Mrs. Harry Coghill - A Canadian Heroine, Volume 1

M >> Mrs. Harry Coghill >> A Canadian Heroine, Volume 1

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12

"After that I began to feel that I was free, and from the time you were
nine until you were sixteen I had little immediate anxiety; then, as I
saw you growing up, I knew that the time when you must know your own
birth and my history drew very near, and the idea weighed on me
constantly. Other anxieties came too, and finally, worst of all, news
that Christian had returned."

"And now," Lucia asked, "do you know where he is?"

"No. But I have been warned that he is seeking for us. They say that we
have more reason than ever to fear him, and that he is looking for us in
this part of the province."

Mrs. Costello's voice sunk almost to a whisper. She seemed to fancy that
the man she had so long escaped might be close at hand, and Lucia caught
the infection of her terror. They remained silent a minute, listening
fearfully to the light rustling of the leaves outside, as the breeze
stirred them.

"Mother," Lucia said at last, "how soon can we leave here?"

"I have thought much of that," Mrs. Costello answered, "but we have ties
here too strong to be broken suddenly; and, indeed, a hasty removal
might but draw upon us the very notice we wish to avoid."

"We must go soon though, as soon as possible. Oh! mamma, I could not
bear to stay here now."

It was a cry of impatience--of acute pain--the child had suddenly turned
back from her mother's story to her own trial and loss. Love, happiness,
two hours ago clasped to her heart, and now torn from her pitilessly;
for a moment she was all rebellion at the thought--she, at least, had
not sinned, why should she suffer? Yet in her heart she knew that she
must; she saw the one path clear before her, and felt that the time for
acting was now; the time for grieving must come after. She rose, and
walked up and down the room, gathering her strength and courage as she
could.

At last she stopped in front of her mother's chair. Her face was pale,
but so steady and composed that its girlishness seemed gone--she looked,
what she would be from that time, a woman able to endure, and resolute
to act.

"Mother," she said quietly, "Mr. Percy is coming to-morrow morning. He
is coming to see you, but I would rather speak to him myself. There is
no need that he should know anything whatever--of my father, or of what
you have told me--we shall never see him again."

Except once, there was neither hesitation nor faltering in her voice,
but her meaning could not be misunderstood. For a moment Mrs. Costello
felt her convictions and her judgment shaken; if, after all, this love,
which Lucia was about to lose, should be true and perfect? if Percy
should be capable of knowing all, and yet cherishing and prizing her?
Ought pride, ought her own opinion of him, to stand between her child
and possible happiness and safety?

But she saw in Lucia's face that underneath all her love, the same
feeling, that his would not stand this shock, lay deep in her heart, and
the doubt died away as suddenly as it had risen.

"Do as you will, my child," she said. "But think well first. I, who have
failed where I most desired to succeed, cannot venture now to advise
you."

Lucia bent down and kissed her. "Poor mother!" she said tenderly, "you
have thought too much for me, and I have never known what a burden I was
to you. But we shall do better in future--when we are far away and have
begun life again."

The hopeful words sounded very dreary in the sweet young voice, which
seemed to have changed its tone, and taken the low mournful intonation
of her Indian race; but she moved calmly away, replaced the contents of
the desk with care, and closed and locked it. Then she gave the key to
her mother, and bent over her again to say good-night.

There were no more words spoken between them. A long kiss, and they
separated. But for the first time Mrs. Costello did not visit her
daughter's room--she guessed that a battle had to be fought there in
solitude, and that hers was not the only vigil kept that night. So the
two watched apart; and the dawn, which was not far distant when they
bade each other good-night, came in and found them both looking out
with sleepless eyes at the grey sky and the familiar landscape, from
which they were each planning to escape for ever.

