Mrs. Harry Coghill - A Canadian Heroine, Volume 1
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Mrs. Harry Coghill >> A Canadian Heroine, Volume 1
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But away from the unquiet household at the Cottage, there was beginning
to be much gossip with regard to all these things, and many speculations
of the usual kind as to the issue of Mr. Percy's undisguised admiration
for the beauty of Cacouna. Bella Latour was questioned on all sides, and
finding the general thirst for information a source of considerable
amusement, she did not scruple to supply her friends with plenty of
materials for their comments. From Maurice Leigh, no such satisfaction
was to be obtained--the most inveterate news-seekers gained nothing from
him.
A party of young people were collected one evening at Mrs. Scott's--a
house about a mile from Cacouna, in the opposite direction to the
Cottage. Lucia had been invited, but Maurice, who arrived late, had
brought a hasty note from her, excusing herself on the plea of her
mother's not being well. Little notice was taken at the time, for all
knew that Mrs. Costello had been looking ill lately, and it was
therefore probable enough that she might be too much indisposed for
Lucia to leave her. But later in the evening, when they were tired with
dancing, a group of girls began to chatter as they sat in a corner.
"I wonder what is the matter with Mrs. Costello," said one. "Lucia seems
to me to go out very little lately."
"She is better employed at home," replied another.
"You should have brought Mr. Percy, Bella," said Magdalen Scott.
"You did not invite him; and beside, I think we are better off without
him."
"Why? Don't you like him?"
"Tolerably well, but I am getting tired of him."
"Tired of him already?"
"I'm not like you, Magdalen; I could not be content to spend my life
looking at one person."
Magdalen blushed a little, but answered rather sharply,
"You mean to be an old maid, I suppose, then?"
"I think I shall. At any rate, I should if I were to be always required
to be looking at or thinking about a man when I had married him."
Mrs. Scott here called her daughter away, and May Anderson asked,
"Why are you always teasing Magdalen so, Bella? She does not like it, I
am sure."
"She should not be so stupid. Magdalen thinks her whole business in life
is to sit still and look pretty for her cousin Harry's benefit. I wish
she would wake up."
"Harry is quite content seemingly. He told George that he thought her
prettier than Lucia Costello."
"What idiots men are!" said Bella. "I don't believe they ever care about
anything except a pretty face; and they have not even eyes to see that
with."
"They seem to see it well enough in some cases. I do not know what there
is in Lucia except her prettiness to attract them, and she never has any
want of admirers. There's Maurice Leigh perfectly miserable about her
this minute, and Mr. Percy, they say, continually running after her."
"My dear May, you need not trouble your head about Maurice Leigh; he is
quite able to take care of himself, and would not be at all obliged to
you for pitying him. As for Mr. Percy, the mere idea of his running
anywhere or after anything!"
"Well, is not he perpetually at the Cottage?"
"He was not there yesterday."
"No, because Lucia was in Cacouna. I passed your house in the afternoon,
and saw them both in the garden."
"They are both fond of flowers."
"I hear he goes to help her to garden."
"Mr. Percy help anybody!"
"To hinder, then; I dare say Lucia finds it equally amusing."
"Where is he this evening? Did he go with Mr. and Mrs. Bellairs?"
"No. And I was afraid I should have to stay at home and do the honours;
but he had heard that I intended being here, and was polite enough to
insist on my coming. He was out when I left."
"At the Cottage, of course. No wonder Lucia could not come."
While her friends thus charitably judged her, Lucia was, in truth,
painfully and anxiously occupied by the illness of her mother. Mr.
Percy, aware of her engagement for the evening, had ridden over early in
the afternoon and spent an hour or two lounging beside her, at the piano
or on the verandah. At last, when it grew nearly time for her to start
for Mrs. Scott's, he rose to go.
"Come into the garden for a minute," he said. "It is growing cool now,
and the air from the river is so pleasant."
She obeyed, and they wandered down the garden together. But the minute
lengthened to twenty before they came back, and parted at the wicket.
Lucia went slowly up the steps, disinclined to go in out of the
sunshine, which suited her mood. Mrs. Costello had left her chair and
her work on the verandah and gone indoors. Lucia picked up a fallen
knitting-needle, and carried it into the parlour; but as she passed the
doorway she saw her mother sitting in her own low chair, her head fallen
forward, and her whole attitude strange and unnatural.
