Mr. Leigh's day, meanwhile, had been far less comfortable than Maurice's. He had made a pretence of looking over papers, and arranging various small affairs in readiness for their voyage, but his mind all the while had been occupied with two or three questions. Had Maurice really sent to him a note for Mrs. Costello which by any carelessness of his had been lost? Had the change he remembered in her manner been connected with the loss? Had Lucia cared for Maurice? Had either mother or daughter thought so ill of Maurice as he, his own father, had done? The poor old man tormented himself, much as a woman might have done, with these speculations, but he dared not breathe a word of them. He even went so far in his self-accusations and self-disgust as to imagine that if he had been his son's faithful helper, he might have prevented that flight from the Cottage which had caused so much trouble and vexation.

Still, when Maurice came home full of energy and hope, and anxious to atone for his unreasonableness of the previous day, the aspect of affairs brightened a good deal, and the evening passed happily with both.

But after that first day a certain amount of disturbance began to be felt in the household. People came and went perpetually. There was so much to be done, and so little time to do it in; and there was not only the actual business of moving, but innumerable claims from old friends were made upon Maurice, all of which had to be satisfied one way or other.

And the days flew by so quickly. Maurice congratulated himself again and again on having provided so good a reason for leaving Cacouna at a certain time. "Our berths are taken," was a conclusive answer to all proposals of delay; and if it had not been for that, he often thought it would have been impossible to have held to his purpose. But as it was, all engagements, whatever they might be, had to be pressed into the short space of a fortnight, and under the double impulse of Maurice's own energies, and of that irrevocable must, things went on fast and prosperously.

It was well for Mr. Leigh that these last weeks in his old home were so full of hurry and excitement, and that he was supported by the presence of his son, and by the thought that he was fulfilling what would have been the desire of his much-beloved and long-lost wife; for the pain of parting for ever from the places where so many years of happiness and of sorrow had been spent—from the birthplace of his children, and the graves which were sacred to his heart, grew at times very bitter, and needed all his absorbing love for his last remaining child, to make it endurable. It is quite true, however, that at other times, the idea of meeting his old neighbour of the Cottage in that far-away and half-forgotten England, and of seeing Maurice and Lucia once more together, as he could not help but hope they would be, cheered him into positive hopefulness and eagerness to be gone.

Two days before their actual leaving, it was necessary for the household to be broken up. Maurice wished to go for the interval to a hotel. Cacouna had two,—long gaunt wooden buildings supposed to be possessed of "every accommodation,"—but so many voices were instantly raised against this plan, that it had to be given up, and Mrs. Bellairs, with great rejoicing, carried off both father and son from half-a-dozen other claimants. Literally, she only carried off Mr. Leigh, for Maurice, who had entirely resumed his Canadian habits, was still deep in the business of packing and of seeing to the arrangements for the morrow's sale; but he had promised to have his work finished before evening, and to join them in good time in Cacouna.

As Mrs. Bellairs drove Mr. Leigh home in her own sleigh, flourishing the whip harmlessly over Bob's ears and making him clash all his silver bells at once with the tossing of his head, she could not help saying,

"Don't you think now Maurice is such a rich man he ought to marry soon?"

Her companion looked at her doubtfully.

"Perhaps he is thinking of it," he answered.

"When he is married," she went on with a little laugh, "he has promised to invite us to England."

But Mr. Leigh did not smile.

"I hope you will come soon, then," he said.

"You think there is a chance?"

"I think it will not be his fault if there is not."

"And I think he is not likely to find the lady very obstinate."

"What lady? Any one or one in particular?"

"I thought of one, certainly."

"Lucia Costello?"

"Yes."

"You think she would marry him?"

"Why not? Yes, I think so."

"And her mother?"

"Ah! I don't know; Mrs. Costello has a will of her own."



CHAPTER VIII.

In the old days there had been a sort of antagonism between Bella Latour and Maurice Leigh. They had necessarily seen a great deal of each other, and liked each other after a certain fashion; but Maurice had thought Bella too flighty, and inclined to fastness; and Bella had been half-seriously, half-playfully disposed to resent his judgment of her. But now, either because of the complete change in her character which the last few months had wrought, or from some other cause, Mrs. Morton and Maurice fell into a kind of confidential intimacy quite new to their intercourse. It was only for two days, certainly, but during those two days, and in spite of Maurice's occupations, they had time for several long and very interesting conversations.

In the first of these, which had begun upon some indifferent subject, Bella surprised Maurice by alluding, quite calmly and simply, to the imprisonment of the unfortunate Indian, Lucia's father. He had naturally supposed that a subject so closely connected with her own misfortunes would have been too deeply painful to be a permitted one, and had, therefore, with care, avoided all allusion to it. In this, however, he did not do her full justice. The truth was, that in her deep interest in the Costellos, she had quietly forced herself to think and speak of the whole train of events which affected them, without dwelling on its connection with her own story. She never spoke of her husband—her self-command was not yet strong enough for that—nor of Clarkson; but of Christian, as the victim of a false accusation, she talked to Maurice without hesitation.

Up to that time there had been no very vivid idea in his mind either of Christian himself, or of the way in which he had spent the months of his imprisonment, and finally died. Indeed, in the constant change and current of nearer interests, he had thought little, after the first, about this unknown father of his beloved. He had considered the matter until it led him just so far as to make up his mind, quite easily and without evidence, that Clarkson was probably the murderer, and that Christian, whether innocent or guilty, was not to be allowed to separate him from Lucia, and then, after that point, he ceased to think of Christian at all. But now, he received from Bella the little details, such as no letters could have told him, of the weeks since her husband's death—chiefly of the later ones, and there were many reasons why these details had a charm for him which made him want to hear more, the more he heard. In the first place she spoke constantly of Lucia, and it scarcely needed a lover's fancy to enable him to perceive how in this time of trial she had been loving, helpful, wise even, beyond what seemed to belong to the sweet but wilful girl of his recollection. He listened with new thoughts of her, and a love which had more of respect, as Bella described those bitter days of which Lucia had told her later, when neither mother nor daughter dared to believe in the innocence of the accused man, and when, the one for love, the other for obedience, they kept their secret safe in their trembling hearts, and tried to go in and out before the world as if they had no secret to keep.

"Lucia used to come to me every day. I was ill, and her visits were my great pleasure; she came and talked or read to me, with her mind full all the while of that horrible idea."

"She knew that it was her father?" asked Maurice. "I wonder Mrs. Costello, after having kept the truth from Lucia so long, should have told her all just then."

Bella looked at him inquiringly.

"She had told her before anything of this happened," she answered. "I believe Lucia herself was the first to suspect that the prisoner was her father."

"And how did they find out?"

"Mr. Strafford went and visited him."

"Did you ever see him?"

"No. Elise did for a few minutes just before his death; but I have heard so much about him that I can scarcely persuade myself I never did see him."

"They were both with him at last?"

"Yes. Poor Lucia never saw him till then."

"Tell me about it, please."

She obeyed, and told all that had happened both within her own knowledge and at the jail, on the night of Christian's death and the day preceding it. Her calmness was a little shaken when she had to refer to Clarkson's confession, though she did so very slightly, but she recovered herself and went on with her story, simply repeating for the most part what Lucia and Mrs. Bellairs had told her at the time. When she had finished, Maurice remained silent. He had shaded his eyes with his hand, and when, after a minute's pause, he looked up again to ask her another question, she saw that he had been deeply touched by the picture she had drawn.

But Bella was really doing her friends a double service by thus talking to Maurice. It was not only that Lucia grew if possible dearer than ever to him from these conversations, but there was something—though Maurice himself would not have admitted it—in making Lucia's father an object of interest and sympathy, instead of leaving him a kind of dark but inevitable blot on the history of the future bride.

On the evening before Mr. Leigh and his son were to start for England, as many as possible of their old friends were gathered together at Mr. Bellairs' for a farewell meeting. Every one there had known the Costellos; every one remembered how Maurice and Lucia had been perpetually associated together at all Cacouna parties; every one, therefore, naturally thought of Lucia, and she was more frequently spoken of than she had been at all since she left. It seemed also to be taken for granted that Maurice would see her somewhere before long, and he was entrusted with innumerable messages both to her and her mother.

"But," he remonstrated, "you forget that I am going to England, and that they are in France—at least, that it is supposed so."

"Oh! yes," he was answered, "but you will be sure to see them; don't forget the message when you do."

At last he gave up making any objection, and determined to believe what everybody said. It was a pleasant augury, at any rate, and he was glad to accept it for a true one.

When all the visitors were gone, and the household had retired for the night, Mr. Bellairs and his former pupil sat together over the drawing-room fire for one last chat. Their talk wandered over all sorts of subjects—small incidents of law business—the prospects of some Cacouna men who had gone to British Columbia—the voyage to England—the position of Hunsdon—and Maurice had been persuading his host to come over next summer for a holiday, when by some chance Percy was alluded to.

