“Angry?” said Mrs Alleyne, starting and flushing, and then turning pale as she dropped her work, and her hands began to tremble. “Does this mean—does this mean—?”
“That we love each other?” replied Oldroyd, glancing sidewise at Lucy. “Yes, madam, it does, and I feel dread and shame, I scarcely know what, when I speak to you like this, for I am so poor, and my prospects so extremely wanting in brightness.”
“We are used to being poor, Mr Oldroyd,” said Mrs Alleyne, sadly.
“Then you do not object?”
“Why should I?” said Mrs Alleyne. “It is natural that my child should some day form an attachment. She has, I presume, done so?”
“Oh, yes, yes, yes, mamma,” cried Lucy, “a long time now.”
“Then, knowing as I do, that the attachment is to a man of sterling worth,” said Mrs Alleyne softly, as she held out her hand, “what more could I wish?”
Oldroyd caught the hand in his and kissed it, hesitated a moment, and then bent down and kissed Mrs Alleyne’s thin pinched lips.
“It has given me the stimulus I wanted,” he said, proudly. “Mrs Alleyne, Lucy shall not be a poor man’s wife, but—Ah, Alleyne.”
“Ah, Oldroyd,” said the astronomer, in his soft, deep voice, and he smiled sadly; “come to prescribe for me again. And I’m better than ever now—but—is anything wrong?”