CHAPTER IV.
_In Which Some Light Is Thrown on the Title of This Work_.
HOW delicious after a long absence to wake on a sunny morning and findourselves at home! Ferdinand could scarcely credit that he was reallyagain at Armine. He started up in his bed, and rubbed his eyes andstared at the unaccustomed, yet familiar sights, and for a moment Maltaand the Royal Fusiliers, Bath and his betrothed, were all a dream; andthen he remembered the visit of his dear mother to this very room on theeve of his first departure. He had returned; in safety had he returned,and in happiness, to accomplish all her hopes and to reward her for allher solicitude. Never felt anyone more content than Ferdinand Armine,more content and more grateful.
He rose and opened the casement; a rich and exhilarating perfume filledthe chamber; he looked with a feeling of delight and pride over thebroad and beautiful park; the tall trees rising and flinging theirtaller shadows over the bright and dewy turf, and the last mistsclearing away from the distant woods and blending with the spotless sky.Everything was sweet and still, save, indeed, the carol of the birds, orthe tinkle of some restless bellwether. It was a rich autumnal morn. Andyet with all the excitement of his new views in life, and the blissfulconsciousness of the happiness of those he loved, he could not but feelthat a great change had come over his spirit since the days he was wontto ramble in this old haunt of his boyhood. His innocence was gone. Lifewas no longer that deep unbroken trance of duty and of love from whichhe had been roused to so much care; and if not remorse, at least toso much compunction. He had no secrets then. Existence was not then asubterfuge, but a calm and candid state of serene enjoyment. Feelingsthen were not compromised for interests; and then it was the excellentthat was studied, not the expedient. 'Yet such I suppose is life,'murmured Ferdinand; 'we moralise when it is too late; nor is thereanything more silly than to regret. One event makes another: what weanticipate seldom occurs; what we least expected generally happens; andtime can only prove which is most for our advantage. And surely I amthe last person who should look grave. Our ancient house rises fromits ruins; the beings I love most in the world are not only happy, butindebted to me for their happiness; and I, I myself, with every giftof fortune suddenly thrown at my feet, what more can I desire? Am Inot satisfied? Why do I even ask the question? I am sure I know not. Itrises like a devil in my thoughts, and spoils everything. The girl isyoung, noble, and fair, and loves me. And her? I love her, at least Isuppose I love her. I love her at any rate as much as I love, or everdid love, woman. There is no great sacrifice, then, on my part; thereshould be none; there is none; unless indeed it be that a man doesnot like to give up without a struggle all his chance of romance andrapture.
'I know not how it is, but there are moments I almost wish that I had nofather and no mother; ay! not a single friend or relative in the world,and that Armine were sunk into the very centre of the earth. If I stoodalone in the world methinks I might find the place that suits me; noweverything seems ordained for me, as it were, beforehand. My spirit hashad no play. Something whispers me that, with all its flush prosperity,this is neither wise nor well. God knows I am not heartless, and wouldbe grateful; and yet if life can afford me no deeper sympathy than Ihave yet experienced, I cannot but hold it, even with all its sweetreflections, as little better than a dull delusion.'
While Ferdinand was thus moralising at the casement, Glastonburyappeared beneath; and his appearance dissipated this gathering gloom.'Let us breakfast together,' proposed Ferdinand. 'I have breakfastedthese two hours,' replied the hermit of the gate. 'I hope that on thefirst night of your return to Armine you have proved auspicious dreams.'
'My bed and I are old companions,' said Ferdinand, 'and we agreedvery well. I tell you what, my dear Glastonbury, we will have a strolltogether this morning and talk over our plans of last night. Go intothe library and look over my sketch-books: you will find them on mypistol-case, and I will be with you anon.'
In due time the friends commenced their ramble. Ferdinand soon becameexcited by Glastonbury's various suggestions for the completion ofthe castle; and as for the old man himself, between his architecturalcreation and the restoration of the family to which he had been so longdevoted, he was in a rapture of enthusiasm, which afforded an amusingcontrast to his usual meek and subdued demeanour.
