"Well, it will be easy enough for him to come to see us. I suppose everybody in England goes to Paris sometimes?"
And so the end came. They had not neglected Maurice's charge, though Maurice seemed to have forgotten them. Whatever was possible to do to provide for Mr. Leigh's comfort during his short solitude they had done. The last farewells were said; Mr. Strafford, who had insisted on going with them to New York, had arrived at the Cottage. Mrs. Bellairs and Bella had spent their last day with their friends and gone away in tears. All their life at Cacouna, with its happiness and its sorrow, was over, and early next morning they were to cross the river for the last time, and begin their journey to England.
Maurice had full opportunity for the exercise of patience during the last weeks of his grandfather's life. It was hard to sit there day after day watching the half-conscious old man, who lay so still and seemed so shut out from human feelings or sympathies, and to feel all the while that any one of those hours of vigil might be the one that stole from him his heart's desire. Yet there was no alternative. His grandfather, who had received and adopted him, was suffering and solitary, dependent wholly on him for what small gratification he could still enjoy. Gratitude, therefore, and duty kept him here. But _there_, meanwhile, so far out of his reach, what might be going on? He lived a perfectly double life. Lucia was in trouble--some inexplicable shadow of disgrace was threatening her--something so grave that even her mother, who knew him so well, thought it an unsurmountable barrier between them--something which looked the more awful from its vagueness and mystery. It is true that he was only troubled--not discouraged by the appearance of this phantom. He was as ready to fight for his Una as ever was Redcross Knight--but then would his Una wait for him? To be forcibly held back from the combat must have been much worse to a true champion than any wounds he could receive in fair fight. So at least it seemed to Maurice, secretly chafing, and then bitterly reproaching himself for his impatience; yet the next moment growing as impatient as before.