It came like a surprise to Lucy one morning to receive a note from Glynne, written in a playful, half-chiding strain, full of reproach, and charging her with forgetting so old a friend.
“When it’s all her fault!” exclaimed Lucy, as she read on, to find Glynne was coming on that afternoon. “But Captain Rolph is sure to come with her, and that will spoil all. I declare I’ll go out. No, I won’t. I’ll stop, and I’ll be a martyr again, and stay and talk to him if it will make poor Moray happy, for I don’t care what becomes of me now.”
Somehow, though, Lucy looked very cheerful that day, her eyes flashing with excitement; and it was evident that she was making plans for putting into execution at the earliest opportunity.
As it happened, Mrs Alleyne announced that she was going over to the town on business, and directly after the early dinner a chaise hired from one of the farmers was brought round, and the dignified lady took her place beside the boy who was to drive.
“Heigho!” sighed Lucy, as she stood watching the gig with its clumsy, ill-groomed horse, and the shock-headed boy who drove, and compared the turnout with the spic-and-span well-ordered vehicles that were in use at Brackley; and then she went down the garden thinking how nice it was to have money, or rather its products, and of how sad it was that Moray’s pursuits should always be making such heavy demands upon their income, and never pay anything back.
In spite of the dreariness of the outer walls of the house, the garden at The Firs had its beauties.
It was not without its claims to be called a wilderness still, but it was a pleasant kind of wilderness now, since it had been put in order, for it sloped down as steeply as the scarped side of some fortified town, and from the zigzagged paths a splendid view could be had over the wild common in fine weather, though it was a look-out over desolation in the wintry wet.
For a great change had been wrought in this piece of ground since Moray had delved in it, and bent his back to weed and fill barrows with the accumulated growth of years. There was quite a charm about the place, and the garden seat or two, roughly made out of rustic materials, had been placed in the most tempting of positions, shaded by the old trees that had been planted generations back, but which the sandy soil had kept stunted and dense.
But the place did not charm Lucy; it only made her feel more desolate and low spirited, for turn which way she would, she knew that while the rough laborious work had been done by her brother, Oldroyd’s was the brain that had suggested all the improvements, his the hand that had cut back the wild tangle of brambles, that overgrown mass of ivy, placed the chairs and seats in these selected nooks where the best views could be had, and nailed up the clematis and jasmine that the western gales had torn from their hold.
Go where she would, there was something to remind her of Oldroyd, and at last she grew, in spite of her self-command, so excited that she stopped short in dismay.
“I shall make myself ill,” she cried, half aloud; “and if I am ill, mamma will send for Mr Oldroyd; and, oh!”
Lucy actually blushed with anger, and then turned pale with dread, as in imagination she saw herself turned into Philip Oldroyd’s patient, and being ordered to put out her tongue, hold forth her hand that her pulse might be felt, and have him coming to see her once, perhaps twice, every day.
With the customary inconsistency of young ladies in her state, she exclaimed, in an angry tone, full of protestation, —
“Oh, it would be horrible!” and directly after she hurried indoors.
In due time Glynne arrived, and sent the pony carriage back, saying that she would walk home.
It was a long time since she had visited at The Firs, for of late the thought of Moray Alleyne’s name and his observatory had produced a strange shrinking sensation in Glynne’s breast, and it was not until she had mentally accused herself of having behaved very badly to Lucy in neglecting her so much that she had made up her mind to drive over; but now that the girls did meet the greeting between them was very warm, and the embrace in which they indulged long and affectionate.
“Why, you look pale, Glynne, dear,” cried Lucy, forgetting her own troubles, in genuine delight at seeing her old friend as in the days of their great intimacy.
“And you, Lucy, you are quite thin,” retorted Glynne. “You are not ill?”
“Oh, no!” cried Lucy, laughing. “I was never better; but, really, Glynne, you don’t seem quite well.”