Lucia uttered a cry of terror; she sprang to Mrs. Costello's side, and
tried to raise her, but the inanimate figure slipped from her arms. She
called Margery, and together they lifted her mother and laid her on her
bed. The first inexpressible fear soon passed away--it was but a deep
fainting fit, which began to yield to their remedies. As soon as this
became evident, Lucia had time to wonder what could have caused so
sudden an illness. She remembered having seen a letter lying on the
table beside her mother, and the moment she could safely leave the
bedside she went in search of it. It was only an empty envelope, but as
she moved away her dress rustled against a paper on the floor, which she
picked up and found to be the letter itself. Without any other thought
than that her mother must have received a shock which this might
explain, she opened the half-folded sheet and hastily read the contents.
They were short, and in a hand she knew well--that of a clergyman who
was an old and trusted friend of Mrs. Costello. This was his letter:--
"My dear friend,
"I was just about writing to say that I would obey your summons, and
steal two or three days next week from my work to visit you, when a
piece of information reached me, which has caused me, for your sake, to
defer my journey. Perhaps you can guess what it is. You have too often
expressed your fears of C.'s return to be surprised at their fulfilment,
but I grieve to have to add to your anxieties at this moment by telling
you that he is really in this neighbourhood. I have not seen him, but
one of my people, Mary Wanita, who remembers you affectionately, brought
me the news. You may depend upon my guarding, with the utmost care, my
knowledge of your retreat; but I thought it best to prepare you for the
possibility of discovery, lest he should present himself unexpectedly to
you or to Lucia. If the matter on which you wished to consult me is one
that can be entrusted to a letter, write fully, and I will give you the
best advice I can; but send your letter to the post-office at Claremont,
on the American side, and I will myself call there for it. I shall also
post my letters to you there for the present.
"With every good wish for you and for your child, believe me, sincerely
yours,
"A. STRAFFORD."
Lucia had looked for a solution of the mystery, but this letter was
none. Rather it was a new and bewildering problem. That it was the
immediate cause of her mother's illness was evident enough, but why? Who
was "C."? Why did she fear his return? What could be the fear strong
enough to induce such precautions for secrecy? Her senses seemed utterly
confused. But after the first few minutes, she remembered that Mrs.
Costello had probably meant to keep her still ignorant of a mystery to
which she had, in all the recollections of her life, no single clue--she
might therefore be still further agitated by knowing that she had read
this letter. "I must put it aside," she thought, "and not tell her until
she is well again."
She slipped the letter into her pocket, scribbled her note to Mrs.
Scott, and returned to the invalid's room. The faintness had now quite
passed away, and Lucia thought, as she entered, that her mother's eyes
turned to her with a peculiar look of inquiry. Happily the room was
dark, so that the burning colour which rose to her cheeks was not
perceptible; for the rest, she contrived to banish all consciousness
from her voice, as she said quietly, "I have been writing to Mrs. Scott,
to say I cannot leave you to-night."
"I am sorry, dear; you would have enjoyed yourself, and there is no
reason to be anxious about me."
"I am very glad I was not gone. Can you go to sleep?"
"Presently. I think I dropped a letter--have you seen it?"
Lucia drew it from her pocket. "It is here, I picked it up."
Mrs. Costello held out her hand for it. She looked at it for a moment,
as if hesitating--then slipped it under her pillow.
Both remained silent for some time; Mrs. Costello, exhausted and pale as
death, lay trying to gather strength for thought and endurance, longing,
yet dreading, to share with her daughter the miserable burden which was
pressing out her very life. Lucia, half hidden by the curtain, sat
pondering uselessly over the letter she had read; feeling a vague fear
and a livelier curiosity. But a heart so ignorant of sadness in itself,
and so filled at the moment with all that is least in accord with the
prosaic troubles of middle life, could not remain long fixed upon a
doubtful and uncomprehended misfortune. Gradually her fancy reverted to
brighter images; the sunny life of her short experience, the only life
she could believe in with a living faith, had its natural immutability
in her thoughts; and she unconsciously turned from the picture which had
been forced upon her--of her mother shrinking terrified from a calamity
about to involve them both--to the brighter one of her own happiness
which that dear mother could not help but share. So strangely apart were
the two who were nearest to each other.
