CHAPTER XII.

_Containing an Ominous Incident_.

THE last adieus are bidden: Ferdinand is on his road to Armine,

flying from the woman whom he adores, to meet the woman to whom he 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, he joined that faithful friend. Whether it

be that love and falsehood are, under any circumstances, inseparable,

Ferdinand Armine, whose frankness was proverbial, found himself 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 and feelings to his

companion; but in vain he struggled with 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. He 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 he would have appeared at the same time both dull and excited.

At length he made a desperate effort to accompany 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

picture 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 portrait of Henrietta Armine? I am quite fantastic to-day.

You are smiling at me. Now do you know, if I had a wish certain to 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, smile: 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 lost his senses, he laughed so loud, and talked

so fast about a subject which seemed almost nonsensical; but the 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 hall, 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? If such a being did not

exist, of what value was life? After a glimpse of Paradise, could he

breathe again in this tame and frigid world? Where was Ducie? Where

were 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, in the purple sky: were these all phantoms? Could it be that

this morn, this very morn, he had beheld Henrietta Temple, had conversed

with her alone, 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 once 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 pressing

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 whistling the German air 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 composer,’ said

Glastonbury, smiling.

‘Ah! my dear Glastonbury, talking of music, I know a musician, such a

musician, a musician whom I should like to introduce you to above all

persons in the world.’

‘You always loved music, dear Ferdinand; ‘tis in the blood. You come

from a musical stock on your mother’s side. 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 the lady who taught me this air.’

‘A lady!’ said Glastonbury. ‘The German ladies are highly cultivated.’

‘Yes! the Germans, and the women especially, have a remarkably fine

musical taste,’ rejoined Ferdinand, recovering from his blunder.

‘I like the Germans very much,’ said Glastonbury, ‘and I admire that

air.’

‘O! my dear Glastonbury, you should hear it sung by moonlight.’

‘Indeed!’ said Glastonbury.

‘Yes, if you could only hear her sing it by moonlight, I venture to say,

my dear Glastonbury, that you would confess that all you had ever heard,

or seen, or imagined, of enchanted spirits floating in the air, and

filling the atmosphere with supernatural symphonies, was realised.’

‘Indeed!’ said Glastonbury, ‘a most accomplished performer, no doubt!

Was she professional?’ ‘Who?’ inquired Ferdinand. ‘Your songstress.’

‘Professional! oh! ah! yes! No! she was not a professional singer, but

she was fit to be one; and that is an excellent idea, too; for I would

sooner, after all, be a professional 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!’

‘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.