was strange, for he had no pretension, 
 was very quiet, and but humbly ambitious ; seeking, indeed, 
 no happier success than to merge in the brilliant crowd, 
 an accepted atom of the influential aggregate. As he was 
 not remarkable for his talents or his person, and as his 
 establishment, though well appointed, offered no singular 
 Bi)lendour, it was rather strange that a gentlemap who had 
 apparently dropped from the clouds, or crept out of a 
 kennel, should have succeeded in planting himself so 
 vigorously in a soil which shiinks from anything not in- 
 digenous, unless it be recommended by very powerful 
 qualities. But Mr. Blandford was good-tempered, and 
 was now easy and experienced, and there was a vague 
 
 TiV 2
 
 372 HENRIETTA TE:\IPLE : 
 
 tradition that he was immensely ricli, a rumour wliicli Mv. 
 Blandford always contradicted in a manner Tvliicli skilfully 
 confirmed its truth. 
 
 ' Does Mirabel dine -with you, Sharps ? ' enquired Lord 
 Castlefyshe of his host, who nodded assent. 
 
 ' Tou 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 w^ent 
 ofi',' said Mr. Blandford. 
 
 ' Oh ! he has gone, has he ? ' said Lord Castlefyshe. 
 ' Does he take his cook with him ? ' 
 
 But here the servant ushered in Count Alcibiades de 
 Mirabel, Charles Doricourt, and Mr. Bevil. 
 
 ' Excellent Sharpe, how do you do ? ' exclaimed the 
 Count. ' Castlefyshe, what betises have you been talking 
 to Crocky about Felix Winchester ? Good Blandford, ex- 
 cellent Blandford, how is my good Blandford ? ' 
 
 Mr. Bevil was a tall and handsome young man, of a 
 great family and great estate, vrho passed liis life in an 
 imitation of Count Alcibiades de Mu-abel. He was always 
 dressed by the same tailor, and it was his pride that his 
 cab or his vis-d-vis was constantly mistaken for the equi- 
 page of his model ; and really now, as the shade stood 
 beside its substance, quite as tall, almost as good-looking, 
 with the satin-lined coat thrown open with the same style 
 of flowing grandeur, and revealing a breastplate of starched 
 cambric scarcely less broad and brilliant, the uninitiated 
 might have held the resemblance as perfect. The wrist- 
 bands were turned up with not less compact precision, and 
 were fastened by jewelled studs, that glittered with not less 
 radiancy. The satin waistcoat, the creaseless liosen, were 
 the same ; and if the foot were not quite as small, its 
 Parisian polish was not less bright. But here, unfor- 
 tunately, Mr. Bevil's mimetic powers deserted him. 
 
 We start, for soul is wanting there ! , *- .■: '
 
 h 
 
 A L0\'£ STORY. 373 
 
 The Count ]\Iirabcl could talk at all times, and at all times 
 ■well ; Mr. Bevil never opened liis mouth. Practised in the 
 world, the Count Mirabel was nevertheless the child of 
 impulse, though a native grace, and an intuitive knowledge 
 of mankind, made every word pleasing and every act 
 appropriate ; Mr. Bevil was all art, and he had not the 
 talent to conceal it. The Count Mirabel was gay, careless, 
 generous ; Mr. Bevil was solemn, calculating, and rather a 
 screw. It seemed that the Count Mii-abel's feelings grew 
 daily more fresh, and his faculty of enjojTnent more keen 
 and 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 never 
 permitted himself to smile, except in the society of intimate 
 friends. 
 
 Charles Doi'Icourt was another friend of the Count 
 Mirabel, but not his imitator. His feelings were really 
 worn, but it was a fact he always concealed. He had 
 entered life at a remarkably early age, and had experienced 
 every scrape to which youthful flesh is heir. Any other 
 man but Charles Doricourt must have sunk beneath these 
 accumulated disasters, but Charles Doricourt always swam. 
 Nature had given him an intrepid soul ; experience had 
 cased his heart with iron. But he always smiled ; and 
 audacious, cool, and cutting, and very easy, he thoroughly 
 despised mankind, upon whose weaknesses he practised 
 without remorse. But he was polished and amusing, and 
 faithful to his friends. The world admired him, and called 
 him Charley, from Avhich it will be inferred that he 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 tlic Count Mirabel
 
 374 HENEIETTA TEIVIPLE : 
 
 of Ml'. Bond Sliarpe, taking his tost aside, and pretending 
 to look at a picture. 
 
 ' He is Captain Armine, the only son of Sir Ratchfle 
 Armine. He has just returned to England after a long 
 absence.' 
 
 ' Hum ! I like his appearance,' said the Count. ' It is 
 very distinguished.' 
 
 Dinner and Lord Catchimwhocan were announced at the 
 same moment ; Captain Armine found himself seated nest 
 to the Count Mirabel. The dinners at Mr. Bond Sharpe's 
 were dinners which his guests came to eat. Mr. Bond 
 Sharpe had engaged for his club-house the most celebrated 
 of living artists, a gentleman who, it was said, received a 
 thousand a-year, whose convenience was studied by a 
 chariot, and amusement secured by a box at the French 
 play. There was, therefore, at first little conversation, 
 save criticism on the performances before them, and that 
 chiefly panegyi'ical ; each dish was delicious, each wine 
 exquisite ; and yet, even in these occasional remarks, Fer- 
 dinand was pleased with the lively fancy of his neighbour, 
 affording an elegant contrast to the somewhat gross unction 
 with which Lord Castlefyshe, whose very soul seemed 
 wrapped up in his occupation, occasionally expressed him- 
 self. 
 
 ' Will you take some wine, Captain Armine ? ' said the 
 Count Mirabel, with a winning smile. ' Tou 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 Lord Catchimwhocan.
 
 A LOVE STORY. 375 
 
 ' My dear Catch ! ' said the Count Mirabel, ' you think 
 so, do you? You make a mistake, you think no such 
 thing, my dear Catch. Why is it the most infernal ? Is 
 it because the women are the handsomest, or because the 
 horses are the best ? Is it because it is the only country 
 -where you can get a good dinner, or because it is the only 
 country where there are fine wines ? Or is it because it is 
 the only place where you can get a coat made, or where 
 you can play without being cheated, or where you can 
 listen to an opera without your ears being destroyed ? 
 Now, my dear Catch, you pass your hfe in dressing and in 
 playing hazard, in eating good dinners, in di'inking good 
 wines, in making love, in going to the opera, and in riding 
 fine horses. Of what then have you to complain ? ' 
 
 ' Oh ! the damned cHmate ! ' 
 
 ' On the contrary, it is the only good climate there is. In 
 England you can go out every day, and at all hours ; and 
 then, to those who love variety, like myself, you are not 
 sure of seeing the same sky every morning you rise, which, 
 for my part, I think the greatest of all existing sources of 
 
 ennui.' 
 
 ' Tou reconcile me to my country. Count,' said Ferdinand, 
 
 smiling. 
 
 ' Ah ! you are a sensible man ; but that dear Catch is 
 always repeating nonsense which he hears from somebody 
 else. To-morrow,' he added, in a low voice, ' he will be for 
 
 the climate.' 
 
 The conversation of men, when they congregate together, 
 is generally dedicated to one of two subjects : politics or 
 women. In the present instance the party was not poh- 
 tical; and it was the fair sex, and particularly the most 
 charming portion of it, in the good metropolis of England, 
 that wei-e subject to the poignant criticism or the profound 
 speculation of these practical philosophers. There was 
 scarcely a celebrated beauty in London, frcm the proud
 
 376 HENRIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 peeress to tlie vain opera-dancer, wliose charms and con- 
 ducfc were not submitted to their masterly analysis. And 
 yet It would be but fair to admit that their critical ability 
 was more eminent and satisfactory than their abstract 
 reasoning upon this interesting topic ; for it was curious to 
 observe that, though everyone present piqued himself upon 
 his profound knowledge of the sex, not two of the sages 
 agreed in the constituent principles of female character. 
 One declared that women were governed by their feelings ; 
 another maintained that they had no heart ; a third pro- 
 pounded that it was all imagination ; a foui'th that it was 
 all vanity. Lord Castlefyshe muttered something about 
 their passions ; and Charley Dorlcourt declared that they 
 had no passions whatever. But they all agreed in one 
 thing, to wit, that the man who permitted himself a 
 moment's uneasiness about a woman was a fool. 
 
 All this time Captain Armine spoke little, but ever to 
 the purpose, and chiefly to the Count Mirabel, who pleased 
 him. Being very handsome, and, moreover, of a distin- 
 guished appearance, this silence on the part of Ferdinand 
 made him a general favourite, and even Mr. Bevil whispered 
 his approbation to Lord Catchlmwhocau. 
 
 ' The fact Is,' said Charles Dorlcourt, ' It is only boys and 
 old men who are plagued by women. They take advantage 
 of either state of childhood. Eh ! Castlefyshe ? ' 
 
 ' In that respect, then, somewhat resembling you, Charley,' 
 replied his lordship, who did not admire the appeal. ' For 
 no one can doubt you plagued your father ; I was out of my 
 teens, fortunately, before you played ecarte.' 
 
 ' Come, good old Fyshe,' said Count Mirabel, ' take a 
 glass of claret, and do not look so fierce. You know very 
 well that Charley learnt everything of you.' 
 
 ' He never learned from me to spend a fortune upon an 
 actress,' said his lordship. ' I have spent a fortune, but, 
 thank heaven, it was on myself.'
 
 A LOVE STORY. 377 
 
 'Well, as for that,' said the Couiil:, 'I think there ia 
 something great in being ruined for one's friends. If I 
 were as rich as I might have been, 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 for- 
 tune I would make every good-fellow I know quite happy.' 
 
 ' Well,' said Charles Doricourt, ' you are a lucky fellow, 
 Mirabel. I have had horses, houses, carriages, opera-boxes, 
 and cooks, and I have had a great estate ; but pocket-money 
 I never could get. Pocket-money was the thing which 
 always cost me the most to buy of all.' 
 
 The conversation now fell upon the theatre. Mr. Bond 
 Sharpe was determined to have a theatre. He believed 
 it was I'eserved for him to revive the drama. Mr. Bond 
 Sharpe piqued himself upon his patronage of the stage. 
 He certainly had a great admiration of actresses. There 
 was something in the management of a great theatre which 
 pleased the somewhat imperial fancy of Mr. Bond Sharpe. 
 The manager of a great theatre is a kind of monarch. Mr. 
 Bond Sharpe longed to seat himself on the throne, with 
 the prettiest women in London for his court, and all his 
 fashionable friends rallying round their sovereign. He had 
 an impression that great results might be obtained with 
 his organising energy and illimitable capital. Mr. Bond 
 Sharpe had unbounded confidence in the power of capital. 
 Capital was his deity, lie was confident that it could 
 always produce alike genius and triumph. Mr. Bond 
 Sharpe was right : capital is a wonderful thing, but we are 
 scarcely aware of this fiict until we are past thirty ; and 
 then, by some singular process, which wo will not now stop 
 to analyse, one's capital is in general sensibly diminished. 
 As men advance in life, all passions resolve themselves into 
 money. Love, ambition, even poetry, end in this.
 
 378 HENRIETTA TEJMPLE : 
 
 ' Are you going to Shropshire's tliis autumn, Charley ? ' 
 said Lord Catchimwhocan. 
 
 ' 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,' said the Count. ' He who is bored appears to mo 
 a bore. To be bored supposes the inability of being amused ; 
 you must be a dull fellow. Wherever I may be, I thank 
 heaven that I am always diverted,' 
 
 ' But you have such nerves, Mirabel,' said Lord Catchim- 
 whocan. ' 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 
 Bie. Why should I be floored ? ' 
 
 ' Why I do not know ; but every other man is floored now 
 and then. As for me, my spirits are sometimes something 
 dreadful.' 
 
 ' When you have been losing.' 
 
 ' Well, we cannot always win. Can we, Shai'pe ? That 
 would not do. But, by Jove ! you are always in good 
 humour, Mirabel, when you lose,' 
 
 ' Fancy a man ever being in low spirits,' said the Count 
 Mirabel, 'Life is too short for such betises. The most 
 unfortunate wretch alive calculates unconsciously that it is 
 better to live than to die. Well, then, he has something in 
 his favoui'. Existence is a pleasure, and the greatest. The 
 world cannot rob us of that ; and if it is better to Kve than 
 to die it is better to live in a good humour than a bad one 
 If a man be convinced that existence is the greatest pleasure, 
 his happiness may be iacreased by good fortune, but it will
 
 A LOVE STORY. 379 
 
 be essentially independent of it. He who feels tliat the 
 greatest source of pleasure always remains to him ought 
 never to be miserable. The sun shines on all : every man 
 can go to sleep : if you cannot ride a fine horse, it is some- 
 thing to look upon one ; if you have not a fine dinner, there 
 is some amusement in a crust of bread and Gruyere. 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 coSee, and ordered 
 their carriages. 
 
 ' Come with us,' said Count Mrabel to Ferdinand. 
 
 Our hero accepted the ofier of his agreeable acquaintance. 
 There was a great prancing and rushing of cabs and vis-a- 
 vis at Mr. Bond Sharpe's door, and in a few minutes the 
 whole party were dashing up St. James'-street, where they 
 stopped before a splendid building, resplendent with lights 
 and illuminated curtains. 
 
 ' Come, we will make you an honorary member, mon chcr 
 Captain j^Tmine,' said the Count ; ' and do not say. Oh ! 
 lasciate ogni speranza, when you enter here.' 
 
 They ascended a magnificent staircase, and entered a 
 sumptuous and crowded saloon, in which the entrance of 
 Count Mirabel and his friends made no little sensation. 
 ]\Ir. Bond Sharpe glided along, dropping oracular sen- 
 tences, without condescending to stop to speak to those 
 whom he addressed. Charley Doricourt and Mr. Blandford 
 walked away together towards a further apartment. Lord 
 Castlefyshe and Lord Catchimwhocan were soon busied 
 with ecarte. 
 
 ' Well, Fanevillc, good general, how do you do ? ' said 
 Count Mirabel. ' Where have you dined to-day ? at the 
 Balcombes' ? Ton arc a very brave man, mon general ! 
 Ah ! Stock, good Stock, excellent Stock ! ' he continued, 
 addressing Mr. Mllion de Stockville, ' that Burgundy you
 
 380 HENEIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 sent me is capital. How ai'e you, my dear fellow ? Qaite 
 well ? Fitzwarrene, I did that 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 doing 
 here ? Is there any fun ? Fitzwarrene, let me introduce 
 you to my friend Captain Armine : ' (in a lower tone) 
 ' excellent gar9on ! You will like him 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 a bad dinner : that would be a betise, 
 to ask me to dine, and then give me a bad dinner.' 
 
 ' I say, Mirabel,' exclaimed a young man, ' have you seen 
 Horace Poppington about the match ? ' 
 
 ' It is arranged ; 'tis the day after to-morrow, at nine 
 o'clock.' "5 
 
 ' 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 ! EIi ! bien ! I 
 shall go in the next room.' And the Count walked away, 
 followed by Mr. Bevil. 
 
 Ferdinand remained talking for some time with Lord 
 Fitzwarrene. By degrees the great saloon had become 
 somewhat thinner : some had stolen away to the House, 
 where a division was expected ; quiet men, who just looked 
 iu after dinner, had retired ; and the play-men were en- 
 gaged in the contig-uous apartments. Mr. Bond Sharpe 
 approached Ferdinand, and Lord Fitzwarrene took this 
 opportunity of withdi-awing. 
 
 ' 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.
 
 A LOVE STORY. 38 1 
 
 Ml*. Bond Sliai'pe slirugged bis slaoulders. * There -".vill 
 always be votai-ies enougb,' said J\[r. Boud Sbarpe, * what- 
 ever may be my opinion.' 
 
 ' This is a magnificent cstablislimcnt of yours,' said 
 Ferdinand. 
 
 ' Yes ; it is a very magnificent establishment. I have 
 spared no expense to produce the most perfect thing of the 
 kind in Europe ; and it is the most perfect thing of the 
 kind. I am confident that no noble in any country has an 
 establishment better appointed. I despatched an agent to 
 the Continent to procure this furniture : his commission 
 had no limit, and he was absent two years. My cook was 
 with Charles X. ; the cellar is the most cboice and con- 
 siderable that was ever collected. I take a pride in 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 it here.' 
 
 ' It is a great thing to make a fortune,' said Ferdinand. 
 
 * Very great,' said Mr, Bond Shai^e. ' 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 the possession of great power.' 
 
 ' At any rate, it is to be hoped that you have discovered 
 this more important secret,' said Ferdinand ; ' though I 
 confess, to judge from my own expcnencc, I should fear 
 that you are too generous.' 
 
 ' I had forgotten that to which you allude,' said his com- 
 panion, quietly. ' But with regard to myself, whatever 
 may be my end, I have not yet reached my acme.' 
 
 ' You bave at least my good wishes,' said Ferdinand. 
 
 * I may some day claim them,' said Mr. Bond Sharpo. 
 My position,' he continued, * xs difficult. I have risen by
 
 382 HEKRIETTA TEMPLE; 
 
 pursuits wliicli the world does not consider reputable, yet 
 if I had not had recourse to them, I should be less than 
 nothing. My mind, I think, is equal to my fortune ; I am 
 still youjig, and I would now avail myself of my power and 
 establish myself in the land, a recognised member of society. 
 But this cannot be. Society shrinks from an obscure 
 foundling, a prize-fighter, a leg, a hell-keeper, and an 
 usurer. Debarred therefore from a fair theatre for my 
 energy and capital, I am forced to occupy, perhaps exhaust, 
 myself in multiplied speculations. Hitherto they have 
 flourished, and perhaps my theatre, or my newspaper, may 
 be as profitable as my stud. But I would gladly emanci- 
 pate myself. These efforts seem to me, as it were, un- 
 necessary and unnatural. The great object has been gained. 
 It is a tempting of fate. I have sometimes thought myself 
 the ISTapoleon of the sporting world ; I may yet find my St. 
 Helena.' 
 
 ' Forwarned, forearmed, Mr. Sharpe.' 
 
