“Married!” she said hoarsely. “Are you his wife—to-day?”
“Oh no!” said Gertrude wonderingly; “for some time now. You are ill and delicate. Can I do anything for you?”
“No, no—no, no! Don’t touch me; I could not bear it. Tell me once more.”
“Here, enough of this!” cried Huish angrily. “Go down!”
“Don’t touch her,” said Gertrude excitedly; and she interposed. “She is ill—very ill. I am Mrs John Huish,” she repeated.
“The woman he has wronged?”
“No, no!” said Gertrude, beginning to tremble, as she thought of the scene upon the stairs; “but you are—”
“That man’s lawful wife, whom he now casts aside for some pretty baby face that takes his fancy.”
“It is not true!” cried Gertrude with spirit; “my husband is a gentleman and the soul of honour.”
“It is true! and that man is a liar—a cheat—a scoun—O God, I cannot bear it! Let me die!”