"Perhaps. But I doubt it. At any rate I have less reason than most people to count on long life."
Again Lucia looked up. A cold, unspeakable terror filled her heart, and she tried to read the secret which her mother's calm face hid from her. Mrs. Costello delayed no longer to tell her all the truth.
"Many months ago," she said, "I was convinced that the disease of which my mother died, had attacked me. I suppose there might be some hereditary predisposition towards it, and too much thought and care brought it on. I determined not to allow myself any fancies on the subject. I sent for Doctor Hardy, and contrived to see him several times during the autumn without letting you suspect anything. He could only acknowledge that I was right, and tell me to avoid excitement and fatigue. You know how possible that was. And so this mischief has been going on fast, and the end may be nearer than even I think it is."
Her voice faltered at the last words, and Lucia, who had listened to every one with the feeling that so many knives were being plunged through and through her heart, slipped down from her resting-place, and crouched on the floor, hiding her face and stifling the sobs that shook her whole body. She longed to cry out, to clasp her arms round her mother, to struggle, with all the force of her great love, against this fate; and yet, so well had she understood, so clearly she remembered, even through her agony, the need for quietness, that she kept a force upon herself like iron, trying to steady the pulses that throbbed so wildly, with one thought, or rather one impulse, "I must not trouble her."
Mrs. Costello looked at her child for a moment in silence. Even she did not yet fully understand the force of that quality which Lucia herself had once ascribed to her Indian blood, but which, in truth, had little affinity with common fortitude, for it was simply a conquest of self, gained without thought or conscious effort, by the greater power of love. But such contests cannot last long. This was fierce and cruel, but it ended as love willed. The poor child dragged herself up again to her mother's knee, and drew the pale, fair face down to her own flushed and burning one; but one kiss, silent and full of anguish, was all that she dared venture yet. But she longed to hear more, and presently Mrs. Costello spoke again, not daring yet to go back to the point of which they had last spoken, but returning to the subject of their journey.
"The steamer calls at Southampton," she said. "I intend to write to George, and tell him the time of our sailing, so that, if he wishes, he can meet us there. We will go from Havre to Paris, and stay there for awhile; afterwards, I think we should be more comfortable in a country town, if we can find one not too inaccessible."
There was something in this sentence peculiarly reassuring. Lucia instinctively reasoned that, since her mother could make plans for their future so far in advance, the danger of which she had just spoken must be remote. What is remote, we readily believe uncertain; and thus, after a few minutes of absolute hopelessness, she began to hope again, tremblingly and fearfully, but still with more ardour than if the previous alarm had been less complete.
"Dear mamma," she said, "Doctor Hardy may be very clever, but I am not going to put any faith in him. When we get to Paris you must have the very best advice that is to be had, and you will have nothing to do but take care of yourself."
"Very well," and Mrs. Costello smiled, reading the hope clearly enough, though she had not fully read the despair. "And in the meantime you may hear what I want to say to you about my cousin."
"Yes, mamma. But you know I don't like him, all the same. I know I should have hated him just as you did when you were a girl."