"I think it was very foolish of your brother to invite them, Lucy," said
Mrs Alleyne, austerely. "All these preparations are not made without
money; and when they are made, we have the bitterness of feeling that
what is luxury to us is to them contemptible and mean."
"Oh, but, mamma, you don't know Glynne, or you would not talk like that.
She is as simple in her tastes as can be, and thinks nothing of the
luxury in which they live."
"She would think a great deal of it, my dear, if, by any misfortune in
life, it should all pass from her."
"No, mamma, I don't think she would," said Lucy. "She is a strange
girl."
"For my part," said Mrs Alleyne, very sternly, "I don't think we are
doing wisely in keeping up this intimacy."
"Oh, mamma!"
"I have said it. Look at the expense I have been put to in
preparations. In the constant struggle which I go through day after
day, paring and contriving to make our little income last out; any
addition of this kind is a weariness and a care. Of what good, pray, is
this visit but to satisfy the curiosity of a few heartless people?"
"Oh, mamma, don't say that. Glynne is the kindest and most amiable of
girls, and nobody could be nicer to me than the major and Sir John."
"Of course they are nice to you--to my daughter," said Mrs Alleyne,
pulling up her mittens--a very dingy black pair that had lain by till
they were specked with a few grey spots of mildew.
"And the major thinks very highly of Moray."
"It is only natural that he should," said Mrs Alleyne, haughtily. "But
I repeat, I see no advantage of a social nature to be gained by this
intimacy, even if we wished it."
"But you forget about Moray, mamma, dear."
"I forget nothing about your brother, Lucy. But pray, what do you mean
by this allusion?"
"His need of change. He has certainly been better lately."
"Decidedly not," replied Mrs Alleyne, making a fresh effort to cover a
very large and unpleasantly prominent vein that ran from the back of her
hand above her wrist. "I have noticed that Moray is more quiet and
thoughtful than ever."
"But Mr Oldroyd said yesterday, mamma, that he was better."
"Mr Oldroyd gave his opinion, my dear, but it was only the opinion of
one man. Mr Oldroyd may be mistaken."
"But, mamma, he seems so clever, and to know so much about Moray's
case."
"Yes, my child--seems; but these young medical men often jump at
conclusions, and are ready to take for granted that they understand
matters which are completely sealed."
Lucy coloured slightly, and remained silent.
"For my part," continued Mrs Alleyne, "I do not feel at all easy
respecting Moray's state, and his health is too serious a thing to be
trifled with."
Lucy's colour deepened as Mrs Alleyne swept out of the room.
"I'm sure he's clever, and I'm sure he was quite right about Moray," she
said. "It's a shame to say so, but I wish mamma would not be so
prejudiced. She will not be, though, when she knows Glynne better."
There was a pause here, and Lucy sat looking very intently before her,
the intent gaze in her face being precisely similar to that seen in her
brother's countenance when he was watching a far-off planet, and
striving to learn from it something of its mysteries and ways.
But Lucy was not studying some far-off planet, though her task was
perhaps as hard, for she was trying to read the future, and to discover
what there was in store for her brother and herself. She could not
think of Moray being always engaged studying stars, nor of herself as
continually at home with her mother leading that secluded life in the
sombre brick mansion, finding it cheerless and dull in summer, cold and
bleak in winter when the wind roared in the pine trees, till it was as
if the sea were beating the shore hard by.
"There is sure to be some change," she said, brightening up. "I know
it, but I hope it will not bring trouble."
No further allusions were made to the coming visit of the family from
Brackley, but the next day and the next, to use Lucy's words, mamma led
her such a life that she wished--and yet she did not wish--that the
visit was not coming off, so troublesome did the preparations grow.
Mrs Alleyne was going about her blank, chilly house one morning, looking
very much troubled; and now and then she stopped to wring her hands, but
it was generally in a cupboard or in a drawer, when there was not the
slightest likelihood of her being seen. Her forehead was deeply lined,
and there was a peculiar drawing down about the corners of her lips that
indicated care.
It was the old story--money. She had been up to town only the week
before to sell out a sum in Government Stock, to pay for an astronomical
instrument her son required--a tremendously costly piece of mechanism,
thus leaving herself poorer than ever; and now her idol had been putting
her to fresh expense.
"So thoughtless of him," she moaned, with her face in the linen
closet--"so foolish. He seems to have no idea whatever of the value of
money, and I don't know what I shall do."
But all the same there was the same glow of satisfaction in Mrs
Alleyne's breast that she used to feel when she had bought the idol a
wooden horse, or a toy waggon full of sacks, or one of those instruments
of torture upon wheels, which, when a child draws it across the floor,
emits a series of wire-born notes of a most discordant kind.
Mrs Alleyne turned over three or four clean tablecloths, opening them
out and looking wistfully at darns and frayings, and places where the
clothes pegs had torn away the hems when they had been hung out to dry.
These she refolded with a sigh, and put back.
"Oh, my boy, my boy, if you only thought a little more about this world
as well as the other worlds!" she sighed, as she closed the door, and,
with her brow growing more wrinkled, wrung her hands over the pantry
sink.
It was not that she had washed them, for the tap was dry, no water being
ever pumped into the upper cistern, and the pantry was devoted to the
reception of Mrs Alleyne's meagre stores.
