ce by spending the very first half
hour when he was not required to sit with his grandfather, in writing to
Mrs. Costello. If the Atlantic telegraph had but been in operation she
might have been startled by some vehement message coming in immediate
protest against her decision; but as it was, the letter which could not,
at the very best, reach her in much less than a fortnight, was full of
fiery haste and eagerness. As for reason or argument, it made no attempt
at either. It began with a simple unqualified declaration that what she
had said was, as far as it regarded Maurice himself, of no value or
effect whatever, that he remained in exactly the same mind as when he
left Canada, and that nothing whatever would alter him, except Lucia's
preference for some other person. He went on to say that he could still
wait, but that as the strongest purpose of his life would be to give
Lucia the choice of accepting or refusing him as soon as he had a home
to offer her, it was needless unkindness to try to conceal her from him.
Wherever she might be, he should certainly find her in the end, and he
implored her mother to spare him the anxiety and delay of a search.
Finally he wrote, "I cannot understand in the least what you can mean by
the reason you give for casting me off, but you seem to have forgotten
that if any disgrace (I hate to use the word), either real or imaginary,
has fallen upon you, it is the more and not the less needful that you
should have all the help and support I can give you. That may not be
much, but such as it is I have a right to offer it, and you to accept
it."

The letter wound up with the most urgent entreaties that she would
answer it at once, and give up entirely the useless attempt to separate
him from Lucia; and when it was finished and sent off, quite regardless
of the fact that it would have left England just as soon if written two
days later, he began to feel a little comforted, and as if he had at
any rate put a stop to the worst evil that threatened him.

But the relief lasted only a few hours. By the next day he was
tormenting himself with all the ingenuity of which he was capable, and
the task of amusing Mr. Beresford was ten thousand times harder than
ever. He did it, and did it better than usual, but only because he was
so annoyed at his own anxiety and absence of mind that he set himself
with a sort of dogged determination to conquer them, or at any rate keep
them out of sight. The more, h