'Your grandfather was a great man,' said Glastonbury, who in old daysseldom ventured to mention the name of the famous Sir Ferdinand: 'thereis no doubt he was a very great man. He had great ideas. How he wouldglory in our present prospects! 'Tis strange what a strong confidence Ihave ever had in the destiny of your house. I felt sure that Providencewould not desert us. There is no doubt we must have a portcullis.'
'Decidedly, a portcullis,' said Ferdinand; 'you shall make all thedrawings yourself, my dear Glastonbury, and supervise everything. Wewill not have a single anachronism. It shall be perfect.'
'Perfect,' echoed Glastonbury; 'really perfect. It shall be a perfectGothic castle. I have such treasures for the work. All the labours ofmy life have tended to this object. I have all the emblazonings of yourhouse since the Conquest. There shall be three hundred shields in thehall. I will paint them myself. Oh! there is no place in the world likeArmine!'
'Nothing,' said Ferdinand; 'I have seen a great deal, but after allthere is nothing like Armine.'
'Had we been born to this splendour,' said Glastonbury, 'we should havethought little of it. We have been mildly and wisely chastened. I cannotsufficiently admire the wisdom of Providence, which has tempered, bysuch a wise dispensation, the too-eager blood of your race.'
'I should be sorry to pull down the old place,' said Ferdinand.
'It must not be,' said Glastonbury; 'we have lived there happily, thoughhumbly.'
'I would we could move it to another part of the park, like the house ofLoretto,' said Ferdinand with a smile.
'We can cover it with ivy,' observed Glastonbury, looking somewhatgrave.
The morning stole away in these agreeable plans and prospects. Atlength the friends parted, agreeing to meet again at dinner. Glastonburyrepaired to his tower, and Ferdinand, taking his gun, sauntered into thesurrounding wilderness.
But he felt no inclination for sport. The conversation with Glastonburyhad raised a thousand thoughts over which he longed to brood. Hislife had been a scene of such constant excitement since his return toEngland, that he had enjoyed little opportunity of indulging in calmself-communion; and now that he was at Armine, and alone, the contrastbetween his past and his present situation struck him so forcibly thathe could not refrain from falling into a reverie upon his fortunes. Itwas wonderful, all wonderful, very, very wonderful. There seemed indeed,as Glastonbury affirmed, a providential dispensation in the wholetransaction. The fall of his family, the heroic, and, as it nowappeared, prescient firmness with which his father had clung, in alltheir deprivations, to his unproductive patrimony, his own education,the extinction of his mother's house, his very follies, once to him acause of so much unhappiness, but which it now seemed were all the timecompelling him, as it were, to his prosperity; all these and a thousandother traits and circumstances flitted over his mind, and were each inturn the subject of his manifold meditation. Willing was he to creditthat destiny had reserved for him the character of restorer; that dutyindeed he had accepted, and yet----
He looked around him as if to see what devil was whispering in hisear. He was alone. No one was there or near. Around him rose thesilent bowers, and scarcely the voice of a bird or the hum of an insectdisturbed the deep tranquillity. But a cloud seemed to rest on the fairand pensive brow of Ferdinand Armine. He threw himself on the turf,leaning his head on one hand, and with the other plucking the wildflowers, which he as hastily, almost as fretfully, flung away.
'Conceal it as I will,' he exclaimed, 'I am a victim; disguise them asI may, all the considerations are worldly. There is, there must be,something better in this world than power and wealth and rank; andsurely there must be felicity more rapturous even than securing theha
ppiness of a parent. Ah! dreams in which I have so oft and so fondlyindulged, are ye, indeed, after all, but fantastical and airy visions?Is love indeed a delusion, or am I marked out from men alone to beexempted from its delicious bondage? It must be a delusion. All laughat it, all jest about it, all agree in stigmatising it the vanity ofvanities. And does my experience contradict this harsh but common fame?Alas! what have I seen or known to give the lie to this ill report?No one, nothing. Some women I have met more beautiful, assuredly, thanKate, and many, many less fair; and some have crossed my path with awild and brilliant grace, that has for a moment dazzled my sight, andperhaps for a moment lured me from my way. But these shooting starshave but glittered transiently in my heaven, and only made me, by theirevanescent brilliancy, more sensible of its gloom. Let me believe then,oh! let me of all men then believe, that the forms that inspirethe sculptor and the painter have no models in nature; that thatcombination of beauty and grace, of fascinating intelligence andfond devotion, over which men brood in the soft hours of their youngloneliness, is but the promise of a better world, and not the charm ofthis one.
