The Star-Gazers

“Oh, mamma!”

“I have said it. Look at the expense I have been put to in preparations. In the constant struggle which I go through day after day, paring and contriving to make our little income last out; any addition of this kind is a weariness and a care. Of what good, pray, is this visit but to satisfy the curiosity of a few heartless people?”

“Oh, mamma, don’t say that. Glynne is the kindest and most amiable of girls, and nobody could be nicer to me than the major and Sir John.”

“Of course they are nice to you – to my daughter,” said Mrs Alleyne, pulling up her mittens – a very dingy black pair that had lain by till they were specked with a few grey spots of mildew.

“And the major thinks very highly of Moray.”

“It is only natural that he should,” said Mrs Alleyne, haughtily. “But I repeat, I see no advantage of a social nature to be gained by this intimacy, even if we wished it.”

“But you forget about Moray, mamma, dear.”

“I forget nothing about your brother, Lucy. But pray, what do you mean by this allusion?”

“His need of change. He has certainly been better lately.”

“Decidedly not,” replied Mrs Alleyne, making a fresh effort to cover a very large and unpleasantly prominent vein that ran from the back of her hand above her wrist. “I have noticed that Moray is more quiet and thoughtful than ever.”

“But Mr Oldroyd said yesterday, mamma, that he was better.”

“Mr Oldroyd gave his opinion, my dear, but it was only the opinion of one man. Mr Oldroyd may be mistaken.”

“But, mamma, he seems so clever, and to know so much about Moray’s case.”

“Yes, my child – seems; but these young medical men often jump at conclusions, and are ready to take for granted that they understand matters which are completely sealed.”

Lucy coloured slightly, and remained silent.

“For my part,” continued Mrs Alleyne, “I do not feel at all easy respecting Moray’s state, and his health is too serious a thing to be trifled with.”

Lucy’s colour deepened as Mrs Alleyne swept out of the room.

“I’m sure he’s clever, and I’m sure he was quite right about Moray,” she said. “It’s a shame to say so, but I wish mamma would not be so prejudiced. She will not be, though, when she knows Glynne better.”

There was a pause here, and Lucy sat looking very intently before her, the intent gaze in her face being precisely similar to that seen in her brother’s countenance when he was watching a far-off planet, and striving to learn from it something of its mysteries and ways.

But Lucy was not studying some far-off planet, though her task was perhaps as hard, for she was trying to read the future, and to discover what there was in store for her brother and herself. She could not think of Moray being always engaged studying stars, nor of herself as continually at home with her mother leading that secluded life in the sombre brick mansion, finding it cheerless and dull in summer, cold and bleak in winter when the wind roared in the pine trees, till it was as if the sea were beating the shore hard by.

“There is sure to be some change,” she said, brightening up. “I know it, but I hope it will not bring trouble.”

No further allusions were made to the coming visit of the family from Brackley, but the next day and the next, to use Lucy’s words, mamma led her such a life that she wished – and yet she did not wish – that the visit was not coming off, so troublesome did the preparations grow.

Mrs Alleyne was going about her blank, chilly house one morning, looking very much troubled; and now and then she stopped to wring her hands, but it was generally in a cupboard or in a drawer, when there was not the slightest likelihood of her being seen. Her forehead was deeply lined, and there was a peculiar drawing down about the corners of her lips that indicated care.

It was the old story – money. She had been up to town only the week before to sell out a sum in Government Stock, to pay for an astronomical instrument her son required – a tremendously costly piece of mechanism, thus leaving herself poorer than ever; and now her idol had been putting her to fresh expense.

“So thoughtless of him,” she moaned, with her face in the linen closet – “so foolish. He seems to have no idea whatever of the value of money, and I don’t know what I shall do.”

But all the same there was the same glow of satisfaction in Mrs Alleyne’s breast that she used to feel when she had bought the idol a wooden horse, or a toy waggon full of sacks, or one of those instruments of torture upon wheels, which, when a child draws it across the floor, emits a series of wire-born notes of a most discordant kind.

Mrs Alleyne turned over three or four clean tablecloths, opening them out and looking wistfully at darns and frayings, and places where the clothes pegs had torn away the hems when they had been hung out to dry. These she refolded with a sigh, and put back.

