Two or three days passed before its former tranquillity was restored to
the apartment in the Champs Elysées. Its "_former_ tranquillity,"
indeed, did not seem to come back at all. There were new elements of
discomfort and disturbance at work, even more than in the days before
Maurice came, and when Mrs. Costello both feared and hoped for his
coming. He was never mentioned now, except during Lady Dighton's daily
visit. She, much mystified, and not sure whether Lucia was to be pitied
or blamed, was too kind-hearted not to sympathize with her anxiety for
her mother, and she therefore came constantly--first to inquire for, and
then to sit with Mrs. Costello, insisting that Lucia should take that
opportunity of going out in her carriage.
These drives gave the poor child not only fresh air, but also a short
interval each day in which she could be natural, and permit herself the
indulgence of the depression which had taken possession of her. She felt
certain that her mother, though she treated her with her usual
tenderness, still felt surprised and disappointed by her conduct.
Maurice also, who had been always so patient, so indulgent, had gone
away in trouble through her; he had reproached her, perhaps justly, and
had given up for ever their old intimacy. She was growing more and more
miserable. If ever, for a moment, she forgot her burden, some little
incident was sure to occur which brought naturally to her lips the
words, 'I wish Maurice were here;' and she would turn sick with the
thought, 'He never will be here again, and it is my fault.'
So the days went on till the Dightons left Paris. They did so without
any clear understanding having reached Lady Dighton's mind of the state
of affairs between Maurice and Lucia. All she actually knew was that
Maurice had been obliged to go home unexpectedly, and that ever since he
went Lucia had looked like a ghost. And as this conjunction of
circumstances did not appear unfavourable to her cousin's wishes, and as
she had no hint of those wishes having been given up, she was quite
disposed to continue to regard Lucia as the future mistress of Hunsdon.
However, she was not sorry to leave Paris. Her visit there, with regard
to its principal object, had been rather unsatisfactory; at all events
it had had no visible results, and she liked results. She wanted to go
home and see how Maurice reigned at Hunsdon, and tell her particular
friends about the beautiful girl she hoped some day to have the pleasure
of patronizing.
Mrs. Costello had regained nearly her usual health. One day, shortly
after the Dightons left, she asked Lucia to bring her desk, saying that
she must write to Mr. Wynter, and that it was time they should make some
different arrangement, since, as they had long ago agreed, Paris was too
expensive for them to stay there all the year.
Lucia remembered what Maurice had said to her about her mother returning
to England, but the consciousness of what had really been in his mind at
the moment stopped her just as she was about to speak. She brought the
desk, and said only,
"Have you thought of any place, mamma?"
"I have thought of two or three, but none please me," Mrs. Costello
answered. "We want a cheap place--one within easy reach of England, and
one not too much visited by tourists. It is not very easy to find a
place with all the requisites."
"No, indeed. But you are not able to travel yet."
"Yes I am. Indeed, it is necessary we should go soon, if not
immediately."
Lucia sighed. She would be sorry to leave Paris. Meantime her mother had
opened the desk, but before beginning to write she took out a small
packet of letters, and handed them to Lucia. "I will give these to you,"
she said, "for you have the greatest concern with them, though they were
not meant for your eyes."
Lucia looked at the packet and recognized Maurice's hand.
"Ought I to read them, then?" she said.
"Certainly. Nay, I desire that you will read them carefully. Yes,
Lucia," she went on in a softer tone, "I wish you to know all that has
been hidden from you. Take those notes and keep them. When you are an
old woman you may be glad to remember that they were ever written."
Lucia could not answer. She carried the packet away to her own chair,
and sitting down, opened it and began to read. It was only Maurice's
notes, written to Mrs. Costello from England, and they were many of them
very hasty, impetuous, and not particularly well-expressed missives. But
if they had been eloquence itself, they could not have stirred the
reader's heart as they did. It was the simple bare fact of a great
love--so much greater than she could ever have deserved, and yet passed
by, disregarded, unperceived in her arrogant ignorance; this was what
she seemed to see in them, and it wrung her heart with vain repentance
and regret. And, as she bent over them there suddenly arose in her mind
a doubt--a question which seemed to have very little to do with those
letters, yet which they certainly helped to raise--had she ever loved
Percy? Lucia was romantic. Like other romantic girls, she would formerly
have said--indeed, she had said to herself many times--"I shall love him
all my life--even if he forgets me I shall still love him." And yet now
she was conscious--dimly, unwillingly conscious, that she thought very
little of him, and that even that little was not at all in the strain
she would have felt to be proper in a deserted heroine of fiction. She
was not the least likely to die of a broken heart for him; she was much
more inclined to die for grief and shame at what had befallen Maurice.
