CHAPTER I.

_In Which Captain Armine Proves Himself a Complete

Tactician_.

THE midnight moon flung its broad beams over the glades and avenues of

Armine, as Ferdinand, riding Miss Temple’s horse, re-entered the park.

His countenance was paler than the spectral light that guided him on his

way. 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 the maintenance or destruction of his ancient house, between his

old engagement and his present passion; that was past. Henrietta Temple

was the 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 resolution.

It was deep in the night before he again beheld the towers and turrets

of his castle, and the ivy-covered fragment of the old Place seemed

to sleep in peace under its protecting influence. A wild and beautiful

event had happened since last he quitted those ancient walls. And what

would be its influence upon them? But it is not for the passionate lover

to moralise. For him, the regrets of the past and the chances of the

future are alike lost in the ravishing and absorbing present. For a

lover that has but 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 chamber 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 associated with the recollection of that fond and elegant being,

whom he had recognised once as the model of all feminine perfection, and

who had been to him so gentle and so devoted. 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 him; 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? He 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 irradiates

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 fairy 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 represented by a single individual, and of her he 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 wearying 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 dark

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 marvellous 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 shade of green and silent woods! Whatever may be the harsher

course of his career, however the cold world may cast its dark shadows

upon his future path, he may yet consider himself thrice blessed to whom

this graceful destiny has fallen, and amid the storms and troubles of

after-life may look back to these hours, fair as the dawn, beautiful as

the twilight, with solace and satisfaction. Disappointment may wither

up his energies, oppression may bruise his 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 Ferdinand Armine, the involved son of a ruined race, seldom rose

from his couch, seldom recalled consciousness after repose, without a

pang. 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 ingredients of the charm. He might have forgotten his own broken

fortunes, his audacious and sanguine spirit 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, which 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 decided with 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 expected his attendance would

be required in town, on military business of urgent importance to their

happiness. This might, this must, necessarily delay their meeting. The

moment he received his summons to attend the Horse Guards, he should

hurry off. In the meantime, she was 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 confidence. To him Ferdinand intrusted the duty of

bringing, each day, his letters to his retreat, which he had fixed upon

should be that same picturesque farm-house, in whose friendly porch he

had found the preceding day such a hospitable shelter, and where he

had experienced that charming adventure which now rather delighted than

perplexed him.