Maurice was scarcely awake next morning when a little note was brought
him from his cousin. It was only two or three lines written late the
night before, when she found that he did not come to their common
sitting-room. It said, "What has come to all the world? I go to Mrs.
Costello's, and find Lucia with a violent headache, and with her ideas
apparently much confused. I come home, and hear and see nothing of you
till night, when I am told you have gone to your room without stopping
for a moment to satisfy my curiosity. You will be at breakfast? I want
to see you. LOUISA."
He twisted the dainty sheet of paper round his fingers, while he slowly
recalled the events of yesterday up to the point of his last decision,
to see Lucia to-day and tell her how grievously he had been
disappointed, and what she had been and still was to him. But then came
the natural consequence of this; he would still, afterwards, have to
meet both Lucia and her mother constantly for some days, and to behave
to them just as usual. It had seemed to him already that to do so would
be difficult; now he began to think it impossible. What to do then? To
keep silence now and always, or to speak and then go away home, where he
was needed? He must lose her sweet company--sweet to him still. He
_must_ lose it, and what matter whether a few days sooner or later? It
was better to see her once again, and go.
He dressed hastily and went to the breakfast-room. Sir John always took
an early stroll, and might not yet be back; was not, in fact, and Lady
Dighton was there alone. Maurice only saw so much before he began to
speak.
"I am sorry," he said, "that you expected me last night. I came in very
tired, and went straight to bed."
"We waited dinner some time for you," Lady Dighton answered, "and you
know how punctual Sir John is; but never mind now. You are looking ill,
Maurice."
"I am quite well. I am afraid I must go back to England though. Should
you think me a barbarian if I started to-night and left you behind?"
"Is something wrong? Your father is well?"
"Quite well. But--I had letters last night. I am not certain that I must
go, only I thought you ought to know at once that I might have to do
so."
"And Lucia? What will she say?"
"I don't know. You will not tell her, please?"
"Certainly not. I do not like carrying bad news. But you will see her no
doubt before I do."
Maurice hesitated a moment, and then made boldly a request which had
been in his mind.
"I want to see her. I should like to see her this morning if I could.
Will you help me?"
"You don't generally require help for that. But I suppose the fact is,
you want to see her alone?"
"Exactly."
"I own I fancied you had settled your affairs yesterday; however, I
_can_ help you, I think. Mrs. Costello half promised to go out with me
some morning. I will go and try to carry her off to-day."
"You are always kind, Louisa. What should I do without you?"
"Ah! that is very pretty just now. By-and-by we shall see how much value
you have for me."
"Yes, you shall see."
"But seriously, Maurice, you look wretched. One would say you had not
slept for a week."
"On the contrary, I slept later than usual to-day. It is that, I
suppose, which makes me look dull. Here is Sir John. What time will your
drive be?"
They fixed the time, and as soon as breakfast was finished, Maurice went
back to his room. He tore up the letters he had written last night, and
wrote others announcing his return home, took them to the post himself,
and then walked about in sheer inability to keep still, until it should
be time to go to Mrs. Costello's.
He made a tolerably long round, choosing always the noisiest, busiest
streets, and came back to the hotel just as his cousin drove away. He
followed her carriage, and passed it as it stood at Mrs. Costello's
door, went on to the barrier, and coming back, found that it had
disappeared. Now, therefore, probably Mrs. Costello was gone, and now,
if ever, was his opportunity.
When Claudine opened the door for "ce beau monsieur" she was aghast. He
was positively "beau" no longer. He was pale and heavy-eyed. He actually
seemed to have grown thinner. Even his frank smile and word of
wonderfully English French had failed him. She went back to her kitchen
in consternation. "Ce pauvre monsieur! C'est affreux! Something is wrong
with him and mademoiselle. Ma foi, if _I_ had such a lover!"
Mrs. Costello was gone, and Lucia sat alone, and very dreary. At
Maurice's entrance she rose quickly; but kept her eyes averted so that
his paleness did not strike her as it had done others. She coloured
vividly, with a mixture of shame, pride, and gladness, at his coming;
but she only said "Good morning," in a low undemonstrative tone, and
they both sat down in silence.
She had some little piece of work in her hands, but she did not go on
with it, only kept twisting the thread round her fingers, and wondering
what he would say; whether now that they were alone, he would refer to
Percy; whether he would use his old privilege of blaming her when she
did wrong.
But she was not struck down helplessly now as she had been at first
yesterday. She had begun to feel the stings of mortified pride, and was
ready to turn fiercely upon anybody who should give her provocation.
Maurice spoke first.
"I came to say good-bye," he said. "I am obliged to go home."
His words sounded curt and dry, just because he had such difficulty in
making them steady at all, and she looked at him in her surprise, for
the first time.
"Not to-day? Is anything the matter?"
"Nothing is the matter there. I told you I had business in Paris. Well,
it is finished."
"And you are going to-day?"
"I start this evening."
"We shall miss you."
She felt a strange constraint creeping over her. She could not even
express naturally her sorrow and disappointment at his going. She began
again to have the feeling of being guilty, and accused, and being eager
to defend herself without knowing how.
"I shall not be far off, and you will know where to find me. When you
want me, for whatever reason, you have only to write and I will come."
"But I always want you," she answered half pettishly. "You said you
would stay at least till Lady Dighton went away."
Maurice got up and walked to the window.
