CHAPTER VIII.

_A Visit to Glastonbury’s Chamber_.

IT WAS arranged that Ferdinand should join his regiment by the next

Mediterranean packet, which was not to quit Falmouth for a fortnight.

Glastonbury and himself, therefore, lost no time in bidding adieu to

their kind friends in London, and hastening to Armine. They arrived the

day after the Gazette. They found Sir Ratcliffe waiting for them at

the town, and the fond smile and cordial embrace with which he greeted

Glastonbury more than repaid that good man for all his exertions. There

was, notwithstanding, a perceptible degree of constraint both on the

part of the baronet and his former tutor. It was evident that Sir

Ratcliffe had something on his mind of which he wished to disburden

himself; and it was equally apparent that Glastonbury was unwilling to

afford him an opportunity. Under these rather awkward circumstances, it

was perhaps fortunate that Ferdinand talked without ceasing, giving his

father an account of all he had seen, done, and heard, and of all the

friends he had made, from the good Duke of-----to that capital fellow,

the guard of the coach.

They were at the park gates: Lady Armine was there to meet them. The

carriage stopped; Ferdinand jumped out and embraced his mother.

She kissed him, and ran forward and extended both her hands to Mr.

Glastonbury. ‘Deeds, not words, must show our feelings,’ she said, and

the tears glittered in her beautiful eyes; Glastonbury, with a blush,

pressed her hand to his lips. After dinner, during which Ferdinand

recounted all his adventures, Lady Armine invited him, when she rose,

to walk with her in the garden. It was then, with an air of considerable

confusion, clearing his throat, and filling his glass at the same time,

that Sir Ratcliffe said to his remaining guest,

‘My dear Glastonbury, you cannot suppose that I believe that the days

of magic have returned. This commission, both Constance and myself

feel, that is, we are certain, that you are at the bottom of it all. The

commission is purchased. I could not expect the Duke, deeply as I feel

his generous kindness, to purchase a commission for my son: I could

not permit it. No! Glastonbury,’ and here Sir Ratcliffe became more

animated, ‘_you_ could not permit it, my honour is safe in your hands?’

Sir Ratcliffe paused for a reply.

‘On that score my conscience is clear,’ replied Glastonbury.

‘It is, then,--it must be then as I suspect,’ rejoined Sir Ratcliffe. ‘I

am your debtor for this great service.’

‘It is easy to count your obligations to me,’ said Glastonbury, ‘but

mine to you and yours are incalculable.’

‘My dear Glastonbury,’ said Sir Ratcliffe, pushing his glass away as he

rose from his seat and walked up and down the room, ‘I may be proud,

but I have no pride for you, I owe you too much; indeed, my dear friend,

there is nothing that I would not accept from you, were it in your power

to grant what you would desire. It is not pride, my dear Glastonbury;

do not mistake me; it is not pride that prompts this explanation;

but--but--had I your command of language I would explain myself more

readily; but the truth is, I--I--I cannot permit that you should suffer

for us, Glastonbury, I cannot indeed.’

Mr. Glastonbury looked at Sir Ratcliffe steadily; then rising from his

seat he took the baronet’s arm, and without saying a word walked slowly

towards the gates of the castle where he lodged, and which we have

before described. When he had reached the steps of the tower he withdrew

his arm, and saying, ‘Let me be pioneer,’ invited Sir Ratcliffe to

follow him. They accordingly entered his chamber.

It was a small room lined with shelves of books, except in one spot,

where was suspended a portrait of Lady Barbara, which she had bequeathed

him in her will. The floor was covered with so many boxes and cases

that it was not very easy to steer a course when you had entered.

Glastonbury, however, beckoned to his companion to seat himself in one

of his two chairs, while he unlocked a small cabinet, from a drawer of

which he brought forth a paper.

‘It is my will,’ said Glastonbury, handing it to Sir Ratcliffe, who laid

it down on the table.

‘Nay, I wish you, my dear friend, to peruse it, for it concerns

yourself.’

‘I would rather learn its contents from yourself, if you positively

desire me,’ replied Sir Ratcliffe.

‘I have left everything to our child,’ said Glastonbury; for thus, when

speaking to the father alone, he would often style the son.

‘May it be long before he enjoys the ‘bequest,’ said Sir Ratcliffe,

brushing away a tear; ‘long, very long.’

‘As the Almighty pleases,’ said Glastonbury, crossing himself. ‘But

living or dead, I look upon all as Ferdinand’s, and hold myself but the

steward of his inheritance, which I will never abuse.’

‘O! Glastonbury, no more of this I pray; you have wasted a precious life

upon our forlorn race. Alas! how often and how keenly do I feel, that

had it not been for the name of Armine your great talents and goodness

might have gained for you an enviable portion of earthly felicity; yes,

Glastonbury, you have sacrificed yourself to us.’

‘Would that I could!’ said the old man, with brightening eyes and an

unaccustomed energy of manner. ‘Would that I could! would that any act

of mine, I care not what, could revive the fortunes of the house of

Armine. Honoured for ever be the name, which with me is associated with

all that is great and glorious in man, and [here his voice faltered, and

he turned away his face] exquisite and enchanting in woman!

‘No, Ratcliffe,’ he resumed, ‘by the memory of one I cannot name, by

that blessed and saintly being from whom you derive your life, you will

not, you cannot deny this last favour I ask, I entreat, I supplicate you

to accord me: me, who have ever eaten of your bread, and whom your roof

hath ever shrouded!’

‘My friend, I cannot speak,’ said Sir Ratcliffe, throwing himself back

in the chair and covering his face with his right hand; ‘I know not what

to say; I know not what to feel.’

Glastonbury advanced, and gently took his other hand. ‘Dear Sir

Ratcliffe,’ he observed, in his usual calm, sweet voice, ‘if I have

erred you will pardon me. I did believe that, after my long and

intimate connection with your house; after having for nearly forty years

sympathised as deeply with all your fortunes as if, indeed, your noble

blood flowed in these old veins; after having been honoured on your

side with a friendship which has been the consolation and charm of my

existence; indeed, too great a blessing; I did believe, more especially

when I reminded myself of the unrestrained manner in which I had availed

myself of the advantages of that friendship, I did believe, actuated by

feelings which perhaps I cannot describe, and thoughts to which I cannot

now give utterance, that I might venture, without offence, upon this

slight service: ay, that the offering might be made in the spirit of

most respectful affection, and not altogether be devoid of favour in

your sight.’

‘Excellent, kind-hearted man!’ said Sir Ratcliffe, pressing the hand of

Glastonbury in his own; ‘I accept your offering in the spirit of perfect

love. Believe me, dearest friend, it was no feeling of false pride that

for a moment influenced me; I only felt-’

‘That in venturing upon this humble service I deprived myself of some

portion of my means of livelihood: you are mistaken. When I cast my lot

at Armine I sank a portion of my capital on my life; so slender are my

wants here, and so little does your dear lady permit me to desire,

that, believe me, I have never yet expended upon myself this apportioned

income; and as for the rest, it is, as you have seen, destined for our

Ferdinand. Yet a little time and Adrian Glastonbury must be gathered to

his fathers. Why, then, deprive him of the greatest gratification of

his remaining years? the consciousness that, to be really serviceable to

those he loves, it is not necessary for him to cease to exist.’

‘May you never repent your devotion to our house!’ said Sir Ratcliffe,

rising from his seat. ‘Time was we could give them who served us

something better than thanks; but, at any rate, these come from the

heart.’