Volume Two—Chapter Thirteen.
And Retires Behind a Cloud.
“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.
At last Glynne found words, and said hastily,—
“Mr Alleyne made a private communication to me. He said words that he must now regret. That is all. It was a mistake. Let us leave here. Take me to my father—at once.”
Rolph took Glynne’s hand, and drew it beneath his arm, glaring at Alleyne the while like some angry dog; but though Lucy stood there, fierce and excited, and longing to dash into the fray as she looked from Rolph to Glynne and back, her brother did not even raise his eyes. A strange thrill of rage, resentment and despair ran through him, but he could not trust himself to meet Rolph’s eye. He stood with his brow knit, motionless, as if stunned by the incidents of the past few minutes, and no words left his lips till he was alone with Lucy, who threw herself sobbing in his arms.