“No, no, no,” cried Glynne, flinging her arms round Mrs Alleyne; “it is not true—he is not dying—he shall not die, for I love him; I love him with all my weary heart.”
“You?” cried Mrs Alleyne, striving to free herself from the frantic grasp that was about her.
“Yes; I—even now,” cried Glynne, rising and clinging to her firmly; “it is true that I loved him from the first. How could I help loving one so wise and true?”
“And yet you trifled with him,” cried Mrs Alleyne fiercely.
“No; it was with my own heart,” sobbed Glynne, “I did not know. What could I do? You know all. I seemed to wake at last standing upon the brink of an abyss;” and then, “Mrs Alleyne, is there to be no pardon for such as I? Was my act such a crime in the sight of Heaven that the rest of my life was to be blasted, for he loved me—he loved me with all his heart.”
Mrs Alleyne shuddered and shrank away. “Are you, too, pitiless?” cried Glynne. “You must know all—how he loved me, and loves me still. Has he told you all?”
“Told me—all? What do you mean?”
“Must I speak to you?” whispered Glynne hoarsely, as she sank upon her knees and clung to Mrs Alleyne’s dress, “I would have given the world to go back upon my promise, for I knew how he loved me, but in my blindness I said it was too late.”
“Yes; it was too late,” said Mrs Alleyne coldly. “But you will let me see him. Let me go to him. I ask no more. Let me be at his side, for it may be that I can save his life. Then—send me away, and let me have but one thought—that I have given life to him I loved. Mrs Alleyne, have I not suffered enough? Have some pity on me. Have pity on your son.”
Mrs Alleyne caught her by the shoulder and drew her nearer, so that she could gaze into the thin, white face; and, as she studied its lines of care, her fierce look softened, and she caught Glynne tightly to her breast, sobbing over her wildly, and crying from time to time, “My child!—my poor child!”