CHAPTER VIII.

_In Which Glastonbury Is Very Much Astonished_.

IT WAS a gusty autumnal night; Glastonbury sat alone in his tower; every

now and then the wind, amid a chorus of groaning branches and hissing

rain, dashed against his window; then its power seemed gradually lulled,

and perfect stillness succeeded, until a low moan was heard again in

the distance, which gradually swelled into storm. The countenance of

the good old man was not so serene as usual. Occasionally his thoughts

seemed to wander from the folio opened before him, and he fell into

fits of reverie which impressed upon his visage an expression rather of

anxiety than study.

The old man looked up to the portrait of the unhappy Lady Armine, and

heaved a deep sigh. Were his thoughts of her or of her child? He closed

his book, he replaced it upon its shelf, and, taking from a cabinet an

ancient crucifix of carved ivory, he bent down before the image of his

Redeemer.

Even while he was buried in his devotions, praying perchance for the

soul of that sinning yet sainted lady whose memory was never absent from

his thoughts, or the prosperity of that family to whom he had dedicated

his faithful life, the noise of ascending footsteps was heard in the

sudden stillness, and immediately a loud knocking at the door of his

outer chamber.

Surprised at this unaccustomed interruption, Glastonbury rose, and

enquired the object of his yet unseen visitor; but, on hearing a

well-known voice, the door was instantly unbarred, and Ferdinand

Armine, pale as a ghost and deluged to the skin, appeared before him.

Glastonbury ushered his guest into his cell, replenished the fire,

retrimmed the lamp, and placed Ferdinand in his own easy seat.

‘You are wet; I fear thoroughly?’

‘It matters not,’ said Captain Armine, in a hollow voice.

‘From Bath?’ enquired Glastonbury.

But his companion did not reply. At length he said, in a voice of utter

wretchedness, ‘Glastonbury, you see before you the most miserable of

human beings.’

The good father started.

‘Yes!’ continued Ferdinand; ‘this is the end of all your care, all your

affection, all your hopes, all your sacrifices. It is over; our house is

fated; my life draws to an end.’

‘Speak, my Ferdinand,’ said Glastonbury, for his pupil seemed to have

relapsed into moody silence, ‘speak to your friend and father. Disburden

your mind of the weight that presses on it. Life is never without hope,

and, while this remains,’ pointing to the crucifix, ‘never without

consolation.’

‘I cannot speak; I know not what to say. My brain sinks under the

effort. It is a wild, a complicated tale; it relates to feelings

with which you cannot sympathise, thoughts that you cannot share. O

Glastonbury! there is no hope; there is no solace.’

‘Calm yourself, my Ferdinand; not merely as your friend, but as a priest

of our holy church, I call upon you to speak to me. Even to me, the

humblest of its ministers, is given a power that can sustain the falling

and make whole the broken in spirit. Speak, and speak fearlessly; nor

shrink from exposing the very inmost recesses of your breast; for I can

sympathise with your passions, be they even as wild as I believe them.’

Ferdinand turned his eyes from the fire on which he was gazing, and

shot a scrutinising glance at his kind confessor, but the countenance of

Glastonbury was placid, though serious.

‘You remember,’ Ferdinand at length murmured, ‘that we met, we met

unexpectedly, some six weeks back.’

‘I have not forgotten it,’ replied Glastonbury.

‘There was a lady,’ Ferdinand continued in a hesitating tone.

‘Whom I mistook for Miss Grandison,’ observed Glastonbury, ‘but who, it

turned out, bore another name.’

‘You know it?’

‘I know all; for her father has been here.’

‘Where are they?’ exclaimed Ferdinand eagerly, starting from his seat

and seizing the hand of Glastonbury. ‘Only tell me where they are, only

tell me where Henrietta is, and you will save me, Glastonbury. You will

restore me to life, to hope, to heaven.’

‘I cannot,’ said Glastonbury, shaking his head. ‘It is more than ten

days ago that I saw this lady’s father for a few brief and painful

moments; for what purpose your conscience may inform you. From the

unexpected interview between ourselves in the gallery, my consequent

misconception, and the conversation which it occasioned, I was not so

unprepared for this interview with him as I otherwise might have been.

