Marcella looked up with a sharp thrill of pain.
"Papa is better, mamma, and—and I don't know what you mean. I shall never reign here without you."
Mrs. Boyce began to fidget with the rings on her thin left hand.
"When Mellor ceases to be your father's it will be yours," she said, not without a certain sharp decision; "that was settled long ago. I must be free—and if you are to do anything with this place, you must give your youth and strength to it. And your father is not better—except for the moment. Dr. Clarke exactly foretold the course of his illness to me two years ago, on my urgent request. He may live four months—six, if we can get him to the South. More is impossible."
There was something ghastly in her dry composure. Marcella caught her hand again and leant her trembling young cheek against it.
"I could not live here without you, mamma!"
Mrs. Boyce could not for once repress the inner fever which in general her will controlled so well.
"I hardly think it would matter to you so much, my dear."
Marcella shrank.
"I don't wonder you say that!" she said in a low voice. "Do you think it was all a mistake, mamma, my going away eighteen months ago—a wrong act?"