CHAPTER XXII.

_Ferdinand Meditates over His Good Fortune_.

IN MOMENTS of deep feeling, alike sudden bursts of prosperity as in

darker hours, man must be alone. It requires some self-communion to

prepare ourselves for good fortune, as well as to encounter difficulty,

and danger, and disgrace. This violent and triumphant revolution in his

prospects and his fortunes was hardly yet completely comprehended by our

friend, Ferdinand Armine; and when he had left a note for the generous

Mirabel, whose slumbers he would not disturb at this early hour, even

with good news, he strolled along up Charles-street, and to the Park,

in one of those wild and joyous reveries in which we brood over coming

bliss, and create a thousand glorious consequences.

It was one of those soft summer mornings which are so delightful in a

great city. The sky was clear, the air was bland, the water sparkled

in the sun, and the trees seemed doubly green and fresh to one who so

recently had gazed only on iron bars. Ferdinand felt his freedom as well

as his happiness. He seated himself on a bench and thought of Henrietta

Temple! he took out her note, and read it over and over again. It was

indeed her handwriting! Restless with impending joy, he sauntered to the

bridge, and leant over the balustrade, gazing on the waters in charmed

and charming vacancy. How many incidents, how many characters, how many

feelings flitted over his memory! Of what sweet and bitter experience

did he not chew the cud! Four-and-twenty hours ago, and he deemed

himself the most miserable and forlorn of human beings, and now all the

blessings of the world seemed showered at his feet! A beautiful bride

awaited him, whom he had loved with intense passion, and who he had

thought but an hour ago was another’s. A noble fortune, which would

permit him to redeem his inheritance, and rank him among the richest

commoners of the realm, was to be controlled by one a few hours back a

prisoner for desperate debts. The most gifted individuals in the land

emulated each other in proving which entertained for him the most

sincere affection. What man in the world had friends like Ferdinand

Armine? Ferdinand Armine, who, two days back, deemed himself alone

in the world! The unswerving devotion of Glastonbury, the delicate

affection of his sweet cousin, all the magnanimity of the high-souled

Mont-fort, and the generosity of the accomplished Mirabel, passed before

him, and wonderfully affected him. He could not flatter himself that

he indeed merited such singular blessings; and yet with all his faults,

which with him were but the consequences of his fiery youth, Ferdinand

had been faithful, to Henrietta. His constancy to her was now rewarded.

As for his friends, the future must prove his gratitude to them.’

Ferdinand Armine had great tenderness of disposition, and somewhat of a

meditative mind; schooled by adversity, there was little doubt that his

coming career would justify his favourable destiny.

It was barely a year since he had returned from Malta, but what an

eventful twelvemonth! Everything that had occurred previously seemed

of another life; all his experience was concentrated in that wonderful

drama that had commenced at Bath, the last scene of which was now

approaching; the characters, his parents, Glastonbury, Katherine,

Henrietta, Lord Montfort, Count Mirabel, himself, and Mr. Temple!

Ah! that was a name that a little disturbed him; and yet he felt

confidence now in Mirabel’s prescience; he could not but believe that

with time even Mr. Temple might be reconciled! It was at this moment

that the sound of military music fell upon his ear; it recalled old

days; parades and guards at Malta; times when he did not know Henrietta

Temple; times when, as it seemed to him now, he had never paused to

think or moralise. That was a mad life. What a Neapolitan ball was his

career then! It was indeed dancing on a volcano. And now all had ended

so happily! Oh! could it indeed be true? Was it not all a dream of his

own creation, while his eye had been fixed in abstraction on that bright

and flowing river? But then there was Henrietta’s letter. He might be

enchanted, but that was the talisman.

In the present unsettled, though hopeful state of affairs, Ferdinand

would not go home. He was resolved to avoid any explanations until

he heard from Lord Montfort. He shrank from seeing Glastonbury or his

cousin. As for Henrietta, it seemed to him that he never could have

heart to meet her again, unless they were alone. Count Mirabel was the

only person to whom he could abandon his soul, and Count Mirabel was

still in his first sleep.

So Ferdinand entered Kensington Gardens, and walked in those rich glades

and stately avenues. It seems to the writer of this history that the

inhabitants of London are scarcely sufficiently sensible of the beauty

of its environs. On every side the most charming retreats open to them,

nor is there a metropolis in the world surrounded by so many rural

villages, picturesque parks, and elegant casinos. With the exception

of Constantinople, there is no city in the world that can for a

moment enter into competition with it. For himself, though in his time

something of a rambler, he is not ashamed in this respect to confess to

a legitimate Cockney taste; and for his part he does not know where life

can flow on more pleasantly than in sight of Kensington Gardens, viewing

the silver Thames winding by the bowers of Rosebank, or inhaling from

its terraces the refined air of graceful Richmond.

In exactly ten minutes it is in the power of every man to free himself

from all the tumult of the world; the pangs of love, the throbs of

ambition, the wear and tear of play, the recriminating boudoir, the

conspiring club, the rattling hell; and find himself in a sublime sylvan

solitude superior to the cedars of Lebanon, and inferior only in extent

to the chestnut forests of Anatolia. Kensington Gardens is almost the

only place that has realised his idea of the forests of Spenser and

Ariosto. What a pity, that instead of a princess in distress we meet

only a nurserymaid! But here is the fitting and convenient locality to

brood over our thoughts; to project the great and to achieve the

happy. It is here that we should get our speeches by heart, invent our

impromptus; muse over the caprices of our mistresses, destroy a cabinet,

and save a nation.

About the time that Ferdinand directed his steps from these green

retreats towards Berkeley-Square, a servant summoned Miss Temple to her

father.

‘Is papa alone?’ enquired Miss Temple.

‘Only my lord with him,’ was the reply.

‘Is Lord Montfort here!’ said Miss Temple, a little surprised.

‘My lord has been with master these three hours,’ said the servant.