“Oh, my boy, my boy, if you only thought a little more about this world as well as the other worlds!” she sighed, as she closed the door, and, with her brow growing more wrinkled, wrung her hands over the pantry sink.

It was not that she had washed them, for the tap was dry, no water being ever pumped into the upper cistern, and the pantry was devoted to the reception of Mrs Alleyne’s meagre stores.

There were cupboards here that held glass and china – good old china and glass; but in the one, there were marks of mendings and rivets, and in the other chips and, worse troubles, cracks, and odd glasses without feet, or whose feet were upon the next shelf.

“I don’t know how we shall manage,” sighed Mrs Alleyne, wringing her hands once more. “It was very, very thoughtless of him. The knives are worst of all.”

She unrolled a packet or two, which contained nothing but table knives that had once been remarkably good, but which had done their work in company with hard usage, and some of which had shed their ivory handles, while others were thin and double edged, others again being bent at the points, or worn down by cleaning until they were about two-thirds of their original length.

“Dear me – dear me! how things do wear out!” sighed Mrs Alleyne; and, raising her eyes, she saw her face reflected in a little square glass hanging upon the wall – “even ourselves,” she added, sadly.

Just then Lucy came in hurriedly.

“Oh, mamma,” she cried, “I’m sure I don’t know what we shall do. The more I look up things, the worse they seem. It is dreadful; it is horrible. I shall blush for shame.”

“And why, may I ask?” said Mrs Alleyne, sternly.

“Because people will do nothing but spy out the poverty of the land. Moray has no sense at all, or he would never have been so foolish as to ask them.”

“Your brother had his own good reasons for asking Sir John Day, his brother, and his daughter, and I beg that you will not speak in that disrespectful way of your brother’s plans.”

“But you don’t see, mamma.”

“I see everything, my child,” said Mrs Alleyne, stiffly.

“But you don’t think how awkward it will be.”

“Yes, I have thought of all that.”

“But Moray never does. How are we to entertain people who are accustomed to live in luxury, and who have abundance of plate and china and glass, and servants to wait upon them? Oh, we shall look ridiculous.”

“Lucy!”

“I don’t care, mamma, I can’t help it. I’ve been working away to see if I could not get things in proper trim to do us justice, but it is horrible. Moray must write and tell them they are not to come.”

“My son shall do nothing of the kind, Lucy, and I desire that you do the best you can, so that Moray may be content.”

“But, mamma, we have no flowers, no fruit for dessert, no pretty glass and vases; and I know the dinner will be horrible.”

“Moray asked the Days to come and see us, not our household arrangements, and we must give them some dinner before they go up into the observatory.”

“Oh, very well, mamma,” said Lucy, “I have protested. You and Moray must have it your own way.”

“Of course,” said Mrs Alleyne, composedly; “and I beg that you will find no more fault with your brother’s arrangements.”

“No, mamma: I have done.”

“I dare say Captain Rolph very often dines far worse at his mess than we shall dine to-morrow.”

“But surely he is not coming, mamma,” cried Lucy in horror; “he will be jeering at everything.”

“If he is so extremely ungentlemanly, it is no fault of ours. Yes, he is coming; and, by the way, I did not tell you, I have just asked Mr Oldroyd to join us.”

“Mamma!” cried Lucy, turning scarlet.

“Now don’t exclaim against that, my dear,” said Mrs Alleyne. “I am sure it will be almost a charity to have him here. He cannot be too grand for our simple ways.”

Poor Lucy shrank away looking very thoughtful, and, resigning herself to fate, went busily about the house, working like a little slave, and arranging the place to the best advantage; but only to break down at last, with a piteous burst of tears, as she saw how miserable a result she had achieved, and compared her home with that of Glynne.

Mrs Alleyne was not in much better spirits, indulging herself as she did in various wringings of the hands in closets and corners, but all in the most furtive way, as she too thought of the barrenness of the house.

The next morning the preparations for the little dinner were in hurried progress, Lucy busily working with gloomy resignation, and the kitchen given over to the woman who had come to cook. Then the large covered cart from Brackley drew up to the gate, and upon Eliza going down, the man who drove helped her to unbar the great gates, and led his horse in and right round to the kitchen door.

He was the bearer of a note for Mrs Alleyne, and while Eliza had taken it in, and the recipient was reading it, to afterwards hand it over to Lucy, Sir John’s man began unloading the cart in the most matter-of-fact way, and arranging things upon the kitchen dresser.

