CHAPTER VIII.
_In Which Glastonbury Is Very Much Astonished_.
IT WAS a gusty autumnal night; Glastonbury sat alone in his tower; everynow and then the wind, amid a chorus of groaning branches and hissingrain, dashed against his window; then its power seemed gradually lulled,and perfect stillness succeeded, until a low moan was heard again inthe distance, which gradually swelled into storm. The countenance ofthe good old man was not so serene as usual. Occasionally his thoughtsseemed to wander from the folio opened before him, and he fell intofits of reverie which impressed upon his visage an expression rather ofanxiety than study.
The old man looked up to the portrait of the unhappy Lady Armine, andheaved a deep sigh. Were his thoughts of her or of her child? He closedhis book, he replaced it upon its shelf, and, taking from a cabinet anancient crucifix of carved ivory, he bent down before the image of hisRedeemer.
Even while he was buried in his devotions, praying perchance for thesoul of that sinning yet sainted lady whose memory was never absent fromhis thoughts, or the prosperity of that family to whom he had dedicatedhis faithful life, the noise of ascending footsteps was heard in thesudden stillness, and immediately a loud knocking at the door of hisouter chamber.
Surprised at this unaccustomed interruption, Glastonbury rose, andenquired the object of his yet unseen visitor; but, on hearing awell-known voice, the door was instantly unbarred, and FerdinandArmine, 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 utterwretchedness, 'Glastonbury, you see before you the most miserable ofhuman beings.'
The good father started.
'Yes!' continued Ferdinand; 'this is the end of all your care, all youraffection, all your hopes, all your sacrifices. It is over; our house isfated; my life draws to an end.'
'Speak, my Ferdinand,' said Glastonbury, for his pupil seemed to haverelapsed into moody silence, 'speak to your friend and father. Disburdenyour mind of the weight that presses on it. Life is never without hope,and, while this remains,' pointing to the crucifix, 'never withoutconsolation.'
'I cannot speak; I know not what to say. My brain sinks under theeffort. It is a wild, a complicated tale; it relates to feelingswith which you cannot sympathise, thoughts that you cannot share. OGlastonbury! there is no hope; there is no solace.'
'Calm yourself, my Ferdinand; not merely as your friend, but as a priestof our holy church, I call upon you to speak to me. Even to me, thehumblest of its ministers, is given a power that can sustain the fallingand make whole the broken in spirit. Speak, and speak fearlessly; norshrink from exposing the very inmost recesses of your breast; for I cansympathise with your passions, be they even as wild as I believe them.'
Ferdinand turned his eyes from the fire on which he was gazing, andshot a scrutinising glance at his kind confessor, but the countenance ofGlastonbury was placid, though serious.
'You remember,' Ferdinand at length murmured, 'that we met, we metunexpectedly, 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, itturned 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 seatand seizing the hand of Glastonbury. 'Only tell me where they are, onlytell me where Henrietta is, and you will save me, Glastonbury. You willrestore me to life, to hope, to heaven.'
'I cannot,' said Glastonbury, shaking his head. 'It is more than tendays ago that I saw this lady's father for a few brief and painfulmoments; for what purpose your conscience may inform you. From theunexpected interview between ourselves in the gallery, my consequentmisconception, and the conversation which it occasioned, I was not sounprepared for this interview with him as I otherwise might have been.Believe me, Ferdinand, I was as tender to your conduct as was consistentwith my duty to my God and to my neighbour.'
'You betrayed me, then,' said Ferdinand.
'Ferdinand!' said Glastonbury reproachfully, 'I trust that I am freefrom deceit of any kind. In the present instance I had not even tocommunicate anything. Your own conduct had excited suspicion; somevisitors from Bath to this gentleman and his family had revealedeverything; and, in deference to the claims of an innocent lady, I couldnot refuse to confirm what was no secret to the world in general, whatwas already known to them in particular, what was not even doubted, andalas! not dubitable.'
'Oh! my father, pardon me, pardon me; pardon the only disrespectfulexpression 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 haveseen her. Was there ever on earth a being like her? So beautiful, sohighly-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 Ialive?' He threw himself back in his chair, and covered his face andwept.
'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 meI never knew what virtue was till I knew her. So frank, so generous! Ithink I see her now, with that dear smile of hers that never more maywelcome 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, somysterious, that it passes my comprehension. There are others whoseclaims, 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 gamehave you yourself been playing? I speak not in harshness; but Ireally do not understand what you have been about. If you have yourgrandfather's passions, you have his brain too. I did not ever supposethat you were "infirm of purpose."'