 ' I move in a magic circle : it is difficult to extricate 
 myself from it. Now, for instance, there is not a man in 
 the room who is not my slave. You see how they treat me. 
 They place me upon an equality with them. They know 
 my weakness ; they fool me to the top of my bent. And 
 yet there is not a man in. that room who, if I were to break 
 to-morrow, would walk down St. James'-sti-eet to serve me. 
 Yes ! there is one ; there is the Count. He has a great and 
 generous soul. I beheve Count Mirabel sympathises with 
 my situation. I beheve he does not think, because a man 
 has risen from an origin the most ignoble and obscure to a 
 powerful position, by great courage and dexterity, and let 
 me add also, by some profound thought, by struggling too, 
 be it remembered, with a class of society as Httle scrupulous, 
 though not so skilful as himself, that he is necessarily an 
 infamous character. What if, at eighteen years of age, with- 
 out a friend in the world, trusting to the powerful frame
 
 A LOVE STORY. 383 
 
 and intrepid spiiit with wliich Nature had endowed me, I 
 flung myself into the ring ? Who should be a gladiator if 
 I were not ? Is that a crime ? What if, at a later period, 
 with a brain for calculation which none can rival, I in- 
 variably succeeded in that in which the greatest men in. the 
 country fail ! Am I to be branded because I have mado 
 half a milhon by a good book ? What if I have kept a 
 gambling-house ? From the back parlour of an oyster-sbop 
 my hazard table has been removed to this palace. Had the 
 play been foul, this metamorphosis would never have oc- 
 curred. It is true I am an usurer. My dear sir, if all the 
 usurers in this great metropolis could only pass in pro- 
 cession before you at this moment, how you would start ! 
 You mio-ht find some Right Honourables among them ; 
 many a great functionary, many a grave magistrate ; fathers 
 of families, the very models of respectable characters, 
 patrons and presidents of charitable institutions, and sub- 
 scribers for the suppression of those very gaming-houses, 
 whose victims, in nine cases out of ten, are then* principal 
 customers. I speak 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 is considered 
 its worst portion. The world. Captain Ai-mine, believe me, 
 is neither 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 to say with our friend the 
 Count, "Yive la bagatelle ! " Will you take some supper ? '
 
 384 HENRIE'TTA TEJIPLE t 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Miss GEANDISON PIQUES THE CURIOSITY OF LORD MONTFORT, 
 AND COUNT MIRABEL DRIVES FERDINAND DOWN TO RICHMOND, 
 WHICH DRIVE ENDS IN AN AGREEABLE ADVENTURE AND AN 
 
 UNEXRECTED CONFIDENCE. 
 
 The discovery tliat Henrietta Temple was tlie seci'et object 
 of Ferdinand's nnliappy passion, Avas a secret which Miss 
 Grandison prized like a true woman. I^ot only had she 
 made this discovery, but from her previous knowledge and 
 her observation during her late interview with Miss Temple, 
 Katherine was persuaded that Henrietta must still love her 
 cousin as before. Miss Grandison was attached to Hen- 
 rietta ; she was interested 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 had 
 placed them all in this painful position. 
 
 It was on the next day that she had promised to accom- 
 pany the duchess and Henrietta on a water excursion. 
 Lord Montfort was to be their cavalier. In the morning 
 she found herself alone with his lordship in St. James'- 
 square. 
 
 ' What a charming day ! ' said Miss Grandison, ' I an- 
 ticipate so much pleasure ! Who is our party ? ' 
 
 ' Ourselves alone,' said Lord Montfort. ' Lady Armine 
 cannot come, and Captain Armine is engaged. I fear you 
 will find it very dull, Miss Grandison.' 
 
 ' Oh ! not at all. By the bye, do you know I was sur- 
 prised yesterday at finding that Ferdinand and Henrietta 
 were such old acquaintances.' 
 
 ' Were you ? ' said Lord Montfort, in a peculiar tone.
 
 A LOVE STORY. 385 
 
 *It is odd that Ferdinand never will go with us anywhere. 
 I think it is very bad taste.' 
 
 ' I think so too,' said Lord Montfort 
 
 *I should have thought that Hem'ietta was the very 
 person lie would have admired ; that he would have been 
 quite glad to be with us. I can easily understand his being- 
 wearied to death with a cousin,' said Miss Grandison ; ' but 
 Henrietta, — it is so strange that he should not avail himself 
 of the delight of being wdth her.' 
 
 ' Do you really think that such a cousin as Miss Grandi- 
 son can drive him away ? ' 
 
 ' Why, to tell you the truth, dear Lord Montfort, Fer- 
 dinand is placed iu a very awkward position with me. You 
 are our friend, and so I speak to you in confidence. Sir 
 Eatcliffe and Lady Armine both expect that Ferdinand 
 and myself are going to be married. ISTow, neither of us 
 have the slightest intention of anything of the sort.' 
 
 ' Very strange, indeed,' said Lord Montfort. * The world 
 will be much astonished, more so than myself, for I confess 
 to a latent suspicion on the subject.' 
 
 ' ' Yes, I was aware of that,' said Miss Grandison, ' or I 
 should not have spoken with so much frankness. For my 
 own part, I think we are very wise to insist upon having 
 our own way, for an ill-assorted marriage must be a most 
 melancholy business.' Miss Grandison spoke with an air 
 almost of levity, which was rather unusual with her. 
 
 ' An ill-assorted marriage,' said Lord Montfort. ' And 
 what do you call an ill-assorted marriage, Miss Grandison ? ' 
 
 ' Why, many circumstances might constitute such an 
 union,' said Kathcrine ; ' bvit I think if one of the parties 
 were in love with another person, that would be quite 
 Bufficicnt to ensure a tolerable portion of wretchedness.* 
 
 * I think so too,' said Lord Montfort ; 'an union, under 
 such circumstances, would be ill-assorted. But Miss Gran- 
 dison is not m that situation?' he added with a faint smile. 
 
 C C
 
 386 HENEIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 ' That is scarcely a fair question,' said Katherine, with 
 gaiety, ' but there is no doubt Ferdinand Armine is.' 
 
 'Indeed!' 
 
 ' Yes ; he is in love, desperately in love ; that I have 
 long discovered. I wonder with whom it can be ! ' 
 
 ' I wonder ! ' said Lord Montfort, 
 
 ' Do you ? ' said Miss Grandison. ' Well, I have some- 
 tunes thought that you might have a latent suspicion of 
 that subject, too. I thought you were his confidant.' 
 
 ' I ! ' said Lord Montfort ; 'I, of all men in the world ? ' 
 
 ' And why not you of all men in the world ? ' said Miaa 
 Grandison. 
 
 ' Our intimacy is so slight,' said Lord Montfort. , 
 
 'Hum! ' said Miss Grandison, 'And now I think of it, ! 
 it does appear to me very strange how we have all become 
 suddenly such intimate friends. The Armines and your ii 
 family not previously acquainted : Miss Temple, too, un- 
 known to my aunt and uncle. And yet we never live 
 now out of each other's sight. I am sure I am grateful 
 for it ; I am sure it is very agreeable, but still it does 
 appear to me to be very odd. I wonder what the 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, in none, in my opinion, 
 is she more fortunate than in the possession of soadmiraote 
 a friend.' 
 
 ' Kot even in the possession of so admirable a lover, my 
 lord?' 
 
 *AU must love Miss Temple who ai-e acquainted with 
 her,' said Lord Montfort, seriously. 
 
 ' Indeed, I think so,' said Katherine, in a more subdued 

 
 A LOVE STORY. 387 
 
 voice. * I love her ; lier career fills me with a strange and 
 singular interest. May she be happy, for happiness she 
 indeed deserves ! ' 
 
 * I have no fonder wish than to secure that happiness, 
 Mss Grandison,' said Lord Montfort ; * by any means,' ho 
 added. 
 
 * She is so interesting ! ' said Katherine. * When you 
 first knew her she was very ill ? ' 
 
 * Very.' 
 
 * She seems quite recovered.' 
 ' I hope so.' 
 
 * Mr. Temple says her spirits are not what they used to 
 be. I wonder what was 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 was unhappy. Oh ! that 
 was a spirit ! He was the most brilliant being that ever 
 lived. And then I was with him during all his illness. It 
 was so terrible. I almost wish we could have loved each 
 other. It is verj^ strange, he must have been ill at Armine, 
 at the very time Henrietta was ill in Italy. And I was with 
 him in England, wliile you were solacing her. And now 
 we are aU friends. There seems a sort of strange destiny 
 in our lots, does there not ? ' 
 
 •A happy lot that can in any way be connected with 
 Miss Grandison,' said Lord Montfort. 
 
 At this moment her grace and Henrietta entered ; the 
 carriage was ready ; and in a few minutes they were dri\ang 
 to "Whitehall Stairs, where a beautiful boat awaited them. 
 
 In the meantime, Ferdinand Armine was revolving the 
 strange occurrences of yesterday. Altogether it was an 
 exciting and satisfactor}- day. In the first place, he had 
 extricated himself from his most pressing difficulties ; in 
 the next, he had been greatly amused ; and thii'dly, he had 
 
 c c 2
 
 388 HENEIETTA TEIMPLE : 
 
 made a very interesting acquaintance, for such he esteemed 
 Count Mu-abel. Just at the moment when, lounging over 
 a very late bi-eakfast, he was thinking of Bond Sharpe and 
 his great career, and then turning in his mind whether it 
 wei'e possible to follow the gay counsels of his friends of 
 yesterday, and never plague himself about a woman again, 
 the Count Mirabel was announced. 
 
 ' Mon cher Armine,' said the Count, 'you see I kept my 
 promise, and would find you at home.' 
 
 The Count stood before him, the best-dressed man in 
 London, fresh and gay as a bird, with not a care on his 
 si^ai-kling visage, and his eye bright wdth bonhomie. And 
 yet Count Mirabel had been the very last to desert the 
 recent mysteries of Mr. Bond Sharpe ; and, as usual, the 
 da]jpled light of dawn had guided him to his luxurious bed, 
 that bed that always afforded him serene slumbers, what- 
 ever might be the adventures of the day, or the result of 
 the night's campaign. How the Count Mirabel did laugh 
 at those poor devils, who wake only to moralise over their 
 own folly with broken spirits and aching heads ! Care ho 
 knew nothing about ; Time he defied ; Indisposition he 
 could not comprehend. He had never been ill in his life, 
 even for five minutes. 
 
 Ferdinand was really very glad to see him ; there was 
 something in Count Mirabel's very pi'esence which put 
 everybody in good spirits. His liglitheartedness was caught 
 by all. Melancholy was a farce in the presence of his smile ; 
 and there was no possible combination of scrapes that could 
 withstand his kind and brilliant raillery. At the present 
 moment, Ferdinand was in a sufficiently good humour with 
 his destiny, and he kept up the ball with effect ; so that 
 nearly an hour passed in amusing conversation. 
 
 'You were a stranger among us yesterday,' said Count 
 Mirabel ; ' I think you were rather diverted, I saw you 
 did justice to that excellent Bond Sharpe. That shows
 
 A LOVE STOllY. 389 
 
 tliafc you have a mind above prejxicTice. Do you know ho 
 was by fax* the best man at table except ourselves ? ' 
 
 Ferdinand smiled. 
 
 'It is true, he has a heart and a brain. Old Castlefysho 
 lias neither. As for the rest of our friends, some have 
 hearts without brains, and the rest brains without heart.s. 
 Which do you prefer ? ' 
 
 ' 'Tis a fine question,' said Ferdinand ; * and yet I confess 
 I should like to be callous.' 
 
 'Ah ! but you cannot be,' said the Count, 'you have a 
 soul of great sensibility; 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 minxxtc I read 
 a person's character. I know you are very much in love, 
 because you changed countenance yesterday when we were 
 talking of women.' 
 
 Ferdinand changed countenance again. ' You are a veiy 
 extraordinary man, Count,' he at length observed. 
 
 ' Of course ; bxit, mon cher Armine, what a fine day this 
 is ! What are you going to do \\-ith yourself?' 
 
 'Nothing; I never do anything,' said Ferdinand, in an 
 almost mournful tone. 
 
 ' A melancholy man ! Quelle betise ! I will cure you. 
 I will be your friend, 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 of champagne, and then 
 we will go to the French play. I will introduce you to 
 Jenny Vertpre. She is full of wit ; perhaps she will ask us 
 to supper. AUons, mon ami, mon chcr Armine; aliens, 
 mon brave ! ' 
 
 Ceremony was a farce with Alcibiades de Mii'abel. 
 Ferdinand had nothing to do ; he was attracted to his 
 companion. The effervescence produced by yesterday's 
 fortunate adventure had not quite subsided ; he was deter-
 
 390 HENEIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 mined to forget his sorrows, and, if only for a day, join 
 in the lively chorus of Vive la bagatelle ! So, in a few 
 moments, he was safely ensconced in the most perfect 
 cabriolet in London, whirled along by a horse that stepped 
 out with a proud consciousness of its master. 
 
 The Count Mirabel enjoyed the drive to Richmond as if 
 he had never been to Richmond in his life. The warm Bun, 
 the western breeze, every object he passed and that passed 
 him called for liis praise or observation. He inoculated 
 Ferdinand with his gaiety, as Ferdinand listened to his 
 Hght, lively tales, and his flying remarks, so full of merri- 
 ment and poignant truth and daiTng fancy. When they 
 had arrived at the Star and Garter, and ordered their 
 dinner, they strolled iato the Park, along the Terrace 
 walk ; and they had not proceeded fifty paces when they 
 came up with the duchess and her party, who were resting 
 on a bench and looking over the valley. 
 
 Ferdinand would gladly have bowed and passed on ; but 
 that was impossible. He was obliged to stop and speak to 
 them, and it was difficult to disembarrass himself of friends 
 who greeted hi in so kindly. Ferdinand presented his com- 
 panion. The ladies were charmed to know so celebrated 
 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 moment to the characters, 
 the scene, and the occasion. He was quite delighted at 
 these unexpected sources of amusement, that had so unex- 
 pectedly revealed themselves ; and in a few minutes they 
 had all agreed to walk together, and in due time tbe 
 duchess was begging Ferdinand and his friend to dine with 
 them. Before Ferdinand could frame an excuse, Count 
 Mirabel had accepted the proposition. After passing the 
 morning together so agreeably, to go and dine in separate 
 rooms, it would be a betise. This word betise settled
 
 A LOVE STOEY. 391 
 
 everything with Count Mirabel; when once he declared 
 that aoything was a hetise, he would hear no more. 
 
 It was a charming stroll. Never was Count Mirabel 
 more playful, more engaging, more completely winning. 
 Henrietta and Katherine alike smiled upon him, and the 
 duchess was quite enchanted. Even Lord Montfort, who 
 might rather have entertained a prejudice against the Count 
 before he knew him, and none can after, and who was 
 prepared for something rather brilliant, but pretending, 
 presumptuous, fantastic, and affected, quite yielded to his 
 amiable gaiety, and his racy and thoroughly genuine and 
 simple manner. So they walked and talked and laughed, 
 and all agreed 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's arm. Lord 
 Montfort and Miss Grandison had fallen back apace, as 
 their party had increased. Ferdinand fluttered between 
 Miss Temple and his cousin ; but would have attached 
 himself to the latter, had not Miss Temple occasionally 
 addressed him. He was glad, however, when they returned 
 to dinner. 
 
 * We have only availed ourselves of your gi-ace's permis- 
 sion to join our dinners,' said Count Mirabel, offering the 
 duchess his arm. He placed himself at the head of the 
 table ; Lord Montfort took the other end. To the surprise 
 of Ferdinand, Miss Grandison, with a heedlessness that was 
 quite remarkable, seated herself next to the duchess, so that 
 Ferdinand was obliged to sit by Heni'ietta Temple, who was 
 thus separated from Lord Montfort. 
 
 The dinner was as gay as the stroll. Ferdinand was the 
 only person who was silent. 
 
 ' How amusing he is ! ' said Miss Temple, turning to 
 Ferdinand, and speaking in an under tone. 
 
 ' Yes ; I envy him his gaiety.'
 
 392 HENRIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 ' Be gay.' 
 
 ' I tliank you ; I dare say I sliall in time. I have not ycfc 
 quite embraced all Count Mii'abel's philosophy. He says 
 that the man who plagues himself for five minutes about a 
 ■woman is an idiot. When I think the same, which I hope 
 I may soon, I dare say I shall be as gay.' 
 
 Miss Temple addressed herself no more to Perdinand. 
 
 They returned by water. To Ferdinand's great annoy- 
 ance, the Count did not hesitate for a moment to avail him- 
 self of the duchess's proposal that he and his companion 
 should form part of the crew. He gave immediate 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 of Fulham Avith refulgent light, just as 
 they were off delicate Rosebank ; but the air long continued 
 warm, and always soft, and the last few miles of 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 sui'e, would sing to us ? ' 
 
 ' And you, you will sing to us without a guitar, 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 sweet sounds, as was the present ; there is 
 something very ravishing in the combination. The heart 
 opens ; it is a dangerous moment. As Ferdinand listened 
 once more to the voice of Henrietta, even though it was 
 blended with the sweet tones of Miss Grandison, the pas- 
 sionate past vividly recurred to him. Fortunately he did 
 not sit near her ; he had taken care to be the last in the
 
 A LOVE STORY. 393 
 
 boijt. He turned away his face, but its stern expression 
 did not escape the observation of the Count MirabeL 
 
 ' And now, Count Mirabel, you must really flivour us,' 
 said the duchess. 
 
 ' Without a guitar ? ' said the Count, and he began thrum- 
 ming on his arm for an accompaniment. ' Well, when I was 
 with the Due d'Angoulcme in Spain, we sometimes indulged 
 in a serenade at Seville. I will try to reinembcr one.' 
 
 A SERENADE OF SEVILLE. 
 
 I, 
 
 Come fortli, come fortli, the star we love 
 
 Is high o'er Guadalquivir's grove, 
 
 And tints each tree with golden light ; 
 
 Ah ! Eosalie, 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 ! Eosalie, one sigh from thee were far more sweet! 
 
 III. 
 Come forth, come forth, ono hoiu' of night, 
 When flowers are fresh and stars .are bright, 
 AV'ere worth an age of gaudy day ; 
 Then, Eosalio, fly, fly to me, nor longer stay ! 
 
 ' I hope the lady came,' said Miss Temple, * after such a 
 pretty song.' 
 
 * Of coarse,' said the Count, * they always come.' 
 
 ' Fci'dinand, will you sing?' said Miss Grandi.son. 
 
 ' I cannot, Kalherine.' 
 
 ' Henrietta, ask Ferdinand to sing,' said Miss Grandison ; 
 ' he makes it a rule never to do anything I ask him, but I 
 am sure you have more influence.' 
 
 Lord Montfort came to the rescue of !Mis3 Temple. 
 * Miss Temple has spoken so often to us of your singing, 
 Captain Armino,' said his lordship ; and yet Lord ilontfort, 
 in this allegation, a little departed from the habitual ex- 
 actitude of his statements.
 
 394 HENEIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 ' How very strange ! ' thought Ferdinand ; ' her callous- 
 ness or her candour baffles me. ' I will try to sing,' he 
 continued aloud, ' but it is a year really since I ever did.' 
 
 In a voice of singular power and melody, and with an 
 expression which increased as he proceeded, until the singer 
 seemed scarcely able to control his emotions. Captain Ar- 
 mine thus proceeded : — 
 
 CAPTAIN AEMIWE'« SONG. 
 
 1. 
 
 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 was turned to the water ; it was 
 streaming with tears. Without appearing to notice her, 
 Count Mirabel leant forward, and engaged everybody's 
 attention ; so that she was unobserved and had time to 
 recover. And yet she was aware that the Count Mirabel 
 had remarked her emotion, and was grateful for his quick 
 and delicate consideration. It was fortunate that West- 
 minster-bridge was now in sight, for after this song of
 
 A LOVE STORY. 395 
 
 Captain Armine, eycryone became dull or pensive ; even 
 Connt Mii-abel was silent. 
 