There were cupboards here that held glass and china--good old china and
glass; but in the one, there were marks of mendings and rivets, and in
the other chips and, worse troubles, cracks, and odd glasses without
feet, or whose feet were upon the next shelf.
"I don't know how we shall manage," sighed Mrs Alleyne, wringing her
hands once more. "It was very, very thoughtless of him. The knives are
worst of all."
She unrolled a packet or two, which contained nothing but table knives
that had once been remarkably good, but which had done their work in
company with hard usage, and some of which had shed their ivory handles,
while others were thin and double edged, others again being bent at the
points, or worn down by cleaning until they were about two-thirds of
their original length.
"Dear me--dear me! how things do wear out!" sighed Mrs Alleyne; and,
raising her eyes, she saw her face reflected in a little square glass
hanging upon the wall--"even ourselves," she added, sadly.
Just then Lucy came in hurriedly.
"Oh, mamma," she cried, "I'm sure I don't know what we shall do. The
more I look up things, the worse they seem. It is dreadful; it is
horrible. I shall blush for shame."
"And why, may I ask?" said Mrs Alleyne, sternly.
"Because people will do nothing but spy out the poverty of the land.
Moray has no sense at all, or he would never have been so foolish as to
ask them."
"Your brother had his own good reasons for asking Sir John Day, his
brother, and his daughter, and I beg that you will not speak in that
disrespectful way of your brother's plans."
"But you don't see, mamma."
"I see everything, my child," said Mrs Alleyne, stiffly.
"But you don't think how awkward it will be."
"Yes, I have thought of all that."
"But Moray never does. How are we to entertain people who are
accustomed to live in luxury, and who have abundance of plate and china
and glass, and servants to wait upon them? Oh, we shall look
ridiculous."
"Lucy!"
"I don't care, mamma, I can't help it. I've been working away to see if
I could not get things in proper trim to do us justice, but it is
horrible. Moray must write and tell them they are not to come."
"My son shall do nothing of the kind, Lucy, and I desire that you do the
best you can, so that Moray may be content."
"But, mamma, we have no flowers, no fruit for dessert, no pretty glass
and vases; and I know the dinner will be horrible."
"Moray asked the Days to come and see us, not our household
arrangements, and we must give them some dinner before they go up into
the observatory."
"Oh, very well, mamma," said Lucy, "I have protested. You and Moray
must have it your own way."
"Of course," said Mrs Alleyne, composedly; "and I beg that you will find
no more fault with your brother's arrangements."
"No, mamma: I have done."
"I dare say Captain Rolph very often dines far worse at his mess than we
shall dine to-morrow."
"But surely he is not coming, mamma," cried Lucy in horror; "he will be
jeering at everything."
"If he is so extremely ungentlemanly, it is no fault of ours. Yes, he
is coming; and, by the way, I did not tell you, I have just asked Mr
Oldroyd to join us."
"Mamma!" cried Lucy, turning scarlet.
"Now don't exclaim against that, my dear," said Mrs Alleyne. "I am sure
it will be almost a charity to have him here. He cannot be too grand
for our simple ways."
Poor Lucy shrank away looking very thoughtful, and, resigning herself to
fate, went busily about the house, working like a little slave, and
arranging the place to the best advantage; but only to break down at
last, with a piteous burst of tears, as she saw how miserable a result
she had achieved, and compared her home with that of Glynne.
Mrs Alleyne was not in much better spirits, indulging herself as she did
in various wringings of the hands in closets and corners, but all in the
most furtive way, as she too thought of the barrenness of the house.
The next morning the preparations for the little dinner were in hurried
progress, Lucy busily working with gloomy resignation, and the kitchen
given over to the woman who had come to cook. Then the large covered
cart from Brackley drew up to the gate, and upon Eliza going down, the
man who drove helped her to unbar the great gates, and led his horse in
and right round to the kitchen door.
He was the bearer of a note for Mrs Alleyne, and while Eliza had taken
it in, and the recipient was reading it, to afterwards hand it over to
Lucy, Sir John's man began unloading the cart in the most matter-of-fact
way, and arranging things upon the kitchen dresser.
"What does he say, that he begs your pardon, and knowing that we have no
garden, would we accept a few trifles of flowers and a little fruit?"
Mrs Alleyne frowned, and the shadow on her countenance deepened after
Sir John's man had departed with the cart, for the trifles sent over
were a magnificent collection of cut flowers, with grapes, a pine,
hot-house peaches, and nectarines and plums.
Lucy coloured with pleasure, for all was most thoughtfully contrived.
Even choice leaves in a neat bunch were included, ready for decorating
the fruit in the dessert dishes. But directly after she could not help
sharing her mother's annoyance--it seemed so like looking upon them as
poor.
"It is almost an insult," said Mrs Alleyne at last.
Lucy looked up at her wistfully, with the cloud now crossing her own
bright little face.
"It is because we live in so humble a manner," cried Mrs Alleyne,
angrily. "It is cruel--a display of arrogance--because I choose to live
quietly that Moray may proceed with his great discoveries in science."
Lucy gazed at her mother's face, in which she could read the growing
anger and mortification.
"Oh, I wish Moray had not been so ready to invite them," she said to
herself.
"The things shall go back," exclaimed Mrs Alleyne at last.
"Oh, mamma," whispered Lucy, clinging to her and trying to calm her
anger, "don't--pray don't say that. It is only a present of fruit and
flowers, after all."
"You will not send the things back, mamma."