Believe me, Ferdinand, I was as tender to your conduct as was consistent

with my duty to my God and to my neighbour.’

‘You betrayed me, then,’ said Ferdinand.

‘Ferdinand!’ said Glastonbury reproachfully, ‘I trust that I am free

from deceit of any kind. In the present instance I had not even to

communicate anything. Your own conduct had excited suspicion; some

visitors from Bath to this gentleman and his family had revealed

everything; and, in deference to the claims of an innocent lady, I could

not refuse to confirm what was no secret to the world in general, what

was already known to them in particular, what was not even doubted, and

alas! not dubitable.’

‘Oh! my father, pardon me, pardon me; pardon the only disrespectful

expression that ever escaped the lips of your Ferdinand towards you;

most humbly do I ask your forgiveness. But if you knew all------God!

God! my heart is breaking! You have seen her, Glastonbury; you have

seen her. Was there ever on earth a being like her? So beautiful, so

highly-gifted, with a heart as fresh, as fragrant as the dawn of Eden;

and that heart mine; and all lost, all gone and lost! Oh! why am I

alive?’ He threw himself back in his chair, and covered his face and

wept.

‘I would that deed or labour of mine could restore you both to peace,’

said Glastonbury, with streaming eyes.

‘So innocent, so truly virtuous!’ continued Ferdinand. ‘It seemed to me

I never knew what virtue was till I knew her. So frank, so generous! I

think I see her now, with that dear smile of hers that never more may

welcome me!’

‘My child, I know not what to say; I know not what advice to give;

I know not what even to wish. Your situation is so complicated, so

mysterious, that it passes my comprehension. There are others whose

claims, whose feelings should be considered. You are not, of course,

married?’

Ferdinand shook his head.

‘Does Miss Grandison know all?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Your family?’

Ferdinand shook his head again.

‘What do you yourself wish? What object are you aiming at? What game

have you yourself been playing? I speak not in harshness; but I

really do not understand what you have been about. If you have your

grandfather’s passions, you have his brain too. I did not ever suppose

that you were “infirm of purpose.”’

‘I have only one wish, only one object. Since I first saw Henrietta, my

heart and resolution have never for an instant faltered; and if I do not

now succeed in them I am determined not to live.’

‘The God of all goodness have mercy on this distracted house!’ exclaimed

Glastonbury, as he piously lifted his hands to heaven.

‘You went to Bath to communicate this great change to your father,’ he

continued. ‘Why did you not? Painful as the explanation must be to Miss

Grandison, the injustice of your conduct towards her is aggravated by

delay.’

‘There were reasons,’ said Ferdinand, ‘reasons which I never intended

anyone to know; but now I have no secrets. Dear Glastonbury, even amid

all this overwhelming misery, my cheek burns when I confess to you that

I have, and have had for years, private cares of my own of no slight

nature.’

‘Debts?’ enquired Glastonbury.

‘Debts,’ replied Ferdinand, ‘and considerable ones.’

‘Poor child!’ exclaimed Glastonbury. ‘And this drove you to the

marriage?’

‘To that every worldly consideration impelled me: my heart was free

then; in fact, I did not know I had a heart; and I thought the marriage

would make all happy. But now, so far as I am myself concerned, oh! I

would sooner be the commonest peasant in this county, with Henrietta

Temple for the partner of my life, than live at Armine with all the

splendour of my ancestors.’

‘Honour be to them; they were great men,’ exclaimed Glastonbury.

‘I am their victim,’ replied Ferdinand. ‘I owe my ancestors nothing,

nay, worse than nothing; I owe them------’

‘Hush! hush!’ said Glastonbury. ‘If only for my sake, Ferdinand, be

silent.’

‘For yours, then, not for theirs.’

‘But why did you remain at Bath?’ enquired Glastonbury.

‘I had not been there more than a day or two, when my principal creditor

came down from town and menaced me. He had a power of attorney from an

usurer at Malta, and talked of applying to the Horse Guards. The report

that I was going to marry an heiress had kept these fellows quiet, but

the delay and my absence from Bath had excited his suspicion. Instead,

therefore, of coming to an immediate explanation with Katherine, brought

about as I had intended by my coldness and neglect, I was obliged to

be constantly seen with her in public, to prevent myself from being

arrested. Yet I wrote to Ducie daily. I had confidence in my energy

and skill. I thought that Henrietta might be for a moment annoyed or

suspicious; I thought, however, she would be supported by the fervour of

my love. I anticipated no other evil. Who could have supposed that

these infernal visitors would have come at such a moment to this retired

spot?’