 The ladies and Lord Montfort entered tlicir britscha. 
 Tliey bid a cordial adieu to Count Mirabel, and begged him 
 to call upon them in St. James'-square, and the Count and 
 Ferdinand were alone. 
 
 ' Cher Ai-mine,' said the Count, as he was driving up 
 Charing-cross, ' Catch told me you were going to marry 
 your cousin. Which of those two young ladies is your 
 cousin ? ' 
 
 ' The fair girl ; Miss Grandison.' 
 
 ' So I understood. She is very pretty, but you are not 
 going to marry her, are you ? ' 
 
 * ITo ; I am not.' 
 
 ' And who is Lliss Temple ? ' 
 ' She is o-oing 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 
 over saw. She marries for money, I suppose ? ' 
 
 ' She is the richest heiress in England ; she is much 
 richer than my cousin.' 
 
 ' C'est drole. 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 Armino, I like you more than anybody. I 
 •wish to be, I am, your friend. Here is some cursed con- 
 tretemps. There is a mystery, and both of you are victima 
 of it. Tell me everything. I will put you right.' 
 
 ' Ah ! my dear Mirabel, it is past even your skill. 1 
 thought I could never speak on these things to human
 
 396 HENRIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 Leing, but I am attracted to you by the same sympathy 
 which you flatter me by expressing for myself. I want a 
 confidant, I need a friend, I am most wretched.' 
 
 ' Eh ! bien ! we will not go to the French play. As for 
 Jenny Vertpre, we can sup with her any night. Come to 
 my house, and we Avill talk oyer everything. But trust 
 me, if you wish to marry Henrietta Temple, you are an 
 idiot if you do not have her.' 
 
 So saying, the Count touched his bright horse, and in a 
 few minutes the cabriolet stopped before a small but ad- 
 mirably appointed house in Berkeley- square. 
 
 ' Now, mon cher,' said the Count, ' coffee and con 
 fidence.' 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 IN WUICH THE COUNT MIRABEL COMMENCES HIS OPERATIONS 
 WITH GREAT SUCCESS. 
 
 Is there a more gay and gTaceful spectacle in the Avorld 
 than Hyde Park, at the end of a long sunny morning in. 
 the merry month of May or June ? Where can we see 
 such beautiful women, such gallant cavaliers, such fine 
 horses, and such brilliant equipages ? The scene, too, is 
 worthy of such agreeable accessories : the groves, the 
 gleaming waters, and the triumphal arches. In the dis- 
 tance, the misty heights of Surrey, and the bowery glades 
 of Kensington. 
 
 It was the day after the memorable voyage from Rich- 
 mond. Eminent among the glittering throng, Count Mirabul 
 cantered along on his Arabian, scattering gay recognitions 
 and brio-ht words. He reined in his steed beneath a tree, 
 under whose shade were assembled a knot of listless cava- 
 liers. The Count received their congratulations, for this 
 morning he had won his pigeon match. 
 
 ' Only think of that old fool, Castlefyshe, betting on Pop-
 
 A LOVE STORY, 397 
 
 pingtoii,' said tlic Count. ' I want to see liim, old idiot ! 
 Who knows Avlicre Cliarlc}^ is ? ' 
 
 ' I do, Mirabel,' said Lord Catchimwliocan. ' He has 
 gone to Riclimond with Blaudford and the two littlo 
 Furzlers.' 
 
 ' That good Blaudford ! "\Yhenever he is in love ho 
 always gives a dinner. It is a droll way to succeed.' 
 
 ' Apropos, will you dine with me to-day, Mirabel ? ' said 
 Mr. de Stockville, 
 
 ' Impossible, my dear fellow ; I dine with Fitzwarrene.' 
 
 ' I say, Mirabel,' drawled out a young man, ' I saw you 
 yesterday driving a 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, aaid I shall 
 be very particular to wliom he is introduced,' 
 
 ' Lord ! I wonder avLo he can be ! ' said tlie young man. 
 
 ' I say, Mirabel, you will be done on Goshawk, if you 
 don't take care, I can toll you that.' 
 
 ' Thank you, good Coventry ; if you like to bet the odds, 
 I will take them.' 
 
 *No, my dear fellow, I do not want to bet, but at iho 
 same time ' 
 
 ' You have an opinion that you will not back. That is a 
 luxury, for certainly it is of no use, I would advise you to 
 enjoy it.' 
 
 'Well, I must say, Mirabel,' said Lord Catchiunvhocan, 
 *I think the same about Goshawk,' 
 
 'Oh, no, Catch, you do not think so; you think you 
 think. Go and take all the odds you can get upou Goshawk, 
 Come, now, to-morrow you will tell me you have a very 
 pretty book. Eh ! mou chcr Catch ? ' 
 
 'But do you really think Goshawk will win?' asked 
 Lord Catchimwhocan, earnestly. 
 
 ♦ Certain ! '
 
 398 HENRIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 ' Well, damned if I don't go and take the odds,' said hia 
 lordsliip. 
 
 ' Mirabel,' said a young noble, moving bis borse close to 
 tbe Count, and speaking 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 to advise 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 the most infernal business ; I do not know 
 what I shall do. I think I shall cut my throat.' 
 
 ' Betise ! 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 it until to-morrow at one o'clock, 
 and then call on me. If you like, I am at your service at 
 present.' 
 
 ' 'No, no, not here : there are letters.' 
 
 ' Ha, ha ! Well, to-morrow, at one. In the meantime, 
 do not write any nonsense.' 
 
 At this moment, the duchess, with a party of equestrians, 
 passed and bowed to the Count ]\Iirabel. 
 
 ' I say, Mirabel,' exclaimed a young man, ' who is that 
 girl ? I want to know. I have seen her several times 
 lately. By Jove, she is a fine creatui'e ! ' 
 
 ' Do not you know Miss Temple ? ' said the Count. 
 ' Fancy a man not knowing Miss 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 of Miss Temple was heard. All vowed 
 they knew her very well, at least by sight, and never
 
 A LOVE STORY. 399 
 
 tliouglit of anybody else. Some asked the Count to pre- 
 sent them, others meditated plans by which that great 
 result might be obtained ; but, in the midst of all this 
 agitation, Count !Mirabel rode away, and was soon by the 
 veiy lady's side. 
 
 ' What a charming voyage yesterday,' said the Count to 
 lyiiss Temple. * Tou were amused ? ' 
 
 * Very.' 
 
 * And to think you should all know my friend Arm in e so 
 well ! I was astonished, for he will never go anywhere, or 
 speak to anyone.' 
 
 ' You know him intimately ? ' said ]\Iiss Temple. 
 
 ' He is my brother ! There is not a human being in the 
 world I love so much ! If you only knew him as I know 
 him. Ah ! chore IMiss Temple, there is not a man in 
 London to be compared with him, so clever and so good ! 
 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. 1 
 cannot discover what is the matter with him. He has 
 grown melancholy. I think he will not live.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! ' 
 
 ' No, I am never wrong. That cher Armine will not Uve.' 
 
 * You are his friend, surely ' 
 
 * Ah ! yes ; but, I do not know what it is. Even me he 
 cares not for. I contrive 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 a dull hotel, 
 with his eyes fixed on the ground, dark as night. Never 
 was a man so changed. I suppose something has happened 
 to him abroad. When you first knew him, I daresay now, 
 ho Avas the gayest of the gay ? ' 
 
 ' He was indeed very dillercnt,' said ^Miss Temple, turning 
 away her face.
 
 400 Hh-NRIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 ' Yoa have known tliat dear Armine a long time ? ' 
 ' It seems a long time,' said Miss Temple. 
 ' If lie dies, and die he must, I do not think I shall ever 
 be in very good spirits again,' said the Count. ' It is the 
 only thing that would quite upset me. Now do not you 
 think, Miss Temple, that our cher Armiiie is the most in- 
 tcresting 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 him veiy Avell ? ' 
 
 'They were companions in boyhood, I believe ; but they 
 have resumed their acquaintance only recently.' 
 
 'We must interest Lord Montfort in his case. Lord 
 Montfort must assist in our endeavours to bring him out 
 a little.' 
 
 ' Lord Montfort needs no prompting. Count. We are all 
 alike interested in Captain Armine's welfare.' 
 
 ' I wish you would try to find out what is on his mind,' 
 said Count Mirabel. ' After all, men cannbt do much. It 
 requires a more delicate sympathy 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.' 
 
 'All ! he does not think so any longer,' said the Count; 
 ' he avoids me, he will not tell me anything. Chere Miss 
 Temple, this business haunts me ; it will end badly. I know 
 that dear Armine so well ; no one knows him like 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 of committing suicide.' 
 
 ' God forbid ! ' said Henrietta Temple, with erajjhasis. 
 ' I rise every morning with apprehension,' said the Count. 
 ' When I call upon him, every day, I tremble as I approach 
 his hotel.'
 
 A LOVE STORY. 401 
 
 • Are you indeed serious ? ' 
 
 'Most serious. I knew a man once in the same staio. 
 It was the Dae de Crillou. He was my brother friend, like 
 this dear Armine. "We were at collesre toiretlier : Ave -were 
 in the same regiment. He was exactly like this dear 
 Armine, 3'oung, beautiful, and clever, but with a heart all 
 tenderness, terrible passions. He loved Mademoiselle de 
 Guise, my cousin, the most beautiful girl in France. Par- 
 don me, but I told Armine yesterday that you reminded me 
 of her. They were going to be married ; but there Avas a 
 contretemps. He sent for me ; I was in Spain ; she married 
 the Viscount de ^larsagnac. Until that dreadful morning 
 he remained exactly in the same state as our dear Armine. 
 Never was a melancholy 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 
 dreadful adventure that overcomes me when I see our dear 
 friend here, because I feel it must be love. I Avas in hopes 
 it was his cousin. But it is not so : it must be somethiner 
 that has happened abroad. Love alone can account for it. 
 It is not his debts that Avould so overpower him. What 
 are his debts ? I Avould pay them myself. It is a heart- 
 rending business. I am going to him. Hoav I tremble ! ' 
 
 ' HoAv good you arc ! ' exclaimed j\Iiss Tem2)le, Avith 
 streaming eyes. ' I CA'er shall be grateful ; I mean, avc all 
 must. Oh ! do go to him, go to him directly ; tell him to 
 be liappy.' 
 
 ' It is the song I ever sing,' said the Count. ' I Avish 
 some of you Avould come and see him, or send him a mes- 
 sage. It is Avise to show him that there are some Avho take 
 interest in his existence. Now, give me that flower, for 
 instance, and let me give it to him from you.' 
 
 ' He AA-ill not care for it,' said Miss Temple. 
 
 ' Try. It is a fancy I have. Let me bear it.' 
 
 D D
 
 402 HENEIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 Miss Temple gave the flower to the Count, who rode off 
 with his prize. 
 
 It was about eight o'clock : Ferdinand was sitting alone 
 in his room, having just parted with Glastonbury, who was 
 going to dine in Brook-street. The sun had set, and yet 
 it was scarcely dark enough for artificial light, particularly 
 for a person without a pursuit. It was just that dreary 
 dismal moment, when even the most gay grow pensive, if 
 they be alone. And Ferdinand was particularly dull ; a 
 reaction had followed the excitement of the last eight-and- 
 forty hours, and he was at this moment feeling singularly 
 disconsolate, and upbraiding himself for being so weak as 
 to permit himself to be influenced by Mirabel's fantastic 
 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 am late. I have done your business 
 capitally. Here is a pretty flower ! Who do you think 
 gave it me ? She did, pardy. On condition, however, that 
 I should bear it to you, with a message ; and what a mes- 
 sage ! that you should be happy.' 
 
 ' !N"onsense, my dear Count.' 
 
 * It is true ; but I romanced at a fine rate for it. It is 
 the only way with women. She thinks we have known 
 each other since the Deluge. Do not betray me. But, my 
 dear fellow, I cannot stop now. Only, mind, all is changed. 
 Instead of being gay, and seeking her society, and amusing 
 her, and thus attempting to regain your influence, as we 
 talked of last night ; mind, suicide is the system. To- 
 morrow I will tell you all. She has a firm mind and a 
 high spirit, which she thinks is jDrinciple. If we go upon 
 the tack of last night, she will marry Montfort, and fall 
 in love with you afterwards. That will never do. So we 
 must work upon her fears, her generosity, pity, remorse, and 
 
 II
 
 A LOVE STOEY. 403 
 
 so on. Call upon me to-morrow morning, at Balf-past two ; 
 not before, because I have an excellent boy coming to me 
 at one, who is in a scrape. At half-past two, cher, cher 
 Armiiie, we will talk more. In the meantime, enjoy your 
 floAver ; and rest assiired, that it is your own fault if you 
 do not fling the good Montfort in a very fine ditch.' 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 m WHICH ME. 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 or other he contrived to see IVIiss Temple 
 almost daily. He paid assiduous court to the duchess, on 
 whom he had made a favourable impression from the first ; 
 in St. James'-square he met Mr. Temple, who was partial 
 to the society of a distinguished foreigner. He was de- 
 lighted with Count Mirabel. As for IMiss Grandison, tho 
 Count absolutely made her his confidant, though he con- 
 cealed tliis bold step from Ferdinand. He established his 
 intimacy in the three famiUes, and even mystified Sir 
 Ratclifi'e and Lady Arnune so completely that they ima- 
 gined he must be some acquaintance that Ferdinand had 
 made abroad; and they received him accoi'dingly as ono 
 of their son's oldest and most cherished friends. But the 
 most amusing circumstance of all was that the Count, who 
 even in business never lost sight of what might divert or 
 interest him, became great friends with Mr. Glastonbury. 
 Count ]\Iirabel comprehended and appreciated that good 
 man's character. 
 
 All Count Mirabel's efibrts were directed to restore the 
 influence of Ferdinand Armiue over Henrietta Temple ; and 
 ■with this view he omitted no opportunity of impressing the 
 
 D D 2
 
 404 IIENPJETTA TEJiIPLE: 
 
 idea of lils absent friend on that lady's susceptible brain. 
 His virtues, bis talents, bis accomplisbments, bis sacrifices; 
 but, above all, bis mysterious sufferings, and tbe fatal end 
 ■wbicb tbe Count was convinced awaited bim, were placed 
 before ber in a ligbt so vivid tbat tbey engrossed ber 
 tbouffbt and imagination. Sbe could not resist tbe fasci- 
 nation of talking about Ferdinand Armine to Count Mirabel. 
 He was tbe constant subject of tbcir discourse. i\ll ber 
 feelings now clustei-ed round bis image. Sbe bad (piite 
 abandoned ber old plan of marrying bim to bis cousin. 
 Tbat was desperaf e. Did sbe regret it ? Sbe scarcely dared 
 urge to berself tbis secret question ; and yet it seemed tbat 
 ber beart, too, wou.ld break were Ferdinand another's. 
 But, tben, what Avas to become of bim ? Was be to be 
 left desolate ? Was be indeed to die ? And Digby, tbe 
 amiable, generous Digby ; ab ! wby did sbe ever meet bim ? 
 Unfortunate, mibajipy woman ! And yet sbe was resolved 
 to be firm ; sbe could not falter ; sbe Avould be tbe victim 
 of ber duty even if sbe died at tbe altar. Almost sbe 
 wished that she bad ceased to live, and tben tbe recollec- 
 tion of Armine came back to her so vividly ! And those 
 long days of passionate delight ! All his tenderness and 
 all his truth ; for be bad been true to ber, always had he 
 been ti'ue to ber. Sbe was not tbe person who ought to 
 complain of bis conduct. And yet she was tbe person who 
 alone punished bim. How different was tbe generous con- 
 duct of his cousin ! She had pardoned all ; she sympa- 
 thised with liim, she sorroAved for bim, sbe tried to soothe 
 bim. She laboured to unite him to her rival. What must 
 be think of herself? How hard-hearted, how selfish must 
 the contrast prove ber ! Could he indeed believe now that 
 sbe had ever loved him ? Oh, no ! he must despise her. 
 He must believe that she was sacrificing: ber heart to the 
 splendour, of rank. Ob! could he believe this I Pier 
 Ferdinand, her romantic Ferdinand, who bad thrown for-
 
 A LOVE STOKY, 405 
 
 tune and power to tlio winds but to gain tliat very heart ! 
 Wliat a return had she made him. ! And for all his fidelity 
 he was punished ; lone, disconsolate, forlorn, overpowered 
 
 hy vulgar cares, heart-broken, meditating even death . 
 
 The picture was too terrible, too han'owing. She hid her 
 face in the pillow of the sofa on which she was seated, and 
 wept bitterly. 
 
 She felt an arm softly twined round her waist ; she looked 
 up, it was her father. 
 
 'My child,' he said, 'you are agitated.' 
 
 ' Yes; yes, I am agitated,' she said, in a low voice. 
 
 * Yon 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 liappened.* 
 
 ' I cannot speak ; nothing has happened ; I have nothing 
 to say.' 
 
 'To see you thus makes me quite unhappy,' said Mr. 
 Temple ; ' if only for my sake, let me know the cause of 
 this overwhelming emotion.' 
 
 ' It is a cause that will not please you. Forget, sir, what 
 you have seen.' 
 
 ' A father cannot. I entreat you tell me. If you lovo 
 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 yoii 
 tell me all. Something lias occurred ; something must 
 
 have occurred to revive such strong feelings. Has, has 
 
 I know not Avhat to say, but so much happens that sur- 
 prises me ; I know, I have heard, that you have seen one
 
 406 HENEIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 wlio once influenced your feelings, tliat you have been 
 tkrown in unespected contact with hi-m ; he has not, he has 
 
 not dared ' 
 
 * Say nothing harshly of him,' said Miss Temple wildly ; 
 ' I will not bear it, even from you.' 
 ' My daughter ! ' 
 
 ' Ay ! your daughter, but still a woman. Do I murmur? 
 Do I complain ? Have I urged you to compromise your 
 honour ? I am ready for the sacrifice. My conduct is 
 yours, but my feelings are my own.' 
 
 ' Sacrifice, Henrietta ! What sacrifice ? I have heard 
 only of your happiness ; I have thought only of your happi- 
 ness. This is a strange return.' 
 
 ' Father, forget what you have seen ; forgive what I have 
 said. But let this 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, Tou are rich now, 
 Henrietta, and he perhaps would be faithful.' 
 
