‘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 me, will yet be yours.’
‘If you could only find out where she is,’ continued Ferdinand, ‘and go to her. Yes! my dear Glastonbury, good, dear, Glastonbury, go to her,’ he added in an imploring tone; ‘she would believe you; everyone believes you. I cannot go; I am powerless; and if I went, alas! she would not believe me.’
‘It is my wish to do everything you desire,’ said Glastonbury, ‘I should be content to be ever labouring for your happiness. But I can do nothing unless you are calm.’
‘I am calm; I will be calm; I will act entirely as you wish; only I beseech you see her.’
‘On that head let us at present say no more,’ replied Glastonbury, who feared that excitement might lead to relapse; yet anxious to soothe him, he added, ‘Trust in my humble services ever, and in the bounty of a merciful Providence.’
‘I have had frightful dreams,’ said Ferdinand. ‘I thought I was in a farm-house; everything was so clear, so vivid. Night after night she seemed to me sitting on this bed. I touched her; her hand was in mine; it was so burning hot! Once, oh! once, once I thought she had forgiven me!’
‘Hush! hush! hush!’