‘Yes, Oliver; oh, dear Oliver, yes, yes,’ said the sick woman. ‘This is--my last night--on earth.’ She spoke with difficulty, pausing and panting between the words, her thin lips distended with a smile, the smile (he could not help remarking) that had always been a little artificial, poor girl! at her best. But even at that awful moment she was endeavouring to charm him still (he felt with horror) by the means which she supposed to have charmed him in the past. ‘Tell him, mother, tell him. I haven’t got--the strength.’ She put out her hands for his hand, which he could not refuse, though her touch made him shiver, and lay looking at him, smiling, with that awful attempt at fascination. He covered his eyes with his disengaged hand, half because of the horror in his soul, half that he might not see her face. ‘Mr. Wentworth,’ said the elder woman, ‘my poor child, sir, she’s got one wish--’ the bony hands closed upon his with a feeble, yet anxious pressure as this was said. ‘Yes; what is it? If it is anything I can do for her, tell me. I will do anything that can procure her a moment’s pleasure,’ he said. Fatal words to say! but he meant them fully--out of pity first, and also out of a burning desire, at any cost, to get away. Anything for that! He would have willingly given the half of what he possessed only to get away from this place--to return to the life he had left, to hear this woman’s name no more. Once more the wasted hands pressed his, and she gave a little cry. ‘I knowed it--always--mother. I told you.’ ‘Hush, hush, dear! Don’t you wear yourself out. You’ll want all your strength. Mr. Wentworth, I didn’t expect no less from a gentleman like you. If she hasn’t been all she might have been, poor dear! though I don’t want to blame you, sir, you’re not the one as should say a word--for it was all out of love for you.’ Wentworth had it not in him to be cruel, but he drew his hand almost roughly from between the girl’s feverish hands. ‘What is the use of entering into such a question?’ he said. ‘I do not blame her. Let the past alone. What can I do for her now?’ He had risen up, determined to make his escape at all hazards--but the little cry she gave had so much pain in it that his heart was touched. He sat down again, and patted softly the poor hand that lay on the coverlet. ‘My poor girl, I don’t want to hurt you,’ he said. ‘You mustn’t be harsh to her,’ said the mother. ‘How would you like to think that poor thing had gone miserable out of this world to complain of you, sir, before the Throne? Not as she’d have the heart to do it, for she thinks there is no one like you, whatever you may say to her. Mr. Wentworth, there’s just one thing you can do for her. Make an honest woman of her, sir, before she dies.’