In Which Ferdinand Begins to Be a Little Troublesome.
FROM the moment of this happy slumber Ferdinand continued to improve. Each day the bulletin was more favourable, until his progress, though slow, was declared certain, and even relapse was no longer apprehended. But his physician would not allow him to see any one of his family. It was at night, and during his slumbers, that Lady Armine stole into his room to gaze upon her beloved child; and, if he moved in the slightest degree, faithful to her promise and the injunction of the physician, she instantly glided behind his curtain, or a large Indian screen which she had placed there purposely. Often, indeed, did she remain in this fond lurking-place, silent and trembling, when her child was even awake, listening to every breath, and envying the nurse that might gaze on him undisturbed; nor would she allow any sustenance that he was ordered to be prepared by any but her own fair, fond hands; and she brought it herself even to his door. For Ferdinand himself, though his replies to the physician sufficiently attested the healthy calmness of his mind, he indeed otherwise never spoke, but lay on his bed without repining, and seemingly plunged in mild and pensive abstraction. At length, one morning he enquired for Glastonbury, who, with the sanction of the physician, immediately attended him.
When he met the eye of that faithful friend he tried to extend his hand. It was so wan that Glastonbury trembled while he touched it.
‘I have given you much trouble,’ he said, in a faint voice.
‘I think only of the happiness of your recovery,’ said Glastonbury.
‘Yes, I am recovered,’ murmured Ferdinand; ‘it was not my wish.’
‘Oh! be grateful to God for this great mercy, my Ferdinand.’
‘You have heard nothing?’ enquired Ferdinand.
Glastonbury shook his head.
‘Fear not to speak; I can struggle no more. I am resigned. I am very much changed.’
‘You will be happy, dear Ferdinand,’ said Glastonbury, to whom this mood gave hopes.
‘Never,’ he said, in a more energetic tone; ‘never.’
‘There are so many that love you,’ said Glastonbury, leading his thoughts to his family.
‘Love!’ exclaimed Ferdinand, with a sigh, and in a tone almost reproachful.
‘Your dear mother,’ said Glastonbury.
‘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!’
‘No more: we will speak of her no more. When comes my mother?’
‘You may see her to-morrow, or the day after.’
‘Ah! Glastonbury, she is here.’
‘She is.’
‘Is she alone?’
‘Your father is with her.’
‘My mother and my father. It is well.’ Then, after a minute’s pause, he added with some earnestness, ‘Do not deceive me, Glastonbury; see what deceit has brought me to. Are you sure that they are quite alone?’
‘There are none here but your dearest friends; none whose presence should give you the slightest care.’
‘There is one,’ said Ferdinand.
‘Dear Ferdinand, let me now leave you, or sit by your side in silence. To-morrow you will see your mother.’
‘To-morrow! Ah! to-morrow. Once to me tomorrow was brighter even than to-day.’ He turned his back and spoke no more. Glastonbury glided out of the room.
