"You must not be so sensitive, my dear," she said. "How will you get through life if you feel for everybody's trouble in this fashion? Of course we are all deeply grieved for the young man, but he is nothing to us."
Her words fell on dulled ears and an unconscious brain; the girl, still holding her lover's hand, turned her face to the wall. She had not been able to collect her thoughts—they were in a state of chaos. Of all that crowded upon her, that seemed to burn into her brain, that crushed and crowded like living figures around her, one stood out clear, distinct, and terrible—Claude was innocent, and no one in the world knew it but herself. Look where she would, these words seemed to be before her, in great red letters—"No one but myself!" She turned her white face suddenly to Adrian Darcy:
"If they find him guilty," she asked, "what will they do to him?"
"If he is guilty, he will pay for the crime with his life. But now, Cynthy, you must not think so intently of this. Try to forget it for a little time."
Forget it! Ah, if he knew? When should she forget again?
"He is innocent, and no one in the world knows it but myself, and no one else can prove it."
Over and over again she said the words; it seemed to her they had bewitched her. As soon as she had finished them, she began the terrible phrase over again. Then the darkness seemed to fall over her. When she raised her eyes again, Adrian was reading to her. She tried hard to grasp the sense of what he was saying. She tried to understand the words, but they were like a dull distant sound—not one was plain or distinct to her.
"I must be going mad," she thought, starting up in wild affright; and then Adrian's arms were encircling her. He could feel the terrible beating of her heart; he could see the awful fear in her face.
"My dearest Hyacinth," he said gently, "you must not give way to this nervous fear—you will do yourself harm."