But as the sky reddened, Lucia remembered that her sleepless night would
leave traces which she wished to avoid, in her pale cheeks and heavy
eyes. She lay down therefore, and at last fell asleep. Her over-excited
brain, however, could not rest; the most troubled and fantastic dreams
came to her,--her mother, Mary Wanita, Percy, Maurice, and many other
persons seemed to surround her--but in every change of scene there
appeared the shadowy figure of her father, constantly working or
threatening harm. Sometimes she saw him as he looked in his portrait,
and shrank from him as a kind of evil genius, beautiful and yet
terrible--sometimes like the Indian who had met her by the river, a
hideous, scarcely human object. Then, last of all, she saw him
distinctly, as the scene her mother had described, the last time when
she had really seen him, came before her, not by the power of
imagination but of memory. For, waking up, she knew that, impressed upon
her childish recollection by terror, that scene had never been entirely
forgotten. Having no clue to its reality, she had always supposed it to
be a dream; but now as it came back with some degree of vividness, she
saw plainly the face which was neither that of the likeness nor that of
her assailant, but might well be a link between the two--the same face
in transition.

The idea was too horrible. She rose, and tried by hurried dressing to
drive it from her mind; but it returned persistently. She went, at last,
to her looking-glass and looked into it with a terror of herself. Never
was ugliness so hateful as the beauty she saw there. For there could be
no doubt about this, at least; except for the softening into womanly
traits, and for a slightly fairer complexion, the picture her glass
showed her was a faithful copy of that other, which she had seen for the
first time last night. What beauty her mother had ever possessed had
been thoroughly English in its character--hers was wholly Indian. She
turned away with a feeling of loathing for herself, and a fearful glance
into her heart as if to seek there also for some proof of this hateful
birthright.

CHAPTER XI.

When Mr. Percy left Lucia standing at the gate, and began his solitary
walk back to Cacouna, he was almost as happy as she was. A kind of
intoxication had swept away out of his very recollection the selfishness
and policy of his habitual humour,--all that was youthful, generous, and
impulsive in him had sprung suddenly to the surface, and so for the
moment transformed him, that he was literally a different man to what he
had ever been before. He pictured to himself the lovely bright face of
the young girl as his daily companion--a Utopian vision of a small home
where he was to be content with her society, and she with his, and where
by some magic or other everything was to be arranged for them with an
elegant simplicity which he, for that moment, forgot would be expensive
to maintain, rose before his eyes; and he had almost reached his
cousin's house, before this extraordinary hallucination began to yield a
little, and his dreams to be interspersed with recollections of an empty
purse and an angry father.

Alas! the wife and the home were but visions--the empty purse and the
angry father were realities. That very morning a letter from the Earl
had brought him a severe lecture on the folly of his delay in Canada;
there was a sharp passage in it too about Lady Adeliza, who seemed to be
in danger of deserting her truant admirer for one more assiduous. But
indeed it was useless to think of Lady Adeliza now, for whatever might
happen he was pledged to Lucia, and it would be well if her ladyship did
really relieve him by accepting somebody else. Whether she did or no,
however, he felt that his conduct towards her would furnish his father
with sufficient cause for a quarrel, even without the added enormity of
presenting to him a penniless daughter-in-law, who had not even family
influence for a dower.

Poor Mr. Percy! he went into the house in grievous perplexity. Very
much in love, more so than anybody, even himself, would have supposed
possible, but very much doubting already whether the doings of the last
hour or two had not been of a suicidal character, he tried to solve his
difficulties by laying the whole blame upon fate. But to blame fate is
not enough to repair the mischief she may have done; and though he
succeeded in putting off his anxieties, so as not to let them be evident
during the remainder of the evening, they returned with double force as
soon as he was alone.

Mr. Percy naturally hated thinking; he hated trouble, and it was
troublesome to think. Perhaps it was more troublesome to him than to
other people; for, to confess the truth, he had not more than a very
ordinary allowance of brains, and those he had were not accustomed to
have sudden calls upon them. So he sat and pondered slowly, starting
from the one or two points which were clear to him, and trying, without
much success, to make out a map of the future from these slight
indications. First of all, if was clear and evident that he was engaged
to Lucia; he stopped a moment there to think of her, and that she was
certainly a prize in the lottery of life, so beautiful, gracious, and
devoted to him as she was; but he had not the smallest uncertainty
about Mrs. Costello's consent, so never glanced towards any possible
missing of the prize. That was all very well, _very_ well, at present,
though undeniably it would have been better if Lucia could have had Lady
Adeliza's advantages. Ah! that was the next step. There was Lady Adeliza
to be got rid of--if she did not herself, take the initiative--and that
was not a pleasant affair. He had only been extremely attentive to her,
that was the utmost anybody could say; but then there was his
father--the two fathers, indeed, for he had good reason to believe that
the Earl had not urged him to pay his suit to the lady without pretty
good cause for counting on the approval of her family. It was a dreadful
bore; and then there could be no doubt that by displeasing at a blow his
own father and Lady Adeliza's, he was forfeiting his best if not his
only chance of success in life. Altogether, the more he looked at the
prospect the gloomier it grew, and at last he got up impatiently and put
an end to his cogitations.

