Henrietta Temple: A Love Story
his good that I bear this bereavement, and that thought should console
me. Heigho!’
Sir Ratcliffe stepped forward and kissed his niece. Glastonbury was
busied on the drawing: he turned away his face.
Sir Ratcliffe took up his gun. ‘God bless you, dear Kate,’ he said; ‘a
pleasant drive and a choice sketch. We shall meet at dinner.’
‘At dinner, dear uncle; and better sport than yesterday.’
‘Ha! ha!’ said Sir Ratcliffe. ‘But Armine is not like Grandison. If
I were in the old preserves, you should have no cause to jeer at my
sportsmanship.’
Miss Grandison’s good wishes were prophetic: Sir Ratcliffe found
excellent sport, and returned home very late, and in capital spirits. It
was the dinner-hour, and yet Katherine and Glastonbury had not returned.
He was rather surprised. The shades of evening were fast descending, and
the distant lawns of Armine were already invisible; the low moan of the
rising wind might be just distinguished; and the coming night promised
to be raw and cloudy, perhaps tempestuous. Sir Ratcliffe stood before
the crackling fire in the dining-room, otherwise in darkness, but the
flame threw a bright yet glancing light upon the Snyders, so that the
figures seemed really to move in the shifting shades, the eye of the
infuriate boar almost to emit sparks of rage, and there wanted but
the shouts of the huntsmen and the panting of the dogs to complete the
tumult of the chase.
Just as Sir Ratcliffe was anticipating some mischance to his absent
friends, and was about to steal upon tip-toe to Lady Armine, who was
with Ferdinand, to consult her, the practised ear of a man who lived
much in the air caught the distant sound of wheels, and he went out to
welcome them.
‘Why, you are late,’ said Sir Ratcliffe, as the phaeton approached the
house. ‘All right, I hope?’
He stepped forward to assist Miss Grandison. The darkness of the evening
prevented him from observing her swollen eyes and agitated countenance.
She sprang out of the carriage in silence, and immediately ran up into
her room. As for Glastonbury, he only observed it was very cold, and
entered the house with Sir Ratcliffe.
‘This fire is hearty,’ said Glastonbury, warming himself before it:
‘you have had good sport, I hope? We are not to wait dinner for Miss
Grandison, Sir Ratcliffe. She will not come down this evening; she is
not very well.’
‘Not very well: ah! the cold, I fear. You have been imprudent in staying
so late. I must run and tell Lady Armine.’
‘Oblige me, I pray, by not doing so,’ said Glastonbury; ‘Miss Grandison
most particularly requested that she should not be disturbed.’
It was with some difficulty that Glastonbury could contrive that Miss
Grandison’s wishes should be complied with; but at length he succeeded
in getting Sir Ratcliffe to sit down to dinner, and affecting a
cheerfulness which was far from his spirit, the hour of ten at length
arrived, and Glastonbury, before retiring to his tower, paid his evening
visit to Ferdinand.
CHAPTER XIII.
_In Which the Family Perplexities Rather Increase
than Diminish_.
IF EVER there were a man who deserved a serene and happy life it was
Adrian Glastonbury. He had pursued a long career without injuring or
offending a human being; his character and conduct were alike spotless;
he was void of guile; he had never told a falsehood, never been
entangled in the slightest deceit; he was easy in his circumstances;
he had no relations to prey upon his purse or his feelings; and, though
alone in the world, was blessed with such a sweet and benignant temper,
gifted with so many resources, and adorned with so many accomplishments,
that he appeared to be always employed, amused, and contented. And yet,
by a strange contrariety of events, it appeared that this excellent
person was now placed in a situation which is generally the consequence
of impetuous passions not very scrupulous in obtaining their ends. That
breast, which heretofore would have shrunk from being analysed only
from the refined modesty of its nature, had now become the depository of
terrible secrets: the day could scarcely pass over without finding
him in a position which rendered equivocation on his part almost
a necessity, while all the anxieties inseparable from pecuniary
embarrassments were forced upon his attention, and his feelings were
racked from sympathy with individuals who were bound to him by no other
tie, but to whose welfare he felt himself engaged to sacrifice all his
pursuits, and devote all his time and labour. And yet he did not murmur,
although he had scarcely hope to animate him. In whatever light he
viewed coming events, they appeared ominous only of evil. All that
he aimed at now was to soothe and support, and it was his unshaken
confidence in Providence that alone forbade him to despair.
When he repaired to the Place in the morning he found everything in
confusion. Miss Grandison was very unwell; and Lady Armine, frightened
by the recent danger from which they had escaped, very alarmed. She
could no longer conceal from Ferdinand that his Katherine was here, and
perhaps Lady Armine was somewhat surprised at the calmness with which
her son received the intelligence. But Miss Grandison was not only very
unwell but very obstinate. She would not leave her room, but insisted
that no medical advice should be called in. Lady Armine protested,
supplicated, adjured; Miss Grandison appealed to Mr. Glastonbury; and
Glastonbury, who was somewhat of a physician, was called in, and was
obliged to assure Lady Armine that Miss Grandison was only suffering
from a cold and only required repose. A warm friendship subsisted
between Lady Armine and her niece. She had always been Katherine’s
favourite aunt, and during the past year there had been urgent reasons
why Lady Armine should have cherished this predisposition in her favour.
