Alleyne paused for a few moments, and, as Glynne’s hands once more, tremblingly and with a pleading gesture, stole to his breast, his, cold and dank in their touch, slowly pressed them to his heart, and held them there.
“Guilty,” he murmured, “but for your sake, dearest, and there must be forgiveness. For my love was strong, and the maddening feeling within me burned, as in my rage I tore on after the dark shadow that was hurrying away.”
He was silent again for a few minutes, and once more Glynne’s head went down till her forehead rested upon the cold, dank hands which prisoned hers against the labouring heart beneath.
He spoke again, hurriedly and excitedly now, but the coherency of his narrative was at an end.
“Some day,” he babbled hurriedly, “she shall know—my sweet, pure angel—what—who says that?—a lie—pure—pure as heaven above. No—never take her hand in mine—a murderer’s hand.—Hah! dog—at last. Mother—Lucy—it has eaten my heart away—what do you say—her disgrace? I tell you she is pure as those above—but there is his blood upon my hands. I cannot—dare not go to her now. What—they have found him? Yes, I know you—Caleb Kent—no use to struggle—there—wretch—venomous hound—down into the black slime. Dead? Who said that? I did not know till I loosened my grasp. There, amongst the cotton rushes—my hands all wet and numbed—blood? No, the cold, black bog water. I killed him—I did not know till he was dead, mother. There, dear, I have told you. Nearly two years now. Let them find him. For her sake I could not speak. Can you say, dear, that it was guilt? There—some day she must know—some day, when we are old and grey, and life’s passions have burned to their sad, grey ashes, and once more I can tell her how I loved.”
He was silent again, and Glynne tried to raise her head, but he held it fast pressed down to his labouring breast. Then, feebly and hurriedly, he went on,—“These figures—all wrong—I cannot—so vast—so grand. Who’s this?”
“I, Moray, my own, own love,” she whispered, as she clung to him wildly now. “Ah!”
One long, deep sigh of content. “Some day—I must tell you—but look—there—so far—so vast—so grand—the dazzling stars—the tiny glittering point—then the faint golden dust—and beyond—the infinite. Who spoke? Glynne? Forgive me, dear—I loved you—so—”
“Help! help!”
Wild, agonised shrieks, and there were hurried footsteps. Mother, sister, and a light, which gleamed upon dilated eyes, gazing straight up into the infinite he had so long tried to pierce.