 ' Ferdinand ! ' exclaimed Miss Temple, lifting up her 
 hands and eyes to heaven, ' and you must endure even 
 this ! ' 
 
 'Henrietta,' said Mr. Temple in a voice of affected calm. 
 ness, as he seated himself by her side, ' Hsten to me : I am 
 not a harsh parent ; you cannot iipbraid me with insensi- 
 bility to your feelings. They have ever engrossed my 
 thought and care ; and how to gratify, and when necessary 
 how to soothe them, has long been the principal occupation 
 of my life. If you have known misery, gu-l, you made that 
 misery yourself. It was not I that involved you in secret 
 engagements and clandestine correspondence ; it was not I 
 that made you, you, my daughter, on whom I have lavished 
 all the soHcitude of long years, the dupe of the first calcu-
 
 A LOVE STOEY. 40V 
 
 lating libertine wlio dared to trifle with your affections, and 
 betray your heart.' 
 
 ' 'Tis false,' exclaimed Miss Temple, inteiTupting him ; 
 * he is as true and 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 laughing sneer. ' Now, mark me,' ho continued, re- 
 suming his calm tone, ' you interrupted me ; hsten to me. 
 You are the betrothed bride of Lord Montfort ; Lord ISIont- 
 fort, my friend, the man I love most in the world; the 
 most generous, the most noble, the most virtuous, the most 
 gifted of human beings. You gave him your hand freely, 
 under cu'cumstances which, even if ho did not possess 
 every quaUty that ought to secure the affection 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 
 daughter of mine. I am as firm as I am fond ; nor would 
 I do this, but that I know well I am doing rightly. Yes ! 
 take this Axmine once more to youi* heart, and you receive 
 my curse, the deepest, the sternest, the deadliest that ever 
 descended on a daughter's head.' 
 
 ' My father, my dear, dear father, my beloved father ! ' 
 esclaimed Miss Temple, throwing herself at his feet. * Oh ! 
 do not say so ; oh ! recall those words, those wild, those 
 terrible words. Indeed, indeed, my heart is 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 streamiug 
 eyes ; ' indeed it is not. He has not preferred his suit, ho 
 has urged no claim. Ho has behaved in the most delicate, 
 the most honourable, the most considerate manner. Ho 
 has thought only of my situation. He met me by accident. 
 My friends arc Lis friends. They know not what has taken 
 place between us. Ho has not l^rcathed it to human being.
 
 408 HENEIETTA TEIVIPLE : 
 
 He lias absented himself from his home, that we might no'*' 
 meet.' 
 _ ' You must marry Lord Montfort at once.' 
 ' Oh ! my father, even as yon like. But do not c;irse me ; 
 dream not of such terrible things ; recall those fearful 
 words ; love me, love me ; say I am your child. And Digby, 
 I am true to Digby. But, indeed, can I recall the past ; 
 can I alter it ? Its memory overcame me. Digby knows 
 all ; 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 have done of Ferdinand. We have done him 
 great injustice ; I have done him great injury. He is good 
 and pure ; indeed, he is ; if you knew all, you would not 
 doubt it. He was ever faithful ; indeed, indeed he was. 
 Once you liked him. Sj^eak kindly of him, father. He is 
 the victim. If you meet him, be gentle to him, sir : for, 
 indeed, if you knew all, you would pity him.* 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 IN WHICH FERDINAND HAS A VERT STOiniY INTERVIEW WITH 
 
 Ills FATHER. 
 
 If we pause now to take a calm and comprehensive re- 
 view of the state and prospects of the three families, in 
 whose feehngs and fortunes we have attempted to interest 
 the reader, it must be confessed that, however bi-illiant and 
 satisfactory they might appear on the surface, the elements 
 of discord, gloom, and unhappiness might be more pro- 
 foundly discovered, and might even be held as rapidly 
 stirring into movement. Miss Temple was the affianced 
 bride of Lord Montfort, but her heart was Captain Ar-
 
 A LOVE STOIIY. 409 
 
 mine's : Captain Armine, in tlie estimation of his parents, 
 Avas the pledged husband of Miss Grandison, while he and 
 his cousin had, in fact, dissolved their engagement. Mr. 
 Temple more than suspected his daughter's partiality for 
 Ferdinand. Sir Ratclilie, very much surprised at seeing 
 so little of his son, and resolved that the marriage should 
 be no further delayed, was about to precipitate confessions, 
 of which he 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 active conspiracy. 
 Lord Montfort alone was calm, and, if he had a purpose 
 to conceal, inscrutable. All things, however, foreboded a 
 crisis. 
 
 Sir Ratcliffc, astonished at the marked manner in Avhich 
 his son absented himself from Brook-street, resolved upon 
 bringing hini to an explanation. At first, he thought there 
 might be some lovers' quarrel ; but the demeanour of 
 Kathcriue, and the easy tone in whicli she ever spoke of 
 her cousin, soon disabused him of this fond hope. He con- 
 sulted his v.dfe. Now, to tell the truth. Lady Armine, who 
 was a shrewd woman, was not without her doubts and per- 
 plexities, but she Avould not confess them to her husband. 
 Many circumstances had been observed by her Avhich filled 
 her with disquietude, but she had staked all lier hopes upon 
 this cast, and she was of a saugTiino temper. She m as 
 leading an agreeable life. Katherine ajipeared daily more 
 attached to her, and Lady Ai-mine was quite of opinion 
 that it is always very injudicious to interfere. She en- 
 deavoured to persuade Sir RatclifTe that everything was 
 quite light, and she assured him that the season would 
 terminate, as all seasons ought to terminate, by the 
 marriage. 
 
 And perhaps Sir EatclifTo Avoukl have followed her ex- 
 ample, only it so happened that as he was returning homo 
 one morning, he met his son in Gx-osvenor-square.
 
 410 HENRIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 ' Why, rerdinand, we never see you now,' said Sir Kat- 
 clifFe. 
 
 ' 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 Montforfc and Count Mirabel. 
 Come in,' said Sir E-atcliffe, for he was now almost at his 
 door. 
 
 The father and son entered. Sir Ratcliffe walked into a 
 little Hbrary on the ground floor, which was his morning 
 room. 
 
 ' We dine at home to-day, Ferdinand,' said Sir RatcHffe. 
 ' Perhaps you will come.' 
 
 ' Thank you, sir, I am engaged.' 
 
 ' It seems to me you are always engaged. For a person 
 who does not like gaiety, 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 
 RatcHffe. ' I do not Hke ever to interfere unnecessarily 
 with your conduct; but the anxiety of a parent will, I 
 think, excuse the question I am about to ask. 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 wrong between you and Kathe- 
 rine, is there ? ' 
 
 ' Wrong, sir ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, wrong ? I mean, is thei'e any misunderstanding ? 
 Have you quarrelled ? ' 
 
 ' No, sir, we have not quarrelled ; we perfectly under- 
 stand each other.' 
 
 * I am glad to hoar it, for I must say I think your con-
 
 A LOVE STOEY. 411 
 
 dact is very unlike that of a lover. All I can say is, I 
 did not win your mother's heart 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 
 
 some minutes. Sir RatclilTe took up the newspaper ; his 
 son leant over the mantel-piece, and gazed upon the empty 
 fire-place. At length he turned round and said, ' Father, I 
 can bear this no longer ; the engagement between Kathe- 
 rine and myself is dissolved.' 
 
 ' Good God ! when, and why ? ' exclaimed Sir Ratcliflfe, 
 the newspaper falling from his hand. 
 
 * Long since, sir ; and ever since I loved another woman, 
 and she knew it.' 
 
 ' Ferdinand ! Ferdinand ! ' exclaimed the unhappy father ; 
 but he was so overpowered that he could not give utterance 
 to his thoughts. He threw himself in a chair, and wrung: 
 his hands. Ferdinand stood still and silent, like a statue 
 of Destiny, gloomy and inflexible. 
 
 ' Speak again,' at length said Su* Ratcliflfe. ' Let me hear 
 you speak again. I cannot beheve what I have heard. Is 
 it indeed true that your engagement with your cousin has 
 been long terminated ? ' 
 
 Ferdinand nodded assent. 
 
 'Your poor mother!' exclaimed Sir Ratcliflb. 'This 
 will kill her.' He rose from his seat, and walked up and 
 down the room in great agitation. 
 
 ' I knew all was not right,' ho muttered to himself. ' She 
 will sink under it ; we must all sink under it. Madman ! 
 you know not what you have done ! ' 
 
 'It is in vain to regr?t, sir ; my sufferings have been 
 greater than yours.' 
 
 * She will pardon you, my boy,' said Sir Ratcliffe, in a 
 quicker and kinder tone. ' You have lived to repent your
 
 412 HENRIETTA TEMPLK : 
 
 impetuous folly ; Katlierine is kind and generous ; slie loves 
 us all ; she must love you ; slie will pai-don you. Yes ! 
 entreat laer to forget it ; your mother, your mother has 
 great influence with her ; she will exercise it, she will inter- 
 fere, you are very young, all will yet be well.' 
 
 ' It is as impossible for me to marry Katheriue Grandi- 
 son, as for you yourself 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 your conduct. Yet, yet there is time to 
 prevent this desolation. I am controlling ray emotions ; 
 I wish you to save us, you, all ! Throw yourself at 
 your cousin's fenrt. She is soft-hearted ; she may yet bo 
 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 difficulty of u.tterance, ' if the conviction 
 that you have destroyed all our hopes, rewarded us for all 
 our affection, our long devotion, by blasting every fond 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 word to, that never gave me cause to blame or 
 check him, your mother will be home soon, your poor, poor 
 mother. Do not let me welcome her with all this misery. 
 Tell me it is not true ; recall what you have said ; let ns 
 forget these harsh words • reconcile yourself to your cousin j 
 let us bo happy.'
 
 A LOVE STOEY. 413 
 
 ' Fatlier, if my lieart's blood could secure your happiuess, 
 my life were ready ; but this I cannot do.' 
 
 ' Do you know wliat is at stake ? Everything, All, all, 
 all ! We can see Armine no more ; our home is gone. 
 Your mother and myself must be exiles. Oh ! yon 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 all forgotten, is it not ? It is a 
 lovers' quarrel, after all r ' 
 
 ' Father, why should I trifle with your feelings ? why 
 should I feign what can never be ? This sharp interview, 
 so long postponed, ought not now to be adjourned. In- 
 dulge no hopes, for there are none.' 
 
 ' Then by every sacred power I revoke every blessing 
 that since your birth I have poured upon your head. I 
 recall the prayers that every night I have invoked upon 
 your being. Great God ! I cancel them. You have be- 
 trayed your cousin ; you have deserted your mother and 
 myself; you have first 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 should 
 produce such a curse ? Sins of my father, they are visited 
 upon me ! And Glastonburj', what will Glastonbury say ? 
 Glastonbury, who sacrificed his fortune for you.' 
 
 ' Mr. Glastonbury knows all, sir, and has always been 
 my confidant.' 
 
 ' Is he a ti-aitor ? For when a son deserts me, I know 
 not whom to trust.' 
 
 ' He has no thoughts but for our welfare, sir. He will 
 convince yon, sir, I cannot marry my cousin.' 
 
 ' Boy, boy ! you know not what you say. Not marry 
 your cousin ! Then let us die. It were better for us all 
 to die.' 
 
 ' jMy father ! Be calm, I beseech you ; you have spoken
 
 414 HENEIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 harsh words ; I have not deserted you or my mother] I 
 never -will, if I have wronged my cousin, I have severely 
 Buffered, and she has most freely forgiven me. She is my 
 dear friend. As for our house : tell me, would you have 
 that house preserved at the cost of my happiness ? You 
 are not the father I supposed, if such indeed be your wish.' 
 
 ' Happiness ! Fortune, family, beauty, youth, a sweet 
 and charming spirit, if these will not secure a man's hap- 
 piness, I know not what might. And these I wished you 
 to possess.' 
 
 ' Sir, it is in vain for us to converse upon this subject. 
 See Glastonbury, if you will. He can at least assure you 
 that neither my feelings 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 was apparently plunged in pro- 
 found thought. 
 
 CHAPTER XYHI. 
 
 FERDINAND IS AERESTED BY MESSRS. MORRIS AND LEVISON, AND 
 TAKEN TO A SPUNGING-HOUSE. 
 
 It must be confessed that the affairs of our friends were 
 in a critical state : everyone interested felt that something 
 decisive in their respective fortunes was at hand. And yet, 
 so vain are all human plans and calculations, that the un- 
 avoidable crisis was brought about by an incident which 
 no one anticipated. It so happened that the stormy inter- 
 view between Sir Ratcliffe and his son was overheard by a 
 servant. This servant, who had been engaged by Miss 
 Grandison in London, was a member of a club to which 
 a confidential clerk of Messrs. Morris and Levison be- 
 longed. In the ensuing evening, when this worthy knight
 
 A LOVE STOEY. 415 
 
 of tlie slioulcTer-kuot just dropped out for an hour to look 
 in at tlais choice society, smoke a pipe, and talk over tho 
 affairs of his mistress and the nation, he announced the 
 important fact that the match between Miss Grandison 
 and Captain Armine was 'no go,' which, for his part, he 
 did not regret, as he thought his mistress ought to look 
 higher. The confidential clerk of Messrs. Morris and 
 Levison listened in silence to this important intelHgence, 
 and communicated it the next morning to his employers. 
 And so it happened that a very few days afterwards, as 
 Ferdinand Avas Ipng in bed at bis hotel, tlie door of his 
 chamber suddenly opened, and an individual, not of the 
 most prepossessing appearance, being much marked with 
 the small-pox, reeking with gin, and wearing top-boots and 
 a belcher handkerchief, rushed into his room and enquired 
 whether he were Captain Ai'mine. 
 
 ' The same,' said Ferdinand. ' And pray, sir, who are 
 you?' 
 
 ' Don't wish to bo unpleasant,' was the answer, ' but, 
 sir, you are my prisoner.' 
 
 There is something exceedingly ignoble in an arrest : 
 Ferdinand felt that sickness come over him which the un- 
 initiated in such ceremonies must experience. However, 
 lie rallied, and enquired at whose suit these proceedings 
 were taken. 
 
 ' Messrs. Morris and Levison, sir.* 
 
 ' Cannot I send for my lawyer and give bail ? ' 
 
 The bailiff shook his head. ' You sec, sir, you are taken 
 in execution, so it is impossible.' 
 
 * And the amount of the debt ?' 
 
 ' Is 2,8007., sir.' 
 
 ' Well, what am I to do ? ' 
 
 ' "Why, sir, you must go along with us. We will do it 
 very quietly. My follower is in a hackney-coach at tho 
 door, sir. You can just step in as plcasiint as possible. I
 
 416 nENRlETTA ^TEMPLE: 
 
 suppose you would like to go to a house, and tlieu joii can 
 send for your friends, you know.' 
 
 ' Yf ell, 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 Avas no door but tlie entrance ; the 
 window offered no chance. ' Well, sir,' he said, ' I likes to 
 do thiiigs pleasant. I can stand outside, sir ; but you must 
 be quick.' 
 
 Ferdinand rang for his servant. When Louis clearly 
 understood the state of affairs, he was anxious to throw the 
 bailiff out of the window, but his master prevented him. 
 Mr. Glastonbury had gone out some two hours ; Ferdinand 
 sent Louis with a message to his family, to say he was 
 about leaving town for a few days ; and impressing upon 
 him to be careful not to let them know in Brook-st)-ect 
 what had occurred, he completed his rapid toilet and ac- 
 companied the sheriff's officer to the hackney-coach that 
 was prepared for him. 
 
 As they jogged on in silence, Ferdinand revolved in his 
 mind how it would be most advisable for him to act. Any 
 application to his own lawyer was out of the question. 
 That had been tried before, and he felt assured that there 
 was not the slightest chance of that gentleman discharging 
 so large a sum, especially when he was aware that it was 
 only a portion of his client's liabilities ; he thought of 
 applying for advice to Count !Mirabel or Lord Catchim- 
 whocan, but with what view ? He would not borrow the 
 money of them, even if they would lend it ; and as it was, 
 he bittei'ly reproached himself for having availed himself 
 so easily of Mr, Bond Sharpe's land offices. At this mo- 
 ment, he could not persuade himself that his conduct had 
 been strictly honourable to that gentleman. He had not
 
 A LOVE STORY. 417 
 
 been frank in tlie exposition of Ins situation. The money 
 had been advanced under a false impression, if not abso- 
 lutely borrowed under a false pretence. He cursed Catchim- 
 Avhocan and his levity. The honour of the Armines "was 
 gone, like everything else that once belonged to them. The 
 result of Ferdinand's reflections was, that he was utterly 
 done up ; that no hope or chance of succour remained for 
 him; that his career was closed; and not daring to con- 
 template what the consequences might be to his miserable 
 parents, he made a desperate effort to command his feelings. 
 Here the coach turned up a dingy street, leading out of 
 the lower end of Oxford-street, and stopped before a largo 
 but gloomy dwelling, which Ferdinand's companion in- 
 formed him was a spungiug-house. ' I suppose you would 
 like to have a private room, sir ; you can have every 
 accommodation here, sir, and feel quite at home, I assure 
 you.' 
 
 In pursuance of this suggestion, Captain Armine was 
 ushered into the best drawing-room, with barred windows, 
 and treated in the most aristoci-atic manner. It was evi- 
 dently the chamber reserved only for unfortunate gentle- 
 men of the utmost distinction. It was amply furnished 
 with a mirror, a loo-table, and a very hard sofa. The walls 
 were hung with old-fashioned caricatures by Banbury ; the 
 lirc-irons were of polished brass ; over the mantel-pieco 
 was the portrait of the master of the house, which was evi- 
 dently a speaking likeness, and in which Captain Armino 
 fancied he traced no slight resemblance to his friend Mv. 
 Levison ; and there Avere also some sources of literary 
 amusement in the room, in the shajie of a Hebrew Bible 
 and the Racing Calendar. 
 
 After walking up and down the room for an hour, medi- 
 tating over the past, for it seemed hopeless to trouble him- 
 self any further with the future, Ferdinand began to feel 
 faint, for it may be recollected that he had not even break* 
 
 £ K
 
 418 HENEIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 fasted. So pulling tlie bell-rope "vvith such, force ttat It 
 fell to tlie ground, a funny little waiter immediately 
 appeared, awed by tbe sovereign ring, and having, indeed, 
 received private intelligence from the bailiff that the gentle- 
 man in the drawing-room was a regular nob. 
 
 And here, perhaps, I should remind the reader, that of 
 all the great distinctions in life none perhaps is more im- 
 portant than that which divides mankind into the two 
 great sections of Nobs and Snobs. It might seem at the 
 first glance, that if there were a place in the world which 
 should level all distinctions, it would be a debtors' prison. 
 But this would be quite an error. Almost at the very 
 moment that Captain Armine arrived at his sorrowful 
 hotel, a poor devil of a tradesman who had been arrested 
 for fifty pounds, and torn from, his wife and family, had 
 been forced to repair to the same asylum. He was intro- 
 duced into what is styled the cofiee-room, being a long, 
 low, unfurnished sanded chamber, with a table and benches ; 
 and being very anxious to communicate with some friend, 
 in order, if possible, to effect his release, and prevent 
 himself from being a bankrupt, he had continued meekly 
 to ring at intervals for the last half-hour in order that he 
 might write and forward his letter. The waiter heard the 
 coffee-room bell ring, but never dreamed of noticing it, 
 though the moment the signal of the private room sounded, 
 and sounded with so much emphasis, he rushed up stairs, 
 three Steps at a time, and instantly appeared before our 
 hero : and all this difference was occasioned by the simple 
 circumstance, that Captain Armine was a Nob, and the 
 poor tradesman a Snob. 
 
