How could Mrs. Temple be so ill bred as to whisper?—The whole thing is 'mauvais ton' no doubt some decorous belle now exclaims. Gentle reader, if thou hast never sacrificed thy friend or thy love of the exact truth to a joke, thou hast a right to vent thine indignation against this breach of etiquette. When thine ire is exhausted, proceed to read, and thou wilt find that the cause of thine indignation is at an end.—Supper was at length announced; the company were conducted into rooms laid out in the same style of ornamental profusion as those they had already visited. After supper, dancing was resumed with increased ardour, and continued to an early hour. When the company separated, they exchanged the glare of candles for the light of the sun; and the sound of the harp, tabret, and all manner of musical instruments, for the song of birds and the whistling of the husbandman.
CHAPTER XV.
Stranger to civil and religious rage,
The good man walk'd innoxious through his age.
No courts he saw.—
Pope.
Few people were ever endowed with a greater capacity of receiving pleasureable emotions than Selina Seymour, and the whole tenor of her joyful life had hitherto tended to increase this inestimable gift of nature. She had been as happy at Mrs. Sullivan's ball, as it was possible for any innocent being, without a care for the present or a regret for the past; and the pleasure of her own mind was reflected back to her tenfold in the approving smiles of her father and aunt. Her delight in the gay scene was unalloyed by envy or competition. She had never been taught to estimate her happiness by her height in the scale of admiration; for her fond relatives, thinking her always charming, and ever considering her felicity more than the gratification of their own pride, had not tortured her by preparations for exhibition; and, as long as she danced with pleasure to herself, they cared not how. The happy girl so keenly enjoyed the brilliant scene, was so grateful for the marked attention she received, that she had not time to stop to consider whether she was admired or not; and, perhaps, if this query had even occurred to her mind, the answer to it might have been a matter of indifference—sufficient was it to her felicity to know she was beloved.
But all Selina's delight would have been turned to pain the more exquisite, could one fold of the veil of futurity have been raised to show her the near approach of misery. On that night she first saw pleasure decked in her festal robe, her brow crowned with flowers, her countenance radiant with smiles, presenting her enchantments with one hand—but saw not the other beckoning to the hovering forms of disease and death, to array her in the garb of wo:—a task they too quickly performed; for alas! this scene of gaiety was but the antechamber of grief.
Selina rose next day, refreshed with a few hours sound sleep; and, animated with more than her general vivacity, was skipping down stairs with her usual velocity, when she was stopped by Mrs. Galton; and, terrified at the expression of her countenance, "Good God, aunt Mary!" exclaimed she, "what is the matter you look so pale—are you ill?" "No, my dear, no; but I am sorry to say your father is very unwell. Don't be so much alarmed, my dear child—he is better now. Where are you going?" continued she, holding Selina fast. "To see my dear papa." "You must not, Selina, Mr. Lucas is with him, endeavouring to compose him to sleep.—Come to the library, my love, and let us have breakfast." They proceeded quietly and sorrowfully; and Selina, on entering it, perceived her aunt was in the dress of the night before. "Why, my dear aunt, you have never changed your dress. Oh, that vile ball! my dear dear father has got cold. I wish we had never gone;" and here, quite overcome by the acuteness of her feelings, she burst into a paroxysm of tears. Mrs. Galton was not sorry to see her give way to her grief; but when she became a little composed, addressed her with much solemnity of manner, saying, "Selina, my dear Selina, command yourself! I require you to exert all your fortitude; you must not, in a scene like this, render yourself worse than useless. Do not selfishly give yourself up to your own feelings. Remember, my child, you may be of much comfort to your father." Selina answered but by a motion of the hand, and, retiring for a short time to a solitary apartment, threw herself on her knees, and, by a fervent supplication for support from Heaven, at last composed herself so far as to return to her aunt with a calm countenance, though still unable to speak. One expressive look told Mrs. Galton she was aware of her father's danger, and was prepared to make every proper exertion. Sir Henry had at Webberly House most imprudently accompanied his darling Selina in one of her visits to the hermitage; and, in consequence of the draughts of air and damps to which he had thereby exposed himself, was, on his return to the Hall, seized with the gout in his stomach in a most alarming manner. Mr. Lucas had been immediately sent for, and, pronouncing him in imminent danger, had requested that better advice might be procured without delay. At length the violence of the attack seemed to give way to the remedies administered; and Mr. Lucas was, as Mrs. Galton said, endeavouring to procure sleep for his patient, when she heard Selina's bell; and, taking a favourable opportunity of leaving the sick room, was proceeding to break the intelligence to her, when they met on the stairs. The ladies continued at the breakfast in perfect silence, Mrs. Galton not even addressing Selina by a look, as she well knew that a mere trifle would destroy the composure she was endeavouring to acquire. When they left the breakfast table, Mrs. Galton took Selina up stairs, to assist her in changing her dress, as she feared to leave her alone, and wished to employ her in those little offices of attentive kindness, which, by their very minuteness, disturb the mind from meditating on any new-born grief, though they only irritate the feelings, when sorrow has arrived at maturity. Mrs. Galton's watchful eye soon discovered Dr. Norton's carriage at the lower end of the avenue; and that Selina might be out of the way on his entrance, sent her to walk in the garden, promising to call her the moment she could be admitted to see her father. When Dr. Norton arrived, he immediately repaired to Sir Henry's apartment; and, on hearing it, gave a sad confirmation of Mr. Lucas's opinion, expressing his fears, that though his patient was tolerably easy at that moment, violent attacks of the complaint might be expected; and if they should not prove fatal, the weakness consequent on them most probably would. Mrs. Galton entreated he would remain at Deane Hall till Sir Henry's fate was decided, which request he, without hesitation, complied with.
Had Dr. Norton conveyed his intelligence to Selina herself, it could scarcely have afflicted her more deeply than it did Mrs. Galton. Her regard for Sir Henry was great, and not less lively was her gratitude for the constant kindness he had for a long course of years shown her; so that had not another being on earth been interested in his life, she would, in her own feelings, have found sufficient cause for sorrow. But when she anticipated Selina's grief, should the fears of the physician be realized, her own misery was tenfold aggravated by her commiseration for the beloved child of her heart—the dearest solace of her existence!