A Canadian Heroine, Volume 1 | Page 9

and kept up her part of the broken chat possible under the circumstances, with enough grace and spirit to give to her extraordinary beauty the last crowning charm which Percy had not, until then, found in it.
Thus they finished their quadrille in good humour with each other, but as they left their place to rejoin Mrs. Bellairs, Maurice Leigh came into the room by a side door. The sight of him reminded Mr. Percy of the short dialogue he had heard.
"You are engaged for the next quadrille, are you not?" he asked Lucia.
"Yes, to Maurice. I promised it to him instead of the first."
"You were to have danced this one with him, then?"
She laughed. "It is a childish arrangement of ours," she said; "we agreed, long ago, always to dance the first quadrille together, and everybody knows of it, so no one asks me for that."
"I wonder at his being willing to miss his privilege to-night; you must be very indulgent, not to punish him."
"Oh! you know he is acting as a kind of steward to-night and has so many things to do. It was not his fault."
"And you would have waited patiently for him?"
"Patiently? I don't know. Certainly I should have waited, for no one but a stranger would have asked me to dance."
"I hope, however, you forgive me."
They had reached Mrs. Bellair's, and she only answered by a smile as she sat down. A minute after, she was carried off by another partner, and Mr. Percy took possession of the vacant place.
The evening passed on. At the end of it, Mr. Percy, shut up in his own room, surprised himself in the midst of a reverie the subject of which was Lucia Costello; he actually found himself comparing her with a certain Lady Adeliza Weymouth, of whom he had been supposed to be épris the season before. But then Lady Adeliza had no particular claim to beauty; she was "distinguished" and of a powerful family; as for Lucia, on the other hand, she was----There! it was no use going off into that question. A great deal more sense to go to bed.
Meantime Lucia, under Maurice's escort, was on her way home. They had started, talking gaily enough, but before half the distance was passed they grew silent.
After a long pause Maurice asked, "Are you very tired?"
Lucia's meditation had carried her so far away that she started at the sound of his voice.
"Tired? oh, no! At least not very much."
"And you have enjoyed the day after all?"
"Pretty well. Not much, I think."
"I thought you looked happy enough this evening. Come, confess you are glad you did not stay at home."
"Indeed, I will not; mamma, I am sure, wished me to stay?"
"Yet she made you come."
"Yes, because she thought I wanted to do so. Maurice, do you think she looks ill?"
"No, I have not noticed it. Does she complain?"
"Mamma complain! A thing she never does. But it seems to me that something is different. I can't tell what. She goes out less than ever, and seems to dislike my leaving her." Lucia longed to say, "She has some trouble; some heavy anxiety; can you guess what it is?" but she had an instinctive consciousness, that even to this dear and tried friend, she ought not to speak of a subject on which Mrs. Costello was invariably silent. Even to herself, a certain darkness hung over her mother's past life; there were years of it of which she felt utterly ignorant. Whatever was the cloud of the present, it might be connected with the recollections of those years; this thought checked her even while she spoke.
Whether Maurice had any similar reason for reticence or not, he only said, "I do not think she would hide anything from you which need give you uneasiness. I advise you not to torment yourself causelessly."
"I am not tormenting myself; but I think yours is a miserable plan. You would have people feel no sympathy for the troubles of others, unless they can be paraded in so many words."
"Decidedly you must be very tired, or you would take the trouble to understand me better."
He put down his whip, to draw her cloak more closely round her, for the dewy night air was chill, but she pushed it away.
"I am quite warm, thank you. How long the road seems to-night! Shall we ever be at home?"
"We are almost there. See, that is your own acacia-tree."
"I am so glad. Don't turn up the lane. I can run up there perfectly well by myself."
"Indeed you will not. Sit still, if you please."
"How tiresome you are, Maurice! You treat me just as if I were a baby."
"Do I? A bad habit, I suppose. I will try to cure myself."
His tone was so quiet, so free from either ridicule or anger,