“What does he say, that he begs your pardon, and knowing that we have no garden, would we accept a few trifles of flowers and a little fruit?”

Mrs Alleyne frowned, and the shadow on her countenance deepened after Sir John’s man had departed with the cart, for the trifles sent over were a magnificent collection of cut flowers, with grapes, a pine, hot-house peaches, and nectarines and plums.

Lucy coloured with pleasure, for all was most thoughtfully contrived. Even choice leaves in a neat bunch were included, ready for decorating the fruit in the dessert dishes. But directly after she could not help sharing her mother’s annoyance – it seemed so like looking upon them as poor.

“It is almost an insult,” said Mrs Alleyne at last.

Lucy looked up at her wistfully, with the cloud now crossing her own bright little face.

“It is because we live in so humble a manner,” cried Mrs Alleyne, angrily. “It is cruel – a display of arrogance – because I choose to live quietly that Moray may proceed with his great discoveries in science.”

Lucy gazed at her mother’s face, in which she could read the growing anger and mortification.

“Oh, I wish Moray had not been so ready to invite them,” she said to herself.

“The things shall go back,” exclaimed Mrs Alleyne at last.

“Oh, mamma,” whispered Lucy, clinging to her and trying to calm her anger, “don’t – pray don’t say that. It is only a present of fruit and flowers, after all.”

“You will not send the things back, mamma.”

Mrs Alleyne was silent for a few moments, and then said huskily, —

“No: they shall remain, but Moray must not know; and mind this, Lucy, when they come there is sure to be an offer for the man-servant to stop and wait. This must be declined.”

“Oh, yes, mamma,” cried Lucy, excitedly, as she began to imagine Sir John’s footman being witness of the shifts made in re-washing plates, and forks, and spoons.

“We must submit to the insult, I suppose. I cannot resent it for Moray’s sake. They are his guests, and must be treated with respect.”

In due time Sir John and Glynne, with Rolph and the major, arrived, and were heartily welcomed by Moray, who seemed to have thrown off his quiet thoughtfulness of manner, and to be striving to set the visitors at their ease. So warm and hearty, too, were Sir John and the major, that Lucy brightened; and had Rolph taken another tone, and Mrs Alleyne been satisfied with doing all that lay in her power to make her visitors welcome, leaving the rest, all would have gone well. But, in face of the stern, calm dignity of mien which she displayed, it was impossible for Sir John to adopt his easy-going sociability. In fact, between them, Mrs Alleyne and Rolph spoiled the dinner.

It was not by any means the greatest mistake that Mrs Alleyne had ever made in her life, but it was a serious one all the same, to attempt a regular society dinner in the face of so many difficulties. Poor woman: she felt that it was her duty to show Sir John that she was a lady, and understood the social amenities of life.

The consequence was that, having attempted too much, all went wrong: Eliza got into the most horrible tangles, and half-a-dozen times over, Sir John wished they had had a good Southdown leg of mutton, vegetables, and a pudding, and nothing else.

But he did not have his wish – for there was soup that was not good; soles that had become torn and tattered in the extraction from the frying-pan; veal cutlets, whose golden egging and crumbing had been in vain, for this coating had dissolved apparently into the sauce. The other entrée emitted an odour which made the major hungry, being a curried chicken; but, alas! the rice was in the condition known by schoolboys as “mosh-posh.” Then came a sirloin of beef and a pair of boiled fowls, with an intervening tongue and white sauce – at least the sauce should have been white, and the chickens should have been young – while what kind of conscience the butcher possessed who defrauded Mrs Alleyne by sending her in that sirloin of beef, with the announcement that it was prime, it is impossible to say.

The table looked bright and pretty with its fine white cloth, bright flowers and fruit, but the dinner itself was a series of miserable failures, through all of which Mrs Alleyne sat, stern, and with a fixed smile upon her countenance. Moray and Glynne were serenely unconscious, eating what was before them, but with their thoughts and conversation far away amongst the stars. Sir John and the major, with the most chivalrous courtesy, ignored everything, and kept up the heartiest of conversation; while Rolph, who was in a furious temper at having been obliged to come, fixed his glass in his eye and stolidly stared when he did not sneer.

