ther moved nor spoke, and yet seemed aware of all they were doing.
Glastonbury and the stout serving-man bore him to his chamber, relieved
him from his wet garments, and placed him in his earliest bed. When
Glastonbury bade him good night, Ferdinand faintly pressed his hand, but
did not speak; and it was remarkable, that while he passively submitted
to their undressing him, and seemed incapable of affording them the
slightest aid, yet he thrust forth his hand to guard a lock of dark hair
that was placed next to his heart.

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 the
good Glastonbury generally ensured, were sadly broken this night, as
he lay awake meditating over the distracted fortunes of the of Armine
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 generou