The Star-Gazers

Volume Three – Chapter Three.

A Discovery

“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 Three – Chapter Four.

Still in the Clouds

There was no mistaking the figures, no possibility of erring in judgment upon the meaning of the meeting? and Oldroyd could not help admiring the physical beauty of the group as the lovely background of hedgerow and woodland gave effect to the scene.

The group was composed of two. The poacher’s daughter and Rolph, who, with his arms tightly clasping the girl’s tall undulating form, had drawn her, apparently by no means unwillingly to his breast, against which she nestled with her hands resting upon his shoulders. The girl’s face was half hidden, while Rolph was smiling down upon her, whispering something to which she lent a willing ear, and then, raising her face, she was offering her pouting lips to his, when her half-closed eyes suddenly became widely opened, her whole form rigid, and, thrusting Rolph back, she slipped from his arms, bounded through a gap in the woodland hedge like some wild creature, and disappeared amongst the trees.

Rolph caught sight of the on-coming figure almost at the same moment, the spasmodic start given by Judith warning him that there was something wrong. He seemed for a moment as if about to yield to the more easy way out of his difficulty, and leap into the wood, but he stood his ground, and, as Oldroyd came slowly on, said to him, —

“How do, doctor? Perhaps you’ve got a light? I want one for my cigar. Thanks.”

His coolness was staggering.

“Is it a fact about that girl’s father being still at home and out of work?”

“Yes,” replied Oldroyd shortly. “He has been at the point of death.”

“Has he, though?” said Rolph. “I’m glad of that. One don’t like to be imposed upon, and to find that when one has given money in charity that it has been a regular do. Nice day. Good-morning.”

“Knows I can’t tell tales, damn him! I’m no spy,” muttered Oldroyd, as he ambled along on the miller’s pony. “I’ve got quite enough to do to study my own profession, and to try and cure my patients without worrying myself in the slightest degree about other people’s business, but I can’t help it if they will be holding clandestine meetings just under my noble Roman nose – Go on, Peter.”

Peter lifted his head and whisked his tail; then he lowered his head, and kept his end quiescent, as he went on at the old pace, while the young doctor continued musing about the interview that he had been called upon to witness.

“I should not have been out here if old Mother Wattley had not been taken ill once more, for the last time, poor old soul. I believe she’ll live to a hundred. I was obliged to come, though. I don’t suppose anybody passes along this lane above once a month. I’m the only one who has come down this week, and of course I must be there just when the athlete was having an interview with Judith Hayle. Humph! there are other poachers in the world besides those who go after rabbits, hares and pheasants.”

Oldroyd drummed the sides of his little charger as he rode on along a very narrow pathway through the wood that he had to cross to get to old Mrs Wattley’s, and he looked anything but a picturesque object as a cavalier, for either he was too big or his steed too small – the latter, a little shaggy, rarely-groomed creature, being more accustomed to drag loads of corn for his master from the town than to act as hack for the principal medical man of the neighbourhood.

Peter pricked up his ears as soon as they were through the wood, and turned off, unguided, to the right, where, on as lonely and deserted a spot as could have been selected, being built in fact upon a spare corner between the road and the next property, stood the cottage inhabited by old Mrs Wattley. Report said that Timothy Wattley had built himself a shed there many years before, this being a sort of common land. The shed had been contrived by the insertion of four fir-poles at the angles, some others being tied across to form a roof, while sides and top were of freshly cut furze.

Time went on, and the windy side of Tim Wattley’s shed was coated with mud. More time went by, and a thatched roof appeared. Then came a real brick chimney and a proper door, and so on, and so on, till, in the course of years, the shed grew into quite a respectable cottage, with separate rooms – two – and a real iron fireplace.

Then report said that instead of walking over to church on Sunday mornings, Timothy Wattley used to send his wife, while he idled round his little scrap of a garden, pushing the hedge out a bit more and a bit more with his heavy boot, and all so gradually that the process was unnoticed, while when the old man died after forty years’ possession of the place, the patch upon which he had first set up his fir-pole and furze shed had grown into a freehold of an acre and a half, properly hedged in, and of which the widow could not be dispossessed.

It was at the rough little gate of the cottage that Peter the pony stopped short, and began nibbling the most tender shoots of the hedge that he could find. Oldroyd dismounted and secured the reins before going up to the door; tapping, and then going straight in, lowering his head to avoid a blow from the cross-piece that might have been fixed by a dwarf.

“Ah, doctor,” came from the large bed which nearly filled up the little room, and on which lay the comfortable-looking, puckered, apple-faced old woman, “you’ve been a long time coming. If I had been some rich folks up at Brackley or somers-else, you’d have been here long enough ago.”

“My dear Mrs Wattley,” cried Oldroyd; “nothing of the kind. I took the pony and rode over as soon as I had your message, and I could not have done more if you had been the queen.”

“Then it’s that dratted boy went and forgot it yesterday morning. Oh, if ever I grow well and strong again, I’ll let him know!”

“Did you send a message yesterday morning, then?”

“Ay, did I, when that young dog was going over to the town; and he forgot it, then.”

“I only had the message, as I tell you, to-day.”

“An’ me lying in tarmint all yes’day, and all night listening to the poachers out with their guns. Eh, but it’s sorry work wi’ them and the keepers, and not one on ’em man enough to leave a hare or a fezzan with a poor old woman who’s hidden away many a lot of game for them in her time. Eh, but it’s hard work, lying in my aggynies the long night through, and my neighbour coming to set up with me and nuss me, and going off to sleep, and snoring like a bad-ringed hog.”

“Ah, then your neighbour sat up with you last night, did she?” said Oldroyd.

“Sat up with me? Snored up with me, and nearly drove me wild, my aggynies was that bad. Then she goes and sends Judy to tidy me up after braxfas, and a nice tidying up it was, with her all agog to get away and meet someone I’ll be bound. I dunno who it be, but she’s allus courting somers in the wood. Ah, I went courting once, but now it’s all aggynies.”

“And so you’re in great pain, are you, Mrs Wattley?”