Henrietta Temple: A Love Story

  CHAPTER IX.

  _In Which Glastonbury Finds That a Serene Temper Does Not Always Bring a Serene Life_.

  THOSE quiet slumbers, that the regular life and innocent heart of thegood Glastonbury generally ensured, were sadly broken this night, ashe lay awake meditating over the distracted fortunes of the of Arminehouse. They seemed now to be most turbulent and clouded; and thatbrilliant and happy future, in which of late he had so fondly indulged,offered nothing but gloom and disquietude. Nor was it the menaceddisruption of those ties whose consummation was to restore the greatnessand splendour of the family, and all the pain and disappointment andmortification and misery that must be its consequence, that alone madehim sorrowful. Glastonbury had a reverence for that passion which shedssuch a lustre over existence, and is the pure and prolific source ofmuch 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 hadbeen for a long life the silent and hopeless votary of a passion almostideal, yet happy, though 'he never told his love;' and, indeed, althoughthe unconscious mistress of his affections had been long removed fromthat world where his fidelity was almost her only comfort, that passionhad not waned, and the feelings that had been inspired by her presencewere now cherished by her memory. His tender and romantic nature, whichhis venerable grey hairs had neither dulled nor hardened, made himdeeply sympathise with his unhappy pupil; the radiant image of HenriettaTemple, too, vividly impressed on his memory as it was, rose up beforehim; he recollected his joy that the chosen partner of his Ferdinand'sbosom should be worthy of her destiny; he thought of this fair creature,perchance in solitude and sickness, a prey to the most mortifying andmiserable emotions, with all her fine and generous feelings thrown backupon herself; deeming herself deceived, deserted, outraged, where shehad looked for nothing but fidelity, and fondness, and support; losingall confidence in the world and the world's ways; but recently so livelywith expectation and airy with enjoyment, and now aimless, hopeless,wretched, perhaps broken-hearted. The tears trickled down the pale cheekof Glastonbury as he revolved in his mind these mournful thoughts; andalmost unconsciously he wrung his hands as he felt his utter want ofpower to remedy these sad and piteous circumstances. Yet he was notabsolutely hopeless. There was ever open to the pious Glastonbury oneperennial source of trust and consolation. This was a fountain that wasever fresh and sweet, and he took refuge from the world's harsh coursesand exhausting cares in its salutary flow and its refreshing shade,when, kneeling before his crucifix, he commended the unhappy Ferdinandand his family to the superintending care of a merciful Omnipotence.

  The morning brought fresh anxieties. Glastonbury was at the Place atan early hour, and found Ferdinand in a high state of fever. He had notslept an instant, was very excited, talked of departing immediately, andrambled in his discourse. Glastonbury blamed himself for having left hima 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 theywould consult together what was best to be done; and that he would makeenquiries after the Temple family. In the meantime he despatched theservant for the most eminent physician of the county; but as hoursmust necessarily elapse before his arrival, the difficulty of keepingFerdinand still was very great. Talk he would, and of nothing butHenrietta. It was really agonising to listen to his frantic appealsto Glastonbury to exert himself to discover her abode; yet Glastonburynever left his side; and with promises, expressions of confidence, andthe sway of an affected calmness, for in truth dear Glastonbury wasscarcely less agitated than his patient, Ferdinand was prevented fromrising, 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 patientin charge of a servant.

  'This is a bad case,' said the physician.

  'Almighty God preserve him!' exclaimed the agitated Glastonbury. 'Tellme 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 thenblister; but I can do little. We must trust to nature. I am afraid ofthe brain. I cannot account for his state by his getting wet or hisrapid 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 deardoctor, you must not leave us.'

  They returned to the bedchamber.

  'Captain Armine,' said the physician, taking his hand and seatinghimself on the bed, 'you have a bad cold and some fever; I think youshould 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 infour-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 anxiousglance with Glastonbury; at length the arm was bandaged up, a composingdraught, with which the physician had been prepared, given to hispatient, and the doctor and Glastonbury withdrew. The former now leftArmine for three hours, and Glastonbury prepared himself for his painfuloffice of communicating to the parents the imminent danger of their onlychild.

  Never had a more difficult task devolved upon an individual than thatwhich now fell to the lot of the good Glastonbury, in conducting theaffairs of a family labouring under such remarkable misconceptions as tothe position and views of its various members. It immediately occurredto him, that it was highly probable that Miss Grandison, at such acrisis, would choose to accompany the parents of her intended husband.What incident, under the present circumstances, could be more awkwardand more painful? Yet how to prevent its occurrence? How crude tocommunicate the real state of such affairs at any time by letter! Howimpossible 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 alltheir energy and promptitude, would only be occasioning at Bath scenesscarcely less distracting and disastrous than those occurring at Armine.It was clearly impossible to enter into any details at present; and yetGlastonbury, while he penned the sorrowful lines, and softened thesad communication with his sympathy, added a somewhat sly postscript,wherein he impressed upon Lady Armine the advisability, for variousreasons, that she should only be accompanied by her husband.