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
h