"You have not seen or heard anything of him, I suppose?" Mr. Bellairs asked.

"Yes, indeed, I have," Maurice answered, slowly stirring the poker about in the ashes as he spoke. "I met him only the other day in London."

"Met him? Where?"

"On a doorstep——," and he proceeded to describe their meeting.

"I suppose you have heard of his marriage by this time."

"No. I heard from Edward Graham, an old friend of mine, that he was going to be married, but that is the latest news I have of him."

"Oh, well, Payne may have made a mistake. He told me it was coming off in a day or two."

"As likely as not. He might not think it worth while to send us any notice."

"The puppy! I beg your pardon, I forgot he was your cousin."

"You need not apologise on that score. There is not much love lost between us; and as for Elise, I never knew her inclined to be inhospitable to anybody but him."

"Was she to him?"

"She was heartily glad to see the last of him, and so I suspect were some other people."

"What people?"

"Mrs. Costello for one. He was more at the Cottage than she seemed to like."

Maurice hesitated, but could not resist asking a question.

"Was he as much there afterwards as he was before the time I left?"

"More, I think. Look here, Maurice; Elise first put it into my head that he was running after Lucia, but I saw it plainly enough myself afterwards, and I know you saw it too. I think we are old enough friends for me to speak to you on such a subject. Well, my belief is, that before Percy went away, he proposed to Lucia."

"Proposed? Impossible!"

"I don't know about that. He was really in love with her in his fashion—which is not yours, or mine."

"And she?"

"Must have refused him, for he went away in a kind of amazed ruefulness, which even you would have pitied."

Maurice looked the reverse of pitiful for a moment.

"But that is all supposition," he said.

"Granted. But a supposition founded on pretty close observation. Only mind, I do not say Lucia might not be a little sorry herself. You were away, and a girl does not lose a handsome fellow like Percy, who has been following her about everywhere as if he were her pet dog, without feeling the loss more or less. At least that is my idea."

"He has soon consoled himself."

"My dear fellow, everybody can't step into possession of L10,000 a year all at once. Most people have to do something for a living, and the only thing Percy could do was to marry."

They said good-night soon after this, and went upstairs, Maurice blessing the Fates which seemed determined to give him all possible hope and encouragement. Only he could not quite understand this idea of Mr. Bellairs'. He could imagine anybody, even Percy, being so far carried away by Lucia's beauty as to forget prudence for the moment; but he could not help but feel that it was improbable that Percy would have gone so far as to propose to Lucia unless he were sure she would say yes. Why, then, had she not said yes?

Next morning the last farewells had to be said—the last look taken at the old home. Night found father and son far on their way to New York, and Maurice's eagerness all renewed by this fresh start upon his quest.

There was little of novelty in the journey or the voyage. There were the usual incidents of winter travelling—the hot, stifling car—the snowy country stretching out mile after mile from morning till night—the hotels, which seemed strangely comfortless for an invalid—and then the great city with its noise and bustle, and the steamer where they had nothing to do but to wait.

And, at last, there was England. There was the Mersey and Liverpool, looking, as they came in, much as if the accumulated dirt of the three kingdoms had been bestowed there, but brightening up into a different aspect when they had fairly landed and left the docks behind them. For it was a lovely March day—only the second or third of the month it is true,—and winter, which they had left in full possession in Canada, seemed to be over here, and the warm sunny air so invigorated Mr. Leigh that he would not hear Maurice's proposal to rest until next day, but insisted on setting out at once for Norfolk.

As they drove to the railway they passed the jeweller's shop where Maurice had bought Lucia's ring. Alas! it still lay in his pocket, where he had carried it ever since that day—when would it find its destination? He was not going to be disheartened now, however. He was glad of the little disturbance to his thoughts of having to take tickets and see his father comfortably placed, and at the very last moment he was just able to seize upon a Times, and set himself to reading it as if he had never been out of England.



CHAPTER IX.

Maurice had telegraphed from Liverpool, and the old-fashioned carriage from Hunsdon met them at the last railway station. It was near sunset, and under a clear sky the soft rich green of the grass gleamed out with the brightness of spring. They soon turned into the park, and the house itself began to be visible through the budding, but still leafless, trees. Both father and son were silent. To the one, every foot of the road they traversed was haunted by the memories of thirty years ago; to the other, this coming home was a step towards the fulfilment of his hopes. They followed their own meditations, glad or sorrowful, until the last curve was turned, and they stopped before the great white pillars of the portico. Then Maurice remembered that this was his first coming home as master, and felt a momentary shyness take possession of him before his own new importance. He had been able during his absence to keep Hunsdon so much in the background, and to be so thoroughly the natural, portionless, Maurice Leigh. He jumped out of the carriage, however, and was too much occupied in helping his father, to think, for the next few minutes, of his own sensations at all. Then he discovered what he had not before thought about—that there were still two or three of the old servants who remembered his mother and her marriage, and who were eager to be recognised by "the Captain."

And so the coming home was got over, and Mr. Leigh was fairly settled in the house from which so long ago he had stolen away his wife. After he had once taken possession of his rooms—the very ones which had been hers,—he seemed to think no more about Canada, but to be quite content with the new link to the past which supplied the place of his accustomed associations. And, perhaps, he felt the change all the less because of that inclination to return to the recollections of youth rather than of middle age, which seems so universal with the old.

Maurice sent over a messenger to Dighton to announce their arrival, and to tell his cousin that he intended leaving home again after one day's interval. That one day was fully occupied, but, as he had half expected, in the afternoon Lady Dighton came over.

She knew already of his disappointment, and had sympathised with it. She came now with the kind intention of establishing such friendly relations with Mr. Leigh as would make Maurice more comfortable in leaving his father alone. She even proposed to carry the old man off to Dighton, but that was decided against.

"And you really start to-morrow?" she asked Maurice.

"Early to-morrow morning. I cannot imagine what the railway-makers have been thinking about; it will take me the whole day to get to Chester."

"How is that?"

"Oh! there are about a dozen changes of line, and, of course, an hour to wait each time."

"Cut off the exaggeration, and it is provoking enough. Is it in Chester this gentleman lives?"

"No, three or four miles away, I fancy. I shall have to inquire when I get there."

"And after you find him what will you do?"

"If I get their address, I shall go straight from Mr. Wynter to them, wherever they are."

"At St. Petersburg, perhaps, or Constantinople?"

"Don't, Louisa, please. I thought you had some pity for one's perplexities."

"So I have. And I believe, myself, that they are in Paris."

"I wish they may be—that is, if I get any satisfaction from my inquiries. Otherwise, Paris is not exactly a place where one would choose to set about seeking for a lost friend, especially with about half-a-dozen sentences of available French."

"Never fear. But if you should not find them, I would not mind going over for a week or two to help you; I should be of some use as an interpreter."

"Will you come? Not for that; but if I do find them, I should so like to introduce Lucia to you."

"To tell the truth, I am rather afraid of this paragon of yours; and you will be bringing her to see me."

"I am afraid I am making too sure of that without your telling me so. After all, I may have my search for nothing. I do wish very much you would come over."

"Well, at Easter we will see. Perhaps I may coax Sir John over for a week or two."

"Thank you. I shall depend on that."

"But remember you must send me word how you fare."

"I will write the moment I have anything to tell."

"Impress upon your father, Maurice, that we wish to do all we can for his comfort. I wish he would have come to us."

"I think he is better here. Everything here reminds him of my mother, and he feels at home. But I shall feel that I leave him in your hands, my kind cousin."

Maurice bade his father good-bye that night, and early next morning he started on his journey to Chester. What a journey it was! His account to Lady Dighton had been exaggerated certainly, but was not without foundation. Again and again he found himself left behind, chafing and restless, by some train which had carried him for, perhaps, an hour, and obliged to amuse himself as best he could until a fresh one came, in which he would travel another equally short stage. It was a windy, rainy day, with gleams of sunshine, but more of cloud and shower, and grew more and more stormy as it drew towards night. Before he reached Chester the wind had risen to a storm, and sheets of rain were being dashed fiercely against the carriage windows. At last they did roll into the station with as much noise and importance as if delay had been a thing undreamt of, on that line at any rate; and Maurice hurried off to make his inquiries, and find a carriage to take him to Mr. Wynter's.

So far, certainly, he prospered. He found that his destination was between four and five miles from the city, but it was perfectly well known, and a carriage was soon ready to take him on.

The road seemed very long, as an unknown road travelled in darkness and in haste generally does. The wind howled, and rattled the carriage windows, the rain still dashed against the glass with every gust, and at times the horses seemed scarcely able to keep on through the storm. At last, however, they came to a stop, and Maurice, looking out, found himself close to a lodge, from the window of which a bright gleam of light shone out across the rainy darkness. In a minute a second light came from the opening door, the great gates rolled back, and the carriage passed on into the grounds. There were large trees on both sides of the drive, just faintly visible as they swayed backwards and forwards, and then came an open space and the house itself. There was a cheerful brightness there, showing a wide old-fashioned porch, and, within, a large hall where a lamp was burning. Maurice hurried in to the porch, and had waited but a minute when a servant in a plain, sober-coloured livery came leisurely across the hall and opened the glass door, through which the visitor had been trying to get his first idea of the place and its inhabitants.