Lady Armine was a fascinating person, and all her powers had been
employed to obtain an influence over the heiress. They had been quite
successful. Miss Grandi-son looked forward almost with as much pleasure
to being Lady Armine’s daughter as her son’s bride. The intended
mother-in-law was in turn as warmhearted as her niece was engaging; and
eventually Lady Armine loved Katherine for herself alone.
In a few days, however, Miss Grandison announced that she was quite
recovered, and Lady Armine again devoted her unbroken attention to her
son, who was now about to rise for the first time from his bed. But
although Miss Grandison was no longer an invalid, it is quite certain
that if the attention of the other members of the family had not been so
entirely engrossed, a very great change in her behaviour could not have
escaped their notice. Her flowers and drawings seemed to have lost their
relish; her gaiety to have deserted her. She passed a great portion
of the morning in her room; and although it was announced to her that
Ferdinand was aware of her being an inmate of the Place, and that in a
day or two they might meet, she scarcely evinced, at this prospect of
resuming his society, so much gratification as might have been expected;
and though she daily took care that his chamber should still be provided
with flowers, it might have been remarked that the note she had been so
anxious to send him was never written. But how much, under the commonest
course of circumstances, happens in all domestic circles that is never
observed or never remarked till the observation is too late!
At length the day arrived when Lady Armine invited her niece to visit
her son. Miss Grandison expressed her readiness to accompany her aunt,
but took an opportunity of requesting Glastonbury to join them; and all
three proceeded to the chamber of the invalid.
The white curtain of the room was drawn; but though the light was
softened, the apartment was by no means obscure. Ferdinand was sitting
in an easy-chair, supported by pillows. A black handkerchief was just
twined round his forehead, for his head had been shaved, except a few
curls on the side and front, which looked stark and lustreless. He was
so thin and pale, and his eyes and cheeks were so wan and hollow, that
it was scarcely credible that in so short a space of time a man could
have become such a wreck. When he saw Katherine he involuntarily dropped
his eyes, but extended his hand to her with some effort of earnestness.
She was almost as pale as he, but she took his hand. It was so light and
cold, it felt so much like death, that the tears stole down her cheek.
‘You hardly know me, Katherine,’ said Ferdinand, feebly. ‘This is good
of you to visit a sick man.’
Miss Grandison could not reply, and Lady Armine made an observation to
break the awkward pause.
‘And how do you like Armine?’ said Ferdinand. ‘I wish I could be your
guide. But Glastonbury is so kind!’
A hundred times Miss Grandison tried to reply, to speak, to make the
commonest observation, but it was in vain. She grew paler every moment;
her lips moved, but they sent forth no sound.
‘Kate is not well,’ said Lady Armine. ‘She has been very unwell. This
visit,’ she added in a whisper to Ferdinand, ‘is a little too much for
her.’
Ferdinand sighed.
‘Mother,’ he at length said, ‘you must ask Katherine to come and sit
here with you; if indeed she will not feel the imprisonment.’
Miss Grandison turned in her chair, and hid her face with her
handkerchief.
‘My sweet child,’ said Lady Armine, rising and kissing her, ‘this is too
much for you. You really must restrain yourself. Ferdinand will soon be
himself again; he will indeed.’
Miss Grandison sobbed aloud. Glastonbury was much distressed, but
Ferdinand avoided catching his eye; and yet, at last, Ferdinand said
with an effort, and in a very kind voice, ‘Dear Kate, come and sit by
me.’
Miss Grandison went into hysterics; Ferdinand sprang from his chair and
seized her hand; Lady Armine tried to restrain her son; Glastonbury held
the agitated Katherine.
‘For God’s sake, Ferdinand, be calm,’ exclaimed Lady Armine. ‘This is
most unfortunate. Dear, dear Katherine, but she has such a heart! All
the women have in our family, and none of the men, ‘tis so odd. Mr.
Glastonbury, water if you please, that glass of water; sal volatile;
where is the sal volatile? My own, own Katherine, pray, pray restrain
yourself! Ferdinand is here; remember, Ferdinand is here, and he will
soon be well; soon quite well. Believe me, he is already quite another
thing. There, drink that, darling, drink that. You are better now?’
‘I am so foolish,’ said Miss Grandison, in a mournful voice. ‘I never
can pardon myself for this. Let me go.’
Glastonbury bore her out of the room; Lady Armine turned to her son.
He was lying back in his chair, his hands covering his eyes. The mother
stole gently to him, and wiped tenderly his brow, on which hung the
light drops of perspiration, occasioned by his recent exertion.
‘We have done too much, my own dear Ferdinand. Yet who could have
expected that dear girl would have been so affected? Glastonbury was
indeed right in preventing you so long from meeting. And yet it is a
blessing to see that she has so fond a heart. You are fortunate, my
Ferdinand: you will indeed be happy with her.’
Ferdinand groaned.
‘I shall never be happy,’ he murmured.
‘Never happy, my Ferdinand! Oh! you must not be so low-spirited. Think
how much better you are; think, my Ferdinand, what a change there is for
the better. You will soon be well, dearest, and then, my love, you know
you cannot help being happy.’
‘Mother,’ said Ferdinand, ‘you are deceived; you are all deceived:
I--I------’
‘No! Ferdinand, indeed we are not. I am confident, and I praise God for
it, that you are getting better every day. But you have done too much,