"They need not think about a home for you, Lucy," he whispered, taking the one disengaged hand into his. "That shall be my care."
Lucy coldly drew her hand away. Her head was full of Barbara Fauntleroy—of the certainty that that lady would be his wife—for she believed no earthly event would be allowed to set aside the marriage: her spirit rebelled against the words. What right had he to breathe such to her—he, the engaged husband of another?
"I shall never have my home with you," she said, in the same low whisper. "Nothing should induce me to it."
"But, Lucy——"
"I will not hear you. You have no right so to speak to me. Aunt! aunt!"—and the tears gushed forth in all their bitter anguish—"let me find a home with you!"
Mildred turned and clasped fondly the appealing form as it approached her. Travice, hurt and resentful, quitted the room.
The death came, and then the funeral. A day or two afterwards, Mrs. Arkell condescended to pay a stately visit of ceremony to Mildred, who received her in the formerly almost-unused drawing-room. Lucy did not appear. Miss Arkell, her heart softened by grief, by much trial, was more cordial than perhaps she had ever been to Mrs. Arkell, before her marriage or after it.
"What a fine young man Travice is!" she observed, in a pause of their conversation.
"The finest in Westerbury," said Mrs. Arkell, with all the partiality of a mother. "I expect he will be thinking of getting married shortly."
"Of getting married! Travice! To whom? To Lucy?"