"Was Mr. Wynter in?"

"No."

"Was he expected?"

"Not to-night, certainly—perhaps not to-morrow."

"Mrs. Wynter?" That was a guess. Maurice had never troubled himself till then to think whether there was a Mrs. Wynter.

"She was at home, but engaged."

Maurice hesitated a moment. "I must see her," he thought to himself, and took heart again.

"I have made a long journey," he said, "to see Mr. Wynter; will you give my card to your mistress, and beg of her to see me for a moment?"

The man took the card and led the visitor into a small room at one side of the hall, where books and work were lying about as if it had been occupied earlier in the day, but which was empty now. Then he shut the door and carried the card into the drawing-room.

Mrs. Wynter had friends staying with her. There was a widow and her son and daughter, and one or two young people besides, as well as all the younger members of the Wynter family. The two elder ladies were having a little comfortable chat over their work, and the others were gathered round the piano, when Maurice's arrival was heard.

"Who can it be?" Mrs. Wynter said doubtfully. "It is not possible Mr. Wynter can be back to-night."

The eldest daughter came to the back of her mother's chair.

"Listen, mamma," she said; "or shall I look if it is papa?"

"No indeed, my dear. It can't be. Walter!" for one of the boys was cautiously unlatching the door, "come away, I beg."

Meanwhile all listened, so very extraordinary did it seem that anybody should come unannounced, so late, and on such a night.

Presently the door opened, and everybody's eyes, as well as ears, were in requisition, though there was only a card to exercise them on.

"A gentleman, ma'am, who says he has come a long way to see master, and would you speak to him for a moment?"

Mrs. Wynter took up the card, and her daughter read it over her shoulder.

"Leigh Beresford?" she said. "I do not know the name at all. You said Mr. Wynter was from home?"

"Yes, ma'am. The gentleman seemed very much put out, and then said could he see you?"

"I suppose he must;" and Mrs. Wynter began, rather reluctantly, to put aside her embroidery, and draw up her lace shawl around her shoulders.

"But what a pretty name! Mamma, who can he be?"

"And, mamma, if he is nice bring him in and let us all see him."

"No, don't; we don't want any strangers. What do people come after dinner for?"

Mrs. Wynter paid no attention to her daughters, but having made up her mind to it, walked composedly out of the room, and into the one where Maurice waited. She came in, a fair motherly woman, in satin and lace, with a certain soft comfortableness about her aspect which seemed an odd contrast to his impatience. He took pains to speak without hurry or excitement, but did not, perhaps, altogether succeed.

"I must beg you to pardon me this intrusion," he said. "I hoped to have found Mr. Wynter at home, and I wished to ask him a question which I have no doubt you can answer equally well if you will be so good."

"If it relates to business," Mrs. Wynter began, but Maurice interrupted,

"It is only about an address. I have just arrived in England from Canada; I am an old friend and neighbour of Mrs. Costello, and have something of importance to communicate to her, will you tell me where she is?"

Poor Maurice! he had been getting his little speech ready beforehand, and had made up his mind to speak quite coolly, but somehow the last few words seemed very much in earnest, and struck Mrs. Wynter as being so. She looked more closely at her guest.

"Mrs. Costello is in France. Did I understand that you had known her in Canada?"

"I have known her all my life. I spent the last summer and autumn in England, and did not return to Canada until after she had left, but she knew that I should have occasion to see her, or write to her as soon as I could reach home again, and I am anxious to do so now."

"You are aware that Mrs. Costello wishes to live very quietly? Her health is much broken."

"I know all. Mrs. Costello has herself told me. Pray trust me—you may, indeed."

"You will excuse my hesitation if you do know all; but, certainly, I have no authority to refuse their address."

She got up and opened a desk which stood on a table in the room. She had considered the matter while they were talking, and come to the conclusion that the address ought to be given, while at the same time she wished to know more of the person to whom she gave it.

"I wish Mr. Wynter had been at home," she said after a minute's pause, during which she was turning over the papers in the desk, and Maurice was watching her eagerly. "He would have been able to tell you something of your friends, for he only returned home a week or two ago from meeting them."

"Are they in Paris?"

"Yes. Are you returning to Canada?"

"No. Perhaps, Mrs. Wynter, you would like to have my address? My coming to you as I have done, without credentials of any sort, must certainly seem strange."

"Thank you; you will understand that I feel in some little difficulty."

"I understand perfectly." He wrote his name and address in full and gave it to her. "Mrs. Costello was a dear friend of my mother's," he said; "she has always treated me almost as a son, and I cannot help hoping that what I have to say to her may be welcome news."

"Do you expect to see her, then, or only to write?"

"I am on my way to Paris. I hope to see them."

"Here is the address. You have had a long journey, the servant told me."

"From Hunsdon. And the journey out of Norfolk into Cheshire is a tiresome one. Thank you very much. Can I take any message to Mrs. Costello?"

"None, thank you, except our kindest remembrances. But you will let me offer you something—at least a glass of wine?"

But Maurice had now got all he wanted. He just glanced at the precious paper, put it away safely, declined Mrs. Wynter's offers, and was out of the house and on his way back to Chester in a very short space of time.

"What an odd thing!" Mrs. Wynter said as she settled herself comfortably in the easy-chair again.

"Who was he, mamma? What did he want?"

"He was a Canadian friend of your cousin Mary's wanting her address."

"What! come over from Canada on purpose?"

"It almost seemed like it, though that could not be, I suppose, for here is his address—'Maurice Leigh Beresford, Hunsdon, Norfolk.'"

"Beresford?" said the widow, "Why the Beresfords of Hunsdon are great people—very grand people, indeed. I used to know something of them."

"Did he look like a grand person, mamma?"

"He seemed a gentleman, certainly. I know no more."

"Was he young or old?"

"Young."

"Handsome or ugly?"

"Need he be either?"

"Of course. Which, mamma?"

"Not ugly, decidedly. Tall, and rather dark, with a very frank, honest-looking face."

"Young, handsome, tall, dark, and honest-looking! Mamma, he's a hero of romance, especially coming as he did, in the rain and the night."

"Don't be silly, Tiny. Mamma, is not my cousin Lucia a great beauty?"



CHAPTER X.

Mrs. Costello and Lucia had grown, to some degree, accustomed to their Paris life. Its novelty had at first prevented them from feeling its loneliness; but as time went on, there began to be something dreary in the absence of every friendly face, every familiar voice. Mrs. Costello would not even write to Canada until she could feel tolerably sure that her letters would only arrive after the Leighs had left; she had taken pains to find out all Mr. Leigh could tell her of Maurice's intentions, and she guessed that, for one reason or another, he would not be likely to stay longer in Cacouna than was necessary. Even when she wrote to Mrs. Bellairs she did not give her own address, but that of the banker through whom her money was transmitted.

She felt sore and angry whenever she thought of Maurice. She had perceived Mr. Leigh's embarrassed manner, and guessed, by a half-conscious reasoning of her own, that he believed his son changed towards them, but she did not guess on how very small a foundation this belief rested. She had thought it right to give up, on Lucia's behalf, any claim she had on the young man's fidelity; but to find him so very ready to accept the sacrifice, was quite another thing. It was so unlike Maurice, she said to herself; and then it occurred to her that Mr. Beresford might have planned some marriage for his grandson as a condition of his inheritance. Certainly she had heard no hint of such a thing, and up to a short time ago she was pretty sure Maurice himself could have had no idea of it; yet it was perfectly possible, and Mr. Leigh might have been warned to say nothing to her about it. All these thoughts, though Maurice might, if he had known, have been inclined to resent them, had the effect of keeping him constantly in Mrs. Costello's mind; and she puzzled over his conduct until she came to have her wishes pretty equally divided; on one hand, desiring to keep to her plan of a total separation between Lucia and him; and on the other, longing to see or hear of him, in order to know whether her former or her present opinion of him was the correct one.

It happened, therefore, that Maurice was much more frequently spoken of between the mother and daughter than should have been the case if Mrs. Costello had carried out her theories. If Lucia had been ever so little "in love" with him when she reached Paris, she would have had plenty of opportunity for increasing her fancy by dwelling on the object of it; but Mrs. Costello's wishes were forwarded by the very last means she would have chosen as her auxiliary. Lucia talked of Maurice because she thought of him as a friend, or rather as a dear brother. She said nothing of Percy, but she dreamt of him, and longed inexpressibly to hear even his name mentioned. She had heard nothing of him, except some slight casual mention, since he went away. He had said then that, perhaps in a year, she might change her mind; and she had said to herself, "Surely he will not forget me in a year." And now spring was coming round again, and all that had separated them was removed; there was not even the obstacle of distance; no Atlantic rolled between them; nay, they might be even in the same city. But how would he know? She could do nothing. She had done all in her power to make their parting final. How could she undo it now? She did not dare even to speak to her mother of him, for she knew that on that one subject alone there had never been sympathy between them. And she said to herself, too, deep in her own heart, that it must be a great love indeed which would be willing to take her—a poor, simple, half-Indian girl—and brave the world, and, above all, that terrible old earl and his pride, for her sake.

