In Which Captain Armine Finds Reason to Believe in the Existence of Fairies.
IT IS difficult to describe the restlessness of Ferdinand Armine. His solitary1 dinner was an excuse for quitting Glastonbury: but to eat is as impossible as to sleep, for a man who is really in love. He took a spoonful of soup, and then jumping up from his chair, he walked up and down the room, thinking of Henrietta Temple. Then tomorrow occurred to him, and that other lady that tomorrow was to bring. He drowned the thought in a bumper2 of claret. Wine, mighty3 wine! thou best and surest consolation4! What care can withstand thy inspiring influence! from what scrape canst thou not, for the moment, extricate5 the victim! Who can deny that our spiritual nature in some degree depends upon our corporeal6 condition? A man without breakfast is not a hero; a hero well fed is full of audacious invention. Everything depends upon the circulation. Let but the blood flow freely, and a man of imagination is never without resources. A fine pulse is a talisman7; a charmed life; a balance at our bankers. It is good luck; it is eternity8; it is wealth. Nothing can withstand us; nothing injure us; it is inexhaustible riches. So felt Ferdinand Armine, though on the verge9 of a moral precipice10. To-morrow! what of tomorrow? Did tomorrow daunt11 him? Not a jot12. He would wrestle13 with tomorrow, laden14 as it might be with curses, and dash it to the earth. It should not be a day; he would blot15 it out of the calendar of time; he would effect a moral eclipse of its influence. He loved Henrietta Temple. She should be his. Who could prevent him? Was he not an Armine? Was he not the near descendant of that bold man who passed his whole life in the voluptuous16 indulgence of his unrestrained volition17! Bravo! he willed it, and it should be done. Everything yields to determination. What a fool! what a miserable18 craven fool had he been to have frightened himself with the flimsy shadows of petty worldly cares! He was born to follow his own pleasure; it was supreme19; it was absolute; he was a despot; he set everything and everybody at defiance20; and, filling a huge tumbler to the health of the great Sir Ferdinand, he retired21, glorious as an emperor.
On the whole, Ferdinand had not committed so great an indiscretion as the reader, of course shocked, might at first imagine. For the first time for some days he slept, and slept soundly. Next to wine, a renovating22 slumber23 perhaps puts us in the best humour with our destiny. Ferdinand awoke refreshed and sanguine24, full of inventive life, which soon developed itself in a flow of improbable conclusions. His most rational scheme, however, appeared to consist in winning Henrietta Temple, and turning pirate, or engaging in the service of some distant and disturbed state. Why might he not free Greece, or revolutionize Spain, or conquer the Brazils? Others had embarked25 in these bold enterprises; men not more desperate than himself, and not better qualified26 for the career. Young, courageous27, a warrior28 by profession, with a name of traditionary glory throughout the courts of Christendom, perhaps even remembered in Asia, he seemed just the individual to carve out a glorious heritage with his sword. And as for his parents, they were not in the vale of years; let them dream on in easy obscurity, and maintain themselves at Armine until he returned to redeem29 his hereditary30 domain31. All that was requisite32 was the concurrence33 of his adored mistress. Perhaps, after all his foolish fears and all his petty anxiety, he might live to replace upon her brow the ancient coronet of Tewkesbury! Why not? The world is strange; nothing happens that we anticipate: when apparently34 stifled35 by the common-place, we are on the brink36 of stepping into the adventurous37. If he married Miss Grandison, his career was closed: a most unnatural38 conclusion for one so young and bold. It was evident that he must marry Henrietta Temple: and then? Why then something would happen totally unexpected and unforeseen. Who could doubt it? Not he!
He rose, he mounted his horse, and galloped39 over to Ducie Common. Its very aspect melted his heart. He called at the cottages he had visited two days before. Without enquiring40 after Miss Temple, he contrived41 to hear a thousand circumstances relating to her which interested and charmed him. In the distance rose the woods of Ducie; he gazed upon them as if he could never withdraw his sight from their deep and silent forms. Oh, that sweet bower42! Why was there any other world but Ducie? All his brave projects of war, and conquest, and imperial plunder43, seemed dull and vain now. He sickened at the thought of action. He sighed to gather roses, to listen to songs sweeter than the nightingale, and wander for ever in moon-lit groves44.
He turned his horse’s head: slowly and sorrowfully he directed his course to Armine. Had they arrived? The stern presence of reality was too much for all his slight and glittering visions. What was he, after all? This future conqueror45 was a young officer on leave, obscure except in his immediate46 circle, with no inheritance, and very much in debt; awaited with anxiety by his affectionate parents, and a young lady whom he was about to marry for her fortune! Most impotent epilogue to a magnificent reverie!
