The Star-Gazers Part 55

"No need?" exclaimed Lucy with a gasp; and she looked quite guilty, as she bent towards Glynne ready to burst into tears, and confess that she was very very sorry for what she had done--that she utterly detested Captain Rolph, and that if she had seemed to encourage him, it was in the interest of her brother and friend.

But Glynne's calm matter-of-fact manner kept her back, and she sat and stared with her pretty little face expressing puzzledom in every line.

"No; I do not care to talk about it," said Glynne calmly, "there is no need to discuss that which is settled."

"Settled, Glynne?"

"Well, inevitable," said Glynne coldly. "When am I to congratulate you, Lucy?" she added, with a grave smile.

"Is she bantering me?" thought Lucy; and then quickly, "Congratulate me?

there is not much likelihood of that, Glynne, dear. Poor girls without portion or position rarely find husbands."

"Indeed!" said Glynne gravely. "Surely a portion, as you call it, is not necessary for genuine happiness?"

"No, no, of course not, dear," cried Lucy hastily. "But I know what you mean, and I'll answer you. No--emphatically no: there is n.o.body."

"n.o.body?"

"n.o.body!" cried Lucy, shaking her head vigorously. "Don't look at me like that, dear," she continued, imploringly, for she was most earnest now in her effort to make Glynne believe, if she suspected any flirtation with Rolph, that her old friend was speaking in all sincerity and truth. "If there were anything, dear, I should be unsettled until I had told you."

She rose quickly, laid her hands upon Glynne's shoulders, and kissed her forehead, remaining standing by her side.

"I am glad to hear you say so, Lucy," replied Glynne, gazing frankly in her eyes, "for I was afraid that there was some estrangement springing up between us."

"Yes," cried Lucy, "you feel as I have felt. It is because you have not spoken out candidly and freely as you used to speak to me, dear."

Glynne's forehead contracted slightly, for she winced a little before the charge, one which recalled a bitter struggle through which she had pa.s.sed, and the final conquest which she felt that she had gained.

She opened her lips to speak, but no words came, for as often as friends.h.i.+p for Lucy urged confession, shame acted as a bar, and stopped the eager speech that was ready for escape.

No: she felt she could not speak. A cloud had come for a time across her life; but it was now gone, and she was at rest. She could not--she dared not tell Lucy her inmost thoughts, for if she did she knew that she would be condemning herself to a hard fight with a special advocate, one who would gain an easy victory in a cause which she dreaded to own had the deepest sympathy of her heart.

Just at that moment Eliza entered hastily.

"Oh, if you please, Miss, I'm very sorry, but--"

The girl stopped short. She had made up her speech on her way to the room, but had forgotten the presence of the visitor, so she broke down, with her mouth open, feeling exceedingly shamefaced and guilty, for she knew that the simple domestic trouble about which she had come was not one that ought to be blurted forth before company.

"Will you excuse me, dear?" said Lucy, and, crossing to Eliza, she followed that young lady out of the room, to hear the history of a disaster in the cooking department; some ordinary preparation, expressly designed for that most unthankful of partakers, Moray Alleyne, being spoiled.

Hardly had Lucy left her alone, and Glynne drawn a breath of relief at having time given to compose herself, than a shadow crossed the window, there was a quick step outside, and the next moment there was a hand upon the gla.s.s door that led out towards the observatory, as Alleyne entered the room.

Volume 2, Chapter XIII.

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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sion, 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, hoa.r.s.e 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 e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n 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 cl.u.s.tering ivy, which was one ma.s.s 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 hoa.r.s.ely,--

"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 pa.s.sed 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?"