For a moment or two she lay muttering sounds which seemed to have no meaning; but at length she said, distinctly enough, "Is that Philip Hastings?"
"Yes, my poor woman," said the baronet; "is there any thing I can do for you?"
"Come nearer, come nearer," she replied, "I cannot see you plainly."
"I am close to you, nevertheless," he answered. "I am touching the bed on which you lie."
"Let me feel you," continued she—"give me your hand."
He did as she asked him; and holding by his hand, she made a great struggle to raise herself in bed; but she could not, and lay exhausted for a minute before she spoke again.
At length, however, she raised her voice louder and shriller than before—"May a curse rest upon this hand and upon that head!" she exclaimed; "may the hand work its own evil, and the head its own destruction! May the child of your love poison your peace, and make you a scoff, and a by-word, and a shame! May the wife of your bosom perish by——"
But Sir Philip Hastings withdrew his hand suddenly, and an unwonted flush came upon his cheek.
"For shame!" he said, in a low stern tone, "for shame!"
The next moment, however, he recovered himself perfectly; and turning to the nurse he added, "Poor wretch! my presence only seems to excite evil feelings which should long have passed away, and are not fit counsellors for the hour of death. If there be any thing which can tend to her bodily comfort that the hall can supply, send up for it. The servants have orders. Would that any thing could be done for her spiritual comfort; for this state is terrible to witness."