“Bessie, I must see him.”
Bessie started and stared at her.
“You, miss! Oh, how can you! They will not let him come out to you!”
“No, I must go to him,” said Olivia, quietly.
“To him—to the prison!” exclaimed Bessie. “Oh, miss, you cannot! The squire—Mr. Bradstone—would not permit it!”
Olivia’s lips twitched at the sound of her husband’s name.
“They must not know,” she said, slowly and thoughtfully, as if she were earnestly considering the question; “they must not know. Stop, Bessie”—for Bessie, aghast at the proposal, was about to remonstrate—“I have made up my mind. If all the world said I should not see him, I would contrive to do so. In Wainford jail?” She put her hand to her brow. “That is Colonel Summerford’s. He would do anything for me; he will not refuse to let me see him.”
Her hands began to move restlessly, and she glanced at the clock with wistful impatience.
“Oh, no, no; not to-day, miss,” pleaded Bessie. “You are not strong enough; you will be ill again, and—oh, not to-day, dear, dear Miss Olivia!”
“I am quite strong,” said Olivia, rising and stretching out her hands. “How do I know that to-morrow may not be too late? We will go this afternoon—yes, this afternoon.”