"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.

She went out, however, to face her small world, with what resolution she could muster, and was not a little glad that the dim light would save her looks from any close scrutiny.

Lady Dighton had been paying a long visit to Mrs. Costello, and the two perfectly understood each other. They both thought, also, that they understood what had occurred that morning, and why Lucia had a headache.

Maurice had not made his appearance at his cousin's luncheon, as she expected, but that was not wonderful. Lady Dighton, however, had said to Mrs. Costello,

"It is quite extraordinary to me how Lucia can have seen Maurice's perfect devotion to her, and not perceived that it was more than brotherly."

Mrs. Costello did not feel bound to explain that Lucia's thoughts, as far as they had ever been occupied at all with love, had been drawn away in quite a different direction, so she contented herself with answering,

"She is very childish in some things, and she has been all her life accustomed to think of him as a brother. I knew he would have some difficulty at first in persuading her to think otherwise."

"He can't have failed?"

"I hope not. She has not told me anything, and therefore I do not suppose there is anything decisive to tell."

After their conversation the two naturally looked with interest for Lucia's coming. They heard her stirring, and exchanged a few more words,

"Perhaps we shall know now?"

"At any rate, Maurice will enlighten us when he arrives."

Lucia came in, gliding silently through the dim light. Her quiet movement was unconscious--she would have chosen to appear more, rather than less, animated than usual. Lady Dighton came forward to meet her.