Lucy stood, her hands tightly clasped before her, a world of sadness in her fair, young face.  One less entirely single-hearted, less true than Lucy Tempest, might have professed to ignore the drift of his words.  Had Lucy, since Mrs. Verner’s death, cast a thought to the possibility of certain happy relations arising between her and Lionel—­those social ties he now spoke of?  No, not intentionally.  If any such dreams did lurk in her heart unbidden, there she let them lie, in entire abeyance.  Lionel Verner had never spoken a word to her, or dropped a hint that he contemplated such; his intercourse with her had been free and open, just as it was with Decima.  She was quite content; to be with him, to see him daily, was enough of happiness for her, without looking to the future.

“The farther I get away from England the better,” he resumed.  “India, from old associations, naturally suggests itself, but I care not whither I go.  You threw out a suggestion once, Lucy, that Colonel Tempest might be able to help me to something there, by which I may get a living.  Should I have found no success in London by the time he arrives, it is my intention to ask him the favour.  He will be home in a few weeks now.”

“And you talk of leaving Deerham immediately!” cried Lucy.  “Where’s the necessity?  You should wait until he comes.”

“I have waited too long, as it is.  Deerham will be glad to get rid of me.  It may hold a jubilee the day it hears I have shipped myself off for India.  I wonder if I shall ever come back?  Probably not.  I and old friends may never meet again on this side heaven.”

He had been affecting to speak lightly, jokingly, toying at the same time with some trifle on the mantel-piece.  But as he turned his eyes on Lucy at the conclusion of his sentence, he saw that the tears were falling on her cheeks.  The words, the ideas they conjured up, had jarred painfully on every fibre of her heart.  Lionel’s light mood was gone.

“Lucy,” he whispered, bending to her, his tone changing to one of passionate earnestness, “I dare not stay here longer.  There are moments when I am tempted to forget my position, to forget honour, and speak words that—­that—­I ought not to speak.  Even now, as I look down upon you, my heart is throbbing, my veins are tingling; but I must not touch you with my finger, or tell you of my impassioned love.  All I can do is to carry it away with me, and battle with it alone.”

Her face had grown white with emotion.  She raised her wet eyes yearningly to his; but she still spoke the simple truth, unvarnished, the great agony that was lying at her heart.

“How shall I live on, with you away?  It will be more lonely than I can bear.”

“Don’t, child!” he said in a wailing tone of entreaty.  “The temptation from my own heart is all too present to me.  Don’t you tempt me.  Strong man though I am, there are things that I cannot bear.”