"Miss Day! you here?" cried Alleyne, as she rose from her seat, and then
as each involuntarily shrank from the other, there was a dead silence in
the room--a silence so painful that the thick heavy breathing of the man
became perfectly audible, and the rustle of Glynne's dress, when she
drew back, seemed to be loud and strange.
Glynne had fully intended that the next time she encountered Alleyne she
would be perfectly calm, and would speak to him with the quietest and
most friendly ease. That which had passed was a folly, a blindness that
had been a secret in each of their hearts, for granting that which had
made its way to hers, she was womanly enough of perception to feel that
she had inspired Lucy's brother with a hopeless passion, one that he was
too true and honourable a gentleman ever to declare.
This was Glynne's belief; and, strong in her faith in self, she had
planned to act in the future so that Alleyne should find her Lucy's
cordial friend--a woman who should win his reverence so that she would
be for ever sacred in his eyes.
But she had not reckoned upon being thrown with him like this; and, as
he stood before her, there came a hot flush of shame to fill her cheeks,
her forehead and neck with colour, but only to be succeeded by a
freezing sensation of despair and dread, which sent the life-blood
coursing back to her very heart, leaving her trembling as if from some
sudden chill.
And Alleyne?
For weeks past he had been fighting to school his madness, as he called
it--his sacrilegious madness--for he told himself that Glynne should be
as sacred to him as if she were already Rolph's honoured wife, while
now, coming suddenly upon her as he had, and seeing the agitation which
his presence caused, every good resolution was swept away. He did not
see Rolph's promised wife before him; he did not see the woman whom he
had, in his inmost heart, vowed a hundred times to look upon as the idol
of some dream of love, an unsubstantial fancy, whom he could never see;
but she who stood there was Glynne Day, the woman who had just taught
him what it was to love. For all these years he had been the slave of
science. His every thought had been given to the work of his most
powerful mistress, and then the slave had revolted. Again and again he
had told himself that he had resumed his allegiance, that science was
his queen once more, and that he should never again stray from her
paths. That he had had his lesson, as men before him; but that he had
fought bravely, manfully, and conquered; and now, as soon as he stood in
presence of Glynne, his shallow defences were all swept away--he was at
her mercy.
As they stood gazing at each other, Alleyne made another effort.
"I will be strong--a man who can master self. I will not give way," he
said to himself; and even as he hugged these thoughts it was as if some
mocking voice were at his elbow, whispering to him these questions,--
"Was it right that this sweet, pure-minded woman, whose thoughts were
every day growing broader and higher, and who had taught him what it
really was to love, should become the wife of that thoughtless,
brainless creature, whose highest aim was to win the applause of a
senseless mob to the neglect of everything that was great and good?
"She loves you--she who was so calm and fancy free, has she not seemed
to open--unfold that pure chalice of her heart before you, to fill it to
the brim with thoughts of you? Has she not eagerly sought to follow,
however distantly, in your steps; read the books you advised; thirsted
for the knowledge that dropped from your lips; thrown aside the
trivialities of life to take to the solid sciences you love? And why--
why?--because she loves you."
Every promise self-made, every energetic determination to be stern in
his watch over self was forgotten in these moments; and it was only by a
strenuous effort that he mastered himself enough to keep back for the
time the flow of words that were thronging to his lips.
As it was, he walked straight to her, and caught her hand in his--a
cold, trembling hand, which Glynne felt that she could not draw back.
The stern commanding look in his eyes completely mastered her, and for
the moment she felt that she was his very slave.
"I must speak with you," he said, in a low, hoarse voice. "I cannot
talk here; come out beneath the sky, where the air is free and clear,
Glynne, I must speak with you now."
She made no reply, but yielded the hand he had caught in his and pressed
in his emotion, till it gave her intense pain, and walked by his side as
if fascinated. She was very pale now, and her temples throbbed, but no
word came to her lips. She could not speak.
Alleyne walked swiftly from the room, threw open the door, and led
Glynne past the window, and down one of the sloping paths, towards where
a seat had been placed during the past few months, never with the
intention of its being occupied by Glynne. While he spoke, and as they
were on their way, Lucy came back into the room.
"Pray forgive me, Glynne. I--Oh!" Lucy stopped short, with an
ejaculation full of surprise and pleasure. "It _is_ coming right!" she
exclaimed--"it is coming right! Oh, I must not listen to them. How
absurd. I could not hear them if I tried. I ought not to watch them
either. But I can't help it. It can't be very wrong. He's my own dear
brother, and I'm sure I love Glynne like a sister, and I'm sure I pray
that good may come of all this, for it would be madness for her to think
of keeping to her engagement with that dreadful--"
Lucy stopped short, with her eyes dilated and fixed. She had heard a
sound, and turned sharply to feel as if turned to stone; but long ere
this Glynne had been led by Alleyne to the seat, and silence had fallen
between them.
