Teresa grovelled and groaned at her feet. Those ferocious hands that had laid the slanderer prostrate on the floor, feebly beat her bosom and her gray head. “Oh, Saints beloved of God! Oh, blessed Virgin, mother of Christ, spare my child, my sweet child!” She rose in wild despair—she seized Benjulia, and madly shook him. “Who are you? How dare you touch her? Give her to me, or I’ll be the death of you. Oh, my Carmina, is it sleep that holds you? Wake! wake! wake!”
“Listen to me,” said Benjulia, sternly.
She dropped on the sofa by Carmina’s side, and lifted one of the cold clenched hands to her lips. The tears fell slowly over her haggard face. “I am very fond of her, sir,” she said humbly. “I’m only an old woman. See what a dreadful welcome my child gives to me. It’s hard on an old woman—hard on an old woman!”
His self-possession was not disturbed—even by this.
“Do you know what I am?” he asked. “I am a doctor. Leave her to me.”
“He’s a doctor. That’s good. A doctor’s good. Yes, yes. Does the old man know this doctor—the kind old man?” She looked vacantly for Mr. Gallilee. He was bending over his wife, sprinkling water on her deathly face.
Teresa got on her feet, and pointed to Mrs. Gallilee. “The breath of that She-Devil poisons the air,” she said. “I must take my child out of it. To my place, sir, if you please. Only to my place.”
She attempted to lift Carmina from the sofa—and drew back, breathlessly watching her. Her rigid face faintly relaxed; her eyelids closed, and quivered.
Mr. Gallilee looked up from his wife. “Will one of you help me?” he asked. His tone struck Benjulia. It was the hushed tone of sorrow—no more.
“I’ll see to it directly.” With that reply, Benjulia turned to Teresa. “Where is your place?” he said. “Far or near?”