Still she dreamed and hoped, and set herself, meanwhile, all the more vigorously because of that hope, to "improve her mind." She picked up French wonderfully fast, having a tolerable foundation to go upon and a very quick ear, and she read and practised daily; beside learning various secrets of housekeeping, and attending her mother with the tenderest care. But it was very lonely. Lucia had never known what loneliness meant until those days when she sat by the window in the Champs Elysees and watched the busy perpetual stream of passers up and down—the movements of a world which was close round about, yet with which she had no one link of acquaintance or affection. It was very lonely; and because she could not speak out her thoughts, and say, "Is Percy here? Shall I see him some day passing, and thinking nothing of my being near him?" she said the thing that lay next in her mind, "I wish Maurice were here! Don't you, mamma?"

They had been more than a month in their new home. The routine of life had grown familiar to them; they knew the outsides, at least, of all the neighbouring shops; they had walked together to the Arc de Triomphe on the one side, and to the Rond Point on the other; they had driven to the Bois de Boulogne, and done some little sight-seeing beside. They had done all, in short, to which Mrs. Costello's strength was at present equal, and had come to a little pause, waiting for warmer weather, and for the renewal of health, which they hoped sunshine would bring her.

One afternoon Claudine had been obliged to go out, and the little apartment was unusually quiet. Mrs. Costello, tired with a morning walk, had dropped into a doze; and Lucia sat by the window, her work on her lap, and her eyes idly following the constant succession of carriages down below. To tell the truth, she constantly outraged Claudine's sense of propriety, by insisting on having one little crevice uncurtained, where she could look out into the free air; and to-day she was making use of the privilege, for want of anything more interesting indoors. She had no fear of being disturbed, for they had no visitors; in all Paris, there was not one person they knew, unless—. Percy had been there a great deal formerly, she knew, and might be there now, but he would not know where to find them if he wished it; no one could possibly come to-day. And yet the first interruption that came in the midst of the drowsy, sunny silence, was a ring at the door-bell. Lucia raised her head in surprise, and listened. Mrs. Costello slept on. Who could it be? not Claudine, for she had the key. Must she go and open the door? It seemed so, since there was no one else; and while she hesitated there was another ring, a little louder than the first.

She got up, put down her work, and went towards the door. "I wish Claudine would come," she said to herself; but Claudine was not likely to come yet, and meanwhile somebody was waiting.

"I suppose I shall have a flood of French poured over me," she thought dolorously; but there was clearly no help.

She went to the door, and opened it; a gentleman stood there—a gentleman! She uttered one little cry—

"Maurice!"

And then they were both standing inside the closed door; and he held her two hands in his, and they were looking at each other with eyes too full of joy to see well.

"Lucia!" he said; "just yourself." But somehow his voice was not quite steady, and he dare not trust it any further.

"We wanted you so, and you are come. Oh, Maurice! you are good to find us so soon!"

"Did you think I should not?"

"I cannot tell. How could you know where we were?"

"I went to Chester, and asked."

"To Chester? To my cousin's? Just to find us out?"

"Why not? Did not you know perfectly well that my first thought when I was free would be to find you?"

He spoke half laughing, but there was no mistaking his earnestness in the matter; was not he here to prove it? Tears came very fast to Lucia's eyes. This was really like the old happy days coming back.

"Come in," she said, "mamma is here." But mamma still slept undisturbed, for their tones had been low in the greatness of their joy; and Maurice drew Lucia back, and would not let her awake her.

"She looks very tired," he said rather hypocritically; "and it will be time enough to see me when she awakes. Don't disturb her."

Lucia looked at her mother anxiously. She knew this sleep was good for the invalid, and yet it might last an hour, and how could she wait all that time for the thousand things she wanted to hear from Maurice? The door of their tiny salle a manger stood a little open.

"Come in here, then," she said, "we shall be able to see when she wakes—and I must talk to you."

Maurice followed obediently—this was better than his hopes, to have Lucia all to himself for the first half hour. She made him sit down in such a manner that he could not be seen by Mrs. Costello, while she herself could see through the open door and watch for her mother's waking.

"And now tell me," she asked, "have you been back to Canada?"

"I started the moment I could leave England after my grandfather's death, but when I reached Cacouna you were gone."

"Dear old home! I suppose all looked just as usual?"

"Nothing looked as usual to me. As I came up the river I saw that the cottage was deserted, and that changed all the rest. But indeed I had had a tolerable certainty before that you were gone."

"How?"

"Do you remember meeting a Cunard steamer two days out at sea?"

"You were on board? How I strained my eyes to see if I could distinguish you!"

"Did you? And I too. But though I could not see you, I felt that you were on board the ship we met."

"I was sitting on deck, longing for a telescope. Well, it is all right now. Did you bring Mr. Leigh home?"

"Yes; he is at Hunsdon, safe and well."

"Hunsdon is your house now, is not it? Tell me what it is like?"

"A great square place, with a huge white portico in front—very ugly, to tell the truth; but you would like the park, Lucia, and the trees."

"It must be very grand. Does it feel very nice to be rich?"

"That depends on circumstances. But now do you think you are to ask all the questions and answer none?"

"No, indeed. There is one answer."

"Do you like Paris?"

"Well enough. It is very lonely here without anybody."

"Are you going to stay here?"

"For a month or two, I think."

"You will not be quite so lonely then in future—at least if I may come to see you."

"May come? That is a new idea. But are you going to stay in Paris, too?"

"I must stay for a few weeks. And I expect my cousin Lady Dighton over soon, and she wants to know you."

"To know us? Oh, Maurice! you forget what a little country girl I am, and mamma, poor mamma is not well enough to go out at all, scarcely."

"Is she such an invalid, really? Have you had advice for her?"

"It is disease of the heart," Lucia said in a very low sorrowful tone, all her gaiety disappearing before the terrible idea—"the only thing that is good for her is to be quiet and happy—and the last few months have been so dreadful, she has suffered so."

"And you? But I have heard all. Lucia, I would have given all I am worth in the world to have been able to help you."

"I often wished for you, especially when I used to fear that our old friends would desert us. I never thought you would."

"There is some comfort in that. Promise that whatever may come, you will always trust me."

He held out his hand, and Lucia put hers frankly in it.

Just at that moment there was a stir, and Mrs. Costello called "Lucia."



CHAPTER XI.

Mrs. Costello woke up gradually from her doze. She had been dreaming of Cacouna, and that Maurice and Lucia were sitting near her talking of his journey to England. She opened her eyes and found herself in a strange room which she soon recognized, but still it seemed as if part of her dream continued, for she could hear the murmur of two voices, very low, and could see Lucia sitting in the adjoining room and talking to somebody. Lucia, in fact, had forgotten to keep watch.

Mrs. Costello listened for a minute. It was strangely like Maurice's voice. She sat up, and called her daughter.

Lucia started up and came into the salon. She bent down over her mother, and kissed her to hide her flushed face and happy eyes for a moment.

"Are you rested, dear mamma?" she asked.

"Yes, darling. Who is there?"

"A visitor, mother, from England."

"From England? Not your cousin?"

"No, indeed. Guess again."

"Tell me. Quickly, Lucia."

"What do you say to Maurice?"

"Impossible!"

But Maurice, hearing his own name, came forward boldly.

"I have but just arrived, Mrs. Costello. I told you I should find you out."

They looked at each other with something not unlike defiance, but nevertheless Mrs. Costello shook hands with her guest cordially enough. Certainly he had kept his word—there might be a mistake somewhere, and at all events, for the present moment he was here, and it was very pleasant to see him.

So the three sat together and talked, and it seemed so natural that they should be doing it, that what did begin to be strange and incredible was the separation, and the various events of the past six months. But after Claudine had come in, and Lucia had been obliged to go away "on hospitable cares intent," to arrange with her some little addition to the dinner which Maurice was to share with them, the newcomer took advantage of her absence, and resolved to get as many as possible of his difficulties over at once. He had not yet quite forgiven his faithless ally, and he meant to make a new treaty, now that he was on the spot to see it carried out.

"I am afraid," he began, "that my coming so unexpectedly must have startled you a little, but I thought it was best not to write."

Mrs. Costello could not help smiling—she was quite conscious of her tactics having been surpassed by Maurice's.

"I am glad to see you, at any rate," she said, "now you are here; but" she added seriously, "you must not forget, nor try to tempt me to forget, that we are all changed since we met last."