 ' I am hungry,' said Ferdinand. * Can I get anything to 
 eat at this damned place ? ' 
 
 ' What would you like, sir ? Anything you choose, 
 sir. Mutton chop, rump steak, weal cutlet ? Do you a 
 fowl in a quarter of an bour ; roast or boiled, sir ? '
 
 A LOVE STORY. 419 
 
 * I have not breakfasted yet ; bring mo 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 a devil, sir ?' 
 
 ' Anything, everything, only be quick.' 
 
 * Yes, sir,' responded the waiter. ' Beg pardon, sir. Ko 
 offence, I hope, but custom to pay here, sir. Shall be 
 happy to accommodate you, sir. Know what a gentle- 
 man is.' 
 
 ' Thank you, I will not trouble you,' said Ferdinand ; 
 ' get me that note changed.' 
 
 * Yes, sir,' rephed the little waiter, bowing very low as he 
 disappeared. 
 
 ' Gentleman in best drawing-room wants breakfast. 
 Gentleman in best drawing-room wants change for a ten- 
 pound note. Breakfast immediately for gentleman in best 
 drawing-room. Tea, coffee, toast, ham, tongue, and a 
 devil. A regular nob ! ' 
 
 Ferdinand was so exhausted that he had postponed all 
 deliberation as to his situation until he had breakfasted ; 
 and when he had breakfasted, he felt dull. It is the con- 
 sequence of 0.11 meals. In whatever light he viewed his 
 affairs, they seemed inextricable. He was now in a 
 spunging-house, he could not long remain here, he must 
 be soon in a gaol. A gaol ! Wliat a bitter termination of 
 all his great plans and hopes ! What a situation for one 
 who had been betrothed to Henrietta Temple ! He thought 
 of his cousin, he thought of her great fortune, which might 
 have been his. Perhaps at this moment they were all 
 riding together in the Park. In a few days all must bo 
 known to his father. Ho did not doubt of the result. 
 Armine would immediately bo sold, and his father and 
 mother, with the wretched wreck of their fortune, would 
 retire to the Continent. "What a sad vicissitude ! And ho 
 had done it all ; he, their only child, their only hope, on 
 
 E B 2
 
 420 HENRIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 %vliose image tliey liad lived, wlio was to restore tlie Louse. 
 He looked at tlie bars of liis windows, it was a dreadful 
 sight. His poor father, Lis fond mother, he was quite sure 
 their hearts would break. They never could survive all 
 this miseiy, this bitter disappointment of all their hopes. 
 Little less than a year ago and he was at Bath, and they 
 were all joy and triumph. What a wild scene had his life 
 been sinCe ! O Henrietta ! why did we ever meet ? That 
 fatal, fatal morning ! The cedar tree rose before him, he 
 recalled, he remembered everything. And poor Glaston- 
 bury, it was a miserable end. He could not disguise it 
 from himself, he had been most imprudent, he had been 
 mad. And yet so near happiness, perfect, perfect hap- 
 piness ! Henrietta might have been his, and they might 
 have been so hajDpy ! This confinement was dreadful ; it 
 began to press upon his nerves. No occupation, not the 
 slightest resource. He took up the Racing Calendar, he 
 thx-ew it down again. He knew all the caricatures by 
 heart, they infinitely disgusted him. He walked up and 
 down the room till he Avas so tired that he flung himself 
 upon the hard sofa. It was intolerable. A gaol must be 
 preferable to this. There must be some kind of wretched 
 amusement in a gaol ; but this ignoble, this humiliating 
 solitude, he Avas confident he should go mad if he re- 
 mained here. He rang the bell ag'ain. 
 
 * Yes, sir,' said the little waiter. 
 
 ' This place is intolerable to me,' said Captain Armine, 
 ' I really am quite 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.'
 
 * A LOVE STOilY. 421 
 
 ' No friends ! ' said the little Avaiter, Avho began to think 
 Ferdinand was not sncli a nob as he bad imagined. ' Why, 
 if you have no friends, sir, it -would be best to go to tho 
 Fleet, I think.' 
 
 ' By Jove, I think it would be better.' 
 ' Master thinks your friends Avill call, I am sure.' 
 ' Nobody knows I am here,' said Ferdinand. 
 'Oh!' said the little waiter, 'You want to let tliom 
 know, do you, sir ? ' 
 
 ' Anything sooner ; I wish to conceal my disgrace.' 
 '0 sir ! you are not used to it ; I dare say you never 
 were nabbed before ? ' 
 
 * Cei'tainly not.' 
 
 ' There it is ; if you will be patient, you will see every- 
 thing go well.' 
 
 * Never, my good fellow ; nothing can go well.' 
 
 '0 sir ! you arc not used to it. A regular nob liko 
 you, nabbed for the first 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 should think,' said Ferdinand. 
 
 ' Lord ! no, sir ; you are not used to it. It is only poor 
 devils nabbed for their fifties and hundreds that are ever 
 done np. A nob was never nabbed for the sum you are, 
 sir, and ever went to the wall. Tnist my cxpericucc. 
 I never knowed such a thing.' 
 
 Ferdinand could scarcely refrain from a smile. Fveii 
 the conversation of the little waiter was a relief to hira. 
 
 * You see, sir,' continued that worthy, ' Morris and 
 Levison would never have given you such a deuce of a tick 
 unless they knowed your resources. Trust Moiris and 
 Levison for that. You done up, sir ! a no!) like yon, that 
 Morris and Levison have trusted for such a tick ! Lord ! 
 sir, you don't know nothing about it. I cnnld aObrd to
 
 422 HENKIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 give them fifteen shillings 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, and that Morris and Levison will not get a 
 farthing,' 
 
 'Well, sir,' said the incredulous little functionary, 'when 
 I find Morris and Levison lose two or three thousand pounds 
 by a nob who is nabbed for the first time, I will pay the 
 money myself, that is all I know.' 
 
 Here the waiter was obliged to leave Ferdinand, but he 
 proved his confidence in that gentleman's fortunes by his 
 continual civility, and in the course of the day brought 
 him a stale newspaper. It seemed to Ferdinand that the 
 day would never close. The waiter pestered him about 
 dinner, eulogising the cook, and assuring him that his 
 master was famous for champagne. Although he had no 
 appetite, Ferdinand ordered dinner in order to ensure the 
 occurrence of one incident. The champagne made him 
 drowsy ; he was shown to his room ; and for a while he 
 forgot his cares in sleep. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THE CRISIS RAPIDLY ADVANCES. 
 
 Henrietta Temple began once more to droop. This change 
 was not unnoticed by her constant companion Lord Mont- 
 fort, and yet he never permitted her to be aware of his 
 observation. All that he did was still more to study her 
 amusement ; if possible, to be still more considerate and 
 tender. Miss Grandison, however, was far less delicate ; she 
 omitted no opportunity of letting Miss Temple know that 
 she thought that Henrietta was very unwell, and that she
 
 A LOVE STOEY. 423 
 
 was quite convinced Henrietta was thinking of Ferdinand. 
 Nay ! she was not satisfied to confine these intimations to 
 Miss Temple ; she impressed her conviction of Henrietta's 
 indisposition on Lord Montfort, and teased him with asking 
 his opinion of the cause. 
 
 * What do you thiuk is the cause, Miss Grandison ? ' said 
 his lordship, very quietly. 
 
 ' Perhaps London does not agree with her ; but then, 
 when she was ill before she was in the country ; and it 
 seems to me to be the same illness. I wonder you do not 
 notice it, Lord Montfort. A lover to be so insensible, 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 Miss Grandison. ' ^Yhy 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 Gran- 
 dison. 
 
 ' It may be,' said Lord Montfoi't. 
 
 ' It may be ! Upon my word, you are very easy.' 
 
 ' I am not indifferent, Miss Grandison. Thei'c is nothing 
 that I would not do for Heni'ietta's welfare.' 
 
 ' Oh ! yes, there is ; there is something,' said Miss 
 Grandison, rather maliciously. 
 
 'You are really an extraordinary person, Miss Grandi- 
 son,' said Lord Montfort. ' "\Yliat can you mean by so 
 strange an observation ? ' 
 
 ' I have my meaning ; but I suppose I may have a mys- 
 tery as well as anybody else.' 
 
 ' A mystery. Miss Grandison ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ! a mystery. Lord Montfort. There is not a single 
 iudiWdual in the three famihes who has not a mystery, ex- 
 cept myself; but I have found out something. I feel quite 
 easy now : wo are all upon an equality.'
 
 424 HENRIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 ' You are a strange persou.' 
 
 ' It may be so ; but I am liappy, for I have notbing on 
 my mind. ITow that poor Ferdinand has told Sir Ratcliffe 
 we are not going to marry, I have no part to play. I hate 
 deception ; it is almost as bitter as marrying one who is in 
 love with another person.' 
 
 ' That must indeed be bitter. And is that the reason that 
 you do not marry your cousin ? ' enquired Lord Montfort. 
 
 ' I may be in love with another person, or I may not,' 
 said Miss Grandison. ' But, however that may be, the 
 moment Ferdinand very candidly told me he was, we 
 decided not to marry. I think we were wise ; do not you, 
 Lord Montfort ? ' 
 
 ' If you are happy, you were wise,' said Lord Montfort. 
 
 ' Yes, I am pretty happy : as hapjiy as I can well bo 
 when all my best friends are miserable.' 
 
 ' Are they ? ' 
 
 ' I think so : my aunt is in tears ; my uncle in despair ; 
 Ferdinand meditates suicide ; Henrietta is pining aAvay ; 
 and you, you who are the philosopher of the society, you 
 look rather grave. I fancy I think we are a most miserable 
 set.' 
 
 ' I wish we could be all happy,' said Lord Montfort. 
 
 'And so we might, I think,' said Miss Grrandison; '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 a different turn. 
 
 ' AVill you go with us to Lady Bellair's, Kate ? ' said 
 Miss Temple. ' The duchess has asked me to call there 
 this morning.' 
 
 Miss Grandison expressed her willingness ; the carriage 
 was waiting, and Lord Montfort offered to attend them.
 
 A LOVE STORY. 425 
 
 At this moment tlic sei'vant entered with a note for T\[iss 
 Grandison. 
 
 'From G]astonbur3',' she said; 'dear Henrietta, he 
 ■\vislies to see me immediately. What can it be ? Go to 
 Lady Bellair's, and call for me on your retui-n. You must, 
 indeed ; and then Ave can all go out together.' 
 
 And so it was arranged. Miss Temple, accompanied by 
 Lord ]\Iontfort, proceeded to Bellair House. 
 
 ' Don't come near me,' said the old lady when she saw 
 them ; ' don't come near me ; I am in despair ; I do not 
 know what I shall do ; I think I shall sell all my china. 
 Do you know anybody who wants to buy old china ? Tliey 
 shall have it a bargain. But I must have ready money ; 
 ready money I must have. 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 Avorth three hundred pounds. I 
 could cry my eyes out, that I could. The wicked men ; I 
 shoald like to tear them to pieces. Why is not he in Par- 
 liament ? and then they could not take him up. They 
 never could arrest Charles Fox. I have known him in as 
 much trouble as anyone. Once he sent all his furniture 
 to my house from his lodgings. He lodged in Bury-strcct. 
 I always look at the house 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 ! 
 why do not you come ? There, I do not want anything ; I 
 do not know what to do. The wicked men ! The greatest 
 favoui'ite I had : he was so charming ! Cliarming peoplo 
 are never rich ; he always looked melancholy. I tbink I 
 will send to the rich man I dine with ; but I forget his 
 name. Why do not you tell me his name ? ' 
 
 ' My dear Lady Bellair, what is the matter ? ' 
 
 ' Don't ask me ; don't speak to mc. I tell you I am in 
 despair. Oh ! if I were rich, how I would punish thobo 
 wieked mcu !'
 
 426 HENEIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 * Can I do anything ? ' said Lord Montfort. 
 
 * I do not know what you can do. I have got the tic. I 
 always have the tic 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 so hard-hearted ? I called upon him this 
 morning, and his servant was crying. I must get him a 
 place ; he is such a good man, and loves his master. Now, 
 do you want a servant ? You never want anything. Ask 
 everybody you know whether they want a servant, an 
 honest man, who loves his 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. 
 
 ' ITobody you know ; yes ! you know him very well. It 
 is my dear, dear friend ; you know him very well. The 
 bailifis went to his hotel yesterday, and dragged him out 
 of bed, and took him to prison. Oh ! I shall go quite dis- 
 tracted. 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 to prison.' 
 
 Miss Temple rose and left the room. 
 
 ' Poor creature ! she is quite shocked. She knows him, 
 too,' said her ladyship. ' I am afraid he is quite ruined. 
 There is a knock. I will make a 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 not saying a word to anybody at present. 
 I will just go in the next room to Henrietta. She is inti-
 
 A LOVE STOEY. 427 
 
 mate with the family, and much affected. Now, my dear 
 lady, I entreat you,' continued his lordship, ' do not say a 
 word. Captain Armine has good friends, but do not speak 
 to strangers. It will do harm ; it will indeed.' 
 
 ' You are a good creature ; you ai'e 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't say a word. Go to IMiss Thingabob : go, 
 go.' And Lord Montfort escaped into the saloon as Lady 
 Frederick entered, 
 
 Henrietta was lying on the sofa, her countenance was 
 hid, she was sobbing convulsively, 
 
 ' Henrietta,' said Lord JMoutfort, but she did not answer. 
 ' Henrietta,' he again said, ' dear Henrietta ! I will do 
 whatever you wish.' 
 
 ' Save him, save him ! ' she exclaimed. ' Oh ! you cannot 
 save him ! And I have brought him to this ! Ferdinand ! 
 dearest Ferdinand ! oh ! I shall die ! ' 
 
 ' For God's sake, be calm,' said Lord IMontfort, ' thei'c is 
 nothing I will not do for you, for him.' 
 
 ' Ferdinand, Ferdinand, my own, ovra Ferdinand, oh ! 
 why did we ever part ? AVhy was I so unjust, so wicked ? 
 And he was true ! I cannot survive his disgrace and misery, 
 I wish to die ! ' 
 
 * There shall be no disgrace, no misery,' said Lord Mont- 
 fort, ' only for God's sake, be calm. There is a chattering 
 woman in the next room. Hush ! hush ! I tell you I Avill 
 do everything,' 
 
 ' Tou cannot ; you must not ; you ought not ! Kind, 
 generous Digby ! Pardon what I have said ; forget it ; 
 but indeed I am so wretched, I can bear this life no 
 longer,' 
 
 ' But you shall not be wretched, Henrietta ; you shall be
 
 428 HENRIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 happy ; everybody sliall be happy. I am Armine's friend, 
 I am indeed. I -will prove it. On my honour, I Avill prove 
 that I am his best friend.' 
 
 'Yon must not. Ton are the last person, you are indeed. 
 He is so proud! Anything from us will be death to him. 
 Yes ! I know him, he Avill die sooner than be under an 
 obligation to either of us.' 
 
 ' You shall place him under still greater obligations than 
 this,' said Loi"d Montfort. 'Yes! Henrietta, if he have 
 been true to you, you shall not bo false to him.' 
 
 * Digby, Digby, speak not such strange words. I am 
 myself again. I left 3'oa that I might be alone. Best and 
 most generous of men, I have never deceived you ; pardon 
 the emotions that even you were not to witness.' 
 
 ' Take my arm, dearest, let us walk into the garden. I 
 wish to speak to you. Do not tremble. I have nothing 
 to say that is not for your happiness ; at all times, and 
 under all cii-cumstances, the great object of my thoughts.' 
 
 He raised Miss Temple gently from the sofa, and they 
 walked away far from the observation of Lady Bellair, or 
 the auricular powers, thouglr they 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 meantime morning broke wpon the unfortunate Fer- 
 dinand. He had forgotten his cares in sleep, and, when he 
 woke, it was with some difficulty that he recalled the 
 unlucky incident of yesterday, and could satisfy himself 
 that he was indeed a prisoner. But the bars of his bed- 
 room window left him not very long in pleasing doubt.
 
 A LOVE STORY. 429 
 
 His frieuil, llio little -waiter, soon made IiIk appearauco. 
 ' Slept pretty -svell, sir ? Same breakfast as yesterday, sir ? 
 Tongue and am, sir ? Perhaps you would like a kidney 
 instead of a devil ? It will be a cliange.' 
 
 ' I have no appetite.' 
 
 ' It -will come, sir. You an't used to it. Nothing else to 
 do here but to eat. 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 think of it. Something will turn up, 
 sir, take my word.' 
 
 And sooth to say, the experienced waiter Avas not wrong. 
 For bringing in the breakfast, followed by an underling 
 with a gi'cat pomp of plated covers, ho informed Ferdinand 
 with a chuckle, that a gentleman was enquiring 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 his glance, ' 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 for you even than for me, kind friend. This is a 
 terrible termination of all your zeal and labours.' 
 
 ' Nay ! ' said Glastonbury ; ' let us not think of anytliing 
 but the present. For what are you held in durance ? ' 
 
 ' ]\Iy dear Glastonbury, if it were only ten pounds, I could 
 not permit you to pay it. So let us not talk of that. This 
 must have happened sooner or later. It has come, and 
 come unexpectedly: but it must be borne, like all otlu.r 
 calamities.' 
 
 ' But you have friends, my Fci'dinand.' 
 
 ' "Would that I had not ! All that I wish now is that I 
 were alone in the world. If I could hope that my pareuU*
 
 430 HENKIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 would leave me to myself, I should be comparatively easy. 
 But when I think of them, and the injury I must do them, 
 it is hell, it is hell.' 
 
 ' I vnsh, you would tell me your exact situation,' said Mr. 
 Glastonbury. 
 
 ' Do not let us talk of it ; does my father know of this ? ' 
 
 ' N'ot 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 for nearly tkree thousand pounds, and I owe at 
 least ten more.' 
 
 ' And they will not take bail ? ' 
 
 'ISTot for this debt; they cannot. It is a judgment debt, 
 the only one.' 
 
 ' And they gave you no notice ? ' 
 
 ' !N'one : they must have heard somehow or other that 
 my infernal mai-riage was off. They have all waited for 
 that. And now that you see that affairs are past remedy, 
 let us talk of other topics, if you will be so kind as to 
 remain half an hour in this dungeon. I shall quit it 
 directly ; I shall go to gaol at once.' 
 
 Poor Glastonbury, he did not like to go, and yet it was 
 a most melancholy visit. What could they converse about ? 
 Conversation, except on the interdicted subject of Ferdi- 
 nand's affairs, seemed quite a mockery. 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. Upon reflection, I shall not do so for two or three 
 days, if I can stay as long. 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.'
 