Mrs. Costello was the first to rouse herself.
"Light the lamp, dear," she said, "and let us have tea. I suppose I must
not get up again."
"No indeed. I will bring my work in here and sit by you."
"Will Maurice be here to-night?"
"He is at the Scotts."
"True, I forgot. We shall be alone, then?"
It was a question; a month ago it would have been an assertion; and
Lucia answered, "Yes."
"Then we may arrange ourselves here without fear of interruption," Mrs.
Costello said more cheerfully. "Bring a book, instead of your work, and
read to me."
She did not then intend to explain Mr. Strafford's letter. Lucia had
almost hoped it, but on the other hand she feared, as perhaps her
mother did, to renew the afternoon's excitement.
So, after tea, she took the last new book and read. Mrs. Costello lay
with her face shaded; she had much to think of,--only old debatings with
herself to go over again for the thousandth time; but all her doubts,
her wishes, her fears quickened into new life by the threatened
discovery, of which the letter lying under her pillow had warned her;
and the changes which a multitude of recollections brought to her
countenance were not for her child, still ignorant of all the past, to
see.
The evening passed quickly in this tumult of thoughts. Lucia was
interested in her story, and read on until ten o'clock, when Margery
came in.
"Mr. Maurice, Miss Lucia. He came in at the back, just to ask how your
mamma is. Will you speak to him?"
Lucia went out. Maurice was standing in the dark parlour, and she almost
ran against him. He put his hand lightly on her shoulder, as he asked
his question.
"She is better, very much better," she answered. "But I was frightened
at first."
"Do you think it is only a passing affair? Are you afraid to be alone
to-night?"
"Not at all. Oh! Maurice, why do you ask such a question? She was quite
well this morning."
"She has not looked well for some time. But I did not mean to alarm you,
only to remind you that if you should want anything, I am always close
at hand."
He had alarmed her a little for the moment. She thought, "I have been
occupied with myself, and she has been ill perhaps for days past."
Maurice felt her tremble, and blamed himself for speaking. At that
instant they seemed to have returned to their old life. The very
attitude in which they stood, in which they had been used to have their
most confidential chats, had lately been disused; and to resume it, and
with it the old position of adviser and consoler, was compensation for
much that he had suffered. He felt that Lucia was looking anxiously up
at him--that she had for the moment quite forgotten all except her
mother and himself.
"The weather has been so hot," he said, searching for something to hide
his thoughts, "it is not wonderful for any one to be weakened by it. No
doubt, that was the reason of Mrs. Costello's illness." Lucia
remembered the letter and was silent. Then she said, "Have you really
thought her looking ill lately?"
"'Ill' is perhaps too strong a word. Besides, she has always said she
was well."
"Yes. But I know she has been"--in trouble, she was going to say, but
stopped--"suffering."
"Perhaps you may be able to nurse her a little now, since she will be
obliged to own herself an invalid."
"I shall try. Will you come in for a moment, in the morning?"
"Yes. Good night now. Do not be too anxious."
He went out, glad at heart because of those few words of hers, which
showed how naturally she still depended on him, when help of any kind
was needed.
Mrs. Costello had lain, during his visit, listening to the faint sound
of their voices, which just reached her through the half-open door of
her room.
She turned her head restlessly as she listened. "If it could have been,"
she thought, "he would have been the same to her through all--but the
other, how could I tell him even? Truly, I believe he would forgive
crime, more readily than misery like mine. And I _must_ tell her."
Lucia came back softly into the room, and to the bedside; looking, with
her newly awakened fears, at her mother's face, she saw plainly how worn
it was; it seemed, in truth, to have grown years older in the last few
weeks. A pang of remorse shot through her heart; she stooped and kissed
her with unusual tenderness, and then turned away to hide the tears
which self-reproach had brought to her eyes. Mrs. Costello caught her
hand, and smiling, asked what news Maurice had brought?
"None, mamma. He came to ask about you."
