The white curtain of the room was drawn; but though the light was softened, the apartment was by no means obscure. Ferdinand was sitting in an easy-chair, supported by pillows. A black handkerchief was just twined round his forehead, for his head had been shaved, except a few curls on the side and front, which looked stark and lustreless. He was so thin and pale, and his eyes and cheeks were so wan and hollow, that it was scarcely credible that in so short a space of time a man could have become such a wreck. When he saw Katherine he involuntarily dropped his eyes, but extended his hand to her with some effort of earnestness. She was almost as pale as he, but she took his hand. It was so light and cold, it felt so much like death, that the tears stole down her cheek.
‘You hardly know me, Katherine,’ said Ferdinand, feebly. ‘This is good of you to visit a sick man.’
Miss Grandison could not reply, and Lady Armine made an observation to break the awkward pause.
‘And how do you like Armine?’ said Ferdinand. ‘I wish I could be your guide. But Glastonbury is so kind!’
A hundred times Miss Grandison tried to reply, to speak, to make the commonest observation, but it was in vain. She grew paler every moment; her lips moved, but they sent forth no sound.
‘Kate is not well,’ said Lady Armine. ‘She has been very unwell. This visit,’ she added in a whisper to Ferdinand, ‘is a little too much for her.’
Ferdinand sighed.
‘Mother,’ he at length said, ‘you must ask Katherine to come and sit here with you; if indeed she will not feel the imprisonment.’
Miss Grandison turned in her chair, and hid her face with her handkerchief.
‘My sweet child,’ said Lady Armine, rising and kissing her, ‘this is too much for you. You really must restrain yourself. Ferdinand will soon be himself again; he will indeed.’