"I do not wish it. I don't wish to forget anything that is true and real, and I wish to remind you that when I left Canada I did so with a promise—an implied promise at any rate—from you, which has not been kept."

"Maurice! Have you a right to speak to me so?"

"I think I have. Dear Mrs. Costello, have some consideration for me. Was it right when I was kept a fast prisoner by my poor grandfather's sick-bed, when I was trusting to you, and doing all I could to make you to trust me—was it fair to break faith with me, and try to deprive me of all the hopes I had in the world? Just think of it—was it fair?"

"I broke no faith with you. I felt that I had let you pledge yourself in the dark; that in my care for Lucia, and confidence in you, I had to some extent bound you to a discreditable engagement. I released you from it; I told you the truth of the story I had hidden from everybody—I wrote to you when my husband lay in jail waiting his trial for murder, and I heard no more from you. It was natural, prudent, right that you should accept the separation I desired—you did so, and I have only taken means to make it effectual."

"I did so! I accepted the separation?"

"I supposed, at least, from your silence that you did so. Was not I right therefore in desiring that you and Lucia should not meet again?"

"That was it, then? Listen, Mrs. Costello. My last note to you seems by some means to have been lost. There was nothing new in it; but my father has told me that he was surprised on receiving my letter which ought to have contained it, to find nothing for you, not even a message; perhaps you wondered too. I can only tell you the note was written. Then, in my next letter, written when my grandfather was actually dying, and when I was, I confess, very angry that you should persist in trying to shake me off, there was a message to you in a postscript which my father overlooked, and which I myself showed to him for the first time when I reached home and found you gone. What he had been thinking, Heaven knows. I had rather not inquire too closely; but I will say that it is rather hard to find that the people who ought to know one best, cannot trust one for six months."

Mrs. Costello listened attentively while Maurice made his explanation with no little warmth and indignation.

"Do you mean to say that you did not perceive how foolish and wrong it had become for you to think of marrying Lucia?"

"How in the world could it be either foolish or wrong for me to wish to marry the girl I have loved all my life? Unless, indeed, she preferred somebody else."

"Remember who she is."

"I am not likely to forget that after all I have lately heard about her from Mrs. Morton."

"And that you have a family and a position to think of now."

"And a home fit to offer to Lucia."

"Obstinate boy!"

"Call me what you will, but let it be understood that I have done nothing to forfeit your promise. I am to take no further answers except from Lucia."

"But you know, at least, that our worst fears were unfounded?"

"Of course they were. I always knew that would come right. But you have suffered terribly; I am ashamed of my own selfishness when I think of it."

"We have suffered. And my poor child so innocently, and so bravely. Maurice, she is worth caring for."

"You shall see whether I value her or not. Here she comes!"

Lucia came in, the glow of pleasure still on her face which Maurice's arrival had brought there. It was no wonder that both mother and lover looked at her with delight as she moved about, too restlessly happy to sit still, yet pausing every minute to ask some question or to listen to what the others were saying. Indeed not one of the three could well have been happier than they were that afternoon. Mrs. Costello felt that she had done all she could in the cause of prudence, and therefore rejoiced without compunction in seeing her favourite scheme for her darling restored to her more perfect than ever. Maurice, without having more than the minimum quantity of masculine vanity, had great faith in the virtues of perseverance and fidelity, and took the full benefit of Lucia's delight at seeing him; while Lucia herself was just simply glad—so glad that for an hour or two she quite forgot to think of Percy.

Maurice declared he had business which would keep him in Paris for some weeks. He claimed permission therefore to come every day, and to take Lucia to all the places where Mrs. Costello was not able to go.

"Oh, how charming!" Lucia cried. "I shall get some walks now. Do you know, Maurice, mamma will not let me go anywhere by myself, and I can't bear to make her walk; but you will go, won't you?"

"Indeed I will," Maurice said; but after that he went away back to his hotel, with his first uncomfortable sensation. Was Lucia still really such a child? Would she always persist in thinking of him as an elder brother—a dear brother, certainly, which was something, but not at all what he wanted? How should he make her understand the difference? That very day, her warm frank affection had been a perfect shield to her. The words that had risen to his lips had been stopped there, as absolutely as if he had been struck dumb. 'But I need not speak just yet,' he consoled himself. 'I must try to make her feel that I am of use to her, and that she would miss me if she sent me away. My darling! I must not risk anything by being too hasty.'

He wrote two notes that night; one to his father, the other to Lady Dighton, which said,

"Do come over. I am impatient to show Lucia to you. She is more beautiful and sweeter than ever. Of course, you will think all I say exaggerated, so do come and judge for yourself. I want an ally. All is right with Mrs. Costello, but I own I want courage with Lucia to "put it to the test." Suppose after all I should lose? But I dare not think of that."

Mrs. Costello slept little that night. A second time within a year she saw all her plans destroyed, her anticipations proved mistaken; the brighter destiny she had formerly hoped for, was now within her child's grasp. Wealth, honour, and steadfast love were laid together at her feet. Would she gather them up? Would she be willing to give herself into the keeping of this faithful heart which had learnt so well "to love one maiden and to cleave to her?" The doubt seemed absurd, yet it came and haunted the mother's meditations. She knew perfectly that Lucia had no thought of Maurice but as a friend or brother. She could not quite understand how it had always continued so, but she knew it had. She had never been willing to think of her child's regard for Percy as likely to be a lasting feeling, and at most times she really did consider it only as a thing of the past; yet to-night it came before her tiresomely, and she remembered what Mrs. Bellairs had told her lately about his marriage. She resolved once to ask Maurice whether he had heard anything of it, but, on second thoughts, she decided that it was better to leave the matter alone.

There was yet another person on whom Maurice's coming had made a most lively impression. Claudine, as soon after her first sight of him as she could get hold of Lucia, had a dozen questions to ask. "Was he Mademoiselle's brother? Her cousin then? Only a friend? What a charming young man! How tall he was! and what magnifiques yeux bruns! Now, surely, Mademoiselle would not be so triste? She would go out a little? and everybody would remark them, Mademoiselle being so graceful, and monsieur so very tall."

Lucia told her mother, laughing, that she and Maurice were going to walk up the Champs Elysees next day, with placards, saying that they were two North Americans newly caught; and when Maurice came next morning, she repeated Claudine's comments to him with a perfect enjoyment of the good little woman's admiration for "ce beau Monsieur Canadien."



CHAPTER XII.

After that day, Paris became quite a different place to Lucia. Maurice was with them most of every day, and every day they saw something new, or made some little country excursion. The weather, though still rather cold, was fine and bright; winter had fairly given place to spring, and all externally was so gay, sunny and hopeful, that it was quite impossible to give way either to sad recollections of the past, or to melancholy thoughts of the future.

Mrs. Costello's health seemed steadily, though slowly improving; she had now no anxiety, except that one shadowy doubt of Lucia's decision with regard to Maurice, and that she was glad to leave for the present in uncertainty. She felt no hesitation in letting the two young people go where they would together; they had always been like brother and sister, and, at the worst, they would still be that.

When this pleasant life had lasted about ten days, Maurice came in one morning and said,

"What do you say to a visitor to-day, Lucia?"

Lucia looked up eagerly with clasped hands,

"Who?" she cried. "Not your cousin?"

"Why not?"

"Oh, Maurice! I am afraid of her—I am indeed. I am sure she is a grande dame, and will annihilate me."

"Silly child! She is a tiny woman, with a fair little face and not a bit of grandeur about her. You yourself will look like a queen beside her."

"She is your very good friend, is not she?"

"Indeed she is. Promise me to try to like her."

"Of course, I will try. Is she really coming here?"

"She wishes to call this afternoon."

Lucia looked round the room. It was nice enough, and pretty in its way with its mirrors, gilt ornaments, and imposing clock on the mantelpiece; but it was so small! Three people quite filled it up. But she finished her survey with a laugh.

"If they would only let us have less furniture!" she said. "It was all very well as long as we had nothing better than tables and chairs to fill up the room with; but at present—"

She finished her sentence with a little shrug, in imitation of Claudine, which made Maurice laugh also. He proceeded, however, to warn her that worse was in reserve.

"Louisa will come alone, to-day," he said, "because I told her Mrs. Costello was an invalid, but you must expect that next time she will bring her husband, and Sir John is no small person I assure you."

"When did they arrive?"

"Last night."

"How long will they stay, do you think?"

"Two or three weeks I imagine, but I know nothing positively of their plans."

"And Maurice, tell me when you must go back to England? I do not want our pleasant life to end just as suddenly as it began."

"Nor do I. I am not going just yet."

"But have not you quantities of affairs to attend to, you important person?"

"My most serious affair at present is in Paris. Don't be afraid, I am not forgetting my duties."

"Then we cannot go out to-day?"

"Put on your bonnet and come now for a walk."

"I must ask mamma, and tell her your news. She is late this morning."

