She wrung her hands in feverish distress.  Urged by passionate feelings of various kinds, and also by his desire to quench the agitation which was doing her harm, Philip spoke, hardly knowing what he said.

‘Kinraid’s dead, I tell yo’, Sylvie!  And what kind of a woman are yo’ to go dreaming of another man i’ this way, and taking on so about him, when yo’re a wedded wife, with a child as yo’ve borne to another man?’

In a moment he could have bitten out his tongue.  She looked at him with the mute reproach which some of us see (God help us!) in the eyes of the dead, as they come before our sad memories in the night-season; looked at him with such a solemn, searching look, never saying a word of reply or defence.  Then she lay down, motionless and silent.  He had been instantly stung with remorse for his speech; the words were not beyond his lips when an agony had entered his heart; but her steady, dilated eyes had kept him dumb and motionless as if by a spell.

Now he rushed to the bed on which she lay, and half knelt, half threw himself upon it, imploring her to forgive him; regardless for the time of any evil consequences to her, it seemed as if he must have her pardon—­her relenting—­at any price, even if they both died in the act of reconciliation.  But she lay speechless, and, as far as she could be, motionless, the bed trembling under her with the quivering she could not still.

Philip’s wild tones caught the nurse’s ears, and she entered full of the dignified indignation of wisdom.

‘Are yo’ for killing yo’r wife, measter?’ she asked.  ’She’s noane so strong as she can bear flytin’ and scoldin’, nor will she be for many a week to come.  Go down wi’ ye, and leave her i’ peace if yo’re a man as can be called a man!’

Her anger was rising as she caught sight of Sylvia’s averted face.  It was flushed crimson, her eyes full of intense emotion of some kind, her lips compressed; but an involuntary twitching overmastering her resolute stillness from time to time.  Philip, who did not see the averted face, nor understand the real danger in which he was placing his wife, felt as though he must have one word, one responsive touch of the hand which lay passive in his, which was not even drawn away from the kisses with which he covered it, any more than if it had been an impassive stone.  The nurse had fairly to take him by the shoulders, and turn him out of the room.

In half an hour the doctor had to be summoned.  Of course, the nurse gave him her version of the events of the afternoon, with much animus against Philip; and the doctor thought it his duty to have some very serious conversation with him.

’I do assure you, Mr. Hepburn, that, in the state your wife has been in for some days, it was little less than madness on your part to speak to her about anything that could give rise to strong emotion.’

‘It was madness, sir!’ replied Philip, in a low, miserable tone of voice.  The doctor’s heart was touched, in spite of the nurse’s accusations against the scolding husband.  Yet the danger was now too serious for him to mince matters.