CHAPTER IX.
_The Last Day and the Last Night_.
IN THE meantime, the approaching I departure of Ferdinand was the greattopic of interest at Armine, It was settled that his father shouldaccompany him to Falmouth, where he was to embark; and that they shouldpay a visit on their way to his grandfather, whose seat was situate inthe west of England. This separation, now so near at hand, occasionedLady Armine the deepest affliction; but she struggled to suppress heremotion. Yet often, while apparently busied with the common occupationsof the day, the tears trickled down her cheek; and often she rose fromher restless seat, while surrounded by those she loved, to seek thesolitude of her chamber and indulge her overwhelming sorrow. Nor wasFerdinand less sensible of the bitterness of this separation. With allthe excitement of his new prospects, and the feeling of approachingadventure and fancied independence, so flattering to inexperiencedyouth, he could not forget that his had been a very happy home. Nearlyseventeen years of an innocent existence had passed, undisturbed bya single bad passion, and unsullied by a single action that he couldregret. The river of his life had glided along, reflecting only acloudless sky. But if he had been dutiful and happy, if at this momentof severe examination his conscience were serene, he could not but feelhow much this enviable state of mind was to be attributed to thosewho had, as it were, imbued his life with love; whose never-varyingaffection had developed all the kindly feelings of his nature, hadanticipated all his wants, and listened to all his wishes; had assistedhim in difficulty and guided him in doubt; had invited confidence bykindness, and deserved it by sympathy; had robbed instruction of all itslabour, and discipline of all its harshness.
It was the last day; on the morrow he was to quit Armine. He strolledabout among the mouldering chambers of the castle, and a host ofthoughts and passions, like clouds in a stormy sky, coursed over hishitherto serene and light-hearted breast. In this first great struggleof his soul some symptoms of his latent nature developed themselves,and, amid the rifts of the mental tempest, occasionally he caught someglimpses of self-knowledge. Nature, that had endowed him with a fieryimagination and a reckless courage, had tempered those dangerous, and,hitherto, those undeveloped and untried gifts, with a heart of infinitesensibility. Ferdinand Armine was, in truth, a singular blending of thedaring and the soft; and now, as he looked around him and thought of hisillustrious and fallen race, and especially of that extraordinary man,of whose splendid and ruinous career, that man's own creation, thesurrounding pile, seemed a fitting emblem, he asked himself if he hadnot inherited the energies with the name of his grandsire, and if theirexertion might not yet revive the glories of his line. He felt withinhim alike the power and the will; and while he indulged in magnificentreveries of fame and glory and heroic action, of which career, indeed,his approaching departure was to be the commencement, the associationof ideas led his recollection to those beings from whom he was about todepart. His fancy dropped like a bird of paradise in full wing, tumblingexhausted in the sky: he thought of his innocent and happy boyhood,of his father's thoughtful benevolence, his sweet mother's gentleassiduities, and Glastonbury's devotion; and he demanded aloud, in avoice of anguish, whether Fate could indeed supply a lot more exquisitethan to pass existence in these calm and beauteous bowers with suchbeloved companions.
His name was called: it was his mother's voice. He dashed away adesperate tear, and came forth with a smiling face. His mother andfather were walking together at a little distance.
'Ferdinand,' said Lady Armine, with an air of affected gaiety, 'we havejust been settling that you are to send me a gazelle from Malta.' And inthis strain, speaking of slight things, yet all in some degree touchingupon the mournful incident of the morrow, did Lady Armine for some timeconverse, as if she were all this time trying the fortitude of her mind,and accustoming herself to a catastrophe which she was resolved to meetwith fortitude.
While they were walking together, Glastonbury, who was hurrying from hisrooms to the Place, for the dinner hour was at hand, joined them, andthey entered their home together. It was singular at dinner, too, inwhat excellent spirits everybody determined to be. The dinner also,generally a simple repast, was almost as elaborate as the demeanourof the guests, and, although no one felt inclined to eat, consistedof every dish and delicacy which was supposed to be a favourite withFerdinand. Sir Ratcliffe, in general so grave, was to-day quite joyous,and produced a magnum of claret which he had himself discovered in theold cellars, and of which even Glastonbury, an habitual water-drinker,ventured to partake. As for Lady Armine, she scarcely ever ceasedtalking; she found a jest in every sentence, and seemed only uneasy whenthere was silence. Ferdinand, of course, yielded himself to the apparentspirit of the party; and, had a stranger been present, he could onlyhave supposed that they were celebrating some anniversary of domesticjoy. It seemed rather a birth-day feast than the last social meeting ofthose who had lived together so long, and loved each other so dearly.
But as the evening drew on their hearts began to grow heavy, and everyone was glad that the early departure of the travellers on the morrowwas an excuse for speedily retiring.
'No adieus to-night!' said Lady Armine with a gay air, as shescarcely returned the habitual embrace of her son. 'We shall be all upto-morrow.'
So wishing his last good night with a charged heart and falteringtongue, Ferdinand Armine took up his candle and retired to his chamber.He could not refrain from exercising an unusual scrutiny when he hadentered the room. He held up the light to the old accustomed walls, andthrew a parting glance of affection at the curtains. There was the glassvase which his mother had never omitted each day to fill with freshflowers, and the counterpane that was her own handiwork. He kissed it;and, flinging off his clothes, was glad when he was surrounded withdarkness and buried in his bed.
There was a gentle tap at his door. He started.
'Are you in bed, my Ferdinand?' inquired his mother's voice.
Ere he could reply he heard the door open, and observed a tall whitefigure approaching him.