Glynne’s reply was as earnest an assurance that she never enjoyed better health than at that present moment; and as she made this assurance she was watching Lucy narrowly, and thinking that, on the strength of the rumours she had heard from time to time, she ought to be full of resentment and dislike for her old friend, while, strange to say, she felt nothing of the kind.
“Mamma will be so sorry that she was away, Glynne,” said Lucy at last, in the regular course of conversation. “She likes you so very much.”
“Does she?” said Glynne, dreamily.
“Oh yes; she talks about you a great deal, but Moray somehow never mentions your name.”
“Indeed!” said Glynne quietly, “why should he?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Lucy, watching her anxiously, and wondering whether she knew how often Captain Rolph had met her out in the lanes, and by the common side. “He seemed to like you so very much, and to take such great interest in you when you used to meet.”
Lucy watched her friend curiously, but Glynne’s countenance did not tell of the thoughts that were busy within her brain.
“Poor fellow!” continued Lucy, “he thinks of scarcely anything but his studies.”
Lucy was very fond of Glynne, she felt all the young girlish enthusiasm of her age for the graceful statuesque maiden; while in her heart of hearts Glynne had often wished she were as bright and light-hearted and merry as Lucy. All the same though, now, excellent friends as they were, there was suspicion between them, and dread, and a curious self-consciousness of guilt that made the situation feel strange; and over and over again Glynne thought it was time to go – that she had better leave, and still she stayed.
“You never say anything to me now about your engagement, dear,” said Lucy at last, and as the words left her lips the guilty colour flushed into her cheeks, and she said to herself, “Oh! how dare I say such a thing?”
“No,” said Glynne, quietly and calmly, opening her great eyes widely and gazing full in those of her friend, but seeing nothing of the present, only trying to read her own life in the future, what time she felt a strange sensation of wonder at her position. “No: I never talk about it to any one,” she said at last; “there is no need.”
“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 nobody.”
“Nobody?”
“Nobody!” 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 passed, 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 friendship 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 glass door that led out towards the observatory, as Alleyne entered the room.
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.
End of Volume TwoVolume Three – Chapter One.
Gemini, with Mars in View
With his grey hair starting out all over his head in a peculiarly fierce way, Major Day was standing and musing just at the edge of the wood, and a few yards from the path, very busy with one of those tortoise-shell framed lenses so popular with botanists, one of those with its three glasses of various powers, which, when superposed, form a combination of great magnifying strength.
Major Day had come upon a tree whose beautifully smooth bark was dappled with patches of brilliant amethystine fungus, a portion of which he had carefully slipped off with a penknife, for the purpose of examining the peculiarities of its structure under the glass.
The old gentleman was so rapt in his pursuit that he did not notice approaching footsteps till Sir John came close up, making holes in the soft earth with his walking-stick, and talking angrily to himself as he hurried along.
The brothers caught sight of each other almost at the same moment, Sir John stopping short and sticking his cane in the ground, as if to anchor himself, and the major slowly lowering his lens.
“Hullo, Jem, what have you found?” cried Sir John; “the potato disease?”
“No,” replied the major, smiling, “only a very lovely kind of Tremella.”
“Oh, have you?” growled Sir John.
“Yes. Would you like to examine it?” said the major.
“Who, I? No thank you, old fellow, I’m busy.”
“Where are you going, Jack?” said the major, as a thought just occurred to him.
“Over yonder – ‘The Firs.’”
“To Fort Science, eh?” said the major, smiling; but only to look serious again directly. “Why, Jack, what for? Why are you going?”
“There, there, don’t interfere, Jem; it would not interest you. Precious unpleasant business, I can tell you. I must go, though.”
“What is the matter, Jack?”
“There, there, my dear fellow, what is the use of worrying me about it. Go on hunting for pezizas, or whatever you call them. This is a domestic matter, and doesn’t concern you.”
“Yes it does concern me, Jack,” replied the major. “You are going about that communication which Rolph made to us last night after dinner.”
