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?”