"I miscalculated," he said, coming back. "We all do sometimes, I
suppose."
He stood in a favourite attitude, leaning with one arm on the
mantelpiece, and watching Lucia with a mixture of love and bitterness.
His last words seemed to her a taunt, and tears of anger filled her
eyes. She remained silent, and he had to speak again.
"Do you care to know," he asked her, "what my business in Paris was?"
"If you wish to tell me!"
"Lucia! do not I wish to tell you everything? Could I have kept a secret
which was always in my thoughts from you, do you suppose?"
Lucia half rose. "That is not generous," she said. "You have no right to
speak so. Yesterday you were kinder."
"Yesterday I only thought of you. To-day I have had time to think a
little of myself."
"No doubt you are right. Only you ought not to have come to Paris--at
least not to us. It would have been better if everything that belonged
to our old life had been lost together."
"Which means that you are quite willing to lose me?"
"Willing? No. But I can understand that it is better."
"Can you? You talk of losses--listen to what I have lost. You know what
my life in Canada used to be--plenty of work, and not much money--but
still reasonable hope of prosperity by-and-by. I used to make plans
then, of having a home of my own, and I was not content that it should
be just like other people's. I thought it would be the brightest,
warmest, happiest home in the world. I _knew_ it would be if I only got
what I wanted. A man can't have a home without a wife. I knew where my
wife was to be found if ever I had one at all; and she was so sweet and
good, and let me see so frankly that she liked and trusted me, that
I--it was all vanity, Lucia--I never much doubted that in time I should
make her love me."
He stopped. Lucia was looking at him eagerly. Even yet she did not quite
understand. "Go on," she said.
"There was my mistake," he continued. "I might have won her then
perhaps. But there came a visitor to the neighbourhood. He was
handsome--at least women said so--and could make himself agreeable. He
knew all about what people call the world--he had plenty of talk about
all sorts of small topics. He was a very fine gentleman in fact, and you
know what I was. Well, naturally enough, he wanted amusement. He looked
about for it, I suppose, and was attracted by what had attracted
me--no--I do not believe even that, for I loved her goodness, and he
must have been caught by her beauty. At any rate, I had to go away and
leave him near her; and I heard after a while that he was gone. That was
late in autumn. Very early this year, I heard of his marriage; and I
thought she had been unharmed.
"My grandfather died, and I was rich enough to make that home I dreamed
of, fit for its mistress. I went to find her. I found her, as I thought,
lovelier and sweeter than ever. She seemed to feel more than ever that I
was of some use and value to her--she made me believe that, next to her
mother, she loved me best in the world. I delayed asking her to be my
wife, only because our days were so happy, that I feared to disturb
them--but I thought she was certainly mine.
"Then, all at once, this man, this Percy, who had left her in her
trouble--who was married--made his appearance, and I knew that she had
loved him all the while--that she had never cared for me!"
Long ago, Lucia had clasped her hands before her face. She sat trembling
and cowering before this accuser. Involuntarily she said in her heart,
"This is the true love. I have been blind--blind!"--but her words were
frozen up--she bent forward as if under a blow--but made no sound.
Maurice himself remained silent for a few minutes. He had spoken under a
strong impulse of excitement, he hardly knew how. He, too, leaned his
head upon his hand, but from under it he still watched the trembling
girlish figure, which was the dearest thing in the world to him.
Presently he saw a tear steal out from between her small fingers and
fall glittering upon the black dress she wore. He moved uneasily--he had
been surely very harsh. Another tear fell--tear of bitter humiliation,
good for her to shed--then a third. He could not endure it. She might
not love him, but that was no reason why he should turn her sisterly
affection into hate. So he went to her, and laid his hand softly on one
of hers, trying to draw it away. She let him do so after a moment, but
her face remained just as much hidden.
"Lucia!" he said, full of distress, "Lucia! speak to me."
She could not--all her efforts were needed to keep down the painful
swelling in her throat. She was fighting for power to say humbly, "Try
to forgive me," but he did not give her time.
"If you would only say good-bye--only one word;" and he almost knelt
beside her, raising her cold hand half-unconsciously to his lips.
She drew it away suddenly. His tenderness was the worst reproach of all.
Her sobs burst out without control. She rose. "No; rather forgive me,"
she tried to say, but her voice was choked and hardly audible; and she
fled from the room, hurrying into her own, and fell down on the floor at
the bedside.
Maurice waited for awhile, thinking she might come back. He sat down
near where her chair stood, and leaning both elbows on the table, tried
to calm himself after the terrible excitement. Lucia's tears and her
silence had utterly disarmed him--he called himself a brute for having
distressed her. But as time went on, and she did not return, he
remembered that he could not just then meet Mrs. Costello, and he got up
and began to walk about the room uneasily. Still, time went on, and
there was no sign of Lucia. He wished to knock at her door, but dared
not. He must go then without one good-bye!
"That is my own fault at any rate," he said, and went away softly,
without even seeing Claudine.
But, as it happened, Mrs. Costello was long coming back. Lady Dighton
had confided to her Maurice's wish to see Lucia alone, and the two
ladies, very happy and confidential over their schemes, both supposing
that nothing but good could come of a long talk between the young
people--prolonged their absence till more than two hours after Maurice
had returned to the hotel. So that his preparations for leaving Paris
were almost completed by the time that Lucia, hearing her mother's
entrance, came out of the solitude where she had hidden her tears and
her repentance.