Mrs. Costello had risen late since she came to Paris. Lucia found her dressed and discussing some household affair with Claudine.

"Only think, mamma," she began. "Lady Dighton came over yesterday and is coming to see you to-day."

But the news was no surprise to Mrs. Costello, who had received a hint from Maurice that he wished to see his cousin and Lucia friends, before he ventured on that decisive question to which they all, except Lucia, were looking forward so anxiously. But she was keenly alive to the desire that her child should make a favourable impression on this lady, who had evidently some influence with Maurice, and who, if the wished-for marriage took place, would become Lucia's near relative and neighbour. She said nothing at all about this, however, and was perfectly content that the young people should take one of those long walks which brought such a lovely colour into her daughter's pale cheeks, and so gave the last perfecting touch to her beauty.

Maurice left Lucia at the door, and went back to the hotel where he had promised Lady Dighton to lunch with her. She was waiting for him, looking more than usually fair and pretty in the mourning she wore for her grandfather. He could not help thinking, as he came in, how rich and handsome everything about her seemed, in contrast to the bare simplicity of his poorer friends—yet certainly nature had intended Lucia for a much more stately and magnificent person than this little lady.

"Well?" she said smiling. "Have you persuaded your friends to receive me? I can assure you my curiosity has nearly overpowered me this morning."

"You will be disappointed, of course. You are imagining a heroine, and you will see only a young country girl."

"For shame, Maurice! If I am imagining a heroine, I wonder whose fault it is?"

"I wish you would not form your judgment for a week. You are enough of a fine lady, Louisa, to be a little affected by externals, and my pearl has no fine setting at present; it will need looking at closely to find out its value."

"And you think, oh most philosophical of lovers! that I am not capable of distinguishing a real pearl unless it is set in gold, and has its price ticketed?"

"I think, at least, that I am so anxious to see you the same kind friend to her as you have been to me, that I am troubling myself uselessly about the first impressions."

"On both sides? Well, trust me, Maurice I will like your Lucia for your sake, and try to make her like me."

"Thank you; I know you will. And after the first, you will not be able to help loving her."

"Sir John is not to go with us?"

"Not unless you particularly wish it. Where is he?"

"Gone out shopping. Don't laugh. I suspect his shopping is of a different kind to mine, and quite as expensive."

"Can anything be as expensive as the charming bonnets I heard you talking of this morning?"

"Take care. Only hint that I am extravagant, and I will devote myself to corrupting Lucia, and avenge myself by making your pocket suffer."

"I wish my pocket had anything to do with it. Pray be careful, Louisa, and remember that I have not dared to speak to her yet."

"I shall remember. Come to lunch now. Sir John will not be in."

Maurice tried in vain to talk as they drove slowly along to Mrs. Costello's. The street was full of people, and Lady Dighton amused herself by looking out for acquaintances, and saluting those they met. A good many English were in Paris; and she had also a pretty large circle of French people with whom she was on friendly terms; so that she had quite enough occupation to prevent her noticing her cousin's silence. But the moment the carriage stopped, she was ready to give her whole attention to him and his affairs; she gave him a little nod and smile full of sympathy as she went up the staircase, and the moment Claudine opened the door he perceived that he might leave everything in her hands with the most perfect confidence in her management.

There had been a little flutter of expectation in Lucia's mind for the last half-hour, in which she wondered her mother did not express more sympathy; and when, at last, the door opened, she was seized with a sudden tremor, and for an instant felt herself deaf and blind. The moment passed, however, and there came sweeping softly into the room a little figure with golden hair and widely flowing draperies; a fair face with a pleasant smile, and a clear musical voice; these were the things that first impressed her as belonging to Maurice's formidable cousin.

Lady Dighton's first words were of course addressed to Mrs. Costello—they seemed to Lucia to be a plea for a welcome, as Maurice's near relation—and then the two young women stood face to face and exchanged one quick glance. Lady Dighton held out her hand.

"Miss Costello," she said, "you and I are so totally unlike each other, that I am certain we were meant to be friends—will you try?"

The suddenness and oddity of the address struck Lucia dumb. She gave her hand, however, to her new friend with a smile, and as she did so, her eye caught the reflection of their two figures in a glass opposite.

Truly, they were unlike each other—very opposites—but either because, or in spite of the difference, they seemed to suit each other.

Half an hour spent in calling upon or receiving a call from an entire stranger, is generally a very heavy tax on one's good humour; but occasionally, when the visit is clearly the beginning of a pleasant acquaintance—perhaps a valuable friendship—things are entirely different. Lady Dighton had come with the intention of making herself agreeable, and few people knew better how to do it; but she found no effort necessary, and time slipped away more quickly than she thought possible. She stayed, in fact, until she felt quite sure her husband would have been waiting so long as to be growing uneasy, and when she did get up to go away, she begged Mrs. Costello and Lucia to dine with her next day.

"And Maurice," she said, "you must persuade Miss Costello to join us in an excursion somewhere. It is quite the weather for long drives, and our holiday will not be very long, you know."

"I am entirely at your command," Maurice said, "and Lucia must do as she is bid, so pray settle your plans with Mrs. Costello."

But Mrs. Costello said decidedly that to dine out for herself was out of the question—she had not done so for years.

"Oh! I am so sorry," Lady Dighton said. "But of course we must not ask you in that case—Miss Costello may come to us, may she not? I will take good care of her."

Lucia had many scruples about leaving her mother; but, however, it was finally settled that the Dightons should call for her next day—that they should have a long drive to some place not yet fixed upon—and that she should afterwards spend the evening with them.

Mrs. Costello was pleased that her child should go out a little after her long seclusion from all society; and the whole plan was arranged with little reference to Lucia, who vainly tried to avoid this long absence from her mother.

The two cousins were scarcely on their road when Lady Dighton asked—

"Well, Maurice, am I to reserve my opinion?"

"As you please," he answered smiling. "I am sure it is not very unfavourable."

"She is wonderfully beautiful; and, what is most strange, she knows it without being vain."

"Vain? I should think she was not!"

"What grace she has! With her small head and magnificent hair and eyes, she would have had quite beauty enough for one girl without being so erect and stately. You never gave me the idea that she was so excessively handsome, Maurice."

"Is she? I don't believe I knew it. You see I have known her all her life—I know every one of her qualities, I believe, good and bad; and all her ways. I knew she had the purest nature and the warmest, bravest heart a woman could have; but I have thought very little about her beauty by itself."

"Well, then, let me tell you, she only needs to be seen—she is quite lovely; and as for the rest, I do not know yet, but I am very much inclined to think you may be right. At all events, we are going to be good friends, and by-and-by I shall know all about her."



CHAPTER XIII.

Lucia came home late in the evening. Mrs. Costello, resuming her old habits, had sent the servant to bed, and herself admitted her daughter. They went into the drawing-room together to talk over the day's doings.

"You look very bright," Mrs. Costello said with her hand on Lucia's shoulder. "You have enjoyed yourself?"

"Yes, mamma, so much. You know I was a little afraid of Lady Dighton, and dreadfully afraid of Sir John. But they have both been so good to me; just like people at Cacouna who had known me all my life."

Mrs. Costello smiled. She was very glad this friendship seemed likely to prosper. Yet it was not very wonderful that any one should like Lucia.

"What have you been doing?"

"We went to Versailles, and saw the gardens. We had no time for the Palace; but Maurice is going to take me there another day. Then we came home and had dinner; and where do you think we have been since?"

"Where?"

"To the theatre! Oh, mamma, it was so nice! You know, I never was in one before."

Lucia clasped her hands, and looked up at her mother with such a perfectly innocent, childish, face of delight, that it was impossible not to laugh.

"What a day of dissipation!"

"Yes; but just for once, you know. And I could not help it."

"I do not see why you should have wished to help it. How about your French? Could you understand the play?"

"Pretty well. It was very shocking, you know. Lady Dighton says the best French plays always are. I cried a little, and I was so ashamed of myself; only I saw some other people crying too, so then I did not mind so much."

"You did not really see much of Lady Dighton, then, if you were driving all afternoon and at the theatre all evening?"

"Oh! yes; we had a long talk before dinner. When we came in, she said, 'Now, Maurice, you must just amuse yourself how you can for an hour. Sir John has English papers to read, and Miss Costello and I are going to my room to have a chat.' So she took me off to her dressing-room, and we were by ourselves there for quite an hour."

"In which time, I suppose, you talked about everything in heaven and earth."

"I don't know. No, indeed; I believe we talked most about Maurice."

"He is a favourite of hers."

"She says she liked him from the first. She is so funny in her way of describing things. She said, 'We English are horribly benighted with regard to you colonists; and my notions of geography are elementary. When grandpapa told me he had sent for his heir from Canada, I went to Sir John and asked him where Canada was. He got a big map and began to show me; but all I could understand was, that it was in North America. I saw an American once. I suppose I must have seen others, but I remember one particularly, for being an American; he was dreadfully thin and had straight black hair, and a queer little pointed black beard, and I think he spoke through his nose; and really I began to be haunted by a recollection of this man, and to think I was going to have a cousin just like him.' Then she told me about going over to Hunsdon and finding he had arrived. She said that before the end of the day they were fast friends."