'But, what terror in that truth! what despair! what madness! Yes!at this moment of severest scrutiny, how profoundly I feel that lifewithout love is worse than death! How vain and void, how flat andfruitless, appear all those splendid accidents of existence for whichmen struggle, without this essential and pervading charm! What a worldwithout a sun! Yes! without this transcendent sympathy, riches and rank,and even power and fame, seem to me at best but jewels set in a coronetof lead!
'And who knows whether that extraordinary being, of whose magnificentyet ruinous career this castle is in truth a fitting emblem--I say, whoknows whether the secret of his wild and restless course is not hiddenin this same sad lack of love? Perhaps while the world, the silly,superficial world, marvelled and moralised at his wanton life, andpoured forth its anathemas against his heartless selfishness, perchancehe all the time was sighing for some soft bosom whereon to pour hisoverwhelming passion, even as I am!
'O Nature! why art thou beautiful? My heart requires not, imaginationcannot paint, a sweeter or a fairer scene than these surrounding bowers.This azazure vault of heaven, this golden sunshine, this deep andblending shade, these rare and fragrant shrubs, yon grove of green andtallest pines, and the bright gliding of this swan-crowned lake; mysoul is charmed with all this beauty and this sweetness; I feel nodisappointment here; my mind does not here outrun reality; here thereis no cause to mourn over ungratified hopes and fanciful desires. Is itthen my destiny that I am to be baffled only in the dearest desires ofmy heart?'
At this moment the loud and agitated barking of his dogs at some littledistance roused Ferdinand from his reverie. He called them to him,and soon one of them obeyed his summons, but instantly returned to hiscompanion with such significant gestures, panting and yelping, thatFerdinand supposed that Basto was caught, perhaps, in some trap: so,taking up his gun, he proceeded to the dog's rescue.
To his surprise, as he was about to emerge from a berceau on to a plotof turf, in the centre of which grew a large cedar, he beheld a ladyin a riding-habit standing before the tree, and evidently admiring itsbeautiful proportions.
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Her countenance was raised and motionless. It seemed to him that it wasmore radiant than the sunshine. He gazed with rapture on the dazzlingbrilliancy of her complexion, the delicate regularity of her features,and the large violet-tinted eyes, fringed with the longest and thedarkest lashes that he had ever beheld. From her position her hat hadfallen back, revealing her lofty and pellucid brow, and the dark andlustrous locks that were braided over her temples. The whole countenancecombined that brilliant health and that classic beauty which weassociate with the idea of some nymph tripping over the dew-bespangledmeads of Ida, or glancing amid the hallowed groves of Greece. Althoughthe lady could scarcely have seen eighteen summers, her stature wasabove the common height; but language cannot describe the startlingsymmetry of her superb figure.
There is no love but love at first sight. This is the transcendent andsurpassing offspring of sheer and unpolluted sympathy. All other is theillegitimate result of observation, of reflection, of compromise, ofcomparison, of expediency. The passions that endure flash like thelightning: they scorch the soul, but it is warmed for ever. Miserableman whose love rises by degrees upon the frigid morning of his mind!Some hours indeed of warmth and lustre may perchance fall to his lot;some moments of meridian splendour, in which he basks in what he deemseternal sunshine. But then how often overcast by the clouds of care, howoften dusked by the blight of misery and misfortune! And certain as thegradual rise of such affection is its gradual decline and melancholysetting. Then, in the chill, dim twilight of his soul, he execratescustom; because he has madly expected that feelings could be habitualthat were not homogeneous, and because he has been guided by theobservation of sense, and not by the inspiration of sympathy.