It was poor Lucy upon whom the burden of the dinner cares fell, and she suffered a martyrdom. Oldroyd saw that she was troubled, but did not fully realise the cause, while the poor girl shivered and shrank, and turned now hot, now cold, as she read Rolph’s contempt for the miserable fare.

“Yes,” said the Major to himself, “it’s a mistake. She meant well, poor woman, but if she had given us a well-cooked steak how much better it would have been.”

Mrs Alleyne, behind her mask of smiles, also noted how Rolph’s eye-glass was directed at the various dishes, and how his plate went away, time after time, with the viands scarcely tasted. She hated him with a bitter hatred, and felt full of rejoicing to see his annoyance with Glynne, whose calm, handsome face lit up and grew animated when Alleyne spoke to her, answering questions, questioning her in return, and telling her of his work during the past few days.

The meal went on very slowly, and such success as attended it was due to Sir John and the major, the former devoting himself to his hostess, while the latter relieved poor little Lucy’s breast of some of its burden of trouble.

“Ah,” he said once, out of sheer kindness, just after Rolph had laughed silently at a grievous mistake made by Eliza, who, in a violent perspiration with work and excitement, had dropped a dish in the second course, breaking it, and spreading a too tremulous cabinet pudding and its sauce upon the well – worn carpet. “Ah, a capital dinner, Miss Alleyne, only wanted one dish to have made it complete.”

“How can you be so unkind, Major Day!” said Lucy, in a low, choking voice; “the poor girl is so unused to company, and she could not help it.”

Major Day looked petrified. He had advanced his remark like a squadron to cover the rout of the cabinet pudding, and he was astounded by Lucy’s flank movement, as she took his remark to refer to the maid.

“My dear child,” he stammered, “you mistake me.”

Poor Lucy could not contain herself. The vexations of the whole dinner which had been gathering within her now burst forth; and though she spoke to him in an undertone, her face was crimson, and it was all she could do to keep from bursting into a flood of tears.

“It is so unkind of you,” continued Lucy; “we are not used to having company. Moray did not think how difficult it would be for us to make proper preparations, and it is not our fault that everything is so bad.”

“My dear child!” whispered the major again.

“You need not have added to my misery by calling it a capital dinner, and alluding to the dish.”

Fortunately Sir John was chatting loudly to Mrs Alleyne, Oldroyd was in a warm argument with Rolph on the subject of training, and Alleyne was holding Glynne’s attention by describing to her the theory that the stars were in all probability suns with planets revolving round them, as we do about our own giver of warmth and light. Hence, then, the major’s little interlude with Lucy was unnoticed, and Eliza was able to remove the evidences of the disaster with a dustpan and brush.

“My dear Miss Alleyne, give me credit for being an officer and a gentleman,” said the major, quietly; “the dish I alluded to was one of some choice fungi, such as we discover for ourselves in the woods and fields. I meant nothing else – believe me.”

Lucy darted a grateful look in his eyes, and followed it up with a smile, which sent a peculiar little sting into Oldroyd’s breast.

“For,” the latter argued with himself, “elderly gentlemen do sometimes manage to exercise a great deal of influence over the susceptible hearts of maidens, and Major Day is a smart, attractive, old man.”

His attention was, however, taken up directly by Rolph, who, in a half-haughty, condescending tone asked him if he had studied training from its medical and surgical side, nettling him by his manner, and putting him upon his mettle to demolish his adversary in argument.

“Thank you, major,” whispered Lucy. “I might have known – I ought to have known better.”

And then, with the ice broken between herself and her old botanical tutor and friend, she seemed to jump with girlish eagerness at the opportunity for lightening her burdened heart.

“Everything has gone so dreadfully,” she whispered. “I have been sitting upon thorns ever since you all came. It has been heartbreaking, and I shall be so glad when it is all over, and you are gone.”

“Tut – tut! you inhospitable little creature,” said the major. “For shame. I shall not. Why, surely my little pupil does not think we came over here for the sake of the dinner. Fie! – fie! – fie! Brother John, there, enjoys a crust of bread and cheese and a glass of ale better than anything; while I, an old campaigner, used, when I was on service, to think myself very lucky if I got a biscuit and a slice of melon, or a handful of dates, for a meal.”

“But Sir John said you were so particular, and that was why he sent the fruit.”