"I shall have to turn backwoodsman at once," he said to himself, "or
miner, like those fellows we saw at the Sault."

In spite of his confidence in himself and in Lucia, it was not without a
little tremor that Mr. Percy walked up to the Cottage next morning. He
began to feel that there really might be some difficulty in persuading a
mother to give up her only child to the care of a man who was not only
poor, but likely to remain so, who could not even give her the hope of
independence such as might fall to the lot of the backwoodsman or miner.
But he kept up his courage as well as he could, and was very little
disturbed out of his usual manner when he followed Margery into the
small parlour. The room was empty; and in a little surprise--for he
expected Lucia would have prepared her mother for his coming--he walked
to the window and looked out on to the verandah. There was no one there,
nor in the garden, but the sound of a door opening made him turn round,
as Lucia, instead of Mrs. Costello, came in.

As they met he saw a change in her. A crimson colour had rushed to her
face for a moment when she came in, but in a moment faded to the most
complete pallor. There was not a sign of her usual shy grace or timid
welcome: she was cold, erect, and composed, nothing more.

She gave him her hand, and said,

"My mother is not well. I must speak to you for her, Mr. Percy, and for
myself."

"But Lucia!" he cried. "What is this? What is the matter? Have you
forgotten last night?"

Her quiet was shaken for a moment.

"No, indeed," she answered. "No. I shall never forget last night."

"You have surely forgotten what I came for this morning then," he said
placing a chair for her. "Sit down and tell me what is wrong, for
something is." His tone, his look, so utterly unsuspicious of anything
that could come between them in this trouble of hers, were hard to bear.
But she had to speak.

"Something is wrong at present," she said steadily; "but we can set it
right. I made a terrible mistake last night. You must go away and forget
all we said to each other."

He looked at her incredulously.

"Explain," he said.

She had to pause for a moment. If it were but over!

"Pray believe what I say," she answered, forming the words slowly and
with difficulty. "I found out last night after you had gone away that it
was a mistake and a wrong--that you could not marry me, nor I you. Do
you understand?"

"No, by heaven!" he cried. "If this is a jest--but it does not look like
one. Did you mean what you said last night?"

"Yes, yes. I meant it then. See, I am a true woman. I have changed my
mind already."

There was a bitter tone of jesting now, for she caught at any means of
keeping down the sobs which would rise in her throat. He took her hand
in a hard grasp.

"Look at me honestly and say what you mean; I am neither to be offended
nor made a fool of. I want to know why you make a promise one day and
try to break it the next?"

She looked at him for a moment, and then let her eyes fall with a heavy
sigh.

"I hoped you would have been satisfied," she said, "to know that our
engagement is broken; but it is true, you have a right to know more. I
told you last night that I had no fortune. To-day I tell you that I have
a portion you would never endure to receive with your wife, and which no
man shall receive with me--disgrace."

She covered her face with her hands as she said the last word, and he
could see nevertheless how the hot flush of shame rose to her forehead.
He started, and involuntarily moved a step away from her. She was
conscious of the movement, and raised her head proudly.

"How or in what way I should disgrace you," she went on, "I need not
tell you--it is enough that you are satisfied that there is a bar
between us." But he had recovered from his first surprise, and was in no
mood to be so easily satisfied.

"You are mistaken," he said. "Disgrace is a terrible word; but how do I
know that you are not frightening yourself and me with a shadow? Be
reasonable, Lucia; you are suffering, I can see. Put aside this manner,
which is so unlike yourself, and tell me what troubles you, and let me
judge."

"Oh, if I could!" she cried, with a passionate longing breaking through
all her self-restraint. She was trembling with excitement and the strain
upon her nerves; and as she felt his arm put round her, it seemed for
one second incredible that she must put its support away from her for
ever. But she conquered herself, and spoke more resolutely than before.

