The tell-tale blood dyed Travice Arkell's brow. Mr. Arkell little needed other answer.
"My boy, let there be no secrets between us. You know that your welfare and happiness—your happiness, Travice—lie nearest to my heart. Have you learnt to love Lucy Arkell?"
"Yes," said Travice; and there was a whole world of pain in the simple answer.
"I thought so. I thought I saw the signs of it a long while ago; but, Travice, it would never do."
"You would object to her?"
"Object to her!—to Lucy!—to Peter's child! No. She is one of the sweetest girls living; I am not sure but I love her more than I do my own: and I wish she could be my real daughter and your wife. But it cannot be, Travice. There are impediments in the way, on her side and on yours; and your own sense must tell you this as well as I can."
He could not gainsay it. The impediments were all too present to Travice every hour of his life.
"You cannot take a portionless wife. Lucy has nothing now, or in prospect, beyond any little trifle that may come to her hereafter at Mildred's death; but I don't suppose Mildred can have saved much. It is said, too, that Lucy is likely to marry Tom Palmer."
"I know she is," bitterly acquiesced Travice.
"Lucy, then, for both these reasons, is out of the question. Have you not realized to your own mind the fact that she is?"