The same strange sensation of fascination was upon Glynne. She was
terror-stricken, and yet happy; she was ready to turn and flee the
moment the influence ceased to hold her there, but meanwhile she felt as
if in a dream, and allowed her companion to place her in the seat
beneath the clustering ivy, which was one mass of darkening berries,
while he stood before her with his hands clasped, his forehead wrinkled,
evidently the prey to some fierce emotion.
"He loves me," whispered Glynne's heart, and there was a sweet sensation
of joy to thrill her nerves, but only to be broken down the next moment
at the call of duty; and she sat motionless, listening as he said,
roughly and hoarsely,--
"I never thought to have spoken these word to you, Glynne. I believed
that I was master of myself. But they will come--I must tell you. I
should not--I feel I should not, but I must--I must. Glynne--forgive
me--have pity on me--I love you more than I can say."
The spell was broken as he caught her hands in his. The sense of being
fascinated had passed away, leaving Glynne Day in the full possession of
her faculties, and the thought of the duty she owed another, as she
started to her feet, saying words that came to her lips, not from her
heart, but she knew not how they were inspired, as she spoke with all
the angry dignity of an outraged woman.
"How dare you?" she exclaimed, in a tone that made him shrink from her.
"How dare you speak to me, your sister's friend, like this? It is an
insult, Mr Alleyne, and that you know."
"How dare I?" he cried, recovering himself. "An insult? No, no! you do
not mean this. Glynne, for pity's sake, do not speak to me such words
as these."
"Mr Alleyne, I can but repeat them," she said excitedly, "it is an
insult, or you must be mad."
"I thank you," he said, changing his tone of voice, and speaking calmly,
evidently by a tremendous effort over himself. "Yes, I must be mad--you
here?"
"Yes, I am here," cried Rolph fiercely, for he had come up behind them
unobserved with Lucy, who had vainly tried to stop him, following,
looking white, and trembling visibly. "What is the meaning of this?
Glynne, why are you here? What has this man been saying?"
There was no reply. Alleyne standing stern and frowning, and Glynne
looking wildly from one to the other unable to speak.
"I heard you say something about an insult," cried Rolph hotly; "has the
blackguard dared--"
"Take me back home, Robert," said Glynne, in a strangely altered voice.
"Then tell me first," cried Rolph. "How dare he speak to you, what does
he mean?"
He took hold of Glynne's arm, and shook it impatiently as he spoke, but
she made no reply, only looked wistfully from Rolph to Alleyne and back.
"Take me home," she said again.
"Yes, yes, I will; but if this scoundrel has--"
"How dare you call my brother a scoundrel?" cried Lucy, firing up. "You
of all persons in the world."
Rolph turned to her sharply, and she pointed down the path, towards the
gate.
"Go!" she said; "go directly, or I shall be tempted to tell Glynne all
that I could tell her. Leave our place at once."
Rolph glared at her for a moment, but turned from her directly, as too
insignificant for his notice, and once more he exclaimed,--
"I insist on knowing what this man has said to you, Glynne--"
He did not finish his sentence, but, in the brutality of his health and
strength, he looked with such lofty contempt upon the man whom he was
calling in his heart "grub," "bookworm," that as Alleyne stood there
bent and silent, gazing before him, straining every nerve to maintain
his composure before Glynne, the struggle seemed too hard.
How mean and contemptible he must look before her, he thought--how
degraded; and as he stood there silent and determined not to resent
Rolph's greatest indignity, his teeth were pressed firmly together, and
his veins gathered and knotted themselves in his brow.
There was something exceedingly animal in Rolph's aspect and manner at
this time, so much that it was impossible to help comparing him to an
angry combative dog. He snuffed and growled audibly; he showed his
teeth; and his eyes literally glared as he appeared ready to dash at his
enemy, and engage in a fierce struggle in defence of what he looked upon
as his just rights.
Had Alleyne made any sign of resistance, Rolph would have called upon
his brute force, and struck him; but the idea of resenting Rolph's
violence of word and look did not occur to Alleyne. He had sinned, he
felt, socially against Glynne; he had allowed his passion to master him,
and he told himself he was receiving but his due.
The painful scene was at last brought to an end, when once more Rolph
turned to Glynne, saying angrily,--
"Why don't you speak? Why don't you tell me what is wrong?"
He shook her arm violently, and as he spoke Alleyne felt a thrill of
passionate anger run through him that this man should dare to act thus,
and to address the gentle, graceful woman before him in such a tone. It
was maddening, and a prophetic instinct made him imagine the treatment
Glynne would receive when she had been this man's wife for years.