Amid the gloom and travail of existence suddenly to behold a beautifulbeing, and as instantaneously to feel an overwhelming conviction thatwith that fair form for ever our destiny must be entwined; that there isno more joy but in her joy, no sorrow but when she grieves; that in hersigh of love, in her smile of fondness, hereafter all is bliss; tofeel our flaunty ambition fade away like a shrivelled gourd before hervision; to feel fame a juggle and posterity a lie; and to be prepared atonce, for this great object, to forfeit and fling away all former hopes,ties, schemes, views; to violate in her favour every duty of society;this is a lover, and this is love! Magnificent, sublime, divinesentiment! An immortal flame burns in the breast of that man who adoresand is adored. He is an ethereal being. The accidents of earth touch himnot. Revolutions of empire, changes of creed, mutations of opinion,are to him but the clouds and meteors of a stormy sky. The schemes andstruggles of mankind are, in his thinking, but the anxieties of pigmiesand the fantastical achievements of apes. Nothing can subdue him. Helaughs alike at loss of fortune, loss of friends, loss of character. Thedeeds and thoughts of men are tor him equally indifferent. He does notmingle in their paths of callous bustle, or hold himself responsible tothe airy impostures before which they bow down. He is a mariner who, onthe sea of life, keeps his gaze fixedly on a single star; and if that donot shine, he lets go the rudder, and glories when his barque descendsinto the bottomless gulf.
Yes! it was this mighty passion that now raged in the heart of FerdinandArmine, as, pale and trembling, he withdrew a few paces from theoverwhelming spectacle, and leant against a tree in a chaos of emotion.What had he seen? What ravishing vision had risen upon his sight? Whatdid he feel? What wild, what delicious, what maddening impulse nowpervaded his frame? A storm seemed raging in his soul, a mighty winddispelling in its course the sullen clouds and vapours of long years.Silent he was indeed, for he was speechless; though the big drop thatquivered on his brow and the slight foam that played upon his lip provedthe difficult triumph of passion over expression. But, as the windclears the heaven, passion eventually tranquillises the soul. The tumultof his mind gradually subsided; the flitting memories, the scuddingthoughts, that for a moment had coursed about in such wild order,vanished and melted away, and a feeling of bright serenity succeeded, asense of beauty and of joy, and of hovering and circumambient happiness.
He advanced, and gazed again; the lady was still there. Changed indeedher position; she had gathered a flower and was examining its beauty.
'Henrietta!' exclaimed a manly voice from the adjoining wood. Beforeshe could answer, a stranger came forward, a man of middle age but ofan appearance remarkably prepossessing. He was tall and dignified, fair,with an aquiline nose. One of Ferdinand's dogs followed him barking.
'I cannot find the gardener anywhere,' said the stranger; 'I think wehad better remount.'
'Ah, me! what a pity!' exclaimed the lady.
'Let me be your guide,' said Ferdinand, advancing.
The lady rather started; the gentleman, not at all discomposed,courteously welcomed Ferdinand, and said, 'I
feel that we areintruders, sir. But we were informed by the woman at the lodge that thefamily were not here at present, and that we should find her husband inthe grounds.'
'The family are not at Armine,' replied Ferdinand; 'I am sure, however,Sir Ratcliffe would be most happy for you to walk about the grounds asmuch as you please; and as I am well acquainted with them, I should feeldelighted to be your guide.'
'You are really too courteous, sir,' replied the gentleman; and hisbeautiful companion rewarded Ferdinand with a smile like a sunbeam, thatplayed about her countenance till it finally settled into two exquisitedimples, and revealed to him teeth that, for a moment, he believed to beeven the most beautiful feature of that surpassing visage.
They sauntered along, every step developing new beauties in theirprogress and eliciting from his companions renewed expressions ofrapture. The dim bowers, the shining glades, the tall rare trees, theluxuriant shrubs, the silent and sequestered lake, in turn enchantedthem, until at length, Ferdinand, who had led them with experiencedtaste through all the most striking points of the pleasaunce, broughtthem before the walls of the castle.
