Part 40 (1/2)

'Have you seen him?' enquired Lady Bellair, eagerly.

'Not yet,' replied the gentleman.

'Well, then, you will see him to-night,' said Lady Bellair, with an air of triumph. 'He is coming to me to-night.'

Ferdinand rose, and was about to depart.

'You must not go without seeing my squirrel,' said her ladys.h.i.+p, 'that my dear funny grandson gave me: he is such a funny boy. You must see it, you must see it,' added her ladys.h.i.+p, in a peremptory tone. 'There, go out of that door, and you will find your way to my summer-room, and there you will find my squirrel.'

The restless Ferdinand was content to quit the library, even with the stipulation of first visiting the squirrel. He walked through a saloon, entered the conservatory, emerged into the garden, and at length found himself in the long summer-room. At the end of the room a lady was seated, looking over a book of prints; as she heard a footstep she raised her eyes, and Ferdinand beheld Henrietta Temple.

He was speechless; he felt rooted to the ground; all power of thought and motion alike deserted him.

There he stood, confounded and aghast. Nor indeed was his companion less disturbed. She remained with her eyes fixed on Ferdinand with an expression of fear, astonishment, and distress impressed upon her features. At length Ferdinand in some degree rallied, and he followed the first impulse of his mind, when mind indeed returned to him: he moved to retire.

He had retraced half his steps, when a voice, if human voice indeed it were that sent forth tones so full of choking anguish, p.r.o.nounced his name.

'Captain Armine!' said the voice.

How he trembled, yet mechanically obedient to his first impulse, he still proceeded to the door.

'Ferdinand!' said the voice.

He stopped, he turned, she waved her hand wildly, and then leaning her arm on the table, buried her face in it. Ferdinand walked to the table at which she was sitting; she heard his footstep near her, yet she neither looked up nor spoke. At length he said, in a still yet clear voice, 'I am here.'

'I have seen Mr. Glas...o...b..ry,' she muttered.

'I know it,' he replied.

'Your illness has distressed me,' she said, after a slight pause, her face still concealed, and speaking in a hushed tone. Ferdinand made no reply, and there was another pause, which Miss Temple broke.

'I would that we were at least friends,' she said. The tears came into Ferdinand's eyes when she said this, for her tone, though low, was now sweet. It touched his heart.

'Our mutual feelings now are of little consequence,' he replied.

She sighed, but made no reply. At length Ferdinand said, 'Farewell, Miss Temple.'

She started, she looked up, her mournful countenance harrowed his heart.

He knew not what to do; what to say. He could not bear her glance; he in his turn averted his eyes.

'Our misery is--has been great,' she said in a firmer tone, 'but was it of my making?'

'The miserable can bear reproaches; do not spare me. My situation, however, proves my sincerity. I have erred certainly,' said Ferdinand; 'I could not believe that you could have doubted me. It was a mistake,'

he added, in a tone of great bitterness.

Miss Temple again covered her face as she said, 'I cannot recall the past: I wish not to dwell on it. I desire only to express to you the interest I take in your welfare, my hope that you may yet be happy. Yes!

you can be happy, Ferdinand; Ferdinand, for my sake you will be happy.'