“You have no right to blame her, because she was perfectly blameless in the sight of Heaven.”

Berenice looked up in surprise, sighed and continued: 

“However that may be, Hannah, I am not her judge, and do not presume to arraign her.  May she rest in peace!  But her child!  Herman’s child! my child!  It is of him I wish to speak!  Oh, Hannah, give him to me!  I want him so much!  I long for him so intensely!  My heart warms to him so ardently!  He will be such a comfort, such a blessing, such a salvation to me, Hannah!  I will love him so well, and rear him so carefully, and make him so happy!  I will educate him, provide for all his wants, and give him a profession.  And if I am never reconciled to my husband—­” Here again her voice faltered and broke down; but after a dry sob, she resumed:  “If I am never reconciled to my husband, I will make his son my heir; for I hold all my large property in my own right, Hannah!  Say, will you give me my husband’s son?”

“But, my lady—­”

“Ah, do not refuse me!” interrupted the countess.  “I am so unhappy!  I am alone in the world, with no one for me to love, and no one to love me!”

“You have many blessings, madam.”

“I have rank and wealth and good looks, if you mean them.  But, ah! do you think they make a woman happy?”

“No, madam.”

“Listen, Hannah!  My poor father was an apostate to his faith.  My nation cast me off for being his daughter and for marrying a Christian.  My parents are dead.  My people are estranged.  My husband alienated.  But still I have one comfort and one hope!  My comfort is—­the—­the simple existence of my husband!  Yes, Hannah! alienated as he is, it is a comfort to me to know that he lives.  If it were not for that, I myself should die!  Oh, Hannah! it is common enough to talk of being willing to die for one we love!  It is easy to die—­much easier sometimes than to live:  the last is often very hard!  I will do more than die for my love:  I will live for him! live through long years of dreary loneliness, taking my consolation in rearing his son, if you will give me the boy, and hoping in some distant future for his return, when I can present his boy to him, and say to him:  ’If you cannot love me for my own sake, try to love me a little for his!’ Oh, Hannah! do not dash this last hope from me! give me the boy!”

Hannah bent her head in painful thought.  To grant Lady Hurstmonceux’s prayer would be to break her vow, by virtually acknowledging the parentage of Ishmael and betraying Herman Brudenell—­and without effecting any real good to the lady or the child, since in all human probability the child’s hours were already numbered.

“Hannah! will you speak to me?” pleaded Berenice.

“Yes, my lady.  I was wishing to speak to you all along; but you would not give me a chance.  If you had, my lady, you would not have been compelled to talk so much.  I wished to ask you then what I wish to ask you now:  What reason have you for thinking and speaking so ill of my sister as you do?”