"He was helping mamma indoors when I came. Papa had gone somewhere: he left us at the station."
Mr. Arkell did not say that he had been there. He was looking very poorly just then, and his hands, quite trembling with cold, were blue as he stretched them out to the fire. Lucy, an admirable sick nurse from her training, the being with her ailing mother, threw back her grey cloak, knelt down, and took them into her own warm hands to chafe them.
It was what one of Mr. Arkell's own daughters would not, or could not, have done. He looked down on the pretty upturned face, every line of which spoke of a sweet goodness. She was more lovely, more attractive than Mildred had been—or was it that his eyes had then had a film before them?—and he felt that—were he in Travice's place——
"I wonder you liked to stay so long away, leaving Henry to himself!" interrupted Mrs. Arkell.
"He was at Mr. Wilberforce's, you know," replied Lucy. "He was very well there; very happy."
"I suppose he comes home to-day."
"No, not until the college school breaks up for Christmas. Mr. Wilberforce thinks he had better not disturb himself before. Have you heard of the gold medal? But of course you have. I hope I shall not grow too proud of my brother. But oh, Mrs. Arkell! pray tell me! What do you think of that dreadful thing, the loss of Mr. Dundyke? Will he ever come back again?"
"Ever come back again!" repeated Mrs. Arkell, believing that Lucy was putting on an affectation of childishness. "How can a murdered man come back?"
"Was he murdered? I thought they supposed he was drowned, but were not certain what it was. Was he murdered?" she repeated, looking at Mr. Arkell, for Mrs. Arkell did not appear inclined to answer her.
"I fear he was, Lucy."