“Go!” she said, in a hoarse whisper. “Insolent, begone!”
I shook off her detested touch and drew myself sternly up.
“Hence, woman!” I exclaimed, pointing to the door with my hand—“hence; and leave me alone with my father!”
She turned livid with rage, but kept her ground, attempting to force me from the bed; but she might as well have tried her puny strength on a rock.
“Catherine, go, it is my child,” said a faint voice from the bed; “leave us together.”
“It is against the physician’s orders—his mind wanders—it is madness!” exclaimed the woman, addressing Turner, who followed her; “you will bear witness, good Turner, that at the last his mind wandered.”
Lord Clare’s eyes opened, and were bent, with a look of ineffable love, upon my face.
“My child—my child!” he murmured, repeating the name as if the sound were sweet to him. Then looking at Turner, he whispered, “There must be some new proof. Those rings, take them from her—for, before the God of heaven, she is my own child.”
“He raves—he is insane!” cried Lady Catherine, attempting to push me aside.
I have said that my heart was hard as a rock when I entered that chamber. A moment of tenderness had softened it, but the presence of this woman petrified it again. Still I could not share in this unholy strife around my father’s death-bed without a shudder. My very soul revolted from the contest which might ensue if I persisted in remaining. I took the hand which had been feebly extended toward me, and pressed the journal of my mother into its clasp. He lifted up the papers, held them waving before his eyes, and muttering, “It is hers—it is hers!” cowered down into the bed and began to moan.