"It is no shadow that I fear, but a calamity which has fallen upon us. I
thought yesterday that I was not very far beneath you in birth, and that
there could be no greater difficulties in our way than patience might
overcome; but that was because I did not know. I am not your equal. I am
no one's equal in the world--no one's that I could marry. I shall be
always alone, and apart from other people in my heart, however they may
see no difference; and if I cared for you a thousand times more than I
do, I should only have a thousand more reasons for telling you to go
away, and never think of me again."

"You dismiss me, then? Of your own free will, Lucia?"

"Of my own free will."

"And you will not tell me this strange secret which has changed you so?"

"No; there is no need."

"No need truly, if we are to part in this way. But you see that there is
something romantic and unreal about the whole thing. I don't yet
understand."

"No; how should you?" she said, half to herself. "I hardly can myself."

"Let me see your mother. I will come again, though my time is short."

"You need not. Mamma approves of what I say. Indeed, I cannot bear any
more. Let me go. Good-bye."

She was growing of a more deathly paleness every moment, and the hand
she offered him was cold as ice.

"Good-bye, then," he replied. "I am to consider all the past as a
pleasant dream, am I?"

She raised her heavy, aching eyes to his face. His reproaches, if he had
any to make, died away before that look, which betrayed endurance, taxed
to the utmost--a burden on her own heart far heavier than that she laid
on his. He held her hand for a moment.

"I don't understand," he repeated; "but I can't give you up so readily.
Think over all this again, and if you find that you have decided too
hastily, send me one line to say so; but it must be to-day. If I hear
nothing from you, I shall leave Cacouna to-morrow."

"Yes," she answered passively. "Good-bye."

"Good-bye."

She stood without moving until the sound of the gate assured her that
he was gone; then she sank down on the floor, not fainting nor weeping,
but utterly exhausted. There her mother found her in a strange, heavy
stupor, beyond tears or thought, and lifted her up, and made her lie
down on her bed, where she fell into a heavy sleep, and woke in a new
world, where everything seemed cold and dark, because hope and love had
left her when she entered it.

Mr. Percy went back to Cacouna in greater perplexity than he had left
it; nay, not merely in perplexity, but in real pain and mortification.
If he had not seen plainly that Lucia was suffering bitterly, he would
have been much more angry and less sorry; but, as it was, the whole
thing was a mystery. Somehow he was very slow to believe that
disgrace--any disgrace he could comprehend--really attached to her; his
first idea, that she was making a great matter out of some trifle or
mistake, had not yet left him, and he wished heartily that he could get
at the truth, and see whether it was the insuperable obstacle she
fancied it. He thought Mrs. Bellairs might help him in solving the
question. He knew quite well that she was not particularly pleased with
his attentions to Lucia, but she was both sensible and kind-hearted,
and, when she knew how far matters had gone, he did not doubt that she
would do what she could to save them both from a painful
misunderstanding. But no sooner had he quickened his steps with the idea
of immediately seeking her advice, than he began to reflect that Lucia
had said she herself had been ignorant of any reason for acting as she
had just done until last night; it was, therefore, very unlikely that
Mrs. Bellairs, dear friend though she was, knew anything of this matter.
And if there was a family secret, what right had he to betray it?

He gave up, therefore, this hope, and tried to content himself with the
other, on which, however, he placed little reliance, that Lucia herself
might recall him before the day was over. In the almost certainty that
he had lost her, it was strange how completely he again forgot the
difficulties that had troubled him before, and thought simply of her. At
that moment he would willingly have sacrificed everything he _could_
sacrifice for the knowledge that her secret was only a phantom, and that
she was really to be his wife. Of course such a mood could not last. As
evening drew on, and there was no word or sign from the Cottage, he
began to feel angry both with Lucia and himself; and at night, when he
had announced to his host and hostess that he should leave them by the
next day's boat, he had made another step, and begun to think it
possible that this state of affairs was better and more sensible than if
he had been successful in his plan for delaying his journey a little
longer and taking a bride home with him. After all, he concluded, this
might only be a delay. If Lucia had refused to marry him, she had also
declared that she would not marry at all. She meant, therefore, to
remain free, and a year hence perhaps all might yet come right. If she
cared for him, she would have come to her senses by that time, and be
more able to judge whether they really must remain apart or not.

