CHAPTER XIV.
_Containing an Incident Which Is the Termination of Most Tales, though Almost the Beginning of the Present._
IT WAS about two hours before sunset that Captain Armine summoned upcourage to call at Ducie Bower. He enquired for Mr. Temple, and learnedto his surprise that Mr. Temple had quitted Ducie yesterday morning forScotland. 'And Miss Temple?' said Ferdinand. 'Is at home, Sir,' repliedthe servant. Ferdinand was ushered into the salon. She was not there.Our hero was very nervous; he had been bold enough in the course ofhis walk from the farmhouse, and indulged in a thousand imaginaryconversations with his mistress; but, now that he was really about tomeet her, all his fire and fancy deserted him. Everything occurred tohim inauspicious to his suit; his own situation, the short time she hadknown him, his uncertainty of the state of her affections. How did heknow she was not engaged to another? why should she not be betrothed aswell as himself? This contingency had occurred to him before, and yethe had driven it from his thoughts. He began to be jealous; he began tothink himself a very great fool; at any rate, he resolved not to exposehimself any further. He was clearly premature; he would call to-morrowor next day: to speak to her now was certainly impossible.
The door opened; she entered, radiant as the day! What a smile! whatdazzling teeth! what ravishing dimples! her eyes flashed like summerlightning; she extended to him a hand white and soft as one of thosedoves that had played about him in the morning. Surely never was anyoneendued with such an imperial presence. So stately, so majestic, and yetwithal so simply gracious; full of such airy artlessness, at one momentshe seemed an empress, and then only a beautiful child; and the hand andarm that seemed fashioned to wave a sceptre, in an instant appeared onlyfit to fondle a gazelle, or pluck a flower.
'How do you do?' she said; and he really fancied she was going to sing.He was not yet accustomed to that marvellous voice. It broke upon thesilence, like a silver bell just touched by the summer air. 'It is kindof you to come and see a lone maiden,' she continued; 'papa has desertedme, and without any preparation. I cannot endure to be separatedfrom him, and this is almost the only time that he has refused mysolicitation to accompany him. But he must travel far and quickly. Myuncle has sent for him; he is very unwell, and papa is his trustee.There is business; I do not know what it is, but I dare say not veryagreeable. By-the-bye, I hope Lady Armine is well?'
'My papa has deserted me,' said Ferdinand with a smile. 'They have notyet arrived, and some days may yet elapse before they reach Armine.'
'Indeed! I hope they are well.'
'Yes; they are well.'
'Did you ride here?'
'No.'
'You did not walk?'
'I hardly know how I came; I believe I walked.'
'You must be very tired; and you are standing! pray sit down; sit inthat chair; you know that is your favourite chair.'
And Ferdinand seated himself in the very chair in which he had watchedher the preceding night.
'This is certainly my favourite chair,' he said; 'I know no seat in theworld I prefer to this.'
'Will you take some refreshment? I am sure you will; you must be verytired. Take some hock; papa always takes hock and soda water. I shallorder some hock and soda water for you.' She rose and rang the bell inspite of his remonstrance.
'And have you been walking, Miss Temple?' enquired Ferdinand.
'I was thinking of strolling now,' she replied, 'but I am glad that youhave called, for I wanted an excuse to be idle.'
An hour passed away, nor was the conversation on either side verybrilliantly supported. Ferdinand seemed dull, but, indeed, was onlymoody, revolving in his mind many strange incidents and feelings, andthen turning for consolation in his perplexities to the enchantingvision on which he still could gaze. Nor was Miss Temple either in herusually sparkling vein; her liveliness seemed an effort; she was moreconstrained, she was less fluent than before. Ferdinand, indeed, rosemore than once to depart; yet still he remained. He lost his cap;he looked for his cap; and then again seated himself. Again he rose,restless and disquieted, wandered about the room, looked at a picture,plucked a flower, pulled the flower to pieces.
'Miss Temple,' he at length observed, 'I am afraid I am very stupid!'
'Because you are silent?'
'Is not that a sufficient reason?'
'Nay! I think not; I think I am rather fond of silent people myself; Icannot bear to live with a person who feels bound to talk because heis my companion. The whole day passes sometimes without papa and myselfexchanging fifty words; yet I am very happy; I do not feel that we aredull:' and Miss Temple pursued her work which she had previously takenup.
'Ah! but I am not your papa; when we are very intimate with people,when they interest us, we are engaged with their feelings, we do notperpetually require their ideas. But an acquaintance, as I am, only anacquaintance, a miserable acquaintance, unless I speak or listen, Ihave no business to be here; unless I in some degree contribute to theamusement or the convenience of my companion, I degenerate into a bore.'
'I think you are very amusing, and you may be useful if you like, very;'and she offered him a skein of silk, which she requested him to hold.