"He was not like what she expected, then?"

"Just the opposite. She made me laugh about that. She said, 'I like handsome people, and I like an English style of beauty for men. My poor dear Sir John is not handsome, though he has a good face; but really when a man is good-looking and looks good, I can't resist him.'"

"You seem to have been much occupied with this question of looks. Did you spend the whole hour talking about them?"

"Mamma! Why that was only the beginning."

"What was the rest, then? or some of it, at least?"

"She told me how good Maurice was to his grandfather, and how fond Mr. Beresford grew of him. Do you know that Maurice was just going to try to get away to Canada at the very time Mr. Beresford had his last attack? Lady Dighton says he was excessively anxious to go, and yet he never showed the least impatience or disappointment when he found he could not be spared."

"He must have felt that he was bound to his grandfather."

"He nursed him just like a woman, Lady Dighton says, and one could fancy it. Could not you, mamma?"

"I don't find it difficult to believe anything good of Maurice."

"Oh! and then she told me about Hunsdon. She was born there, and lived there till she was married. She told me all about why Mr. Beresford left it to Maurice, and not to her. But, mamma, I cannot understand how Maurice can be so long away from home. I should think he must have quantities of things to attend to; and she told me Sir John was always busy, though his estate is not so large as Hunsdon. Only think, mamma, of Maurice, our Maurice, having more than ten thousand a year!"

"Well, dear, since we have come to talking of our neighbour's fortunes, I think we had better go to bed."

"Oh! yes; how thoughtless I am, keeping you up so. And I must be early to-morrow, for Lady Dighton is coming to see you, and Maurice wants me to go with him for a walk first. Not to see anything, but just for a walk."

Mrs. Costello lay down that night with a great feeling of content with regard to her daughter's future.

"Certainly," she thought, "Maurice may be satisfied with the affection she has for him; if it is not just the kind of love he wishes for, that is only because it has never entered her mind that he could be anything but a brother to her. She is so excessively childish in some things! I shall be glad now when she really does begin to understand. Only, must I part with her? Better that than that I should leave her alone; better even than that she should have to go among strange relatives."

Maurice had asked Lucia to walk with him for the sake of having her quite to himself for an hour, and perhaps of asking that much meditated question. He had specially bargained that they were not to "go anywhere;" but simply to choose a tolerably quiet road and go straight along it. Accordingly they started, and went slowly up the sunny slope towards the great arch, talking of yesterday, and of the trifles which always seemed interesting when they spoke of them together. After they had passed the barrier, they hesitated a little which road to take—they had already made several expeditions in this direction, and Lucia wanted novelty. Finally they took the road to Neuilly, and went on for a time very contentedly. But Maurice, after a while, fell into little fits of silence, thinking how he should first speak of the subject most important to him. He felt that there could be no better opportunity than this, and he was not cool enough to reflect that it was waste of trouble to try to choose his words, since if Lucia accepted him she would for ever think them eloquent; and if she refused him, would be certain to consider them stupid. She, on the other hand, was in unusually high spirits. It had occurred to her that Lady Dighton, who seemed to know everybody, would probably know Percy. She had begun already to lay deep plans for finding out if this was the case, and after that, where he was at present. She had thought of him so much lately, and so tenderly; she had remembered so often his earnestness and her own harshness in that last interview, that she felt as if she owed him some reparation, and as if his love were far more ardent than hers, and must needs be more stable also. The idea that she had advanced a step towards the happiness of meeting him again, added the last ingredient to her content. She could have danced for joy.

They walked a considerable distance, and Maurice had not yet found courage for what he wanted to say. Lucia began to think of her mother's loneliness, and proposed to return; he would have tempted her further, but a strange shyness and embarrassment seemed to have taken possession of him. They had actually turned round and begun to walk towards home before he had found a reason for not doing it.

"Lucia," he said abruptly, after one of the pauses which had been growing more and more frequent, "don't you wish to go over to England?"

"Of course I do," she answered with some surprise; "I wish we could go. You know I always used to wish it."

"Why don't you try now you are so near?"

"Surely, Maurice, you know mamma cannot go."

"I remember hearing something about your grandfather having wished her not to do so. Forgive me if it is a painful subject; but do not you see that things are quite changed now?"

"Do you think she could, then? But I don't see."

"Her father, I suppose, wished to avoid the chance of her marriage being gossipped about. His idea of her going back to England was naturally that she would go among her own relations and old acquaintance who knew the story. Now, I believe that she might go to any other part of the island—say Norfolk, for instance—and obey his wishes just as much as by staying in Paris."

"To Norfolk? Why, then, we should be near you? Oh! do try to persuade her."

"I must have you decidedly on my side then. I must be enabled to offer her a great inducement. If, for instance, I could tell her that you had made up your mind to come and live in Norfolk, she might say yes."

"Ah! but she would have to make up her mind first. See Maurice," she broke in abruptly, "what is that little building on the other side the road? There are some people who look like English going in."

"Don't mind that now, I want to talk to you."

"We have been talking. Only tell me what it is?"

"It is a chapel built on the place where the Duke of Orleans was killed some years ago."

"I remember now somebody told me about it; his monument is there."

"Very likely. I know nothing about it."

"Oh, Maurice! to speak in that tone, when it was such a sad thing."

"There are so many sad things—one cannot pity everybody."

"You are cross this morning. What is the matter?"

"Nothing. What do you want me to do?"

"Just now I want you to take me in there. I see it is open."

There was no help; the moment was gone. Lucia's head was full of the unhappy Duke of Orleans, and it would, have been very bad policy, Maurice thought, to oppose her whim. He rang the bell, and they were admitted without difficulty into the open space in front of the chapel. The old man who let them in pointed to the half-open door, and, saying that his wife was in there with a party, retreated, and left them to find their own way into the building itself. They passed quietly through the entrance and into the soft grey light of the chapel. Lucia stopped only to take one glance of the tiny interior, so coldly mournful with its black draperies and chill white and grey marble, and then passed round to examine more closely the monument which marks the very spot where the fatal accident occurred. Maurice followed her. They stood half concealed by the monument, and speaking low, while the tones of other voices could be distinctly heard from the recess behind the altar where the English visitors were examining the picture of the Duke's death. There was one rather high-pitched female voice which broke the solemn stillness unpleasantly, and as it became more audible, Lucia laid her hand softly on Maurice's arm to make him listen, and looked up in his face with eyes full of laughter. The lady was talking French to the guide with a strong English accent and in a peculiar drawl, which had a very droll effect. It was a manner new to them both, though Maurice could not help thinking, as he listened, of Percy in his worst moods.

"I am glad to have seen it," the voice said, "and quite by chance, too; it is excessively interesting, so melancholy. Ah! you say that they laid him just there? It makes one shudder! No, I will not go near the place; it is too shocking."

At the last words Maurice and Lucia saw the speaker emerge from behind the altar on the side furthest from where they stood. She was a tall woman, neither young nor pretty, but very fashionable—distinguished, Lucia supposed she should be called; and but for the peculiarity of her voice, would have made a favourable rather than an unfavourable impression on a stranger. She stopped just at the top of the steps, and turned round to speak again to some one behind her who was still concealed by the altar. This time she spoke English in a lower tone, and with a greater drawl.

"Really, Edward," she said, "it is very small. Pray don't give the woman much; you know how heavy our expenses are. I think I ought to carry the purse."

"As you please, my dear; it would save me trouble, certainly."

At the sound of that second voice Maurice started and looked at Lucia. She had suddenly grasped at the stonework before her, and stood looking with passionate eagerness over the carved figure of the dying Duke towards the altar. He almost shuddered at the intensity of that gaze—the rigidity of intolerable suspense in her whole figure; but he could only be still and watch her.

The unconscious Englishwoman moved on; close behind her, following her with his old languid manner, came the man Lucia was watching for—Edward Percy.

Still she never stirred. They passed down the chapel with her eyes upon them, but they never saw her, and she made no sound or movement. Only when they were no longer in sight, everything seemed to grow suddenly black and confused about her—her hold upon the marble relaxed, and she would have fallen if Maurice had not gently supported her, and drawn her to a seat close by.

She did not faint, though she was cold and white and powerless. After a minute Maurice, bending over her, saw that she was trying to speak. Her lips seemed stiff and hardly able to form the words, but he made out,

"Who is she?"

He hesitated a moment; but she saw that he could answer, and her eyes insisted on her question.

"She is his wife," he answered; "they were married, I believe, a month or six weeks ago."

Suddenly, at his words, the blood seemed to rise with one quick rush to her very temples.

"You knew," she said, "and would not tell me!"

