Everyone knew of the engagement, and
approved of the same, although some hinted that Lucy Kendal would
have been wiser to marry the soldier-baronet. Amongst these was
Widow Anne, who really was Mrs. Bolton, the mother of Sidney, a
dismal female invariably arrayed in rusty, stuffy, aggressive
mourning, although her husband had been dead for over twenty
years. Because of this same mourning, and because she was always
talking of the dead, she was called "Widow Anne," and looked on
the appellation as a compliment to her fidelity. At the present
moment she stood at the gate of her tiny garden, mopping her red
eyes with a dingy handkerchief.
"Ah, young love, young love, my lady," she groaned, when the
couple passed, for she always gave Lucy a title as though she
really and truly had become the wife of Sir Frank, "but who knows
how long it may last?"
"As long as we do," retorted Lucy, annoyed by this prophetic
speech.
Widow Anne groaned with relish. "So me and Aaron, as is dead and
gone, thought, my lady. But in six months he was knocking the
head off me."
"The man who would lay his hand on a woman save in the way of--"
"Oh, Archie, what nonsense, you talk!" cried Miss Kendal
pettishly.
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