Henrietta Temple, Benjamin Disraeli [free ereaders .TXT] 📗

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. But his physician would not allow him to see any one of his family. It was at night, and during his slumbers, that Lady Armine stole into his room to gaze upon her beloved child; and, if he moved in the slightest degree, faithful to her promise and the injunction of the physician, she instantly glided behind his curtain, or a large Indian screen which she had placed there purposely. Often, indeed, did she remain in this fond lurking-place, silent and trembling, when her child was even awake, listening to every breath, and envying the nurse that might gaze on him undisturbed; nor would she allow any sustenance that he was ordered to be prepared by any but her own fair, fond hands; and she brought it herself even to his door. For Ferdinand himself, though his replies to the physician sufficiently attested the healthy calmness of his mind, he indeed otherwise never spoke, but lay on his bed without repining, and seemingly plunged in mild and pensive abstraction. At length, one morning he enquired for Glastonbury, who, with the sanction of the physician, immediately attended him.

When he met the eye of that faithful friend he tried to extend his hand. It was so wan that Glastonbury trembled while he touched it.

'I have given you much trouble,' he said, in a faint voice.

'I think only of the happiness of your recovery,' said Glastonbury.

'Yes, I am recovered,' murmured Ferdinand; 'it was not my wish.'

'Oh! be grateful to God for this great mercy, my Ferdinand.'

'You have heard nothing?' enquired Ferdinand.

Glastonbury shook his head.

'Fear not to speak; I can struggle no more. I am resigned. I am very much changed.'

'You will be happy, dear Ferdinand,' said Glastonbury, to whom this mood gave hopes.

'Never,' he said, in a more energetic tone; 'never.'

'There are so many that love you,' said Glastonbury, leading his thoughts to his family.

'Love!' exclaimed Ferdinand, with a sigh, and in a tone almost reproachful.

'Your dear mother,' said Glastonbury.

'Yes! my dear mother,' replied Ferdinand, musingly. Then in a quicker tone, 'Does she know of my illness? Did you write to them?'

'She knows of it.'

'She will be coming, then. I dread her coming. I can bear to see no one. You, dear Glastonbury, you; it is a consolation to see you, because you have seen,' and here his voice faltered, 'you have seen--her.'

'My Ferdinand, think only of your health; and happiness, believe