“No, no, my poor dear Lu, I never thought so; and right glad am I to know that you are not to live in companionship with the woman who wrote that letter.”
“You think ill of her?”
“I will not tell you half how badly I think of her; but Trafford is as much wronged here as any one, or else I am but a sorry decipherer of mysterious signs.”
“Oh, Tom!” cried she, clasping his hand and looking at him as though she yearned for one gleam of hope.
“It is so that I read it; but I do not like to rely upon my own sole judgment in such a case. Will you trust me with this letter, and will you let me show it to Sir Brooke? He is wonderfully acute in tracing people's real meaning through all the misty surroundings of expression. I will go over to Cagliari at once, and see him. If all be as I suspect, I will bring them back with me. If Sir Brook's opinion be against mine, I will believe him to be the wiser man, and come back alone.”
“I consent to everything, Tom, if you will give me but one pledge,—you must give it seriously, solemnly.”
“I guess what you mean, Lucy; your anxious face has told the story without words. You are afraid of my hot temper. You think I will force a quarrel on Trafford,—yes, I knew what was in your thoughts. Well, on my honor I will not. This I promise you faithfully.”
She threw herself into his arms and kissed him, muttering, in a low voice, “My own dear brother,” in his ear.
“It is just as likely you may see me back again tomorrow, Lucy, and alone too. Mind that, girl! The version I have taken of this letter may turn out to be all wrong. Sir Brook may show me how and where and why I have mistaken it; and if so, Lu, I must have a pledge from you,—you know what I mean.”
“You need none, Tom,” said she, proudly; “you shall not be ashamed of your Sister.”