“Is it true, Claire?” he murmured at last; “is it true, or some dreadful dream? My child! My child!”
Then his face grew convulsed with horror, as May turned her face towards him, and began speaking rapidly:
“Don’t, Louis—pray: don’t.—No: I am afraid.—Take me away quickly, dear.—No one will know, and I hate him so.—Little mean wretch!—They made me marry him, and I hate him more and more.—Hush!”
Denville groaned, and, as his head drooped upon his breast, Claire heard him murmur:
“Is it a judgment—is it a judgment for the past?”
She shivered as she listened to his words, but a quick movement and a low cry of pain made her bend over her sister again.
“Take me away,” she said, after a few moments; and her pinched face bore a look of terror that stabbed those who watched with an agonising pain. “I tell you I hate Frank, and I dare not meet poor Louis now. It is not he, but something from the dead. Claire—Claire—hold me. Sister, help! Don’t let me go. Am I going to die?”
“May, May!” whispered Claire soothingly, as she laid her cheek against the burning face; and the sick girl sighed, and made an effort to cling to her, but her feeble arm dropped heavily upon the coverlid.
“Don’t let Louis come now. Is that Frank? Is that—”
She wandered off, muttering quickly and incoherently as she threw her head from side to side for a time; and then, utterly exhausted, seemed to sleep.