We have mentioned before that Claribel's spiritual visitor was fitful and capricious in its visits. It might appear at any moment; but then we had been free from its company for so long, that we had dared to hope that it had forgotten all about us and would never return, until one morning new fears arose in my mind from a little circumstance which I shall now relate to you.
Observing that my young friend rose from her couch looking poorly, I inquired into the cause of her jaded looks.
"Oh, Molly," she replied, "I've had such a dreadful dream about poor John. I am sure that some danger threatens him."
"What danger do you imagine threatens him, Claribel?" said I. "Tell me your dream."
"I really do not know if I can," she replied; "it was so very confused. I thought that John Archer stood in danger of his life at the hands of Richard de Chevron, and yet it was not Richard de Chevron, but another; then, again, it was. I remember something about a murdered man, and fearing it was John Archer, but on examining the corpse it was another. Then I remember seeing John Archer handcuffed, and in great agony of mind, and I thought him guilty of the murder, and then he was not guilty. Then the dream began to change in such a manner as it would be impossible to relate it; but throughout I remember the fiendish face of Richard de Chevron. I was seized with an inexpressible horror, and could bear it no longer; then I awoke."
"My dear Claribel," said I, "pray do not disturb yourself for such a ridiculous dream. You ought to know that all dreams are mad, the offspring of impaired digestion or——"
But she impatiently cut me short by a wave of the hand, as if she were determined to believe in the warning character of her dream, despite all my sophistry.
However, I attempted a second time to account for the dream by the aversion she had taken to Richard de Chevron at first sight and her constantly brooding over her unfounded impressions. I tried argument, I tried ridicule; but finding her proof against either, I held my tongue and took up a piece of work.
Claribel had thrown herself into an arm-chair, and there sat listlessly, without occupying herself or hardly exchanging a word with me. Once, indeed, she gasped out to herself "Oh, that I could save him!" and then relapsed into her usual silence.
About five minutes after, chancing to look up, I observed that my friend appeared to be more languid than ever. She was dreadfully pale, her lips colourless and slightly parted, the eyes half-closed. I thought she was in a swoon, and now somewhat alarmed, I rose and advanced towards her.