He unfolded his arms, and they dropped down, loose and helpless, like broken willow-branches, and the quick panting of his bosom made me shudder with a thought that he was dying I arose, and then he started upright in his chair, and fixed his flashing eyes upon me.
“Is this creature mine or not?” he said—“Aurora’s daughter or a mockery? Am I accursed among the children of the earth for one wrong act? Will this mystery walk with me to the grave? Am I a father, or childless? Girl, answer me—wring the truth from that brain! Before God I must know it, or death will not be rest. Your mother, Zana—where is your mother?”
His voice rang sharp and clear through the chamber, filling it like the scream of a wounded bird. His eyes were wild; his cheeks hueless. I cowered back, chilled to the soul by his last words. The room disappeared—everything grew white, and shuddering with cold I felt, as it were, snow drifts rushing over me, and through their paralyzing whiteness came the cry,
“Your mother, Zana, where is your mother?”
How long this lasted I do not know, but my next remembrance was of sitting upon the carpet, faint, and with a stunned feeling, as if some one had given me a heavy blow. A silver basket lay upturned by my side, and a mass of crimson fruit, matted with flowers, lay half among the frosted silver, half upon the carpet.
The room was still as death, save the short, painful sound of some one breathing near me. I struggled to my feet, and sat down in a great easy-chair which stood close by me. Then, as my sight cleared, I saw that a window had been opened, that the drapery was flung back from a massive ebony bedstead, and upon the white counterpane I saw Lord Clare lying among the folds of his gorgeous dressing-gown, pale and motionless as marble.
Turner stood over him, bathing his forehead, white almost as the sick man.
I arose and would have approached the bed, but Turner waved me back, and I left the room, sick to the very heart’s core.
I met some persons in the galleries, but passed on without noticing them. As I reached the lower hall, Lady Catherine Irving came in at the front entrance, apparently just from her carriage.
“How is this?” she said, turning pale with rage. “Who permitted this? How came the girl here?”