“You shall know about him directly, Mrs Alleyne,” replied Oldroyd. “But pray make your mind easy, nothing can have happened to him here. The worst is that he may have gone to the Hall.”
“No, he would not have gone there without first letting me know.”
“Don’t come to the gate, mamma,” cried Lucy. “There, go in; Mr Oldroyd will take care of me, and we’ll soon bring the truant back, only pray be satisfied. Come, Mr Oldroyd, let us run.”
The next minute they were outside the gate, and hurrying down the slope to the common, over whose rugged surface Lucy walked so fast that Oldroyd had to step out boldly. Here the sandy road was reached, and they went on, saying but little, wanting to say but little, for, in spite of all, there was a strange new ecstatic feeling in Lucy’s bosom; while, in spite of his honesty something kept whispering to Oldroyd that it would be very pleasant if they were unable to find Alleyne for hours to come.
He was not to be gratified in this, though, for at the end of a quarter of an hour’s walking, when they came opposite to the big clump of pines, Lucy proposed that they should go up there.
“I know how fond he is of this place,” she said, rather excitedly; “and as its clearer now, I should not be at all surprised to find him here watching the moon, or the rising of some of the stars.”
“We’ll go if you wish it,” said Oldroyd, “but it seems a very unlikely place at a time like this.”
“Ah, but my brother is very curious about such things,” said Lucy, as she left the road, and together they climbed up till all at once she uttered a faint cry—
“Look! there—there he is!”
“Why, Alleyne! Is that you?” cried Oldroyd, as in the full moonlight they saw a dark figure rise from the foot of a pine, and then come slowly towards them silently, and in the same vacant fashion as one in a dream.