 A LOVE STORY. 431 
 
 Glastonbury was about to retire, when Ferdinand called 
 him back. ' This aiTair sbonld be kept quiet,' he said. * I 
 told Louis to say I was out of town in Brook-street. I 
 should be soriy were INIiss Temple to hear of it, at least 
 until after her maiTiacfo.' 
 
 Ferdinand was once more alone with the mirror, the loo- 
 table, the hard sofa, the caricatures which he hated even 
 worse than his host's portrait, the Hebrew Bible, and the 
 Racing Calendar. It seemed a year that he had been shut 
 up in this apartment, instead of a day, he had grown so 
 familiar with every object. And yet the visit of Glaston- 
 bury had been an event, and he could not refrain fi-om 
 pondering over it. A spunging-house seemed such a 
 strange, such an unnatural scene, for such a character. 
 Ferdinand recalled to his memory the tower at Armine, 
 and all its glades and groves, shining in the summer sun, 
 and freshened by the summer breeze. What a contrast to 
 this dingy, confined, close dungeon ! And was it possible 
 that he had ever wandered at will in that fair scene with a 
 companion fairer ? Such thoughts might well drive a man 
 mad. With all his errors, and all his disposition at present 
 not to extenuate them, Ferdinand Armine could not refrain 
 from esteeming himself unluclcy. Perhaps it is more dis- 
 tressing to believe ourselves unfortunate, than to recognise 
 ourselves as imprudent. 
 
 A fond mistress or a faithful friend, either of these are 
 great blessings ; and Avhatcver may be one's scrapes in 
 life, either of these may well be sources of consolation. 
 Ferdinand had a fond mistress once, and had Henrietta 
 Temple loved him, why, he might struggle with all these 
 calamities ; but that sweet dream was past. As for friends, 
 ho had none, at least he thought not. Not that he had to 
 complain of human nature. He had experienced much 
 kindness from mankind, and many were the services he 
 had received from kind acquaintances. With the recol-
 
 432 HENRIETTA TEjVIPLE : 
 
 lection of CatcL, to say notliiug of Bond Sharpe, and abovo 
 all, Count Mirabel, fresh in liis mind, lie could not com- 
 plain of liis companions. Glastonbury was indeed a friend, 
 but Ferdinand sighed for a friend of his own age, knit to 
 him by the same tastes and sympathies, and capable of com- 
 prehending all his secret feelings ; a friend who could even 
 whisper hope, and smile in a spunging-house. 
 
 The day wore away, the twilight shades were descending ; 
 Ferdinand became every moment more melancholy, when 
 suddenly his constant ally, the waiter, rushed into the 
 room. ' My eye, sir, here is a regular nob enquiring 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 staii'case. 
 
 'Which is the room? Show me directly. Ah! Armine, 
 mon ami ! mon chcr ! Is this your friendship ? To be in 
 this cursed hole, and not send for nie ! C'est une mauvaise 
 plaisanterie to pretend we are friends ! How ai-e you, 
 good fellow, fine fellow, excellent Ai-mine ? If yon \voro 
 not here I 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 in the world, ' this is a betise of you to 
 bo 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 tho 
 marriage is off, and Morris and Levison have nabbed mo 
 for all the arrears of my cursed annuities.' 
 
 ' But how much ? ' 
 
 ' Between two and three thousand.' 
 
 The Count Mirabel gave a whistle.
 
 A LOVE STORY. 433 
 
 * I brouglit five liuudred, -vvliicli I Lave. "We must got 
 tlie I'est somehow oi' other.' 
 
 ' IMy dear Mirabel, you are the most generous fellow in 
 the world ; but I have troubled my friends too much. 
 ISTothing will induce me to take a sou from you. Besides, 
 between ourselves, not my least mortification at this mo- 
 ment is some 1,500?., which Bond Sharpe let me have the 
 other day for nothing, through Catch.' 
 
 ' Pah ! I am soriy about that, though, because lie would 
 have lent us this money. 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 Avill do it for us. 
 He is a good fellow, and immensely rich : it is Fitzwarrene; 
 he owes me great favours.' 
 
 ' Dear Mirabel, I am delighted to see you. This is good 
 and kind. I am so damned dull here. It quite gladdens 
 me to see you ; but do not talk about money.' 
 
 ' Here is 500Z. ; four other fellows at 500Z. we can 
 manage it.' 
 
 ' 'So more, no more ! I beseech you.' 
 
 ' But you cannot stop here. Quel drolc appartemcnt ! 
 Before Charley Doricourt was in Parliament he was always 
 in these sort of houses, but I got him out somehow or 
 other ; I managed it. Once I bought of the fellow five 
 hundred dozen of champagne.' 
 
 * A new way to paj- old debts, certainly,' said Ferdinand. 
 ' I tell you ; have j^ou dined ? ' 
 
 ' I Avas going to ; merely to have something to do.* 
 ' I will stop and dine with you,' .said the Count, ringing 
 the bell, ' and we Avill talk over affairs. Laugh, ray 
 friend ; laugh, my Ai'minc : this is only a scene. This in 
 life. What can wc have for dinnci', man ? I shall dlno 
 here.' 
 
 FF
 
 434 HENEIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 * 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 have some fun.' 
 
 ' Yes, my lord,' said the waiter, running down stairs. 
 ' Dinner for best drawing-room directly ; green-pea- soup, 
 turbot, beefsteak, roast duck and boiled chicken, every- 
 thing that is good, champagne in ice ; two regular nobs ! ' 
 
 The dinner soon appeared, and the two friends seated 
 themselves. 
 
 ' Potage admirable ! ' said Count Mirabel. ' The best 
 champagne I ever drank in my life. Mon brave, your 
 health. This must be Charley's man, by the wine. I 
 think we will have him up ; he will lend us some money. 
 Finest turbot I ever ate ! I will give you some of the fins. 
 Ah ! you are glad to see me, my Armine, you are glad to 
 see your friend. Encore champagne ! Good Armine, ex- 
 cellent Armine ! Keep up your spirits, I will manage 
 these fellows. You must take some bifteak. The most 
 tender bifteak I ever tasted ! This is a fine dinner. Encore 
 un verre ! ]\Ian, you may go ; don't wait.' 
 
 ' By Jove, Mirabel, I never was so glad to see anybody 
 in my life, l^ow you are a friend ; I feel quite in spmts.' 
 
 ' To be sure ! always be in spirits. C'est une betise not 
 to be in spirits. Everything is sure to go well. You will 
 see how I will manage these fellows, and I will come and 
 dine with you every day until you are out : you shall not 
 be here eight-and-forty houi'S. As I go home I will stop 
 at Mitchell's and get you a novel by Paul de Kock. Have 
 you ever read Paul de Kock's books ? ' 
 
 ''Neyev,' said Ferdinand. 
 
 ' What a fortunate man to be arrested ! Now you can 
 read Paul do Kock ! By Jove, you are the most lucky 
 fellow I know. You see, you thought youi'self very miser- 
 able in being arrested. 'Tis the finest thing in the world,
 
 A LOVE STORY, 435 
 
 for now you -will read "MonVoisin Rajmiond." There 
 are always two sides to a case.' 
 
 'I am content to believe myself veiy lucky in having such 
 a friend as you,' said Ferdinand ; ' but now as these things 
 are cleared away, let us talk over affau-s. 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 mariied ? ' 
 
 ' "When you please.' 
 
 ' Cher ami ! point de moquerie ! ' 
 
 ' By Jove, I am quite serious,' exclaimed the Count. ' I 
 am as certain that you will marry her as that we are in 
 this damned spuuging-house.' 
 
 ' Nonsense ! ' 
 
 ' The veiy finest sense in the world. K you will not 
 marry her, I will myself, for I am resolved that good Mont- 
 fort shall not. It shall never be said that I interfered 
 without a result. Why, if she were to marry Montfort 
 now, it would ruin my character. To marry Montfort 
 after all my trouble : dining with that good Temple, and 
 opening the mind of tliat little Grandison, and talking fine 
 things to that good duchess ; it would be a failm'c.' 
 
 ' What an odd fellow you arc, Mirabel ! ' 
 
 * Of course ! Would you have me like other people and 
 not odd ? We will di'ink la belle Hem-iette ! Fill up ! 
 You Avill be my ft-iend when you are married, ch ? Mon 
 Arm in e, excellent gar^on ! How we shall laugh some 
 day ; and then this dinner, this dinner will bo the best 
 dinner we ever had ! ' 
 
 ' But why do you think there is the slightest hope of 
 Henrietta not marrying Montfort ? ' 
 
 ' Becauoe my knowledge of human nature assures me 
 
 ff2
 
 436 HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 
 
 tliat a young woman, very "beautiful, very ricli, with a very 
 liigh spirit, and an only daughter, will never go and marry 
 one man when she is in love with another, and that other 
 one, my dear fellow, like you. Tou arc more sure of get- 
 tin <? her because she is enj^aq-ed.' 
 
 What a wonderful thing is a knowledge of human 
 nature ! thought Ferdinand to himself. The Count's 
 knowledge of human nature is like my friend the waiter's 
 experience. One assures me that I am certain to marry a 
 woman because she is engaged to another person, and the 
 other, that it is quite clear my debts will be paid because 
 they are so large. The Count remained with his friend 
 until eleven o'clock, when everybody was locked up. He 
 invited himself to dine with him to-morrow, and promised 
 that he should have a Avhole collection of French novels 
 before he awoke. And assuring him over and over again 
 that he looked upon him as the most fortunate of all his 
 friends, and that if he broke the bank at Crocky's to-night, 
 which he fancied he should, he would send him two or 
 three thousand pounds ; at the same time he shook him 
 heartily by the hand, and descended the staircase of the 
 spunging-house, humming ' Vive la Bagatelle ! ' 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 THE CEISIS. 
 
 Although, when Ferdinand was once more left alone io 
 his reflections, it did not appear to him that anything had 
 occurred which should change his opinion of his forlorn 
 lot, there was something, nevertheless, inspiring in the 
 visit of his friend Count Mirabel. It did not seem to him, 
 indeed, that he was one whit nearer extrication from his 
 diSiculties than before ; and as for the wild hopes as to 
 Henrietta, he dismissed them from his mind as the mere
 
 A LOVE STORY. 437 
 
 fantastic scLemes of a sangmne spirit, and yet liis gloom, 
 by some process difficult to analyse, liad in great measure 
 departed. It could not be the champagne, for that was a 
 remedy he had previously tried ; it was in some degree 
 doubtless the magic sympathy of a joyous temperament : 
 but chiefly it might, perhaps, be ascribed to the flattering 
 conviction that he possessed the hearty fi-iendship of a man 
 whose good- will was, in every view of the case, a very envi- 
 able possession. With such a friend as Mii-abel, he could 
 not deem himself quite so unlucky as in the morning. If 
 he were fortunate, and fortunate so unexpectedly, in this 
 instance, he might be so in others. A vague presentiment 
 that he had seen the worst of life came over him. It was 
 equally in vain to justify the consoling conviction or to 
 resist it ; and Ferdinand Armine, although in a spunging- 
 house, fell asleep in better humour ^\iih. his destiny than 
 he had been for the last eight months. 
 
 His dreams were charming : he fancied that he was at 
 Armine, standing by the Barbary rose-ti-ee. It was moon- 
 light ; it was, perhaps, a slight recollection of the night ho 
 had looked upon the garden from the window of his cham- 
 ber, the liight after ho had first seen Hem-ietta. Suddenly, 
 Henrietta Temple appeared at his window, and waved her 
 hand to him with a smiling face. He immediately plucked 
 for her a flower, and stood with his olfering beneath licr 
 Aviudow. She was in a riding-habit, and she told him 
 that she had just returned from Italy. He invited her to 
 descend, and she disappeared ; but instead of Henrietta, 
 
 there came forward from the old Place the duchess, 
 
 who immediately enquired whether he had seen his cousin; 
 and then her grace, by some confused process common in 
 dreams, turned into Glastonbury, and pointed to the rose- 
 tree, where, to his surprise, Katheriuc was Avalking w'wh 
 Lord Mont fort. Ferdinand called out for Henrietta, but, 
 as she did not appear, he entered the Place, Avhcre ho
 
 438 HENEIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 found Count Mirabel dining by himself, and just drinking 
 a glass of champagne. He complained to Mirabel thai 
 Henrietta had disappeared, but his friend laughed at him, 
 and said that, after such a long ride, leaving Italy only 
 yesterday, he could scarcely expect to see her. Satisfied 
 with this explanation, Ferdinand joined the Count at his 
 banquet, and was woke from his sleep and his dream 
 apparently by Mirabel drawing a cork. 
 
 Ah ! why did he ever wake ? It was so real ; he had 
 seen her so plainly ; it was Hfe ; it was the very smile she 
 wore at Ducie ; that gunny glance, so fall of joy, beauty, 
 and love, which he could live to gaze on ! And now he 
 was in prison, and she Avas going to be married to another. 
 Oh ! there are things in this world that may well break 
 hearts ! 
 
 The cork of Count Mirabel was, however, a substantial 
 sound, a gentle tap 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 you 
 jiarticular.' 
 
 ' Was it the Count ? ' 
 
 ' IsTo, sir ; but it was a regular nob, sir, for he had a 
 coronet on his cab. 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 at Crocky's. Nothing shall induce 
 me to take a ducat.' 
 
 However, Ferdinand thought fit to rise, and contrived 
 to descend to the best drawing-room about a quarter of an 
 hour after the appointed time. To his extreme sirrprise ho 
 foTind Lord Montfort.
 
 A LOVE STORY. 439 
 
 * My deal' friend,' said Lord Montfort, looking a little 
 confused ; ' I am afraid I have sadly disturbed you. But I 
 could not contrive to find you yesterday 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 regret that your lordship should have had all 
 this trouble.' 
 
 ' Oh ! what is trouble under such circumstances ! ' re- 
 plied his lordship. ' I cannot 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 Ferdi- 
 nand, and then walking up and down the room together, 
 ' I hope you will act at this moment towards me as 
 I would towards you, were our respective situations 
 changed ? ' 
 
 Ferdinand bowed, but said nothing. 
 
 ' Money, you know, my good fellow,' continued Lord 
 !Montfort, * is a disagreeable thing to talk about ; but there 
 are circumstances which should deprive such conversation 
 between us of any awkwardness which otherwise might 
 arise.' 
 
 ' I ara. not aware of them, my lord,' said Ferdinand, 
 'though your good feelings command my gi-atitudc.' 
 
 ' I think, upon reflection, we shall find that there aro 
 some,' said Lord Montfort. ' For the moment I will only 
 hope that you will esteem those good feelings, and which, 
 on my part, I am anxious should ripen into sincere and 
 intimate friendship, as sufficient authority for my placing 
 your affairs in general in that state that they may in future
 
 440 HENRIETTA TEMPLE: .- 
 
 never deprive yoiu' family and friends of society necessary 
 to tlieii" happiness.' 
 
 ' My lord, I am sure tliat adversity lias assumed a grace- 
 ful hue with me, for it has confirmed my most amiable 
 views of human nature. I shall not attempt to express 
 what I feel towards your lordshijj for this generous good- 
 ness, but I will say I am profoundly impressed with it ; not 
 the less, because I cannot avail myself in the slightest 
 degree of your offer.' 
 
 ' You are too much a man of the world, I am sure, my 
 dear Armine, to be offended by my frankness. I shall, 
 therefore, speak without fear of misconce^^tion. It does 
 appear to me that the offer which I have made you is 
 worthy of a little more consideration. You see, my dear 
 friend, that you have j^laced yourself in such a sitiiation 
 that however you may act the result cannot be one com- 
 pletely satisfactory. The course you should pursue, there- 
 fore, as, indeed, all conduct in this world should be, is a 
 matter of nice calculation. Have you well considered the 
 consequences of your I'ushlng upon ruin ? In the first 
 place, your family will receive a blow from which even 
 future prosperity may not recover them. Your family 
 estate, already in a delicate positiou, 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 that maintains such 
 a position, however decayed, will ultimately recover. I 
 hardly know an exception to this rule. I do not think, of 
 all men, that you 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 iuterests of your friends are to be considered. Poor 
 Glastonbury ! I love that old man myself. The fall of
 
 A LOVE STOEY. 441 
 
 Avniine miglit break Ins heart ; he Avould not like to leave 
 his tower. You see, I know your place.' 
 ' Poor Glastonbury ! ' said Ferdinand. 
 ' But above all,' continued Lord ]\Iontfort, ' the happi- 
 ness, nay, the very health and life of your parents, from 
 whom all is now concealed, would perhaps 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 you yourself become a calm and hap})y man, 
 by, for I wish not to understate your view of the subject, 
 Armine, putting yourself under a pecuniary obligation to me. 
 A circumstance to be avoided in the common course of life, 
 no doubt ; but is it better to owe me a favour and save your 
 family estate, preserve your position, maintain your friend, 
 and prevent the misery, and probable death, of yonr 
 l)arents, or be able to pass mo in the street, in haughty 
 Bilenceif you please, with the consciousness that the luxury 
 of your pride has been satisfied at the cost of every circum- 
 stance which makes existence desii-able ? ' 
 
 ' You put the case strongly,' said Ferdinand ; ' but no 
 reasoning can ever persuade me that I am justified iu bor- 
 rowing 3,000/., which I can never repay.' 
 
 ' 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 largo 
 fortune ? ' said Lord Montfort. ' Now you seem to mo 
 exactly the sort of man who would marry an heiress.' 
 
 ' You are thinking of my cousin,' said Ferdinand. ' I 
 thought that you had discovered, or that you might have 
 learnt, that there was no real intention of our union.' 
 
 'No, I was not thinking of your cousin,' said Lord
 
 442 HENEIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 Montfort; 'tliougli, to tell yon the truth, I wag once in 
 hopes that you would marry her. However, that I well 
 know is entirely out of the question, for I believe Miss 
 Grandison will marry some one else.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! ' exclaimed Ferdinand, a little agitated. ' Well ! 
 may she be happy ! I love Kate from the bottom of my 
 heart. But who is the fortunate fellow ? ' 
 
 * 'Tis a lady's secret,' said Lord Montfort, ' But let us 
 return to our argument. To be brief; either, my dear 
 Armine, you must be convinced by my reasoning, or I must 
 remain here a prisoner like yourself; for, to tell you the 
 truth, there 'is a fair lady before whom I cannot present 
 myself except in your company.' 
 
 Ferdinand changed countenance. There wanted but this 
 to confirm his resolution, which had scarcely wavered. To 
 owe his release to Henrietta's influence with Lord Montfort, 
 it was too degrading. 
 
 ' My lord,' he said, * you have touched upon a string that 
 I had hoped might have been spared me. This conversa- 
 tion must, indeed, cease. My mouth is sealed from giving 
 you the reasons, which nevertheless render it imperative on 
 me to docline your generous offer.' 
 
