She clung to him desperately.
“Féodor!—Féodor!” she cried—“My son,—my only child! You shall not blame me,—me, your mother! I love you, Féodor!—and love teaches many things! Oh, my son!—you have drawn from your science something that is not of this world!—something that has no feeling—no emotion!—this creature of your making is not Diana!”
As she spoke her face grew livid,—she beat the air with her feeble old hands, as though she fought some invisible foe, and fell in a dead faint.
Quickly Dimitrius lifted her in his arms, and laid her on the sofa in Diana’s sitting-room. Diana came to his aid, and deftly and tenderly bathed her forehead and hands with cool water. When she showed signs of returning consciousness Diana said whisperingly:
“I will go now! She must not be frightened again—she must not see me when she wakes. You understand? Poor, dear old lady! She imagines I am not human, and she has told me I shall be your doom!” She smiled. “Do you think I shall?”
Her loveliness shone upon him like a light too brilliant to endure. His heart beat furiously, but he would not look at her,—he bent his head over his mother’s passive figure, busying himself with restoratives,—and answered nothing.
She waited a minute,—then added—“You will arrange for my leaving here as soon as possible? After what she has said, it will be best for your mother that I should go at once.”
Then, and then only, he lifted his dark eyes,—they were sad and strained.
“I will arrange everything,” he said. “No doubt the sooner we part, the better!”
She smiled again,—then moved swiftly away into her bedroom and locked the door. Slowly Madame Dimitrius recovered and looked around her with an alarmed expression.