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............