'And here is Armine Castle,' he said; 'it is little better than a shell,and yet contains something which you might like to see.'
'Oh! by all means,' exclaimed the lady.
'But we are spoiling your sport,' suggested the gentleman.
'I can always kill partridges,' replied Ferdinand, laying down his gun;'but I cannot always find agreeable companions.'
So saying, he opened the massy portal of the castle and they enteredthe hall. It was a lofty chamber, of dimensions large enough to feasta thousand vassals, with a dais and a rich Gothic screen, and a galleryfor the musicians. The walls were hung with arms and armour admirablyarranged; but the parti-coloured marble floor was so covered withpiled-up cases of furniture that the general effect of the scene, wasnot only greatly marred, but it was even difficult in some parts totrace a path.
'Here,' said Ferdinand, jumping upon a huge case and running to thewall, 'here is the standard of Ralph d'Ermyn, who came over with theConqueror, and founded the family in England. Here is the sword ofWilliam d'Armyn, who signed Magna Carta. Here is the complete coatarmour of the second Ralph, who died before Ascalon. This case containsa diamond-hilted sword, given by the Empress to the great Sir Ferdinandfor defeating the Turks; and here is a Mameluke sabre, given to the sameSir Ferdinand by the Sultan for defeating the Empress.'
'Oh! I have heard so much of that great Sir Ferdinand,' said the lady.'He must have been the most interesting character.'
'He was a marvellous being,' answered her guide, with a peculiar look,'and yet I know not whether his descendants have not cause to rue hisgenius.'
'Oh! never, never!' said the lady; 'what is wealth to genius? How muchprouder, were I an Armine, should I be of such an ancestor than of athousand others, even if they had left me this castle as complete as hewished it to be!'
'Well, as to that,' replied Ferdinand, 'I believe I am somewhat of youropinion; though I fear he lived in too late an age for such order ofminds. It would have been better for him perhaps if he had succeeded inbecoming King of Poland.'
'I hope there is a portrait of him,' said the lady; 'there is nothing Ilong so much to see.'
'I rather think there is a portrait,' replied her companion, somewhatdrily. 'We will try to find it out. Do not you think I make not a badcicerone?'
'Indeed, most excellent,' replied the lady.
'I perceive you are a master of your subject,' replied the gentleman,thus affording Ferdinand an easy opportunity of telling them who he was.The hint, however, was not accepted.
'And now,' said Ferdinand, 'we will ascend the staircase.'
Accordingly they mounted a large spiral staircase which filled the spaceof a round tower, and was lighted from the top by a lantern of rich,coloured glass on which were emblazoned the arms of the family. Thenthey entered the vestibule, an apartment spacious enough for a salon;which, however, was not fitted up in the Gothic style, but of which thepainted ceiling, the gilded panels, and inlaid floor were more suitableto a French palace. The brilliant doors of this vestibule opened in manydirections upon long suites of state chambers, which indeed merited thedescription of shells. They were nothing more; of many the flooring wasnot even laid down; the walls of all were rough and plastered.
'Ah!' said the lady, 'what a pity it is not finished!'
'It is indeed desolate,' observed Ferdinand; 'but here perhaps issomething more to your taste.' So saying, he opened another door andushered them into the picture gallery.
It was a superb chamber nearly two hundred feet in length, and containedonly portraits of the family, or pictures of their achievements. It wasof a pale green colour, lighted from the top; and the floor, of oak andebony, was partially covered with a single Persian carpet, of fancifulpattern and brilliant dye, a present from the Sultan to the great SirFerdinand. The earlier annals of the family were illustrated by a seriesof paintings by modern masters, representing the battle of Hastings,the siege of Ascalon, the meeting at Runnymede, the various invasionsof France, and some of the most striking incidents in the Wars of theRoses, in all of which a valiant Armyn prominently figured. At lengththey stood before the first contemporary portrait of the Armyn family,one of Cardinal Stephen Armyn, by an Italian master. This greatdignitary was legate of the Pope in the time of the seventh Henry,and in his scarlet robes and ivory chair looked a papal Jupiter, notunworthy himself of wielding the thunder of the Vatican. From him theseries of family portraits was unbroken; and it was very interesting totrace, in this excellently arranged collection, the history of nationalcostume. Holbein had commemorated the Lords Tewkesbury, rich in velvet,and golden chains, and jewels. The statesmen of Elizabeth and James,and their beautiful and gorgeous dames, followed; and then came manya gallant cavalier, by Vandyke. One admirable picture contained LordArmine and his brave brothers, seated together in a tent round a drum,on which his lordship was apparently planning the operations of thecampaign. Then followed a long series of un-memorable baronets, andtheir more interesting wives and daughters, touched by the pencil ofKneller, of Lely, or of Hudson; squires in wigs and scarlet jackets,and powdered dames in hoops and farthingales.