So that question, which was in itself a mortifying one, rose
rebelliously in her mind--had she ever loved Percy? or had she been
wasting her thoughts on a mere lay-figure, dressed up by her own fancy
in attributes not at all belonging to it? Poor child! had she known how
many women--and perhaps men also--do the very same, the idea might not
have seemed quite so horrible to her.
Horrible or not, she put it aside and went back to the letters. In the
earlier ones there were many allusions which seemed almost to belong to
a former existence, so utterly had her life changed since they were
written. The bright days of last summer, before the first cloud came
over her fortunes, seemed to return almost too vividly to her memory;
she would have bargained away a year of her life to be able to regain
the simple happiness of that time. It could never be done; she had
suffered, and had done some good and much evil; the past was ended and
put away for ever; she could not, for all she might give, again set
herself
"To the same key
Of the remembered harmony."
She closed the last letter of the little pile and put them carefully
away. Already they seemed to her one of her most valuable possessions.
Mrs. Costello had finished writing to her cousin. She was busy with
Murray and a map of France; and when Lucia came back she called her.
"Come here, I have half decided."
"Yes, mamma. Where is it?"
"Of course, I cannot be sure. I must make some inquiries; but I think
this will do--Bourg-Cailloux."
Lucia looked where her mother's finger pointed on the map.
"Is it a seaport?" she asked.
"Yes, with steamers sailing direct to England."
"But in that case, will it not be in the way of tourists?"
"I suspect not; I have looked what Murray says, and it is so little that
it is pretty evident it is not much visited by the people who follow his
guidance. Besides, I do not see what attraction the place can have
except just the sea. It is an old fortified town, with a market and
considerable maritime trade--sends supplies of various kinds to London,
and has handsome docks; from all which I conclude that business, and not
pleasure, is the thing which takes people there."
"Could you bear a noisy, busy town?"
"After this I do not think we need fear the noise of any provincial
town. In a very quiet place we should not have the direct communication
with England, which is an object with me."
"But, mamma, what need----?"
"Every need, for your sake as well as my own. We _must_ be where, in
case of emergency, you could quickly have help from England."
Lucia trembled at her mother's words. She dared not disregard them after
what had lately happened, but she could not discuss this aspect of the
question.
"I must find out about the journey," Mrs. Costello went on. "If it is
not a very fatiguing one I believe I shall decide at once. We shall both
be the better, in any case, for a little sea air."
"I shall like it at all events. I have never seen the sea except during
our voyage."
"No. I used to be very fond of it. I believe now, if I could get out to
sit on the beach I should grow much stronger."
"Oh, mamma, you must. What is the name of the place? Here it
is--Bourg-Cailloux. When do you think we can go?"
"Not before next week, certainly. Do not make up your mind to that
place, for perhaps it may not suit us yet to go there."
Lucia knelt down, and put her arms softly round her mother's waist.
"Dear mother," she said slowly, "I wish you would go back to England."
Mrs. Costello started. "To England?" she said, "you know quite well that
it is impossible."
"You would be glad to go, mamma."
"Child, you do not know _how_ glad I should be. To die and be buried
among my own people!"
"To go and live among them rather, mamma; Maurice put it into my head
that you might."
She spoke the last sentence timidly; after they had both so avoided
Maurice's name, she half dreaded its effect on her mother. But Mrs.
Costello only shook her head sadly.
"Maurice thought of a different return from any that would be possible
now. Possibly, if all had been as we wished--both he and I--I might
have gone over to a part of England so far from the place I left. Say no
more of it, dear," she added quickly, "let us make the best of what we
have, and try to forget what we have not."
She bent down and kissed her daughter as she spoke. But still these last
few sentences had furnished a little fresh bitterness for Lucia's
thoughts. Her mother's exile might have ended but for her.
Bourg-Cailloux was next day fully decided on for their new residence.
From the time of the decision Lucia began to be very busy in preparation
for their journey, and for leaving the place where she had been too
happy, and too miserable, not to have become attached to it. Claudine,
too, had to be left behind with some regret, but they hoped to see Paris
again the following year if all should be well. Early one morning they
started off once again, a somewhat forlorn pair of travellers, and at
three o'clock on a bright afternoon rattled over the rough pavements, on
their way to the Hôtel des Bains at Bourg-Cailloux.