It was a beautiful hand that was extended to him; a beautiful hand isan excellent thing in woman; it is a charm that never palls, and betterthan all, it is a means of fascination that never disappears. Womencarry a beautiful hand with them to the grave, when a beautiful facehas long ago vanished, or ceased to enchant. The expression of thehand, too, is inexhaustible; and when the eyes we may have worshipped nolonger flash or sparkle, the ringlets with which we may have played arecovered with a cap, or worse, a turban, and the symmetrical presencewhich in our sonnets has reminded us so oft of antelopes and wildgazelles, have all, all vanished, the hand, the immortal hand, defyingalike time and care, still vanquishes, and still triumphs; and small,soft, and fair, by an airy attitude, a gentle pressure, or a new ring,renews with untiring grace the spell that bound our enamoured andadoring youth!
But in the present instance there were eyes as bright as the hand, locksmore glossy and luxuriant than Helen's of Troy, a cheek pink as a shell,and breaking into dimples like a May morning into sunshine, and lipsfrom which stole forth a perfume sweeter than the whole conservatory.Ferdinand sat down on a chair opposite Miss Temple, with the extendedskein.
'Now this is better than doing nothing!' she said, catching his eye witha glance half-kind, half-arch. 'I suspect, Captain Armine, that yourmelancholy originates in idleness.'
'Ah! if I could only be employed every day in this manner!' ejaculatedFerdinand.
'Nay! not with a distaff; but you must do something. You must get intoparliament.'
'You forget that I am a Catholic,' said Ferdinand.
Miss Temple slightly blushed, and talked rather quickly about her work;but her companion would not relinquish the subject.
'I hope you are not prejudiced against my faith,' said Ferdinand.
'Prejudiced! Dear Captain Armine, do not make me repent too seriously agiddy word. I feel it is wrong that matters of taste should mingle withmatters of belief; but, to speak the truth, I am not quite sure thata Howard, or an Armine, who was a Protestant, like myself, would quiteplease my fancy so much as in their present position, which, if a littleinconvenient, is very picturesque.'
Ferdinand smiled. 'My great grandmother was a Protestant,' saidFerdinand, 'Margaret Armine. Do you think Margaret a pretty name?'
'Queen Margaret! yes, a fine name, I think; barring its abbreviation.'
'I wish my great grandmother's name had not been Margaret,' saidFerdinand, very seriously.
'Now, why should that respectable dame's baptism disturb your fancy?'enquired Miss Temple.
'I wish her name had been Henrietta,' replied Ferdinand. 'HenriettaArmine. You know there was a Henrietta Armine once?'
'Was there?' said Miss Temple, rising. 'Our skein is finished. You havebeen very good. I must go and see my flowers. Come.' And as she saidthis li
ttle word, she turned her fair and finely-finished neck, andlooked over her shoulder at Ferdinand with an arch expression ofcountenance peculiar to her. That winning look, indeed, that clear,sweet voice, and that quick graceful attitude, blended into a spellwhich was irresistible. His heart yearned for Henrietta Temple, and roseat the bidding of her voice.
From the conservatory they stepped into the garden. It was a deliciousafternoon; the sun had sunk behind the grove, and the air, which hadbeen throughout the day somewhat oppressive, was now warm, but mild. AtDucie there was a fine old terrace facing the western hills, that boundthe valley in which the Bower was situate. These hills, a ridge ofmoderate elevation, but of picturesque form, parted just oppositethe terrace, as if on purpose to admit the setting sun, like inferiorexistences that had, as it were, made way before the splendour of somemighty lord or conqueror. The lofty and sloping bank which this terracecrowned was covered with rare shrubs, and occasionally a group of talltrees sprang up among them, and broke the view with an interferencewhich was far from ungraceful, while plants, spreading forth from largemarble vases, had extended over their trunks, and sometimes, in theirplay, had touched even their topmost branches. Between the terraceand the distant hills extended a tract of pasture-land, green andwell-wooded by its rich hedgerows; not a roof was visible, though manyfarms and hamlets were at hand; and, in the heart of a rich and populousland, here was a region where the shepherd or the herdsman was the onlyevidence of human existence. It was thither, a grateful spot at such anhour, that Miss Temple and her companion directed their steps. The lastbeam of the sun flashed across the flaming horizon as they gained theterrace; the hills, well wooded, or presenting a bare and acute outlineto the sky, rose sharply defined in form; while in another directionsome more distant elevations were pervaded with a rich purple tint,touched sometimes with a rosy blaze of soft and flickering light. Thewhole scene, indeed, from the humble pasture-land that was soon tocreep into darkness, to the proud hills whose sparkling crests were yettouched by the living beam, was bathed with lucid beauty and luminoussoftness, and blended with the glowing canopy of the lustrous sky. Buton the terrace and the groves that rose beyond it, and on the glades andvistas into which they opened, fell the full glory of the sunset. Eachmoment a new shadow, now rosy, now golden, now blending in its shiftingtints all the glory of the iris, fell over the rich pleasure-grounds,their groups of rare and noble trees, and their dim or glitteringavenues.