“My brother John is a gentleman,” said the major, smiling. “But there, there, let me see my little pupil smiling, and at her ease again. Why, we’ve come over this evening to feast upon stars and planets, when the proper time comes. I say, look at Glynne, how bright and eager she looks. She is not troubling herself about the dinner; nor your brother neither.”

“Moray?” replied Lucy. “Oh, no; nothing troubles him. Poor fellow! If you gave him only some bran he would eat it and never say a word. It’s throwing nice things away to make them for him.”

At last the dessert plates had been placed upon the table, and the fruit handed round by Eliza, who, in spite of several nods and frowns from Mrs Alleyne, insisted upon staying to the very last, by way of salving her conscience for the pudding lapse. Then she finally departed to look after the coffee; the ladies rose and left the room, and the gentlemen drew closer together to discuss their wine.

Some cups of capital coffee were brought in, its quality being due to the fact that Lucy had slipped into the kitchen to make it herself; and after these had been enjoyed, Sir John drew attention to the object of their visit. Rolph yawned, and made up his mind to remain behind, to go into the garden and have a cigar, and Alleyne led the way into the drawing-room, Glynne rising directly to come and meet them, all eagerness to enjoy the promised inspection of the observatory.

Volume One – Chapter Fifteen.

Glynne Looks at the Moon, the Professor at his Heart

The secret of the poverty of Mrs Alleyne’s home was read by the major and Sir John, as they followed their host and Glynne along a bare passage and through two green-baized doors, into the great dome-covered chambers where Alleyne pursued his studies, for on all sides were arranged astronomical instruments of the newest invention and costliest kind. The outlay had been slow – a hundred now and a hundred then; but the result had been thousands of pounds spent upon the various pieces of intricate mechanism, and their mounting upon solid iron pillars, resting on massive piers of cement or stone.

Glynne uttered a faint cry of surprise and delight as she saw the long tubes with their wheels and pivots arranged so that the reclining observer could turn his glass in any direction; gazed in the great trough that seemed to have a bottom covered with looking-glass, but which was half full of quicksilver; noted that there were sliding shutters in the roof, and various pieces of mechanism, whose uses she longed to have explained.

It was all old to Lucy, who felt a new pleasure, though, in her friend’s eagerness, while Mrs Alleyne, who had suffered torments all the evening in mortified pride, felt, as she saw the looks of wonder of the guests, and their appreciation of her son’s magnificent observatory, that she was now reaping her reward.

“Bless my soul!” cried Sir John, “I am astounded. I did not think there was such a place outside Greenwich.”

Mrs Alleyne bowed and smiled; and then, as Sir John began eagerly inspecting the various objects and arrangements around, and the major chatted to Lucy, she gave a curious look at her son, who was bending over Glynne, explaining to her the use of the quicksilver trough, and arranging a glass afterwards, so that she might see how it was brought to bear upon a reflected star.

As Mrs Alleyne glanced round she saw that Oldroyd was also watching her son and Glynne, and her eyes directly after met those of the young doctor, whose thoughts she tried to read – perhaps with success.

For the next half-hour, Glynne was being initiated in the mysteries of the transit instrument, and had the pleasure of seeing star after star cross the zenith, after which, the moon having risen well above the refracting and magnifying mists of earth, the largest reflector was brought to bear upon its surface.

Ejaculations of delight kept escaping from Glynne’s lips as she gazed at the bright tops of the various volcanoes, searched the dark shadows and craters, and literally revelled in the glories of the brightly embossed silver crescent. She had a hundred questions to ask, with all the eager curiosity and animation of a child, and with the advantage of having one as patient as he was learned, ready to respond upon the instant.

“I feel so terribly selfish,” cried Glynne, at last. “Oh, papa, you must come and look. Uncle, it is wonderful.”

“We’ll have a look another time,” said Sir John, good-humouredly; “only don’t wear out Mr Alleyne’s patience.”

“Oh, I hope he will not think me tiresome,” cried Glynne, whose eye was directed to the glass again on the instant, “but it is so wonderful. I could watch the moon all night. Now, Mr Alleyne, just a little way from the left edge, low down, there is a brilliant ring of light – no, not quite a ring; it is as if a portion of it had been torn away, and – Oh! Robert! how you startled me.”