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.”