Rylton presses her to him.  It is an involuntary movement, the action of one who would succour another when in trouble.  His face has lost all colour.  He is indeed as white as death.  He holds her.  His arms are round her—­round this woman he has loved so long; it is—­it must be a supreme moment—­and yet—­

He lays his hands upon her arms, and putting her gently back from him gazes into her drenched eyes.  Those eyes so dear, so lustrous.  How often has he looked into them, when,

    “Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again!”

“Marian,” says he.  His tone is tenderness itself, yet there is now a sudden strength in it that astonishes him. She had had all the strength in those old days.  She had dominated him, subduing him by her beauty, her charm.  The charm is there still—­he knows that as he gazes into her deep eyes, but is it quite as potent?  A year ago would she have been standing before him, looking at him as she is looking now with this ineffable passion in her gaze whilst he stood too?  No.  He would have been at her feet, her slave, her lover, to do with as she would.  “Marian, is this wise?”

“Ah! one moment!” entreats she sadly.  “It is so seldom I can see you alone, and this blessed chance—­will you refuse it?  You saw how I dared everything.  How I even risked her suspicion.  It was because I felt I should see—­should speak with you again.”

“You should consider yourself,” says he in a dull tone.

He hardly understands himself.  Where is the old, wild longing to be with her, when others are away, to hold her in his arms?  To kiss her lips—­dear willing lips?

“What do I care about myself?” returns she vehemently.  Her passion has so carried her with it, that she has failed to see the new wonder in his air, the chill, the lack of warmth, the secret questioning.  “Ah, Maurice, forgive me!  It is so like you to think of me before yourself.  And I know one must think.  But will it be always so?  Is there no chance, no hope—­of freedom for you and me?  You are rich now, and if—­if——­”

“Don’t,” says he, in a choked tone.

He almost pushes her from him, but she clings to him.

“I know—­I know,” says she.  “It is a dishonourable thought, but thoughts will come.  And you——­” She catches him by both arms, and swaying her little body a little, compels his gaze to meet hers.  “They come to you, too,” cries she in a low tone, soft as velvet, but quick with fervour.  “You, too, long for freedom.  Do I not know you, Maurice?  Do I not believe in you?  You are mine—­mine!  Oh how I honour you, for your honour to her! I think you are the one good man I ever met.  If I loved you before your marriage, I love you a thousand times better since.  You are mine, and I am yours.  And we must wait—­wait—­but not for long.  That girl——­”

He releases himself from her by a quick, almost infuriated gesture.  At the very instant of his doing so the sound of footsteps coming along the corridor without can be heard.  Mrs. Bethune steps quickly to a side-door, and passes noiselessly into a passage that leads her to a back staircase.  As she runs along it softly, noiselessly, a great swell of delight lifts her bosom.