"Lucy, I have something very particular to say to you," said Mrs Alleyne
one morning directly after breakfast, over which she had sat very stern
and cold of mien.
"Mamma!" exclaimed Lucy, flushing.
"I desire that you be perfectly frank with me. I insist upon knowing
everything at once."
Lucy's pretty face fired up a deeper crimson for a few moments under
this examination. Then she grew pale as she rose from her seat and
stood confronting her mother.
"I do not think I quite understand you, mamma," she faltered.
"Lucy!"
The thrill of maternal indignation made the old brown silk dress once
more give forth a slight electric kind of rustle as this one word was
spoken, and Mrs Alleyne's eyes seemed to lance her child.
"A guilty conscience, Lucy, needs no accuser," said Mrs Alleyne, in a
bitterly contemptuous tone. "You know perfectly well what I mean."
Lucy glanced half-timidly, half-wonderingly at her mother, but remained
silent.
"I will not refuse you my permission to go your daily walks in future,
but I must ask you to give me your word that such proceedings as have
been reported to me of late shall be at an end."
Lucy opened her lips to speak, but Mrs Alleyne held up her hand.
"If you are going to say that you do not know what I mean, pray
hesitate. I refer to your meetings with Captain Rolph."
Lucy's shame and dismay had been swept away by a feeling of resentment
now, and, giving her little foot a pettish stamp, she exclaimed,--
"The country side is free to Captain Rolph as well as to me, mamma. I
know him from meeting him at the hall. I cannot help it if he speaks to
me when I am out."
"But you can help making appointments with him," retorted Mrs Alleyne.
"I never did, mamma. I declare I never did," cried Lucy with spirit.
"But you go in places where he is likely to be seen; and even if he were
an eligible suitor for your hand, is this the way a child of mine should
behave? Giving open countenance to the wretched tittle-tattle of this
out-of-the-way place."
"And pray, who has been talking about me?" cried Lucy angrily.
"The poor people at the cottages--the servants. It is commonly known.
I spoke to Mr Oldroyd yesterday."
"And what did he dare to say?" cried Lucy, flaming up.
"He would not say anything, but from his manner it was plain to see that
he knew."
"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 passionately.
"Oh, why will you not believe me!"
"Read that letter," said Mrs Alleyne sternly.
Lucy's eyes fell upon the paper, and then she snatched 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
passionately; "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-fashioned courtesy, took her to her chair, after which he
deliberately tore up the letter and burned the scraps 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 passed 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 passion 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 passionate 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 passionately, 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--"
"Hush! hush!" said Alleyne softly; and his face grew very thin and old.
"Think no more about the letter. Wipe your eyes, my child. I'm glad--
very glad you do not care for this man."
"I care for that animal!" cried Lucy scornfully. "Oh, Moray, how could
you think it of me?"
"Because--"
The words were on Moray Alleyne's lips to say, "Women are such strange
creatures!" but he checked himself, and said softly,--"Let it pass, my
child. There, there, wipe those poor, wet, red eyes. I'll go and speak
to our mother. This vexed her, for she thought you had been a little
weak and foolish. She is jealous, dear, and proud and watchful of our
every act. It is her great love for us. There, there, kiss me; and go
to your room for a while. Everything will be well when you come down
again."
"Will it, Moray?" whispered Lucy, nestling more closely to him. "Is my
brave, strong, noble brother going to be himself once more?"
She held herself from him so that she might gaze full in his face, but
he kept his eyes averted.
"Moray, I am so little and weak," she whispered, "but I have my pride.
You must not let a disappointment eat out all the pleasure of your
life."
"Hush!" he said softly.
"I will speak," she cried. "Moray, my own brother, you must not break
your great true heart because a handsome woman has played with you for a
time, and then thrown you aside for a worthless, foolish man."
He fixed his eyes upon her now, and said sadly, as he smiled in her
face,--
"Wrong, little sister, wrong. I was mad, and forgot myself. She was
promised to another before we had met."
"Yes, Moray, dear, but--"
"Silence! No more," he said sternly. "Never refer to this again."
"Oh, but, Moray, darling, let me--"
"Hush!" he said, laying his finger tenderly, half-playfully, upon her
lip, and then removing it to kiss her affectionately. "All that is dead
and gone, Lucy. We must not dig up the dry bones of our old sorrows to
revive them once again. I have long been promised to a mistress whom I
forsook for a time--to whom I was unfaithful. She has forgiven me,
dear, and taken me back to her arms. Urania is my heart's love," he
continued, smiling, "and I am going to be a faithful spouse. There,
there, little sister, go now, and I will make your peace with our
mother, or rather ask her to make her peace with you."
He led her to the door and dismissed her with another kiss, after which
he stood watching her ascend the stairs, and saw her stop on the landing
to kiss her hand to him. Then he sought his mother, with whom he had a
serious interview, leaving her at the end of an hour to return to his
chair in the observatory, when he took up a pen, as if to write, but
only let it fall; and, forgetful of everything but his own sorrow, sat
there dreaming, old-looking and strange till the sun went down.
He used to tell himself afterwards that on such nights as these he was
tempted by his own peculiar devil who haunted him, pointing out to him
his folly, weakness and pride in shutting himself up there, when he had
but to go to Glynne and tell her that she was selling herself to a man
who was behaving to her like a scoundrel.
If he treated her like this before marriage, when his feelings towards
her should be of the warmest and best, when he was in the spring-tide of
his youth, what would his conduct be afterwards, when he had grown tired
and careless?
He could not help it. That night Alleyne made his way to the fir mount
once more, to go to the very edge and stand beneath the natural east
window of the great wind-swept temple, and there lean against one of the
ruddy bronze pillars to gaze across at The Hall.
But not to gaze at the lights, for there was one dark spot which he well
knew now from Lucy's description. It was where the little
wistaria-covered conservatory stood out beside her bedroom window, with
the great cable-like stems running up to form a natural rope ladder by
which a lover might steal up in the darkness of some soft summer night,
as lovers had ere now, but only when willing arms waited them and a soft
sweet cooing voice had whispered "Come."
It was as if a voice whispered this to him night after night, and it
came to him mockingly as he stood there then.
There was yet time it seemed to say. Glynne would turn to him if she
knew of those scenes in the lane, and his rival would be discomfited.
Sir John, too, would hail him as a friend and benefactor, receiving him
with open arms for saving his daughter from such a fate.
And then Alleyne paced the great dark aisle, avoiding, as if by
instinct, the various trunks that stood in his way, while he forced his
spirit into a state of calmness and the temptation behind him, for such
an act was to him impossible. It had all been a mad dream on his part,
and it was not for him to play the part of informer and expose Rolph's
falsity to the father of the woman he was to wed.
Volume 3, Chapter IV.