CHAPTER IV.

_Henrietta Visits Armine, Which Leads to a Rather

Perplexing Encounter_.

THE communion of this day, of the spirit of which the conversation just

noticed may convey an intimation, produced an inspiriting effect 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 years 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 him 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 depressed and despairing advocate has clutched 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, without such a muse, few men

can succeed in life, 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 reasonable an excuse had arisen for the

postponement of his intended departure, Ferdinand instantly rose, and as

speedily as possible took his way to Ducie.

He found Henrietta in the garden. He had arrived, perhaps, earlier 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 suspicious 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 delicate pranks of love. When he first recognised her gathering

a nosegay, too, for him, himself unobserved, he stole behind her on

tiptoe, 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 astonishment, as she caught

his bright glance, what happiness was Ferdinand Armine’s, as he felt

this enchanting creature was his, and pressed to his bosom her noble and

throbbing form!

‘Perhaps this time next year, we may be travelling on mules,’ said

Ferdinand, as he 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 different person from Miss 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, Ferdinand, how can you be so ridiculous?’

‘Oh! I have no doubt I shall have to bear all the blame. “You brought

me here,” it will be: “Ungrateful man, is this your love? not even

post-horses!”’

‘As for that,’ said Henrietta, ‘perhaps we shall have to walk. I can

fancy ourselves, you with an Andalusian jacket, a long gun, and, I fear,

a cigar; and I with all the 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, provided you be my

companion,’ replied Miss Temple.

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 Temple; she experienced

so much gratification in wandering about the park and over the old

castle, and gazing on Glastonbury’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 current,

postponed from day to day his decisive visit to Bath, and, confident

in the future, would not permit his soul to be the least daunted by any

possible conjuncture of ill fortune. A week, a whole 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 possessed no power of communicating it

into Somersetshire. Besides, she was unaware that her young master was

nominally in London. Sometimes an hour was snatched by Henrietta from

roaming 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 Sir Ferdinand. As the

sun set they departed in their little equipage. Ferdinand wrapped his

Henrietta in his 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 farmhouse more

fondly and devotedly in love.

One morning at Armine, Henrietta being alone in the gallery busied with

her drawing, Ferdinand having left her for a moment 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 confused, she nevertheless

bowed, and the gentleman advanced with hesitation, and with a faint

blush returned her salute, and apologised for his intrusion. ‘He thought

Captain Armine might be there.’

‘He was here but this moment,’ replied Miss Temple; ‘and doubtless will

instantly return.’ Then she turned to her drawing with a trembling hand.

‘I perceive, madam,’ said the gentleman, advancing and speaking in a

soft and engaging tone, while looking at her labour with a mingled air

of diffidence and admiration, ‘that you are a fine artist.’

‘My wish to excel may have assisted my performance,’ replied Miss

Temple.

‘You are copying the portrait of a very extraordinary personage,’ said

the stranger.

‘Do you think 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 stranger 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 venture to confess that such was her intention.

She looked again at the door, mixed some colour, and then cleared it

immediately off her palette. ‘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,’ replied the gentleman; ‘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

from a ramble of some days, and entered the gallery little aware that

the family had arrived. You met, I suppose, my Ferdinand on the road.

Ah! you wonder, perhaps, at my familiar expression, madam. He has been

my Ferdinand so many years, that I cannot easily school myself no longer

to style him so. But I am aware that there are now other claims------’

‘My dearest Glastonbury,’ exclaimed Ferdinand Armine, 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

rapidity, he embraced his tutor, and scrutinised the countenance 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 under the circumstances might account for. ‘You

have often heard me mention Mr. 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 you. 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 discovered? 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 Glastonbury, very quietly,

‘to Miss------’

‘I have several letters for you,’ said Ferdinand, interrupting him, and

trembling from head to foot lest he might say Miss _Grandison_. ‘Do

you know you are just the person I wanted to see? How fortunate that you

should just arrive! I was annoyed to find you were away. I cannot tell

you how much I was annoyed!’

‘Your dear parents?’ enquired Glastonbury.

‘Are quite well,’ said Ferdinand, ‘perfectly well. They will be so

glad to see you, so very glad. They do so long to see you, my dearest

Glastonbury. You cannot imagine how they long to see you.’

‘I shall find them within, think you?’ enquired Glastonbury.

‘Oh! they are not here,’ said Ferdinand; ‘they have not yet arrived.

I expect them every day. Every day I expect them. I have prepared

everything for them, everything. 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 prophesied 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 subsided 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 advanced 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 gratification at the suggestion, and they

quitted the gallery, and entered the avenue of beech trees.

‘I have heard so much of your tower, Mr. Glastonbury,’ said Miss Temple,

‘I am sensible, I assure you, of the honour of being admitted.’

The extreme delicacy that was a characteristic of Glastonbury preserved

Ferdinand Armine from the dreaded danger. It never for an instant

entered Glastonbury’s mind that Henrietta was not Miss Grandi-He thought

it a little extraordinary, indeed, that she should arrive at Armine

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, he 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 whom 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.

The agitation of Ferdinand at this unexpected meeting between his tutor

and his betrothed was in every respect natural. Their engagement, as

she knew, was at present a secret to all; and although, 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 he was so unlike the common characters of the censorious

world, that she was, from the first, far less annoyed than she otherwise

would have been, and soon regained her usual 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 reminded 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 discovery.

Some ominous clouds in the horizon formed a capital excuse for hurrying

Henrietta off to Ducie. They quitted Armine at an unusually early 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, however, they arrived at Ducie, they were

welcomed with intelligence which rendered the decision, on his part,

absolutely necessary. But we will reserve this for the next chapter.