Henrietta Temple: A Love Story
house. They seemed now to be most turbulent and clouded; and that
brilliant and happy future, in which of late he had so fondly indulged,
offered nothing but gloom and disquietude. Nor was it the menaced
disruption of those ties whose consummation was to restore the greatness
and splendour of the family, and all the pain and disappointment and
mortification and misery that must be its consequence, that alone made
him sorrowful. Glastonbury had a reverence for that passion which sheds
such a lustre over existence, and is the pure and prolific source of
much of our better conduct; the time had been when he, too, had loved,
and with a religious sanctity worthy of his character and office; he had
been for a long life the silent and hopeless votary of a passion almost
ideal, yet happy, though ‘he never told his love;’ and, indeed, although
the unconscious mistress of his affections had been long removed from
that world where his fidelity was almost her only comfort, that passion
had not waned, and the feelings that had been inspired by her presence
were now cherished by her memory. His tender and romantic nature, which
his venerable grey hairs had neither dulled nor hardened, made him
deeply sympathise with his unhappy pupil; the radiant image of Henrietta
Temple, too, vividly impressed on his memory as it was, rose up before
him; he recollected his joy that the chosen partner of his Ferdinand’s
bosom should be worthy of her destiny; he thought of this fair creature,
perchance in solitude and sickness, a prey to the most mortifying and
miserable emotions, with all her fine and generous feelings thrown back
upon herself; deeming herself deceived, deserted, outraged, where she
had looked for nothing but fidelity, and fondness, and support; losing
all confidence in the world and the world’s ways; but recently so lively
with expectation and airy with enjoyment, and now aimless, hopeless,
wretched, perhaps broken-hearted. The tears trickled down the pale cheek
of Glastonbury as he revolved in his mind these mournful thoughts; and
almost unconsciously he wrung his hands as he felt his utter want of
power to remedy these sad and piteous circumstances. Yet he was not
absolutely hopeless. There was ever open to the pious Glastonbury one
perennial source of trust and consolation. This was a fountain that was
ever fresh and sweet, and he took refuge from the world’s harsh courses
and exhausting cares in its salutary flow and its refreshing shade,
when, kneeling before his crucifix, he commended the unhappy Ferdinand
and his family to the superintending care of a merciful Omnipotence.
The morning brought fresh anxieties. Glastonbury was at the Place at
an early hour, and found Ferdinand in a high state of fever. He had not
slept an instant, was very excited, talked of departing immediately, and
rambled in his discourse. Glastonbury blamed himself for having left him
a moment, and resolved to do so no more. He endeavoured to soothe him;
assured him that if he would be calm all would yet go well; that they
would consult together what was best to be done; and that he would make
enquiries after the Temple family. In the meantime he despatched the
servant for the most eminent physician of the county; but as hours
must necessarily elapse before his arrival, the difficulty of keeping
Ferdinand still was very great. Talk he would, and of nothing but
Henrietta. It was really agonising to listen to his frantic appeals
to Glastonbury to exert himself to discover her abode; yet Glastonbury
never left his side; and with promises, expressions of confidence, and
the sway of an affected calmness, for in truth dear Glastonbury was
scarcely less agitated than his patient, Ferdinand was prevented from
rising, and the physician at length arrived.
After examining Ferdinand, with whom he remained a very short space,
this gentleman invited Glastonbury to descend, and they left the patient
in charge of a servant.
‘This is a bad case,’ said the physician.
‘Almighty God preserve him!’ exclaimed the agitated Glastonbury. ‘Tell
me the worst!’
‘Where are Sir Ratcliffe and Lady Armine?’
‘At Bath.’
‘They must be sent for instantly.’
‘Is there any hope?’
‘There is hope; that is all. I shall now bleed him copiously, and then
blister; but I can do little. We must trust to nature. I am afraid of
the brain. I cannot account for his state by his getting wet or his
rapid travelling. Has he anything on his mind?’
‘Much,’ said Glastonbury.
The physician shook his head.
‘It is a precious life!’ said Glastonbury, seizing his arm. ‘My dear
doctor, you must not leave us.’
They returned to the bedchamber.
‘Captain Armine,’ said the physician, taking his hand and seating
himself on the bed, ‘you have a bad cold and some fever; I think you
should lose a little blood.’
‘Can I leave Armine to-day, if I am bled?’ enquired Ferdinand, eagerly,
‘for go I must!’
‘I would not move to-day,’ said the physician.
‘I must, indeed I must. Mr. Glastonbury will tell you I must.’
‘If you set off early to-morrow you will get over as much ground in
four-and-twenty hours as if you went this evening,’ said the physician,
fixing the bandage on the arm as he spoke, and nodding to Mr.
Glastonbury to prepare the basin.
‘To-morrow morning?’ said Ferdinand.
‘Yes, to-morrow,’ said the physician, opening his lancet.
‘Are you sure that I shall be able to set off tomorrow?’ said Ferdinand.
‘Quite,’ said the physician, opening the vein.
The dark blood flowed sullenly; the physician exchanged an anxious
glance with Glastonbury; at length the arm was bandaged up, a composing
draught, with which the physician had been prepared, given to his
patient, and the doctor and Glastonbury withdrew. The former now left
Armine for three hours, and Glastonbury prepared himself for his painful
office of communicating to the parents the imminent danger of their only
child.
