It is
past the hour. Oh, where is she? Will she not come? Must I return to
that darkness mortals call life without seeing her, without hearing one
word? Oh, Edith! shake off these bonds of flesh but for one hour, if,
indeed, you also have a life of clay like me, and are not all spirit. Can you not spare me _one_ hour? Ah! footsteps! A bush crackles. Edith,
Edith! how glad I am you have come at last. I was afraid you had been
prevented. Why are you so late? What do I see--tears? Tell me what has
happened. Does your father know of our meetings? But how should he? Are
we not in the spirit? Come, tell me all." Here a pause ensued, as if the lady he was addressing was speaking,
during which time the expression of his face changed several times;
first from one of deep tenderness, next, to that of profound melancholy. He sighed, then again a bright smile illumined his countenance. Occasionally a slight frown would cloud his brow for an instant, and his
countenance bore a look of determination. At length he spoke again in
earnest tones. "Come what may, I will never leave you. Have I not sworn? Are you not
mine to all eternity? We may never meet in the flesh; but what of that. Are we not happier thus? Unshackled from that fearful darkness that wars
against our spirits? Oh, that we may ever live thus! Would that we could
become all spirit." Another pause ensued, and after some minutes he resumed. "And how can your father's paltry caprices affect us--whilst we are in
the spirit, how can the weapons of the flesh attack us?" A pause, and then he said, "True, as you say, we are not always in the
spirit, and then of course we must be subject to---- But what is it you
fear, Edith?" Again a pause. "Do you know," he began again, "that that is the very thought that has
been passing through my mind for some time past. Oh, horrible! If one of
us or both should get entirely cured, so that the doors of the flesh
should close upon us for ever, our spiritual life desert us, without
even the prospect of meeting in the flesh!" Here he groaned deeply. "How
long will this last, this dream of bliss? It began but a year ago. If we
could only escape altogether from our earthly bodies! but I feel that is
impossible as yet; while I speak I feel attracted again towards clay. I
am unable to resist; I feel myself torn away. I am going--going. Farewell, Edith." The next moment he awoke. I folded up the paper on which I had been
writing and placed it in my pocket; then turned to my patient. I have
not given here one half of the conversation, I was unable to follow him
with my pen the greater part of the time, for at times he would speak
very rapidly, at other times sink his voice so low that I could not
catch all he uttered. "I am here again, then," he muttered to himself, with a groan. "When
will this end?" "You have had pleasant dreams, I hope," said I with a smile. He looked at me suspiciously, and said, "You have heard me? Then you
know all!" "What?" I asked. "Why, all about that----"

"I know nothing," I replied. "It is true you talked in your sleep; you
have been dreaming." "Call it a dream, if you like," he said. "I exist but in such dreams,
and my waking life is to me but a nightmare." "Pooh! pooh!" I said. "You must not take such a morbid view of things. Your brain at present is in a state of fever. We cannot expect always to
be well. I'll give you a composing draught, and in time I hope----"

"Throw physic to the dogs," he replied, quoting from his favourite
author. "Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased?" "Perhaps," said I, "I might manage to do that as well, if you will bide
by my instructions." "Look here, doctor," he said, at length, "I shall be very happy to see
you whenever you come, to talk with you as a friend, as long as I remain
upon earth, but I refuse point blank to take any of your medicine, so I
don't deceive you." I tried to expostulate; but how can one reason with a man who wants to
die, and try to persuade him to take physic, itself nauseous, but to
bring him back to the life which he despises? My task was a difficult
one, but I bethought me of a plan. I pretended to humour him, and took
my leave, saying I would call again shortly. On leaving the sick-room I entered the parlour, where the parents of the
invalid awaited me, to hear my opinion of the case. I told them that the
patient's nerves were in a most sensitive state; I had heard him talk
much in his sleep; that the brain wanted repose. I told them that he had
refused to take any of my medicine because he was tired of his life and
did not wish to prolong it. I then wrote out a prescription, which I told them to get made up at the
chemist's. It was a composing draught which I desired them to administer
in a tumbler of water, likewise pouring in some sweet syrup to hide the
nauseous taste. Whenever he complained of thirst this medicine was to be
given him. In this manner he would be forced to take my medicines, and
might recover in spite of himself. Before leaving the house I inquired of Charles' mother if she were aware
of any love affair of her son's that might have sown the first seeds of
this illness. She replied in the negative, but that she was aware that
he often mentioned a lady's name in his sleep--the name "Edith." She assured me that there was not a single young lady of her
acquaintance who bore that name; that she was at a loss to conceive how
he could have made the acquaintance of any lady for the last two years
without her knowing it, as he had led such a very retired life since he
had left the university. Truly, he might have made her acquaintance
whilst at Oxford, but, then, he had never shown any symptoms of his
present malady for long after. I left the house, giving them all the hope I could, and promised to call
again on the morrow. The morrow arrived, and I called again. My draught
had been administered, and I thought that my patient was a degree less
nervous. Whether it was my fancy or what, I know not, but it seemed to
me that the invalid suspected I had been tampering with him. He said
nothing, but I thought I read it in his eyes. "How did you sleep last night?" I asked. "Well," he replied; "but somehow I fancy that my dreams last night were
less vivid." "Not a bad sign," I observed. "Dreaming is a bad thing--sign of a
disordered stomach." "Some dreams--not all," he replied. "No, not all; but those very vivid dreams that you allude to all proceed
from a bad digestion or over-heated brain." "Then, you set down all dreams to some physical cause?" "Certainly," said I; "though the character of the dream will be shaped
according to our waking thoughts." "Well, yes," he replied, "generally it is so. I myself once used to have
those sort of dreams.