“No,” he said, drawing her to him, and once more kissing her brow. “I only see the sweet, true woman who has been a martyr—I only see my love.”
She did not speak for a few moments: and then the vacant manner returned somewhat, as she said to him, laying her hand upon his arm:
“I seemed drawn here. I could not help it. That would be too horrible. Take me back.”
He drew her arm once more through his, and led her up the steps and back to the Barclays’ house, where he paused upon the steps.
“Always yours, Claire. I am going to work again in your service. I am yours, and yours alone.”
She shook her head sadly as the door was opened by Mrs Barclay, who shrank back with a smile to let both enter; but Claire glided in, and Richard Linnell remained.
“I am glad,” whispered Mrs Barclay. “Why don’t you come in?”
“Hush!” he whispered. “Poor girl! she is half mad with her misery. Mrs Barclay, you must not let her go out of your sight. Good-night. Good-night.”
He walked rapidly away, and Mrs Barclay followed Claire into the dining-room, where the poor girl was kneeling by a chair and weeping bitterly for the lost love that she felt could never be hers; but as she wept the tears seemed to give rest and lightness to her over-taxed brain, and at last she sank fast asleep like a weary child, her head upon her old friend’s lap, and her breathing coming more regularly and deep than at any time since the night of the murder.