They stood before the crowning effort of the gallery, the masterpieceof Reynolds. It represented a full-length portrait of a young man,apparently just past his minority. The side of the figure was aloneexhibited, and the face glanced at the spectator over the shoulder, ina favourite attitude of Vandyke. It was a countenance of ideal beauty. Aprofusion of dark brown curls was dashed aside from a lofty forehead ofdazzling brilliancy. The face was perfectly oval; the nose, thoughsmall was high and aquiline, and exhibited a remarkable dilation of thenostril; the curling lip was shaded by a very delicate mustache; andthe general expression, indeed, of the mouth and of the large greyeyes would have been perhaps arrogant and imperious, had not theextraordinary beauty of the whole countenance rendered it fascinating.
It was indeed a picture to gaze upon and to return to; one of thosevisages which, after having once beheld, haunt us at all hours and flitacross our mind's eye unexpected and unbidden. So great was the effectthat it produced upon the present visitors to the gallery, that theystood before it for some minutes in silence; the scrutinising glanceof the gentleman was more than once diverted from the portrait to thecountenance of his conductor, and the silence was eventually broken byour hero.
'And what think you,' he enquired, 'of the famous Sir Ferdinand?'
The lady started, looked at him, withdrew her glance, and appearedsomewhat confused. Her companion replied, 'I think, sir, I cannot err inbelieving that I am indebted for much courtesy to his descendant?'
'I believe,' said Ferdinand, 'that I should not have much trouble inproving my pedigree. I am generally considered an ugly likeness of mygrandfather.'
The gentleman smiled, and then said, 'I hardly know whether I can stylemyself your neighbour, for I live nearly ten miles distant. It would,ho
wever, afford me sincere gratification to see you at Ducie Bower.I cannot welcome you in a castle. My name is Temple,' he continued,offering his card to Ferdinand. 'I need not now introduce you to mydaughter. I was not unaware that Sir Ratcliffe Armine had a son, but Ihad understood he was abroad.'
'I have returned to England within these two months,' replied Ferdinand,'and to Armine within these two days. I deem it fortunate that my returnhas afforded me an opportunity of welcoming you and Miss Temple. But youmust not talk of our castle, for that you know is our folly. Pray comenow and visit our older and humbler dwelling, and take some refreshmentafter your long ride.'
This offer was declined, but with great courtesy. They quitted thecastle, and Mr. Temple was about to direct his steps towards the lodge,where he had left his own and his daughter's horses; but Ferdinandpersuaded them to return through the park, which he proved to them verysatisfactorily must be the nearest way. He even asked permission toaccompany them; and while his groom was saddling his horse he led themto the old Place and the flower-garden.
'You must be very fatigued, Miss Temple. I wish that I could persuadeyou to enter and rest yourself.'
'Indeed, no: I love flowers too much to leave them.'
'Here is one that has the recommendation of novelty as well as beauty,'said Ferdinand, plucking a strange rose, and presenting it to her. 'Isent it to my mother from Barbary.'
'You live amidst beauty.'
'I think that I never remember Armine looking so well as to-day.'
'A sylvan scene requires sunshine,' replied Miss Temple. 'We have beenmost fortunate in our visit.'
'It is something brighter than the sunshine that makes it so fair,'replied Ferdinand; but at this moment the horses appeared.