Then after her momentary anger came shame, bitter and intolerable, for her self-betrayal. She bent down her face on her hands, but her whole figure shook with violent agitation. Maurice suffered scarcely less. His love for her gave him a comprehension of all, and a sympathy unspeakable with her pain. He laid his hand lightly on her shoulder as he had often done in her childish troubles, but one word escaped him which he had never spoken to her before,

"My darling! my darling!"

Perhaps she did not hear it; but at least she understood that through all the pang of her loss, there remained with her one faithful and perfect affection; and even at that moment she was unconsciously comforted.

But the Percys were gone, and the guide was coming back into the chapel after a word or two at the door with her husband; Maurice had to decide instantly what to do. He said to Lucia,

"Wait here for me," and then going forward to meet the woman, he contrived to make her comprehend that the lady was ill; and that he was going for a carriage. He then hurried out, and Lucia was left alone in the chapel with the good-natured Frenchwoman, who looked at her compassionately and troubled her with no questions.

For a few minutes the poor child remained too bewildered to notice anything; but when at last she raised her head, and saw that Maurice was not there, she grew frightened. Had she been so childish and uncontrolled as to have disgusted even him? Had he left her, too? She tried to get up from her seat, but she could not stand. The guide saw her attempt, and thought it time to interfere.

"Monsieur would be back immediately," she said. "He was gone for a carriage. It was unfortunate madame should be taken ill so suddenly."

Lucia smiled a very miserable kind of smile.

"Yes," she answered, "it was unfortunate, but it was only a little giddiness."

And there she broke off to listen to the sound of wheels which stopped at the gate.

It was Maurice; and at the sight of him Lucia felt strong again. She rose and met him as he came towards her.

"I have got a carriage," he said. "We had walked too far. Can you go to it?"

She could find nothing to say in answer. He made her lean on his arm, and took her across the court and put her into the vehicle.

"Would you rather go alone?" he asked her.

"Oh! no, no," she cried nervously, and in a minute afterwards they were on their way homewards.

When they had started, she put her hand to her head confusedly.

"Is not it strange?" she said half to herself. "I was sure we should meet in Paris; only I never guessed it would be to-day. Across a grave, that was right."

Maurice shuddered at her tone; it sounded as if she were talking in her sleep.

"Dear Lucia," he said, "scold me, be angry with me. I should have told you."

She seemed to wake at the sound of his voice, and again that burning, painful flush covered her face and neck.

"Oh! Maurice," she cried, "it is you who should scold me. What must you think? But, indeed, I am not so bad as I seem."

"It is I who have been blind. I thought you had forgotten him."

"Forgotten him? So soon? I thought he could not even have forgotten me!"

Maurice clenched his hand. The very simplicity of her words stirred his anger more deeply against his successful rival. For her he had still nothing but the most pitiful tenderness.

"Some men, Lucia, love themselves too well to have any great love for another."

"But he did care for me. I want to tell you. I want you to see that I am not quite so bad—he did care for me very much, and I sent him away."

"You refused him?"

"Not just that. At first, you know, I thought everything could be made to come right in time—and then mamma told me all that terrible story about her marriage, and about the constant fear she was in; and then—I could not tell that to him—so I said he must go away. And he did; but he told me perhaps in a year I should change my mind. And the year is not over yet."

Maurice was silent. He would not, if he could help it, say one word of evil to Lucia about this man whom she still loved; and at first he could not trust himself to speak.

"How did you know?" she asked.

And he understood instinctively what she meant, and told her shortly when and where he had seen Percy, and what he had heard from the solicitor.

"It is the same lady, then," she said, "that I remember hearing of."

"Yes, no doubt. I recollect some story being told of him and her, even in Cacouna."

Lucia sighed heavily. She had now got over the difficulty of speaking on the subject to Maurice. She knew so well that he was trustworthy, and for the rest, was he not just the same as a brother?

"He might have waited a year," she murmured. "You cannot imagine how happy I have been lately, thinking I must see him soon!"

"Cannot I?" Maurice cried desperately. "Listen to me, Lucia! I, too, have been happy lately. I have been living on a false hope. I have been deceived, and placed all my trust in a shadow. Don't you think we ought to be able to feel for each other?"

His vehemence and the bitterness of his tone terrified her. She laid her little trembling hand on his appealingly.

"What do you mean?" she whispered.

But he had controlled himself instantly. He took hold of her hand and put it to his lips.

"I mean nothing," he said, "at least nothing I can tell you about at present. Are you feeling strong enough to meet Mrs. Costello? You must not frighten her, you know, as you did me."

"Did I frighten you? I am so sorry and ashamed—only, you know—Yes, I can behave well now."

He saw that she could. Her self-command had entirely returned now. Her grieving would be silent or kept for solitude henceforward. They had already passed the barrier, and in a minute would stop at the door.

"I am not coming in with you," Maurice said, "I must go on now; but I shall see you this evening."

He saw her inside the house and then drove away, while she little guessed how sore a heart he took with him.



CHAPTER XIV.

As Lucia went up the staircase, the slight stimulus of excitement which Maurice's presence had supplied, died out, and she began to be conscious of a horrible depression and sense of vacancy. She went up with a step that grew more tired and languid at every movement, till she reached the door where Claudine was having a little gossip with the concierge.

She was glad even to be saved the trouble of ringing, and glided past the two "like a ghaist," and came into her mother's presence with that same weary gait and white face. It was not even until Mrs. Costello rose in alarm and surprise with anxious questions on her lips that the poor child became aware of the change in herself.

"I am tired," she said. "I have such a headache, mamma," and she tried to wake herself out of her bewilderment and look natural.

"Where is Maurice?"

"He is gone—he is coming back this evening, I think he said."

Mrs. Costello guessed instantly that Maurice was the cause of Lucia's disturbance.

"Poor child!" she thought; "it could not help but be a surprise to her. I wonder if all is going well?" But she dared not speak of that subject just yet.

"You must have walked much too far," she said aloud. "Go and lie down, darling—I will come with you."

Lucia obeyed. She was actually physically tired, as she said, and her head did ache with a dull heavy pain. Mrs. Costello arranged the pillows, drew warm coverings over her, and left her without one further question; for she was completely persuaded of the truth of her own surmise, and feared to endanger Maurice's hopes and her own favourite plan by an injudicious word. She did not go far away, however, and Lucia, still conscious of her nearness, dared not move or sigh. With her face pressed close to the pillow, she could let the hot tears which seemed to scald her eyes drop from under the half-closed lids; but after a little while, the warmth and stillness and her fatigue began to have their effect. The tears ceased to drop, the one hand which had grasped the edge of the covering relaxed, and she dropped asleep.

By-and-by Mrs. Costello came in softly, and stood looking at her. She lay just like a child with her pale cheeks still wet, and the long black lashes glistening. Her little hand, so slender and finely shaped, rested lightly against the pillow; her soft regular breathing just broke the complete stillness enough to give the aspect of sleep, instead of that of death. She was fair enough, in her sweet girlish beauty and innocence, to have been a poet's or an artist's inspiration. The mother's eyes grew very dim as she looked at her child, but she never guessed that there had been more than the stir of surprise in her heart that day—that she was "sleeping for sorrow."

It was twilight in the room when Lucia woke. She came slowly to the recollection of the past, and the consciousness of the present, and without moving began to gather up her thoughts and understand what had happened to her, and why she had slept. The door was ajar, and voices could be faintly heard talking in the salon. She even distinguished her mother's tones, and Lady Dighton's, but there were no others. It was a relief to her. She thought she ought to get up and go to them, but if Maurice had been there, or even Sir John, she felt that her courage would have failed. She raised herself up, and pushed back her disordered hair; with a hand pressed to each temple, she tried to realize how she had awoke that very morning, hopeful and happy, and that she had had a dreadful loss which was her own—only hers, and could meet with no sympathy from others. But then she remembered that it had met with sympathy already—not much in words, but in tone and look and action—from the one unfailing friend of her whole life. Maurice knew—Maurice did not contemn her—there was a little humiliation in the thought, but more sweetness. She went over the whole scene in the chapel, and for the first time there came into her mind a sense of the inexpressible tenderness which had soothed her as she sat there half stupefied.

"Dear Maurice!" she said to herself, and then as her recollection grew more vivid, a sudden shame seized her—neck and arms and brow were crimson in a moment, with the shock of the new idea—and she sprang up and began to dress, in hopes to escape from it by motion.

But before she was ready to leave the room her sorrow had come back, too strong and bitter to leave place for other thoughts. The vivid hope of Percy's faithful recollection enduring at least for a year, had come to give her strength and courage in the very time when her youthful energies had almost broken down under the weight of so many troubles; it had been a kind of prop on which she leaned through her last partings and anxieties, and which seemed to be the very foundation of her recent content. To have it struck away from her suddenly, left her helpless and confused; her own natural forces, or the support of others, might presently supply its place, but for the moment she did not know where to look to satisfy the terrible want.