 ' Well, then,' said Lord Montfort, ' I must see if another 
 can be more successful,' and he held forth a note to the 
 astounded Ferdinand, in Henrietta'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 other 
 end of the room. It was with extreme difficulty that 
 Ferdinand prevailed on himself to break the seal. The 
 note was short ; the hand that traced the letters must have 
 trembled. Thus it ran : — 
 
 * Dearest Ferdinand, — Do everything that Digby wishes. 
 He is our best friend. Digby is going to marry Katherine ; 
 are you happy ? 
 
 'Henrietta.'
 
 A LOVE STORY. 443 
 
 Lord ]\Iontford looked round ; Ferdinand Armine was 
 lying senseless on the sofa. 
 
 Our friend was not of a swooning mood, but we tliink 
 the circumstances may excuse the weakness. 
 
 As for Lord Montfort, he rang the bell for the little 
 waiter, who, the moment he saw what had occurred, hurried 
 away and rushed up stairs again with cold water, a bottle 
 of brandy, and a blazing sheet of brown paper, which he 
 declared was an infallible specific. By some means or other 
 Ferdinand was in. time recovered, and the little waiter was 
 fairly expelled. 
 
 * My dear friend,' said Ferdinand, in a faint voice, ' I am 
 the happiest man 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 Lord Montfort. ' It is strange, certainly. But we are 
 all happy.' 
 
 ' I hardly know where I am,' said Ferdinand, after a few 
 minutes. ' Am I really alive ? ' 
 
 ' Let us think how we are to get out of this place. I 
 suppose they will take my cheque. If not, I must be off.' 
 
 ' Oh, do not go,' said Ferdinand. ' If you go I shall not 
 believe it is true. ]\Iy dear ^Montfort, is it really true ? ' 
 
 *Tou see, my dear Armine,' said Lord Monlfort, smiling, 
 * it was fated that I should marry a lady you rejected. And 
 to tell you the truth, the reason why I did not get to you 
 yesterday, as I ought to have done, was an unexpected con- 
 versation I had with Miss Grandison. I really think this 
 arrest was a most fortunate incident. It brought affairs to 
 a crisis. We should have gone on playing at cross purposes 
 for ever.' 
 
 Here the little waiter entered again with a noto and a 
 packet. 
 
 ' The same messenger brought them ? ' asked Ferdinand.
 
 444 IIENEIETTA TEJIPLE : 
 
 ' ITo, sir ; tlie Count's servant brought the note, and waits 
 for an answer ; the packet came bj another person.' 
 Ferdinand opened the note and read as follows : — 
 
 ' Berkeley-sqiiare, 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 15,000Z. 
 Directly I am awake I will send you the three thousand, and 
 I will lend you the rest till your marriage. It Avill not be 
 very long. I write this before I go to bed, that you may- 
 have it early. Adieu, cher ami. 
 
 ' Votre aflectionne, 
 
 ' De Mirabel.' 
 
 ' My arrest was certainly the luckiest incident in the 
 woi'ld,' said Ferdinand, handing the note to Lord Montfort. 
 ' jMirabel dined here yesterday, and went and played oii 
 jourpose to save me. I treated it as a joke. But what is 
 this ? ' Ferdinand opened the packet. The handwritiug 
 was unknown to him. Ten bank notes of 300Z. each fell to 
 the ground. 
 
 ' Do I live in fairy land ! ' he exclaimed. ' Xow who can 
 this be ? It cannot be you ; it cannot be Mirabel. It is 
 wondrous strange.' 
 
 ' I think I can throw some Hght upon it,' said Lord 
 Montfort. ' Katherine was mysteriously engaged with 
 Glastonbuiy yesterday morning. They were out together, 
 and I know they went to her lawyer's. There is no doubt 
 it is Katherine. I think, under the circumstances of the 
 case, we need have no delicacy in availing ourselves of this 
 fortunate remittance. It will at least save us time,' said 
 Lord Montfort, ringing the bell. ' Send your master here 
 directly,' he continued to the waiter. 
 
 The sheriff's ofBcer appeared ; the debt, the fees, all were 
 paid, and the discharge duly taken. Ferdinand in the mean- 
 time went up-stairs to lock up his dressing-case, the little
 
 A LOVE STORY. 445 
 
 waiter rusliecl aftei' liim to pack his portmanteau. Ferdi- 
 nand did not forget Ids zealous friend, who -whispered hope 
 •when all was black. The little waiter chuckled as he put 
 Ins ten guineas in his pocket. ' You see, sir,' he said, ' I 
 was quite right. Knowed your friends would stump down. 
 Fancy a nob like you being sent to quod ! Fiddlededee ! 
 You see, sir, you weren't used to it.' 
 
 And so Ferdinand Arminc bid adieu to the spunging- 
 Louse, where, in the course of less than ei":ht-aud-foi-fv 
 hours, he had known alike despair and rapture. Lord 
 ]\Iontfort drove along witli a gaiety unusual to him. 
 
 ' Now, my dear Armine,' he said, * I am not a jot the less 
 in love with Henrietta than befoi'c. I love her as you love 
 Katherine. What folly to marry a woman who was in love 
 with another person ! I should have made her miserable, 
 when the great object of all my conduct was tc make her 
 happy. Now Katherine really loves me as mucli as Hen- 
 rietta loves you. I have had this plan in my bead for a 
 long time. I calculated finelv ; I Avas convinced it was the 
 only way to make us all happy. And noAV we shall all be 
 related; wc shall be constantly together; and we will be 
 brother friends.' 
 
 ' Ah ! my dear Montfort,' said Ferdinand, * what will jMr. 
 Temple say ? ' 
 
 ' Leave him to me,' said Lord Montfort. 
 
 * I tremble,' said Ferdinand, 'if it Avere possible to anti- 
 cipate difficulties to-day.' 
 
 ' I shall go to him at once,' said Lord Montfort ; * I iim 
 not fond of suspense 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. He dislikes me, and he is too rich for me to 
 bow down to him.' 
 
 ' I take it upon myself,* said Lord Montfort. ' !^[r. 
 Temple is a calm, sensible man. You will laugh at me,
 
 446 HENEIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 but the trutli is, with him it must be a matter of calcula- 
 tion : on the one hand, his daughter's happiness, a union 
 Vv'ith a family second to none in blood, alHances, and terri- 
 torial position, and only wanting his wealth to revive all its 
 splendour ; on the 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 remove the greatest 
 difficulty he must experience. Where shall I put you down? 
 Berkeley-square ? ' 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 FERDINAND MEDITATES OVER HIS GOOD FORTUNE. 
 
 In moments of deep feeHng, alike in sudden bursts of 
 prosperity as in darker hours, man must be alone. It re- 
 quires some self-communion to prepare ourselves for good 
 fortune, as well as to encounter difBculty, and danger, and 
 disgrace. This violent and triumphant revolution in his 
 prospects and his fortunes was hardly yet completely com- 
 prehended by our friend, Ferdinand Armine ; and when he 
 had left a note for the generous Mirabel, whose slumbers 
 he would not disturb at this early hour, even with good 
 news, he strolled along up Charles-street, and to the Park, 
 in one of those wild and joyous I'everies in which we brood 
 over coming bhss, and create a thousand glorious conse- 
 quences. 
 
 It was one of those soft summer mornings which are so 
 dehghtfal in a great city. The sky was clear, the air was 
 bland, the water sparkled in the sun, and the trees seemed 
 doubly green and fresh to one who so recently had gazed 
 only on iron bars. Ferdinand felt his freedom as well as 
 his happiness. He seated himself on a bench and thought 
 of Henrietta Temple ! he took out her note, and read it 
 over and over agam. It was indeed her handwriting !
 
 A LOVE STOKY. 447 
 
 Restless with impending joy, he sauntered to the bridge, 
 and leant over the balustrade, gazing on the waters in 
 charmed and charming vacancy. How many incidents, 
 how many characters, how many feelings flitted over his 
 memory ! Of what sweet and bitter experience did he not 
 chew the cud ! Four- and- twenty houi's ago, and he deemed 
 himself the most misei'able and forlorn of human beings, 
 and now all the blessings of the world seemed showered at 
 his feet ! A beautifal bride awaited him, whom he had 
 loved with intense passion, and who he had thought but an 
 hour ago was another's. A noble fortune, -which would 
 permit him to redeem his inheritance, and rank him among 
 the richest commoners of the realm, was to be controlled 
 by one a few hours back a prisoner for desperate debts. 
 The most gifted individuals in the land emulated each 
 other in proving which entertained for him the most sincere 
 affection. What man in the world had friends Hke Ferdi- 
 nand Armine ? Ferdinand Armine, who, two days back, 
 deemed himself alone in the world ! The unswerving de- 
 votion of Glastonbury, the delicate affection of his sweet 
 cousin, all the magnanimity of the high-souled Montfort, and 
 the generosity of the accomphshed Mii-abel, passed before 
 him, and wonderfully affected him. He could not flatter 
 himself that he indeed merited such singular blessings ; and 
 yet with all his faults, which with him. were but the conse- 
 quences of his fiery youth, Ferdinand had been faitliful to 
 Henrietta. His constancy to her was now rewarded. As 
 for liis friends, the future must pi'ovo his gratitude to them. 
 Ferdinand Armine had great tenderness of disposition, and 
 somewhat of a meditative mind ; schooled by adversity, 
 there was little doubt that his coming career would justify 
 his favourable destiny. 
 
 It was barel}- a year since he had retiu-ncd from !MaUa, 
 but what an eventful twelvemonth ! Everything that had 
 occui'vcd previously seemed of another life ; all his exj)©-
 
 448 HENRIETTA TE]\IPLE: 
 
 rience was coucentrated in that wonderful drama tliat ha*"! 
 commenced at Bath, and the last scene of which was now 
 approaching ; tlie characters, his parents, Glastonbury, 
 Katherine, Henrietta, Lord Montfort, Count Mirabel, him- 
 self, and Mr. Temple ! 
 
 Ah. ! that was a name that a little disturbed him ; and yet 
 he felt confidence now in Mirabel's prescience ; he could not 
 but believe, that with time even Mr. Temple might be re- 
 conciled ! It was at this moment that the sound of military 
 music fell upon his ear ; it recalled old days ; parades and 
 guards at Malta ; times when he did not know Henrietta 
 Temple ; times when, as it seemed to him now, he had 
 n 3vei.' paused to think or moralise. That was a mad life. 
 WliSut a Neapolitan ball was his career then ! It was indeed 
 dancing on a volcano. And now all had ended so happily ! 
 Oh ! could it indeed be true ? Was it not all a dream of 
 his own creation, while his eye had been fixed in abstrac- 
 tion on that bright and flowing river ? But then there was 
 Henrietta's letter. He might be enchanted, but that was 
 the talisman. 
 
 In the present unsettled, though hopeless state of affairs, 
 Ferdinand would not go home. He was resolved to avoid 
 any explanations until he heard from Lord Montfort. He 
 shrank from seeing Glastonbury or his cousin. As for 
 Henrietta, it seemed to him that he never coixld have heart 
 to meet her again, unless they were alone. Count ]\Iirabel 
 was the only person to whom ho could abandon his soul, 
 and Count Mirabel was still in his first sleep. 
 
 So Ferdinand entered Kensington Gardens, and walked 
 in those rich glades and stately avenues. It seems to the 
 wi'iter of this history that the inhabitants of London are 
 scarcely sufficiently sensible of the beauty of its environs. 
 On every side the most charming retreats open to them, 
 nor is there a metropolis in the world surrounded by so 
 many rural villages, picturesque parks, and elegant casinos.
 
 A LOVE STOrA'. 449 
 
 With tlie exception of Constantinople, there is no city in 
 the world that can for a moment enter into competition with 
 it. For himself, though in his time something of a rambler, 
 ho is not ashamed in this respect to confess to a legitimate 
 Cockney taste ; and for his part he does not know where 
 life can flow on more pleasantly than in sight of Kensington 
 Gardens, viewing the silver Thames winding by the bowers 
 of Rosebank, or inhaling from its terraces the refined air of 
 graceful Richmond. 
 
 In exactly ten minutes it is in the power of every man to 
 free himself from all the tumult of the world ; the pangs of 
 love, the throbs of ambition, the wear and tear of play, the 
 recriminating boudoir, the conspiring club, the rattling hell ; 
 and find himself in a sublime sylvan solitude superior to 
 the cedars of Lebanon, and inferior onl}^ in extent to the 
 chestnut forests of Anatolia. It is Kensington Gardens that 
 is almost the only place that has realised his idea of the 
 foi-ests of Spenser and Ariosto. What a pity, that instead 
 of a princess in distress we meet only a nnrsery-maid ! 
 But here is the fitting and convenient locality to brood over 
 our thoughts; to project the great and to achieve tho 
 happy. It is here that we should get our speeches by 
 heart, invent our impromptus ; muse over tho caprices of 
 our mistresses, destroy a cabinet, and save a nation. 
 
 About the time that Ferdinand directed his steps from 
 these green retreats towards Berkeley-square, a servant 
 summoned !Miss Tcmjile to her father. 
 
 * Is papa alone ? ' enquired ]\[iss Temple. 
 
 ' Only my lord with him,' was the rcpl}'. 
 
 *Is Lord Montfort here!' said Miss Tcmplo, a Hide 
 surprised. 
 
 ' My lord has been with master these three houi-s,' said 
 the fjcrvaut. 
 
 Qd
 
 450 HENRIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 FERDINAND BECEIVES THE MOST INTERESTING INVITATION TO 
 DINNER EVER OFFERED TO HIM. 
 
 ' Is not it wonderful ? ' said Ferdinand, wlien he had 
 Ciiislied his history to 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 the world.' 
 
 ' Ah, my dear Mirabel, you are a prophet ! What a lucky 
 fellow I am to have such a friend as you ! ' 
 
 ' To be sure you are. Take some more coffee. What 
 are you going to do with yourself ? ' 
 
 ' I do not know what to do with myself. I really do not 
 like to go anywhere until I have heard from Montfort. I 
 think I shall go to my hotel.' 
 
 ' I will drive you. It is now three o'clock.' 
 
 But just at this moment, Mr, Bevil called on the Count, 
 and another hour disappeared. When they were fairly in 
 the cabriolet, there were so many places to call at, and so 
 many persons to see, that it was nearly six o'clock when 
 they reached the hotel. Ferdinand ran up stairs to see if 
 there were any letter 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. 
 ' Mt Dear Captain Armine, 
 
 ' I have prepared myself with this note, as I fear I shall 
 liardly be so fortunate as to find you at home. It is only 
 very recently that I have learnt from Henrietta that you 
 ■were in London, and I much regret to hear that you have 
 been so great an invalid. It is so long since we met, that 
 I hope you will dine with us to-day ; and indeed I am so
 
 A LOVE STORY. 451 
 
 anxious to see you, tliat I trust, if you have unfoi-t^inately 
 made any otlier engagement, that 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 
 own circlo in Brook-street. I have asked no one else, 
 save old Lady Bellair, and your friend Count Mirabel ; and 
 Henrietta is so anxious to secure his presence, that I shall 
 be greatly obliged by your exerting your influence to in- 
 duce him to accompany you, as I fear there is little hope of 
 finding him free. 
 
 ' Henrietta joins with me in kindest regards ; and I beg 
 you to beheve me, 
 
 * My dear Captain Armine, 
 
 ' Most cordially yours, 
 
 ' Peluam Temple.' 
 
 ' "Well, what is the matter ? ' said the Count, when Fer- 
 dinand retui-ned to the 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 most regular epistle I ever read ; I expected it. 
 'Tis an excellent fellow, that Mr. Temple ; I will certainly 
 dine with him, and send an excuse to that old Castlefyshe. 
 A family party, all right ; and he asks me, that is proper. 
 I should not wonder if it ended by my being your trustee, 
 or your executor, or your first child's godfather. Ah, that 
 good Temple is 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 family party ; it will 
 be amusing ! I would not miss it for a thousand pounds. 
 Besides, I must go to take caro of you, for you will be com- 
 mitting all sorts of butiscs. I will give you one turn in 
 the park. Jump in, mou enfant. Good Armine, excellent 
 fellow, jump in ! You see, I was right ; I am always right. 
 
 G G 2
 
 452 IIENillETTA TE^IPLE: 
 
 But I will confess to you a secret : I never was so rlglit 
 as I have been in the present case. 'Tis the best business 
 that ever was ! ' 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 SOME ACCOUNT OF THE PARTT, AND ITS EESDLT. 
 
 In spite of the Count Mirabel's inspii^ing companionsliip, 
 ^t must bo confessed that Ferdinand's heart failed him 
 ^Jv^hen he entered Mr. Temple's house. Indeed, had it not 
 been for the encouragement and jolly raillery of his light- 
 liearted friend, it is not quite clear that he would have suc- 
 ceeded in ascendina; the staircase. A mist came over his 
 vision as he entered the room ; various forms, indeed, 
 glanced before him, but he could distinguish none. He 
 felt so embarrassed, that he was absolutely miserable. It 
 was Mr. Temple's hand that he found he had hold of; the 
 calm, demeanour and bland tones of that gentleman some- 
 what re-assured him. Mr. Temple was cordial, and Count 
 Mirabel hovered about Ferdinand, and covered his con- 
 fusion. Then he recognised the duchess and his mother ; 
 they were sitting together, and he went up and saluted 
 them. He dared not look round for the lady of the house. 
 Lady Bellair was talking to his father. At last he heard 
 his name called by the Count. 
 
 ' Armine, mon cher, see this beautiful work ! ' and Fer- 
 dinand advanced, or rather staggered, to a window where 
 stood the Count before a group, and in a minute he clasped 
 the hand of Henrietta Temple. He could not speak. 
 Katherine was sitting by her, and Lord Montfort standing 
 behind. her chair. But Count Mirabel never ceased talk- 
 ing, and with so much art and tact, that in a few moments 
 he had succeeded in producing comparative ease on all 
 Bides.
 
 A LOVE STORY. 453 
 
 * I am so glad that you have come to-cTay,' said Hen- 
 rietta. Her eyes sparkled with a strange meaning, and 
 then she suddenly withdrew her gaze. The rose of her 
 cheek alternately glowed and faded. It Avas a moment of 
 great embarrassment, and afterwards they often talked 
 of it. 
 
 Dinner, however, was soon announced as served, for 
 Mirabel and Ferdinand had purposely arrived at the last 
 moment. As the duke advanced to offer his arm to Miss 
 Temple, Henrietta presented Ferdinand with a flower, as if 
 to console him for the separation. It was a round table; 
 the duchess and Lady Bellair sat on each side of Mr, 
 Temple, the duke on the right hand of Miss Temple ; 
 where there were so many members of the same family, it 
 was difficult to arrange the guests. Ferdinand held back, 
 when Count Mirabel, who had secured a seat by Henrietta, 
 beckoned to Ferdinand, and saying that Lady Bellair 
 wished him to sit next to her, pushed Ferdinand, as ho 
 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,' sai-d Lady Bellair to the 
 Count, ' because you are famous. I love famous people, 
 and you are very famous. Why don't you come and seo 
 me ? Now I have caught you at last, and you shall come 
 and dine with me the 7th, 8th, or 9th of next month ; I 
 have dinner parties every day. Ton shall dine with mo 
 on the 8th, for then Lady Frederick dines with me, and 
 she will taste you. You shall sit next to Lady Frederick, 
 and mind you flirt with her. I wonder if you are as 
 amusing as your grandfather. I remember dancing a 
 minuet with him at Versailles 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 lie sometimes,' she resumed, ' but then it must
 
 454 HENEIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 be a good one. Do you know, I only say it to you, but I 
 am half afraid lies are more amusing than truth,' 
 
 ' l^aturally, said the Count, ' because truth must in 
 general be commonplace, or it would not bo true.' 
 
