“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.