The post arrived at Armine in the afternoon. As Ferdinand, nervous as a child returning to school, tardily47 regained48 home, he recognised the approaching postman. Hah! a letter? What was its import? The blessing49 of delay? or was it the herald50 of their instant arrival? Pale and sick at heart, he tore open the hurried lines of Katherine. The maiden51 aunt had stumbled while getting out of a pony52 phaeton, and experienced a serious accident; their visit to Armine was necessarily postponed53. He read no more. The colour returned to his cheek, reinforced by his heart’s liveliest blood. A thousand thoughts, a thousand wild hopes and wilder plans, came over him. Here was, at least, one interposition in his favour; others would occur. He felt fortunate. He rushed to the tower, to tell the news to Glastonbury. His tutor ascribed his agitation54 to the shock, and attempted to console him. In communicating the intelligence, he was obliged to finish the letter; it expressed a hope that, if their visit were postponed for more than a day or two, Katherine’s dearest Ferdinand would return to Bath.
Ferdinand wandered forth55 into the park to enjoy his freedom. A burden had suddenly fallen from his frame; a cloud that had haunted his vision had vanished. To-day, that was so accursed, was to be marked now in his calendar with red chalk. Even Armine pleased him; its sky was brighter, its woods more vast and green. They had not arrived; they would not arrive tomorrow, that was certain; the third day, too, was a day of hope. Why! three days, three whole days of unexpected, unhoped-for freedom, it was eternity! What might not happen in three days! For three days he might fairly remain in expectation of fresh letters. It could not be anticipated, it was not even desired, that he should instantly repair to them. Come, he would forget this curse, he would be happy. The past, the future, should be nothing; he would revel56 in the auspicious57 present.
Thus communing with himself, he sauntered along, musing58 over Henrietta Temple, and building bright castles in the air. A man engaged with his ideas is insensible of fatigue59. Ferdinand found himself at the Park gate that led to Ducie; intending only a slight stroll, he had already rambled60 half way to his beloved. It was a delicious afternoon: the heat of the sun had long abated61; the air was sweet and just beginning to stir; not a sound was heard, except the last blow of the woodman’s axe62, or the occasional note of some joyous63 bird waking from its siesta64. Ferdinand passed the gate; he entered the winding65 road, the road that Henrietta Temple had so admired; a beautiful green lane with banks of flowers and hedges of tall trees. He strolled along, our happy Ferdinand, indefinite of purpose, almost insensible whether he were advancing or returning home. He plucked the wild flowers, and pressed them to his lips, because she had admired them; rested on a bank, lounged on a gate, cut a stick from the hedge, traced Henrietta Temple in the road, and then turned the words into Henrietta Armine, and so—and so—and so, he, at length, stared at finding himself on Ducie Common.
Beautiful common! how he loved it! How familiar every tree and rustic66 roof had become to him! Could he ever forget the morning he had bathed in those fresh waters! What lake of Italy, what heroic wave of the midland ocean, could rival in his imagination that simple basin! He drew near to the woods of Ducie, glowing with the setting sun. Surely there was no twilight67 like the twilight of this land! The woods of Ducie are entered. He recognised the path over which she had glided68; he knelt down and kissed that sacred earth. As he approached the pleasure grounds, he turned off into a side path that he might not be perceived; he caught, through a vista70, a distant glimpse of the mansion71. The sight of that roof wherein he had been so happy; of that roof that contained all that he cared for or thought of in this world, overcame him. He leant against a tree, and hid his face.
The twilight died away, the stars stole forth, and Ferdinand ventured in the spreading gloom of night to approach the mansion. He threw himself upon the turf, and watched the chamber72 where she lived. The windows were open, there were lights within the room, but the thin curtains were drawn73, and concealed74 the inmates75. Happy, happy chamber! All that was bright and fair and sweet were concentrated in those charming walls!
The curtain is withdrawn76; an arm, an arm which cannot be mistaken, pulls back the drapery. Is she coming forth? No, she does not; but he sees, distinctly he sees her. She sits in an old chair that he had often praised; her head rests upon her arm, her brow seems pensive77; and in her other hand she holds a volume that she scarcely appears to read. Oh! may he gaze upon her for ever! May this celestial78 scene, this seraphic hour, never pass away. Bright stars! do not fade; thou summer wind that playest upon his brow, perfumed by her flowers, refresh him for ever; beautiful night be for ever the canopy79 of a scene so sweet and still; let existence glide69 away in gazing on yon delicate and tender vision!
Dreams of fantastic love: the curtain closes; a ruder hand than hers has shut her from his sight! It has all vanished; the stars seem dim, the autumnal air is dank and harsh; and where he had gazed on heaven, a bat flits wild and fleet. Poor Ferdinand, unhappy Ferdinand, how dull and depressed80 our brave gallant81 has become! Was it her father who had closed the curtain? Could he himself, thought Ferdinand, have been observed?
