The woman threw up her hands and reeled. In another instant she would have fallen, but Huish stepped forward, caught her in his arms, and bore her out of the room, carrying her down to the next floor, while Gertrude, as she heard his receding steps, sank into a chair, and gazed blankly before her.
She started up though, as Huish returned with a smile upon his face, and closed and locked the door.
“Poor thing!” he said lightly; “I am sorry she came up. Ill, you know. Her baby. Reason temporarily gone. She accuses everybody like that.”
“John,” cried Gertrude, trembling, “cannot understand you to-night: you are so strange and unlike yourself. Is what that poor creature says true? Oh, I cannot bear to hear such words!”
“True? is it likely?” he said, approaching her. “Why, are you not my little wife?”
“Yes, yes!” cried Gertrude, shrinking from him; “but tell—”
She stopped short, gazing at him wonderingly. Her hands went to her dilating eyes, and as the light of the lamp fell for the first time full upon him now, she uttered a cry of horror, her face became convulsed, and she ran to the door.
“It is not—” she paused wildly.
“Are you mad, too?” he cried, pursuing her and catching her wrists.
“Yes—no—I don’t know,” she cried excitedly. “Don’t touch me. I cannot bear it.”