Lady Armine, without speaking, knelt down by his bedside and took him inher arms. She buried her face in his breast. He felt her tears upon hisheart. He could not move; he could not speak. At length he sobbed aloud.
'May our Father that is in heaven bless you, my darling child; may Heguard over you; may He preserve you!' Very weak was her still, solemnvoice. 'I would have spared you this, my darling. For you, not formyself, have I controlled my feelings. But I knew not the strength of amother's love. Alas! what mother has a child like thee? O! Ferdinand,my first, my only-born: child of love and joy and happiness, that nevercost me a thought of sorrow; so kind, so gentle, and so dutiful! mustwe, oh! must we indeed part?'
'It is too cruel,' continued Lady Armine, kissing with a thousand kissesher weeping child. 'What have I done to deserve such misery as this?Ferdinand, beloved Ferdinand, I shall die.'
'I will not go, mother, I will not go,' wildly exclaimed the boy,disengaging himself from her embrace and starting up in his bed.'Mother, I cannot go. No, no, it never can be good to leave a home likethis.'
'Hush! hush! my darling. What words are these? How unkind, how wickedit is of me to say all this! Would that I had not come! I only meantto listen at your door a minute, and hear you move, perhaps to hear youspeak, and like a fool,--how naughty of me! never, never shall I forgivemyself-like a miserable fool I entered.'
'My own, own mother, what shall I say? what shall I do? I love you,mother, with all my heart and soul and spirit's strength: I love you,mother. There is no mother loved as you are loved!'
''Tis that that makes me mad. I know it. Oh! why are you not likeother children, Ferdinand? When your uncle left us, my father said,"Good-bye," and shook his hand; and he--he scarcely kissed us, he was soglad to leave his home; but you-tomorrow; no, not to-morrow. Can it beto-morrow?'
'Mother, let me get up and call my father, and tell him I will not go.'
'Good God! what words are these? Not go! 'Tis all your hope
to go; allours, dear child. What would your father say were he to hear me speakthus? Oh! that I had not entered! What a fool I am!'
'Dearest, dearest mother, believe me we shall soon meet.'
'Shall we soon meet? God! how joyous will be the day.'
'And I--I will write to you by every ship.'
'Oh! never fail, Ferdinand, never fail.'
'And send you a gazelle, and you shall call it by my name, dear mother.'
'Darling child!'
'You know I have often stayed a month at grand-papa's, and once sixweeks. Why! eight times six weeks, and I shall be home again.'
'Home! home again! eight times six weeks; a year, nearly a year! Itseems eternity. Winter, and spring, and summer, and winter again, all topass away. And for seventeen years he has scarcely been out of my sight.Oh! my idol, my beloved, my darling Ferdinand, I cannot believe it; Icannot believe that we are to part.'
'Mother, dearest mother, think of my father; think how much his hopesare placed on me; think, dearest mother, how much I have to do. All nowdepends on me, you know. I must restore our house.'
'O! Ferdinand, I dare not express the thoughts that rise upon me; yetI would say that, had I but my child, I could live in peace; how, orwhere, I care not.'
'Dearest mother, you unman me.'
'It is very wicked. I am a fool. I never, no! never shall pardon myselffor this night, Ferdinand.'
'Sweet mother, I beseech you calm yourself. Believe me we shall indeedmeet very soon, and somehow or other a little bird whispers to me weshall yet be very happy.'
'But will you be the same Ferdinand to me as before? Ay! There it is, mychild. You will be a man when you come back, and be ashamed to love yourmother. Promise me now,' said Lady Armine, with extraordinary energy,'promise me, Ferdinand, you will always love me. Do not let them makeyou ashamed of loving me. They will joke, and jest, and ridicule allhome affections. You are very young, sweet love, very, very young, andvery inexperienced and susceptible. Do not let them spoil your frankand beautiful nature. Do not let them lead you astray. Remember Armine,dear, dear Armine, and those who live there. Trust me, oh! yes, indeedbelieve me, darling, you will never find friends in this world likethose you leave at Armine.'
'I know it,' exclaimed Ferdinand, with streaming eyes; 'God be mywitness how deeply I feel that truth. If I forget thee and them, dearmother, may God indeed forget me.'
'My Ferdinand,' said Lady Armine, in a calm tone, 'I am better now. Ihardly am sorry that I did come now. It will be a consolation to mein your absence to remember all you have said. Good night, my belovedchild; my darling child, good night. I shall not come down to-morrow,dear. We will not meet again; I will say good-bye to you from thewindow. Be happy, my dear Ferdinand, and as you say indeed, we shallsoon meet again. Eight-and-forty weeks! Why what are eight-and-fortyweeks? It is not quite a year. Courage, my sweet boy! let us keep upeach other's spirits. Who knows what may yet come from this your firstventure into the world? I am full of hope. I trust you will find allthat you want. I packed up everything myself. Whenever you want anythingwrite to your mother. Mind, you have eight packages; I have written themdown on a card and placed it on the hall table. And take the greatestcare of old Sir Ferdinand's sword. I am very superstitious about thatsword, and while you have it I am sure you will succeed. I have everthought that had he taken it with him to France all would have goneright with him. God bless, God Almighty bless you, child. Be of goodheart. I will write you everything that takes place, and, as you say, weshall soon meet. Indeed, after to-night,' she added in a more mournfultone, 'we have naught else to think of but of meeting. I fear it is verylate. Your father will be surprised at my absence.' She rose from hisbed and walked up and down the room several times in silence; then againapproaching him, she folded him in her arms and quitted the chamberwithout again speaking.