She ran to Mary and clung to her, sobbing out—
“Don’t—don’t leave me again, dear. Stay with me. I cannot bear it. Oh, Mary, Mary, I must have been mad—I must have been mad.”
“Hush, darling! Be calm; try and be calm.”
“Calm! You do not know—you do not know. Stop!” she cried wildly, as she saw Woodham cross gently towards the drawing-room door. “Don’t leave me. If you care for me now, pray stay.”
“Claude, dear, this is terrible,” said Mary firmly. “You are acting like a child.”
Claude sank upon her knees and buried her face in her cousin’s dress.
“Don’t think me cruel or unfeeling to you, but what can we do or say? You are Mr Glyddyr’s wife.”
“Yes, I know,” wailed Claude. Then, looking excitedly in her cousin’s face, “I did not know then. I was blind to it all. Mary, what have I done? Tell me—that man—he has married me—for the fortune—tell him to take all and set me free.”
“My own darling cousin,” whispered Mary, sinking upon her knees, to draw Claude’s face to her breast. “No, no, no; all that is impossible. This fit will pass off, and you must be brave and strong. Try and think, dear, of what you said. It was poor uncle’s wish.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” said Claude wearily; and she struggled to her feet, to throw herself into one of the lounges and sit wringing her hands involuntarily, dragging at one finger until the little golden circle, lately placed there, passed over the joint, and at last flew off, to fall trinkling in the fender.