 In the meantime, Ferdinand was seated next to Henrietta 
 Temple. He might be excused for feeling a little bewil- 
 dered. Indeed, the wonderful events of the last four-and- 
 twenty hours were enough to deprive anyone of a com- 
 plete command over his senses. What marvel, then, that 
 he nearly carved his soup, ate his fish with a spoon, and 
 drank water instead of wine ! In fact, he was labouring 
 under a degree of nervous excitement, which rendered it 
 quite impossible for him to observe the proprieties of life. 
 The presence of all these persons was insupportable to him. 
 Five minutes alone with her in the woods of Ducie, and be 
 would have felt quite re-assured. Miss Temple rather 
 avoided his glance ! She was, in truth, as agitated as him- 
 self, and talked almost entii'ely to the duke ; yet sometimes 
 she tried to address him, and say kind things. She called 
 him Ferdinand ; that was quite sufficient to make him. 
 happy, although he felt very awkward. He had. been seated 
 some minutes before he observed that Glastonbury was next 
 to him. 
 
 'I am so nervous, dear Glastonbury,' said Ferdinand, 
 ' that I do not think I shall be able to remain in the 
 room.' 
 
 ' I have heard something,' said Glastonbury, with a smile, 
 ' that makes me quite bold.' 
 
 ' I cannot help fancying that it is all enchantment,' said 
 Ferdinand. 
 
 ' There is no wonder, my dear boy, that you are en- 
 chanted,' said Glastonbury. 
 
 ' Ferdinand,' said Miss Temple, in a low voice, 'papa is 
 taking wine with you.' Ferdinand looked up and caught 
 Mr. Temple's kind salute.
 
 A LOVE STORY. 455 
 
 ' That wag a fine horse you wei'e 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 to Henrietta. 
 
 * I have not been very well this day or tAvo,' said Miss 
 Temple. 
 
 ' "Well, I think you are looking particularly well to-day,' 
 replied the duke. ' What say you, Captain Armine ? ' 
 
 Ferdinand blushed, and looked confused at this appeal, 
 and muttered some contradictory 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 well across a table. So few 
 can do it without bellowing. I think you do it very 
 well.' 
 
 ' Naturally,' replied tlie Count. ' If I did not do it well, 
 I should not do it at all.' 
 
 'Ah! you are audacious,' said the old lady. * I like a 
 little impudence. It is better to be impudent than to bo 
 servile.' 
 
 ' Mankind are generally both,' said the Count. 
 
 *I think they are,' said the old lady. 'Pray, is the old 
 Duke of Thingabob alive ? You know whom I mean : ho 
 was an emigre, and a relation of yours.' 
 
 ' De Crillon. He is dead, and his son too.' 
 ' He was a great talker,' .said Lady Bellair, ' but then, ho 
 was the t3Tant of conversation. Now, men were made to 
 listen as well as to talk.' 
 
 ' Without doubt,' said the Count ; ' for Nature has given 
 us two cars, but only one mouth.' 
 
 ' You said that wo might all be very happy,' whispered
 
 456 HENEIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 Lord Montfort to Miss Grandison. 'What tliink you; 
 Lave we succeeded ? ' 
 
 .' I think we all look very confused,' said Miss Grandison. 
 ' What a fortunate idea it was inviting Lady Bellair and 
 the Count. They never could 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,' said Lord Montfort. ' What a fine embarrassment 
 you have contrived, Miss Grandison ! ' 
 
 ' Nay, Digby, you Avere the author of it. I cannot help 
 thinking of your interview with Mr. Temple. You were 
 prompt ! ' 
 
 ' Why, I can be patient, fair Katherine,' said Lord Mont- 
 fort ; 'but in the present instance I shrank from suspense, 
 more, however, for others than myself. It certainly Avas a 
 singular interview.' 
 
 ' And were you not nervous ? ' 
 
 ' Why, no ; I felt convinced that the interview could only 
 have one result. I thought of your memorable words ; I 
 felt I was doing what you wished, and that I was making 
 all of us happy. However, all honour be to Mr. 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 he said, and maintained her 
 reputation for repartee. Her ladyship had been for a long- 
 time anxious to seize hold of her gay neighbour, and it was 
 evident that he was quite ' a favourite.' Even Ferdinand 
 grew a little more at his ease. He ventured to relieve 
 the duke from some of his labours, and carve for Miss 
 Temple. 
 
 ' What do you think of our family party ? ' said Henrietta 
 to Ferdinand, in a low voice. 
 
 * I can think only of one thing,' said Ferdinand.
 
 A LOVE STOEY. 457 
 
 ' I am so nervous,' she continued, ' tliafc it seems to mo I 
 sliall every minute sliriek, and leave the room.' 
 
 ' I feel the same ; I am stupefied.' 
 
 * Talk to Mr. Glastonbury ; drink wine, and talk. Look, 
 look at your mother ; she is 'watching us. She is dying to 
 speak to you, and so is some one else.' 
 
 At length the ladies withdrew. Ferdinand attended them 
 to the door of the dining-room. Lady Bellair shook her 
 fan at him, but said nothing. He pressed his mother's 
 hand. ' Good bye, cousin Ferdinand,' said Miss Grandison 
 in a laughing tone. Henrietta smiled upon him as she 
 passed by. It "was a speaking glance, and touched his 
 heart. The gentlemen remained behind much longer than 
 was the custom in Mr. Temple's house. Everybody seemed 
 resolved to drink a great deal of wine, and ^Ir. Temple 
 always addressed himself to Ferdinand, if anything wero 
 required, in a manner which seemed to recognise his 
 responsible position in the family. 
 
 Anxious as Ferdinand was to escape to the drawing- 
 room, he could not venture on the step. Ho longed to 
 speak to Glastonbury on the subject which engrossed his 
 thoughts, but he had not courage. Never did a man, who 
 really believed himself the happiest and most fortunate per- 
 son in the world, ever feel more awkward and more cmbar- 
 rassed. "Was his father aware of what had occurred ? }Io 
 could not decide. Apparently, Henrietta imagined that his 
 mother did, by the observation which she had made at 
 dinner. Then his father must bo conscious of everything. 
 Kathcrine must havo told all. "Wero Lord ^Montfort's 
 family in the secret ? But what use were these perplexing 
 enquiiies ? It was certain that Henrietta was to be hi.s 
 bride, and that Mr. Temple had sanctioned their alliaJice. 
 There could be no doubt of that, or why was lie there ? 
 
 At length the gentlemen rose, and Ferdinand once more 
 beheld Henrietta Temple. As he entered, she was crossing
 
 4.58 HENEIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 the room with some music in her hand, she was a moment 
 alone. He stopped, he would have spoken, but his lips 
 would not move. 
 
 ' Well,' she said, * are you happy ? ' 
 
 ' My head wanders. Assure me that it is all true,' he 
 murmured in an agitated voice. 
 
 ' It is all true ; there, go and speak to Lady Armine. I 
 am as nervous as you are.' 
 
 Ferdinand seated himself by his mother. 
 
 ' Well, Ferdinand,' she said, ' I have heard wonderful 
 thing's.' 
 
 ' And! hope they have made you happy, mother ? ' 
 
 ' 1 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 as gratified,' 
 
 ' 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-day in this extra- 
 ordinary manner, and but for them we should be completely 
 in the dark,' 
 
 ' And the duchess ; do they know all ? ' 
 
 * I conclude so.' 
 
 ' 'Tis very strange, is it not ? ' 
 ' I am quite bewildered.' 
 
 * mother ! is she not beautiful ? Do you not love her ? 
 Shall we not all be the happiest family in the world ? ' 
 
 ' I think we ought to be, dear Ferdinand. But I havo 
 not recovered from my astonishment. Ah, my child, why 
 did you not tell mc when you were ill ? ' 
 
 ' Is it not for the best that affairs should have taken the 
 course they have 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.'
 
 A LOVE STORY. 459- 
 
 * Slie must be, deai' motliev ; only tlaink wliat an excel- 
 lent person is Lord Montfort.' 
 
 ' Ho is indeed an excellent person,' said Lady Armine ; 
 * but if I had been engaged to you, Ferdinand, and it ended 
 by my marrying Lord Montfort, I should be very disap- 
 pointed.' 
 
 ' The duchess would be of a different opinion,' said Fer- 
 dinand. 
 
 Lady Bellair, who was sitting on a sofa opposite, and 
 had hitherto been conversing with the duchess, who had 
 now quitted her and joined the musicians, began shaking 
 her fan at Ferdinand in a manner wliich signified 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 comiiiit yourself "Well, I like dis- 
 cretion, I have always seen it from the first. No one has 
 worked for you as I have. I Hke true love, and I have left 
 her all my china in my will.' 
 
 ' I am sure the legatee is very fortanate, whoever she 
 may be.' 
 
 ' Ah, you rogue, you know very well whom I mean. You 
 are saucy ; you never had a warmer friend than myself. I 
 always admired you ; you have a great many good qualities 
 and a great many bad ones. You always were a little 
 saucy. But I hke a little spico of sauciuess ; I think it 
 takes. I hear you are great friends with Count Thing- 
 abob ; the Count, whose grandfather I danced ^vith seventy 
 years ago. That is right ; always have distingiushod 
 friends. Never have fools for friends ; they are no use 
 I suppose he is in the secret too ? * 
 
 'Really, Lady Bellair, I am in no secret. You qnilo 
 excite my curiosity.'
 
 460 HENKIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 ' Well, I can't get anything- ont of you, I see that. How- 
 ever, it all happened at my house, that can't be denied. I 
 tell you what I wdll do ; I will give you all a dinner, and 
 then the world will be quite certain that I made the match.' 
 
 Lady Ai'mine joined them, and Ferdinand seized the op- 
 portunity of effecting his escape to the piano. 
 
 ' I suppose Henrietta has found her voice again, now,' 
 whispered Katherine 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 the curtain will drop.' 
 
 ' And I hope, in youi" opinion, not an unsuccessful per- 
 formance ? ' 
 
 ' Why, I certainly cannot quarrel "with the catastrophe,' 
 said Miss Grandison. 
 
 In the meantime, the Count Mirabel had obtained posses- 
 sion of Mr. Temple, and lost no opportunity of confirming 
 every favoui^able view which that gentleman had been in- 
 fluenced by Lord Montfort to take of Ferdinand and his 
 conduct. !Mi\ Temple was quite convinced that his daughter 
 must be very happy, and that the alHance, on the whole, 
 would be productive of every satisfaction that he had ever 
 anticipated. 
 
 The evening drew on ; carriages were announced ; guests 
 retii-ed ; Ferdinand lingered ; Mr. Temple was ushering 
 Lady Bellair, the last guest, to her carriage ; Ferdinand and 
 Henrietta were alone. They looked at each other, their 
 eyes met at the same moment, there was but one mode of 
 satisfactorily terminating their mutual embarrassments : 
 they sprang into each other's arms. Ah, that was a moment 
 of rapture, sweet, thrilling, rapid ! There was no need of 
 words, their souls vaulted over all petty explanations ; upon 
 her lips, her choice and trembling lips, he sealed his grati- 
 tude and his devotion.
 
 A LOVE STORY. 461 
 
 The sound of footsteps Avas Leard, the agitated Henrietta 
 made her escape by an opposite entrance, iMr. Temple 
 returned, he met Captain Armine with his hat, and en- 
 quired whether Henrietta had retired; and when Ferdinand 
 answered in the affirmative, wished him good niglit, and 
 begged him to breakfast with them to-moiTow. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 vrniCH, TnoL'Gii final, it is noPED will prove satisfactory. 
 
 OuH kind reader will easily comprehend that from the happy 
 day we have just noticed, Ferdinand Anniue was seldom 
 absent from Grosvcnor-square, or fi-om the society of Hen- 
 rietta Temple. They both of them were so hajjpy that 
 they soon overcame any little embarrassment which their 
 novel situation might first occasion them. In this eflbrt, 
 howevex', they were greatly encoui'aged by the calm de- 
 meanour of Lord Montfort, and the complacent carriage of 
 his intended bride. The world Avondered and Avhispcred, 
 marvelled and hinted, but nothing distui-bed Lord Mont- 
 fort, and Kathcrine had the sldll to silence railleiy. Although 
 it was settled that the respective man-iages should tako 
 place as soon as possible, the settlements necessarily occa- 
 sioned delay. By the a])plication of his funded property, 
 and by a charge upon his Yorkshire estates, Mr. Tcmplo 
 paid off the mortgages on Armine, which, with a certain 
 Hfc-chargo in his own favour, was settled in strict entail 
 upon the issue of his daughter. A certain portion of the 
 income was to be set aside annually to complete the castle, 
 and until that edifice was ready to receive them, Ferdinand 
 and Henrietta were to live with !Mr. Temple, pi'iucipally at 
 Ducie, which Mr. Temple had now purchased. 
 
 In spite, however, of the lawyers, the eventful day at
 
 4G2 HENEIETTA TEMPLE: 
 
 length arrived. Both happy couples were married af, the 
 same time and in the same place, and Glastonbury per- 
 formed the ceremony. Lord and Lady Montfort depar'ted 
 for a seat in Sussex, belonging to his father; Ferdinand 
 and Henrietta repaired to Arniine ; while Sir EatcUffe and 
 his lady paid a Adsit to Mr. Temple in Yorkshire, and 
 Glastonbury found himself once more in his old quarters in 
 Lancashire Avith 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 almost began to believe that it was 
 well that the course of their true love had for a moment 
 not run so smoothly as at present, and they felt that their 
 adversity had rendered them even more sensible of their 
 inimitable bliss. And the woods of Ducie, they were not 
 forgotten ; nor, least of all, the old farmhouse that had been 
 his shelter. Certainly they were the happiest people that 
 ever lived, and though some years have now passed since 
 these events took place, custom has not sullied the bright- 
 ness of their love. They have no cares now, and yet both 
 have known enough of sorrow to make them rightly ap- 
 preciate their unbroken and unbounded blessings. 
 
 When the honeymoon was fairly over, for they would 
 neither of them bate a jot of this good old-fashioned privi- 
 lege. Sir KatcliiFe and Lady Ai-mine returned to the Place, 
 and Glastonbury to his tower ; while Mr, Temple joined 
 them at Ducie, accompanied by Lord and Lady Montfort. 
 The autumn also brought the Count Mirabel to slaughter 
 the pheasants, gay, brilliant, careless, kind-hearted as ever. 
 He has ever remained one of Ferdinand's most cherished 
 friends ; indeed, I hardly thiuk that there is any individual 
 to whom Ferdinand is more attached. And after all, as 
 the Count often observes, if it had not been for Ferdinand's 
 scrapes they would not have known each other, Nor was 
 Lord Catchimwhocan passed over. Ferdinand Armine was
 
 A LOVE STORY. 463 
 
 not tlie man to neglect a friend or to forget a good service ; 
 and lie lias conferred on tliat orood-natui'ed, tlioucrli some- 
 what improvident, young nobli'man, more substantial kind- 
 ness than the hospitality wliich is always cheerfully extended 
 to him. When Ferdinand repaid Mr. Bond Sharpe his 
 fifteen hundred pounds, he took care that the interest 
 should appear in the shape of a golden vase, Avhich is now 
 not the least gorgeous ornament of that worthy's splendid 
 sideboard. The deer have appeared too again in the park 
 of Armine, and many a haunch smokes on the epicurean 
 table of Cleveland-row. 
 
 Lady Bellair is as lively as ever, and bids fair to amuse 
 society as long as the famous Countess of Desmond, 
 
 "Who lived to tbo ago of a liuudrod and ten, 
 And died by a fall from a cherry tree then ; 
 \Miat a frisky old girl ! 
 
 In her annual progresses? through the kingdom she never 
 omits laying every establishment of the thr-ee famiHes, in 
 whose fortunes she was so unexpectedly mixed up, under 
 contiibution. As her ladyship persists in asserting, and 
 perhaps now really believes, that both matches were the 
 result of her matrimonial craft, it would be the height of 
 ingratitude if she ever could complain of the want of a 
 hearty welcome. 
 
 In the daily increasing happiness of his beloved daughter, 
 ]Mr. Temple has quite forgotten any little disappointment 
 which ho might once have felt at not having a duke for a 
 Bon-in-law, and such a duke as his valued friend, Lord 
 Montfort. But Fcrdiuand Ai'raino is blessed with so sweet 
 a temper, that it is impossible to live with him and not love 
 him; and the most cordial intimacy and confidence subsist 
 between the father of Ilcnrictta Temple and his son-in-law. 
 From the aspect of public affaii-s also, Mr. Temple, though 
 he keeps this thought to himself, is inclined to believe that
 
 464 HENEIETTA TEJ^IPLE. 
 
 a coronet may yet grace the brow of his daughter, and that 
 the barony of Armine may be revived. Soon after tlie 
 passing of the memorable Act of 1828, Lord Montfort be- 
 came the representative of his native county, and an active 
 and influential member of the House of Commons. After 
 the reform, Mr. Armine was also returned for a borough 
 situate near the duke's principal seat, and although Lord 
 Montfort and Mr. Armine both adhere to the Whig politics 
 of their families, they have both also, in the most marked 
 manner, abstained from voting on the appropriation clause ; 
 and there is little doubt that they will ultimately support 
 that British and national administration which Providence 
 has doubtless in store for these outraged and distracted 
 realms. At least this is ]\Ir. Temple's more than hope, who 
 is also in the House, and acts entirely with Lord Stanley. 
 
 The Montforts and the younger Armines contrive, through 
 mutual visits and a town residence during the Session, to 
 pass the greater part of their lives together ; they both 
 honestly confess that they are a little in love with each 
 other's wives, but this only makes their society more agree- 
 able. The family circle at Armine has been considerably 
 increased of late ; there is a handsome yoiing Armine who 
 has been christened Glastonbury, a circumstance which 
 repays the tenant of the tower for all his dcA^otion, and 
 this blending of his name and memory with the illustrious 
 race that has so long occupied his thoughts and hopes, is 
 to him a source of constant self-congratulation. The future 
 Sir Glastonbury has also two younger brothers quite worthy 
 of the blood. Temple and Digby ; and the most charming 
 sister in the world, with large violet eyes and long dark 
 lashes, who is still in arms, and who bears the hallowed 
 name of Henrietta. And thus ends our Love Stokt. 
 
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