Lucy, too, looked thinner than of old. There was a careworn aspect in her face, and her eyes told tales of tears more often shed than is the custom with young ladies as a rule.
As she entered the observatory and closed the door, she stood gazing at her brother with her hands clasped, thinking of the money that had been expended upon his scientific pursuits, keeping them all exceedingly poor, and, for result, helping to make Alleyne a worn and old-looking man.
What a thing it seemed, she thought; how changed their home and all their simple life had become, and all through their proximity to Brackley.
“I wish we had gone away from here months upon months ago,” she said to herself impatiently. “We might have been so happy anywhere else. And I thought, too, that everything was going to be so pleasant, with Glynne for my companion, only people seemed to have leagued themselves against us; and I’m sure there’s no harm in either poor Moray or myself, only we couldn’t help liking someone else. Heigho!”
“Who’s that?” cried Alleyne, starting, for Lucy’s sigh had been uttered aloud. “Oh, you, Lucy,” he said, dropping his eyes again.
“I’ve only come to see you, dear, for a little while, Moray, darling, how late you were last night.”
He started wildly, caught the hands she had laid caressingly upon his shoulders, and stared in her face.
“How did you know?” he cried hoarsely.
“Don’t, dear; you hurt me.”
He relaxed his grasp, and she felt him trembling.