Never had a more difficult task devolved upon an individual than that
which now fell to the lot of the good Glastonbury, in conducting the
affairs of a family labouring under such remarkable misconceptions as to
the position and views of its various members. It immediately occurred
to him, that it was highly probable that Miss Grandison, at such a
crisis, would choose to accompany the parents of her intended husband.
What incident, under the present circumstances, could be more awkward
and more painful? Yet how to prevent its occurrence? How crude to
communicate the real state of such affairs at any time by letter! How
impossible at the moment he was preparing the parents for the alarming,
perhaps fatal illness of their child, to enter on such subjects at all,
much more when the very revelation, at a moment which required all
their energy and promptitude, would only be occasioning at Bath scenes
scarcely less distracting and disastrous than those occurring at Armine.
It was clearly impossible to enter into any details at present; and yet
Glastonbury, while he penned the sorrowful lines, and softened the
sad communication with his sympathy, added a somewhat sly postscript,
wherein he impressed upon Lady Armine the advisability, for various
reasons, that she should only be accompanied by her husband.
CHAPTER X.
_In Which Ferdinand Armine Is Much Concerned_.
THE contingency which Glastonbury feared, surely happened; Miss
Grandison insisted upon immediately rushing to her Ferdinand; and as
the maiden aunt was still an invalid, and was incapable of enduring the
fatigues of a rapid and anxious journey, she was left behind. Within a
few hours of the receipt of Glastonbury’s letter, Sir Ratcliffe and
Lady Armine, and their niece, were on their way. They found letters from
Glastonbury in London, which made them travel to Armine even through the
night.
In spite of all his remedies, the brain fever which the physician
foresaw had occurred; and when his family arrived, the life of Ferdinand
was not only in danger but desperate. It was impossible that even the
parents could see their child, and no one was allowed to enter his
chamber but his nurse, the physician, and occasionally Glastonbury; for
this name, with others less familiar to the household, sounded so often
on the frenzied lips of the sufferer, that it was recommended that
Glastonbury should often be at his bedside. Yet he must leave it, to
receive the wretched Sir Ratcliffe and his wife and their disconsolate
companion. Never was so much unhappiness congregated together under one
roof; and yet, perhaps Glastonbury, though the only one who retained
the least command over himself, was, with his sad secret, the most
woe-begone of the tribe.
As for Lady Armine, she sat without the door of her son’s chamber the
whole day and night, clasping a crucifix in her hands, and absorbed
in silent prayer. Sir Ratcliffe remained below prostrate. The unhappy
Katherine in vain offered the consolation she herself so needed; and
would have wandered about that Armine of which she had heard so much,
and where she was to have been so happy, a forlorn and solitary being,
had it not been for the attentions of the considerate Glastonbury, who
embraced every opportunity of being her companion. His patience, his
heavenly resignation, his pious hope, his vigilant care, his spiritual
consolation, occasionally even the gleams of agreeable converse with
which he attempted to divert her mind, consoled and maintained her. How
often did she look at his benignant countenance, and not wonder that the
Armines were so attached to this engaging and devoted friend?
For three days did the unhappy family expect in terrible anticipation
that each moment would witness the last event in the life of their son.
His distracted voice caught too often the vigilant and agonised ear of
his mother; yet she gave no evidence of the pang, except by clasping her
crucifix with increased energy. She had promised the physician that she
would command herself, that no sound should escape her lips, and she
rigidly fulfilled the contract on which she was permitted to remain.
On the eve of the fourth day Ferdinand, who had never yet closed his
eyes, but who had become during the last twelve hours somewhat more
composed, fell into a slumber. The physician lightly dropped the hand
which he had scarcely ever quitted, and, stealing out of the room,
beckoned, his finger pressed to his lips, to Lady Armine to follow him.
Assured by the symbol that the worst had not yet happened, she followed
the physician to the end of the gallery, and he then told her that
immediate danger was past.
‘And now, my dear madam,’ said the physician to her, ‘you must breathe
some fresh air. Oblige me by descending.’
Lady Armine no longer refused; she repaired with a slow step to Sir
Ratcliffe; she leant upon her husband’s breast as she murmured to him
her hopes. They went forth together. Katherine and Glastonbury were in
the garden. The appearance of Lady Armine gave them hopes. There was a
faint smile on her face which needed not words to explain it. Katherine
sprang forward, and threw her arms round her aunt’s neck.
‘He may be saved! he may be saved,’ whispered the mother; for in this
hushed house of impending death they had lost almost the power as well
as the habit, of speaking in any other tone.
‘He sleeps,’ said the physician; ‘all present danger is past.’
‘It is too great joy,’ murmured Katherine; and Glastonbury advanced and
caught in his arms her insensible form.
CHAPTER XI.
_In Which Ferdinand Begins to Be a Little Troublesome_.
FROM the moment of this happy slumber Ferdinand continued to improve.
Each day the bulletin was more favourable, until his progress, though
slow, was declared certain, and even relapse was no longer apprehended.