‘And now, is all known now?’ enquired Glastonbury.

‘Nothing,’ replied Ferdinand; ‘the difficulty of my position was so

great that I was about to cut the knot, by quitting Bath and leaving a

letter addressed to Katherine, confessing all. But the sudden silence of

Henrietta drove me mad. Day after day elapsed; two, three, four, five,

six days, and I heard nothing. The moon was bright; the mail was just

going off. I yielded to an irresistible impulse. I bid adieu to no one.

I jumped in. I was in London only ten minutes. I dashed to Ducie. It

was deserted. An old woman told me the family had gone, had utterly

departed; she knew not where, but she thought for foreign parts. I sank

down; I tottered to a seat in that hall where I had been so happy. Then

it flashed across my mind that I might discover their course and pursue

them. I hurried to the nearest posting town. I found out their route.

I lost it for ever at the next stage. The clue was gone; it was

market-day, and in a great city, where horses are changed every minute,

there is so much confusion that my enquiries were utterly baffled. And

here I am, Mr. Glastonbury,’ added Ferdinand, with a kind of mad smile.

‘I have travelled four days, I have not slept a wink, I have tasted no

food; but I have drunk, I have drunk well. Here I am, and I have half

a mind to set fire to that accursed pile called Armine Castle for my

funeral pyre.’

‘Ferdinand, you are not well,’ said Mr. Glastonbury, grasping his hand.

‘You need rest. You must retire; indeed you must. I must be obeyed. My

bed is yours.’

‘No! let me go to my own room,’ murmured Ferdinand, in a faint voice.

‘That room where my mother said the day would come--oh! what did my

mother say? Would there were only mother’s love, and then I should not

be here or thus.’

‘I pray you, my child, rest here.’

‘No! let us to the Place, for an hour; I shall not sleep more than an

hour. I am off again directly the storm is over. If it had not been for

this cursed rain I should have caught them. And yet, perhaps, they are

in countries where there is no rain. Ah! who would believe what happens

in this world? Not I, for one. Now, give me your arm. Good Glastonbury!

you are always the same. You seem to me the only thing in the world that

is unchanged.’

Glastonbury, with an air of great tenderness and anxiety, led his former

pupil down the stairs. The weather was more calm. There were some dark

blue rifts in the black sky which revealed a star or two. Ferdinand said

nothing in their progress to the Place except once, when he looked up to

the sky, and said, as it were to himself, ‘She loved the stars.’

Glastonbury had some difficulty in rousing the man and his wife,

who were the inmates of the Place; but it was not very late, and,

fortunately, they had not retired for the night. Lights were brought

into Lady Armine’s drawing-room. Glastonbury led Ferdinand to a sofa,

on which he rather permitted others to place him than seated himself.

He took no notice of anything that was going on, but remained with his

eyes open, gazing feebly with a rather vacant air.

Then the good Glastonbury looked to the arrangement of his

sleeping-room, drawing the curtains, seeing that the bed was well

aired and warmed, and himself adding blocks to the wood fire which soon

kindled. Nor did he forget to prepare, with the aid of the good woman,

some hot potion that might soothe and comfort his stricken and exhausted

charge, who in this moment of distress and desolation had come, as it

were, and thrown himself on the bosom of his earliest friend. When

all was arranged Glastonbury descended to Ferdinand, whom he found in

exactly the same position as that in which he left him. He offered no

resistance to the invitation of Glastonbury to retire to his chamber.

He neither moved nor spoke, and yet seemed aware of all they were doing.

Glastonbury and the stout serving-man bore him to his chamber, relieved

him from his wet garments, and placed him in his earliest bed. When

Glastonbury bade him good night, Ferdinand faintly pressed his hand, but

did not speak; and it was remarkable, that while he passively submitted

to their undressing him, and seemed incapable of affording them the

slightest aid, yet he thrust forth his hand to guard a lock of dark hair

that was placed next to his heart.