“Where is her child?” she murmured. “Where has she left her child? she had it in her arms yonder, when she stood by the door, and they say the mark of her footsteps hath been ever there, since then—but where is her child? has she killed her child?”
There were footsteps ascending the stairs. Edith turned in some fear to see who was approaching.
“Ha!” cried the wild, shrill voice. “She trembles before me—she fears mine eye. Thou coward, thou art lesser than I in thy very heaven. False heart! Craven! I laugh thee to scorn—thou canst not stand before me.”
The step drew near. Edith looked anxiously from the door; she scarcely heard the loud incoherent ravings of the sick woman’s voice. Through the open door of the ante-chamber she saw a man approaching—it was Sir Philip Dacre.
“Mistress Edith,” he exclaimed, hurriedly, “is my mother stricken? Ah, I trembled for this—and thou hast come to her in pity. God reward thee—for thou art like the angels of His own dwelling place.”
He hurried forward to the bedside.
“Art thou here, Philip?” said the raving Lady Dacre; “and did’st thou meet yonder coward flying from before me? She came to exult over me; she came to see me suffer; she, thou knowest, Edith, whom men say I helped to slay; but she feared mine eye, Philip; she remembered, the craven, how she was wont to quail before me, and she has fled!”
The lady raised herself and looked round once more.
“She is not gone? Edith—Edith—Philip, thou hast wept for her; she will go if thou dost bid her go.”
“Mother,” said Philip Dacre, earnestly, “mother, think of thyself now; there is none here but a mortal maiden of thine own kindred, who comes to help thee in mercy. Mother, let us tend you. When were you stricken? Oh! God, is there no hope?”