But early in the morning, when he woke, and remembered that it was the
last time he would wake in her neighbourhood, he was seized with an
unconquerable longing to see her again, however fruitlessly. He stole
out softly, and walked to the Cottage. He knew that Lucia often worked
among her flowers early, and guessed that that morning she would not be
likely to sleep. He looked eagerly into the garden. She was not there,
but he caught the flutter of her dress on the verandah; and thus
encouraged, he walked to the door boldly and knocked; but Lucia had seen
him also. She hurried to her own room. And when Margery, much amazed,
came to tell her that Mr. Percy was asking for her, she said quietly,
"Tell him that I have not left my room yet, and that I wish him a safe
and prosperous voyage." They were the first words she thought of, and
they sufficed. He went home, and commenced his preparations for
departure without further delay; by that means greatly contenting Mrs.
Bellairs, who at present wished for nothing so much as to be rid of her
handsome guest. She was very civil to him, however, in the prospect of
his going away, and the temptation to speak to her about Lucia again
beset him strongly. But then to tell her, or even hint to her ever so
slightly, that he had been rejected by a little simple Canadian girl,
was not so easy a matter to his masculine pride as it would have been
yesterday, so the time passed, and nothing was said.

As the boat went down the river Mr. Percy stood on deck, and watched
anxiously for the Cottage, hoping to catch the flutter of a light dress,
and to know that Lucia saw him go. But all was still and seemingly
deserted; not a sign of her presence was visible, though he strained
his eyes to the last moment. Yet she was watching also. Wrapped in a
dark cloak, she stood among the trees, where she knew the shadows would
conceal her, and took that last look which she had not courage to forbid
herself. She put her arm round the slender trunk of an acacia tree, and,
leaning forward, followed the receding boat, with a sickening eagerness,
till it had completely disappeared; then her head sank for a moment
against the tree, with one bitter yet suppressed cry. Sorrow was so new
to her yet.

Little had been said between the mother and daughter in this crisis of
Lucia's life. Mrs. Costello watched her child's pale and exhausted looks
with painful solicitude, but she knew that words were useless. There
was, therefore, neither complaint nor condolence; they went on with
their usual occupations, and spoke, though not much, of their usual
subjects. One thing, certainly, was different. Mrs. Costello went,
instead of Lucia, to pay the long daily visit to Mr. Leigh. She said she
wanted herself to have a consultation with him, about some small affairs
in which she had been used to consult him, and Lucia was thankful to be
spared, for one day, the danger of her old friend's scrutiny. But on
the next day she went herself. A note from Mr. Strafford had reached
them, accounting for his delay, and saying that he would arrive that
evening, the very evening of Mr. Percy's departure, and she wished to go
with her new self into more familiar company before facing one who,
though so closely connected with the secret of her life, was almost a
stranger to her.

She took with her a new book, and contrived as soon as possible to read
instead of talking. It required less effort, and while she read, her
mind could go back to the thoughts which were still in the stir and
commotion of their recent disturbance. But all her efforts could not
bring back to her face and voice the natural joyousness which had died
out of them. A stranger would have seen no signs of emotion or trouble
in her look and manner, but this was the utmost she could accomplish. To
familiar, and above all, to loving eyes, the change was as evident as it
was sorrowful; and Mr. Leigh speculated much on the subject. Guessing
more truly than perhaps others of her associates might do, he wrote to
Maurice that night that he feared some heavy trouble either threatened,
or had come upon Mrs. Costello and Lucia. The same evening Mr.
Strafford came to the Cottage. It was a year since his last visit, and
the events which had taken place in the meantime made him even more than
usually welcome to Mrs. Costello. He scarcely needed to be told that
Lucia had now, at last, heard the story of her birth--he read it in her
face, and rejoiced that there was full confidence between mother and
daughter. As the three sat together round the fire--for the evenings
were already growing chilly, and the leaves in the garden began to
fall--they spoke together of the subject on which Mrs. Costello had been
so anxiously waiting her friend's counsel.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12