The Star-Gazers Part 61

"Oh!" sighed Lucy, with an expiration that betokened intense relief.

"I have not yet spoken to Moray, but I feel that it is my duty to tell him all, and to bid him call Captain Rolph to account for what looks to me like a very ungentlemanly pursuit, and one that you must have encouraged."

Lucy wanted to exclaim that she had not encouraged him; but here her conscience interposed, and she remained silent, while Mrs Alleyne went on in her cold, austere manner.

"Far be it from me," she said, "to wish to check any natural impulses of your young life. It might cause a feeling akin to jealousy, but I should not murmur, Lucy, at your forming some attachment. I should even rejoice if Moray were to love and marry some sweet girl. It would work a change in him and drive away the strange morbid fancies which he shows at times. But clandestine proceedings with such an offensive, repellent person as that Captain Rolph I cannot countenance. I'm sure when Moray knows--"

"But Moray must not know, mamma."

"And pray why not, Lucy?"

"Has he not been ill and troubled enough without being made anxious about such a piece of nonsense as this?"

"But I am hearing of it from all sides; and, see here."

Mrs Alleyne handed a letter to her daughter, and Lucy turned it over in her trembling fingers while she stood flushed and indignant before her mother.

"All I can say is," said Mrs Alleyne, "that if you have carried on this wretched flirtation with the betrothed of the girl you called your friend, it is most disgraceful."

"I tell you again, mamma, it is not true," cried Lucy pa.s.sionately.

"Oh, why will you not believe me!"

"Read that letter," said Mrs Alleyne sternly.

Lucy's eyes fell upon the paper, and then she s.n.a.t.c.hed them away, but only to look at it again and read the stereotyped form of anonymous letter from a true friend, asking whether Mrs Alleyne was aware that her daughter was in the habit of meeting Captain Rolph at night, etc., etc., etc.

"How can anyone write such a scandalous untruth!" cried Lucy pa.s.sionately; "and it is cruel--cruel in the extreme of you, mamma, to think for a moment that it is true."

"That what is true?" said a deep, grave voice.

Mother and daughter turned quickly to see that Alleyne had come in during their altercation, and he now stretched out his hand for the letter.

Lucy looked up in the white, stern face, almost with a fright, and then shrinkingly, as if he were her judge, placed the letter in his hands, and shrank back to watch his countenance, as he read it slowly through, weighing every word before turning to Mrs Alleyne.

"Did you receive this?" he said.

"Yes, Moray; but I did not mean to let it trouble you, my son."

"Leave Lucy with me for a few minutes, mother," said Alleyne sternly.

"But, Moray, my son--"

"I wish it, mother," he said coldly; and, taking her hand, he was about to lead her to the door, but he altered his mind, and, with old-fas.h.i.+oned courtesy, took her to her chair, after which he deliberately tore up the letter and burned the sc.r.a.ps before turning to his sister.

"Come with me, Lucy," he said in his deep, grave tones. "I wish to speak with you."

He held the door open, and Lucy pa.s.sed out before him, trembling and agitated, as if she were going to her trial, while Alleyne quietly closed each door after them, and followed her into the observatory, where he sat down and held out his hand, looking up at the poor girl with so tender and pitying an aspect that she uttered a sobbing cry, caught his hands in hers, and, throwing herself on her knees at his feet, burst into a pa.s.sion of weeping.

"Poor little woman," he said tenderly, as he drew her more and more to him, till her head rested upon his breast, and with one hand he gently stroked the glossy hair. "Come, Lucy, I am not your judge, only your brother: tell me--is that true?"

"No--no--no--no! Moray, it is false as false can be. I have not seen or spoken to Captain Rolph for months."

"But you did see and speak to him alone, little woman?" he said, looking paler and older and as if every word was a trouble to him to utter.

"Yes, dear, I did, for--for--Oh, Moray, I will--I will speak," she sobbed, in a pa.s.sionate burst of tears. "You are so big and kind and good, I will tell you everything."

"Tell me, then," he said, patting her head, as if she were his child.

"You did love this man?"

"Moray!"

Only that word; but it was so full of scorn, contempt, and reproach also to the questioner, that it carried conviction with it, and, taking Lucy's face between his hands, Alleyne bent down and kissed her tenderly.

"I am very glad, dear," he said quietly, "more glad than I dare say to you; but tell me--you used to meet him frequently?"

"Yes, yes, Moray, I did--I did, dear. It was wicked and false of me. I ought not to have done what I did, but--but--oh, Moray--will you forgive me if I tell you all?"

He remained silent for a few moments, gazing sternly down into his sister's eyes, and then said softly,--

"Yes, Lucy, I will forgive you anything that you have done."

"I--I--thought it was for the best," she sobbed--"I thought I should be serving you, Moray, dear."

"How? serving me?"

"Yes, yes, I knew--I felt all that you felt, and seemed to read all your thoughts, and I wanted--I wanted--oh, Moray, dear, forgive me for causing you pain in what I say, I wanted Glynne to love you as I saw that you loved her."

His brow knit tightly, and he drew a long and gasping breath, but he controlled himself, and in a low, almost inaudible voice, he whispered,--

"Go on."

"I was out walking one morning," continued Lucy, "and Captain Rolph met me, and--a woman sees anything so quickly--he began paying me compliments, and flirting, and he seemed so false and careless of Glynne that I thought there would be no harm in encouraging him a little, and letting him think I was impressed, so that Glynne might find out how worthless and common he is, and then send him about his business, Moray, dear. And then when her eyes were opened, she might--might--Oh, Moray, dear, I don't like to say it. But I went on like that, and he used to see me whenever I was out. He watched for me, and he doesn't care a bit for Glynne, and I don't believe he did for me; I never even let him touch my hand, and it's all months ago now, and oh, Moray, Moray, I'm a wicked, wicked girl, and everybody thinks ill of me, even mamma, and I've never been happy since."

"And so you did all this, little woman, for me?"

"Yes, yes, dear, I--I thought I was doing right."

"And I thought that you cared for Oldroyd, Lucy, and--"

"No, no: I hate him," she cried pa.s.sionately, and her cheeks turned scarlet for the sinful little words.

"And you are very unhappy, my child?" he continued.

"Yes, yes, yes, miserably unhappy, dear. I wish we were thousands of miles away, and all dead and buried, and never--and never likely to see this horrid place again."

"And I have been so rapt in my studies--in myself," he said, colouring slightly, as if ashamed to accept the screen of the slightest subterfuge. "I have neglected you, little Lucy," he went on, tenderly caressing her. "And this wretched anonymous letter, evidently from some spiteful woman, is all false, dear?"

"Every word, Moray. I have not spoken to Captain Rolph since that day he came here, and--"