“What papers are those?” almost shrieked Lady Catherine, attempting to possess them, but the dying man dragged them beneath the bed-clothes. “It is forbidden him to read—he shall not attempt it!”
Lord Clare started up in bed, and pointed his long, shadowy finger toward the door.
“Woman,” he cried, in a voice that made her creep slowly backward—“woman, intermeddle no more—leave me with these papers and my God!”
The astonished and terrified woman crept abjectly from the room, with her pallid face averted.
Lord Clare sat upright, unfolding the yellow and time-stained journal of my mother with his shaking hands.
“Fling back the curtains,” he cried. “Nay, nay, my eyes are dim—bring lights—bring lights. Ha, yes, that is the sunset, let me read it by the last sun I shall ever see!”
Turner had drawn back the bed curtains, twisting them in masses around the heavy ebony posts. But this was not enough, with a sweep of his arms he sent all the glowing silk away from the nearest window, letting in a burst of the golden sunset.
And by this light my dying father began to read the records of the heart he had broken. It was terrible to witness the eagerness with which his glittering eyes ran over the paper. New vitality had seized upon him: he sat upright and firm as an oak in the bed, which had quivered to his nervous trembling a few minutes before.
I had entered the room determined to spare no pang to the dying man—to shrink from nothing that might send back an avenging torture for all that he had dealt to my mother, but I was young and I was human. The blood that beat in his almost pulseless heart flowed in my veins also. I could not look upon him there—so pale, so full of deathly beauty—and be his executioner. I turned away resolved to spare him the details of my mother’s death. I met Lady Catherine again upon the stairs, and she shrunk back from me as if I had been a viper. It gave me no pain—I was scarcely conscious of her presence.