"Poor thing! poor, poor thing! so young and so perfectly crazy!"
muttered Hannah, looking at the countess with blended pity and fear.
"Come, Hannah, show me my son, and have done with this!" said the
visitor, rising.
"Don't, my lady; don't go on in this way; you know you have no son; be
good, now, and tell me if you really are the Countess of Hurstmonceux;
or if not, tell me who you are, and where you live, and let me take you
back to your friends," pleaded Hannah, taking her visitor by the hands.
"Oh, there he is now!" exclaimed the countess, shaking Hannah off, and
going towards the bed where she saw the babe lying.
Hannah sprang after her, clasped her around the waist, and holding her
tightly, cried out in terror: "Don't, my lady! for Heaven's sake, don't hurt the child! He is such a
poor little mite; he cannot live many days; he must die, and it will be
a great blessing that he does; but still, for all that, I mustn't see
him killed before my very face. No, you shan't, my lady! you shan't go
anigh him! You shan't, indeed!" exclaimed Hannah, as the countess
struggled once to free herself.
"How dare you hold me?" exclaimed Berenice.
"Because I am strong enough to do so, my lady, without your leave! And
because you are not yourself, my lady, and you might kill the child,"
said Hannah resolutely enough, though, to tell the truth, she was
frightened almost out of her senses.
"Not myself? Are you crazy, woman?" indignantly demanded Berenice.
"No, my lady, but you are! Oh, do try to compose your mind, or you may
do yourself a mischief!" pleaded Hannah.
Berenice suddenly ceased to struggle, and became perfectly quiet. Hannah
was resolved not to be deceived, and held her firmly as ever.
"Hannah," said the countess, "I begin to see how it is that you think me
mad. You, a Christian maid, and I, a Jewish matron, do not understand
each other. We think, and look, and speak from different points of view.
You think I mean to say that the child upon the bed is the son of my own
bosom!"
"You said so, my lady."
"No, I said he was my son--I meant my son by marriage and by adoption."
"I do not understand you, madam."
"Well, I fear you don't. I will try to explain. He is"--the lady's voice
faltered and broke down--"he is my husband's son, and so, his mother
being dead, he becomes mine," breathed Berenice, in a faint voice.