CHAPTER II.


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.

To him in this mood came Mrs. Costello's last letter. Now at last the
mystery was cleared up, and its impalpable shape reduced to a positive