Hark! a voice softer and sweeter than the night breaks upon the air. It is the voice of his beloved; and, indeed, with all her singular and admirable qualities, there was not anything more remarkable82 about Henrietta Temple than her voice. It was a rare voice; so that in speaking, and in ordinary conversation, though there was no one whose utterance83 was more natural and less unstudied, it forcibly affected84 you. She could not give you a greeting, bid you an adieu, or make a routine remark, without impressing you with her power and sweetness. It sounded like a bell, sweet and clear and thrilling; it was astonishing what influence a little word, uttered by this woman, without thought, would have upon those she addressed. Of such fine clay is man made.
That beautiful voice recalled to Ferdinand all his fading visions; it renewed the spell which had recently enchanted85 him; it conjured86 up again all those sweet spirits that had a moment since hovered87 over him with their auspicious pinions88. He could not indeed see her; her form was shrouded89, but her voice reached him; a voice attuned90 to tenderness, even to love; a voice that ravished his ear, melted his soul, and blended with his whole existence. His heart fluttered, his pulse beat high, he sprang up, he advanced to the window! Yes! a few paces alone divide them: a single step and he will be at her side. His hand is outstretched to clutch the curtain, his———, when suddenly the music ceased. His courage vanished with its inspiration. For a moment he lingered, but his heart misgave91 him, and he stole back to his solitude92.
What a mystery is Love! All the necessities and habits of our life sink before it. Food and sleep, that seem to divide our being as day and night divide Time, lose all their influence over the lover. He is a spiritualised being, fit only to live upon ambrosia93, and slumber in an imaginary paradise. The cares of the world do not touch him; its most stirring events are to him but the dusty incidents of bygone annals. All the fortune of the world without his mistress is misery94; and with her all its mischances a transient dream. Revolutions, earthquakes, the change of governments, the fall of empires, are to him but childish games, distasteful to a manly95 spirit. Men love in the plague, and forget the pest, though it rages about them. They bear a charmed life, and think not of destruction until it touches their idol96, and then they die without a pang97, like zealots for their persecuted98 creed99. A man in love wanders in the world as a somnambulist, with eyes that seem open to those that watch him, yet in fact view nothing but their own inward fancies.
Oh! that night at Ducie, through whose long hours Ferdinand Armine, in a tumult100 of enraptured101 passion, wandered in its lawns and groves, feeding on the image of its enchanting102 mistress, watching the solitary light in her chamber that was to him as the pharos to a mariner103 in a tumultuous voyage! The morning, the grey cold morning, came at last; he had outwatched the stars, and listened to the matins of the waking birds. It was no longer possible to remain in the gardens unobserved; he regained the common.
What should he do! whither should he wend his course? To Armine? Oh! not to Armine; never could he return to Armine without the heart of Henrietta Temple. Yes! on that great venture he had now resolved; on that mighty hazard all should now be staked. Reckless of consequences, one vast object now alone sustained him. Existence without her was impossible! Ay! a day, a day, a single, a solitary day, should not elapse without his breathing to her his passion, and seeking his fate from her dark eyes.
He strolled along to the extremity104 of the common. It was a great table land, from whose boundary you look down on small rich valleys; and into one of these, winding his way through fields and pastures, of which the fertile soil was testified by their vigorous hedgerows, he now descended105. A long, low farmhouse106, with gable ends and ample porch, an antique building that in old days might have been some manorial107 residence, attracted his attention. Its picturesque108 form, its angles and twisted chimneys, its porch covered with jessamine and eglantine, its verdant109 homestead, and its orchard110 rich with ruddy fruit, its vast barns and long lines of ample stacks, produced altogether a rural picture complete and cheerful. Near it a stream, which Ferdinand followed, and which, after a devious111 and rapid course, emptied itself into a deep and capacious pool, touched by the early sunbeam, and grateful to the swimmer’s eye. Here Ferdinand made his natural toilet; and afterwards slowly returning to the farm-house, sought an agreeable refuge from the sun in its fragrant112 porch.
The farmer’s wife, accompanied by a pretty daughter with downcast eyes, came forth and invited him to enter. While he courteously113 refused her offer, he sought her hospitality. The good wife brought a table and placed it in the porch, and covered it with a napkin purer than snow. Her viands114 were fresh eggs, milk warm from the cow, and bread she had herself baked. Even a lover might feed on such sweet food. This happy valley and this cheerful settlement wonderfully touched the fancy of Ferdinand. The season was mild and sunny, the air scented115 by the flowers that rustled116 in the breeze, the bees soon came to rifle their sweetness, and flights of white and blue pigeons ever and anon skimmed along the sky from the neighbouring gables that were their dovecotes. Ferdinand made a salutary, if not a plenteous meal; and when the table was removed, exhausted117 by the fatigue and excitement of the last four-and-twenty hours, he stretched himself at full length in the porch, and fell into a gentle and dreamless slumber.