'I have only one wish, only one object. Since I first saw Henrietta, myheart and resolution have never for an instant faltered; and if I do notnow succeed in them I am determined not to live.'
'The God of all goodness have mercy on this distracted house!' exclaimedGlastonbury, as he piously lifted his hands to heaven.
'You went to Bath to communicate this great change to your father,' hecontinued. 'Why did you not? Painful as the explanation must be to MissGrandison, the injustice of your conduct towards her is aggravated bydelay.'
'There were reasons,' said Ferdinand, 'reasons which I never intendedanyone to know; but now I have no secrets. Dear Glastonbury, even amidall this overwhelming misery, my cheek burns when I confess to you thatI have, and have had for years, private cares of my own of no slightnature.'
'Debts?' enquired Glastonbury.
'Debts,' replied Ferdinand, 'and considerable ones.'
'Poor child!' exclaimed Glastonbury. 'And this drove you to themarriage?'
'To that every worldly consideration impelled me: my heart was freethen; in fact, I did not know I had a heart; and I thought the marriagewould make all happy. But now, so far as I am myself concerned, oh! Iwould sooner be the commonest peasant in this county, with HenriettaTemple for the partner of my life, than live at Armine with all thesplendour 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, besilent.'
'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 creditorcame down from town and menaced me. He had a power of attorney from anusurer at Malta, and talked of applying to the Horse Guards. The reportthat I was going to marry an heiress had kept these fellows quiet, butthe delay and my absence from Bath had excited his suspicion. Instead,therefore, of coming to an immediate explanation with Katherine, broughtabout as I had intended by my coldness and neglect, I was obliged tobe constantly seen with her in public, to prevent myself from beingarrested. Yet I wrote to Ducie daily. I had confidence in my energyand skill. I thought that Henrietta might be for a moment annoyed orsuspicious; I thought, however, she would be supported by the fervour ofmy love. I anticipated no other evil. Who could have supposed thatthese infernal visitors would have come at such a moment to this retiredspot?'
'And now, is all known now?' enquired Glastonbury.
'Nothing,' replied Ferdinand; 'the difficulty of my position was sogreat that I was about to cut the knot, by quitting Bath and leaving aletter addressed to Katherine, confessing all. But the sudden silence ofHenrietta drove me mad. Day after day elapsed; two, three, four, five,six days, and I heard nothing. The moon was bright; the mail was justgoing 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. Itwas deserted. An old woman told me the family had gone, had utterlydeparted; she knew not where, but she thought for foreign parts. I sankdown; I tottered to a seat in that hall where I had been so happy. Thenit flashed across my mind that I might discover their course and pursuethem. 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 wasmarket-day, and in a great city, where horses are changed every minute,there is so much confusion that my enquiries were utterly baffled. Andhere 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 nofood; but I have drunk, I have drunk well. Here I am, and I have halfa mind to set fire to that accursed pile called Armine Castle for myfuneral 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. Mybed 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 mymother say? Would there were only mother's love, and then I should notbe 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 anhour. I am off again directly the storm is over. If it had not been forthis cursed rain I should have caught them. And yet, perhaps, they arein countries where there is no rain. Ah! who would believe what happensin 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 thatis unchanged.'
Glastonbury, with an air of great tenderness and anxiety, led his formerpupil down the stairs. The weather was more calm. There were some darkblue rifts in the black sky which revealed a star or two. Ferdinand saidnothing in their progress to the Place except once, when he looked up tothe 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 broughtinto 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 hiseyes open, gazing feebly with a rather vacant air.
Then the good Glastonbury looked to the arrangement of hissleeping-room, drawing the curtains, seeing that the bed was wellaired and warmed, and himself adding blocks to the wood fire which soonkindled. Nor did he forget to prepare, with the aid of the good woman,some hot potion that might soothe and comfort his stricken and exhaustedcharge, who in this moment of distress and desolation had come, as itwere, and thrown himself on the bosom of his earliest friend. Whenall was arranged Glastonbury descended to Ferdinand, whom he found inexactly the same position as that in which he left him. He offered noresistance 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, relievedhim from his wet garments, and placed him in his earliest bed. WhenGlastonbury bade him good night, Ferdinand faintly pressed his hand, butdid not speak; and it was remarkable, that while he passively submittedto their undressing him, and seemed incapable of affording them theslightest aid, yet he thrust forth his hand to guard a lock of dark hairthat was placed next to his heart.