"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?"