Hours elapsed before he awoke, vigorous indeed, and wonderfully refreshed; but the sun had already greatly declined. To his astonishment118, as he moved, there fell from his breast a beautiful nosegay. He was charmed with this delicate attention from his hostess, or perhaps from her pretty daughter with those downcast eyes. There seemed a refinement119 about the gift, and the mode of its offering, which scarcely could be expected from these kind yet simple rustics120. The flowers, too, were rare and choice; geraniums such as are found only in lady’s bower, a cape121 jessamine, some musky carnations122, and a rose that seemed the sister of the one that he had borne from Ducie. They were delicately bound together, too, by a bright blue riband, fastened by a gold and turquoise123 pin. This was most strange; this was an adventure more suitable to a Sicilian palace than an English farm-house; to the gardens of a princess than the clustered porch of his kind hostess. Ferdinand gazed at the bouquet124 with a glance of blended perplexity and pleasure; then he entered the farmhouse and made enquiries of his hostess, but they were fruitless. The pretty daughter with the downcast eyes was there too; but her very admiration125 of the gift, so genuine and unrestrained, proved, if testimony126 indeed were necessary, that she was not his unknown benefactor127: admirer, he would have said; but Ferdinand was in love, and modest. All agreed no one, to their knowledge, had been there; and so Ferdinand, cherishing his beautiful gift, was fain to quit his new friends in as much perplexity as ever.
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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bumper
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| n.(汽车上的)保险杠；adj.特大的，丰盛的 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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extricate
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| v.拯救，救出；解脱 | |
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corporeal
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| adj.肉体的，身体的；物质的 | |
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talisman
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| n.避邪物，护身符 | |
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eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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daunt
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| vt.使胆怯，使气馁 | |
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jot
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| n.少量；vi.草草记下；vt.匆匆写下 | |
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wrestle
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| vi.摔跤，角力；搏斗；全力对付 | |
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laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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voluptuous
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| adj.肉欲的，骄奢淫逸的 | |
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volition
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| n.意志；决意 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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renovating
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| 翻新，修复，整修( renovate的现在分词 ) | |
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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embarked
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| 乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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redeem
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| v.买回，赎回，挽回，恢复，履行（诺言等） | |
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hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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requisite
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| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
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concurrence
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| n.同意；并发 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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galloped
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| （使马）飞奔，奔驰( gallop的过去式和过去分词 )； 快速做[说]某事 | |
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enquiring
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| a.爱打听的，显得好奇的 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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plunder
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| vt.劫掠财物，掠夺；n.劫掠物，赃物；劫掠 | |
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groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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tardily
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| adv.缓慢 | |
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regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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herald
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| vt.预示...的来临，预告，宣布，欢迎 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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revel
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| vi.狂欢作乐，陶醉；n.作乐，狂欢 | |
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auspicious
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| adj.吉利的；幸运的，吉兆的 | |
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musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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rambled
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的过去式和过去分词 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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abated
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| 减少( abate的过去式和过去分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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siesta
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| n.午睡 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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glide
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| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
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vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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conjured
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| 用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
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hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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pinions
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| v.抓住[捆住]（双臂）( pinion的第三人称单数 ) | |
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shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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attuned
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| v.使协调( attune的过去式和过去分词 )；调音 | |
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misgave
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| v.使（某人的情绪、精神等）疑虑，担忧，害怕( misgive的过去式 ) | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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ambrosia
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| n.神的食物；蜂食 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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persecuted
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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101
enraptured
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| v.使狂喜( enrapture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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102
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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103
mariner
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| n.水手号不载人航天探测器，海员，航海者 | |
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extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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107
manorial
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| adj.庄园的 | |
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108
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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verdant
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| adj.翠绿的，青翠的，生疏的，不老练的 | |
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orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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devious
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| adj.不坦率的，狡猾的；迂回的，曲折的 | |
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fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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113
courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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114
viands
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| n.食品，食物 | |
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115
scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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116
rustled
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| v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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117
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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118
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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119
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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rustics
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| n.有农村或村民特色的( rustic的名词复数 )；粗野的；不雅的；用粗糙的木材或树枝制作的 | |
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121
cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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122
carnations
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| n.麝香石竹，康乃馨( carnation的名词复数 ) | |
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123
turquoise
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| n.绿宝石；adj.蓝绿色的 | |
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124
bouquet
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| n.花束，酒香 | |
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125
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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126
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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127
benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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