The vespers of the birds were faintly dying away, the last low of thereturning kine sounded over the lea, the tinkle of the sheep-bellwas heard no more, the thin white moon began to gleam, and Hesperusglittered in the fading sky. It was the twilight hour!
That delicious hour that softens the heart of man, what is its magic?Not merely its beauty; it is not more beautiful than the sunrise. It isits repose. Our tumultuous passions sink with the sun, there is afine sympathy between us and our world, and the stillness of Nature isresponded to by the serenity of the soul.
At this sacred hour our hearts are pure. All worldly cares, all thosevulgar anxieties and aspirations that at other seasons hover likevultures over our existence, vanish from the serene atmosphere of oursusceptibility. A sense of beauty and a sentiment of love pervade ourbeing. But if at such a moment solitude is full of joy, if, even whenalone, our native sensibility suffices to entrance us with a tranquilyet thrilling bliss, how doubly sweet, how multiplied must be our fineemotions, when the most delicate influence of human sympathy combineswith the power and purity of material and moral nature, and completesthe exquisite and enchanting spell!
Ferdinand Armine turned from the beautiful world around him to gazeupon a countenance sweeter than the summer air, softer than the gleamingmoon, brighter than the evening star. The shadowy light of purpleeve fell upon the still and solemn presence of Henrietta Temple.Irresistible emotion impelled him; softly he took her gentle hand, and,bending his head, he murmured to her, 'Most beautiful, I love thee!'
As, in the oppressive stillness of some tropic night, a single drop isthe refreshing harbinger of a slower that clears the heavens, so eventhis slight expression relieved in an instant the intensity of hisover-burthened feelings, and warm, quick, and gushing flowed the wordsthat breathed his fervid adoration. 'Yes!' he continued, 'in this fairscene, oh! let me turn to something fairer still. Beautiful, belovedHenrietta, I can repress no longer the emotions that, since I firstbeheld you, have vanquished my existence. I love you, I adore you; lifein your society is heaven; without you I cannot live. Deem me, oh! deemme not too bold, sweet lady; I am not worthy of you, yet let me love!I am not worthy of you, but who can be? Ah! if I dared but venture tooffer you my heart, if that humblest of all possessions might indeed beyours, if my adoration, if my devotion, if the consecration of my lifeto you, might in some degree compensate for its little worth, if I mightlive even but to hope------
'You do not speak. Miss Temple, Henrietta, admirable Henrietta, have Ioffended you? Am I indeed the victim of hopes too high and fancies toosupreme? Oh! pardon me, most beautiful, I pray your pardon. Is it acrime to feel, perchance too keenly, the sense of beauty like to thine,dear lady? Ah! tell me I am forgiven; tell me indeed you do not hate me.I will be silent, I will never speak again. Yet, let me walk with you.Cease not to be my companion because I have been too bold. Pity me, pityme, dearest, dearest Henrietta. If you but knew how I have suffered, ifyou but knew the nights that brought no sleep, the days of fever thathave been mine since first we met, if you but knew how I have fed butupon one sweet idea, one sacred image of absorbing life, since firstI gazed on your transcendent form, indeed I think that you would pity,that you would pardon, that you might even------
'Tell me, is it my fault that you are beautiful! Oh! how beautiful, mywretched and exhausted soul too surely feels! Is it my fault those eyesare like the dawn, that thy sweet voice thrills through my frame, andbut the slightest touch of that light hand falls like a spell on myentranced form! Ah! Henrietta, be merciful, be kind!'
He paused for a second, and yet she did not answer; but her cheek fellupon his shoulder, and the gentle pressure of her hand was more eloquentthan language. That slight, sweet signal was to him as the sunrise onthe misty earth. Full of hope, and joy, and confidence, he took her inhis arms, sealed her cold lips with a burning kiss, and vowed to her hiseternal and almighty love!
He bore her to an old stone bench placed on the terrace. Still she wassilent; but her hand clasped his, and her head rested on his bosom. Thegleaming moon now glittered, the hills and woods were silvered by itsbeam, and the far meads were bathed with its clear, fair light. Not asingle cloud curtained the splendour of the stars. What a rapturous soulwas Ferdinand Armine's as he sat that night on the old bench, onDucie Terrace, shrouding from the rising breeze the trembling form ofHenrietta Temple! And yet it was not cold that made her shiver.
The clock of Ducie Church struck ten. She moved, saying, in a faintvoice, 'We must go home, my Ferdinand!'
BOOK III.