"But had he nothing to tell you about the Scotts?"
"I forgot to ask him, and I believe he forgot to tell me."
"You must have been very much interested to forget such an event as a
party the moment it was over."
"We were only talking about you. Maurice says you have been looking
ill."
"Maurice is a foolish boy. I have been a little worried, but that is
all."
Lucia gathered all her courage. "But, dear mother, why do you always
give me that answer? Why not tell me what it is that troubles you?"
Mrs. Costello shrank back. "Not yet, darling. I am a coward, and should
have to tell you a long story. Wait awhile."
"And while I wait, you suffer alone."
"I should not suffer less, my child, if you knew all. For your own sake
I have not yet shared my troubles, such as they are, with you; for your
own sake I see that I must soon do so. Leave me at present to decide, if
I can, what is best for us both."
Lucia was silent. She saw that even this short conversation had
disturbed, instead of comforting her mother; she dared not therefore say
more, and could only busy herself in arranging everything with
affectionate care for her comfort during the night.
Next morning when Maurice came, he was surprised to find Mrs. Costello
up, and looking as usual. Lucia's uneasiness had almost melted away in
the daylight; she was more gentle and attentive than usual to her
mother, but had persuaded herself that with her care, and, above all,
with her sympathy, when the promised "long story" should be told, all
would come right. She had still, however, enough need of sympathy to
make her manner to Maurice such as he liked best. He went away a second
time very happy, thinking, "She is but a child. If that fellow were but
gone she would soon forget him, and be herself again."
But, alas! "that fellow" showed no intention of going. He came to the
Cottage an hour or two later, not however alone, but with Mrs. Bellairs
and Bella. The former came to see Mrs. Costello, the latter had affairs
of her own with Lucia. Mr. Percy, for once, was decidedly _de trop_, but
after awhile the two girls slipped away and shut themselves up in
Lucia's bedroom. The moment the door was closed, Bella burst into a
torrent of talk.
"Oh! my dear, I was determined to come to you this morning, but I dare
say it was trouble thrown away. Have you any attention to spare from
your own affairs for your neighbours?"
"Plenty. How did you enjoy yourself last night?"
"You shall hear. It was a dull enough evening till the very end. There
was Maurice looking as black as thunder at May Anderson; and Magdalen
Scott and Harry--not flirting, they have not sense enough for that--but
making themselves ridiculous; and everybody else as usual."
"Why was Maurice looking black at May?"
"Because she was talking about you. It's not safe for anybody to talk
about you before Maurice, I can tell you. But _I_ don't want to talk
about them, but about myself. Do you know what has happened?"
"How should I till you tell me?"
"Well, you might guess; but, I suppose, since Mr. Percy came, he has
prevented you from seeing anything beyond himself."
"Don't be absurd, Bella; I can always see you, at any rate."
"And yet you can't guess? Well, then, my dear, I have altered my mind."
"What about?"
"Only yesterday I meant to be an old maid, and now I don't."
Lucia clapped her hands. "Oh, Bella! is it Doctor Morton?"
"I suppose so. You see it would be more convenient for me in some ways
to be married; Elise and William might get tired of too much of my
society, and no doubt it will suit him very well to have a house
rent-free and a little money besides."
"Don't, Bella, you are incorrigible. I should think you might leave off
joking now."
"Not I, I assure you. I leave the sentimental side of the question to
you and Mr. Percy; though, to tell you the truth, I think you would be
much better off in that respect with Maurice, and his highflown notions,
which Elise calls chivalrous."
Certainly Bella's manner agreed with her words--never was so important a
piece of news told by one girl to another, in so calm and business-like
a style. Lucia, rather given to romance herself, was puzzled and half
shocked.
When the visitors were gone, she repeated what she had heard to her
mother, with wondering comments on a compact so coolly arranged, and was
rather surprised to find that Mrs. Costello completely approved of it.
"I dare say," she said, "it may be a very happy marriage. Doctor Morton
is a sensible man, and Bella too honest a girl to marry him if she did
not mean to behave as he would like her."
And this, then, was her mother's idea of a happy marriage. Lucia
wondered still more, yet less than she would have done if she had known
how gladly Mrs. Costello would have seen her, also, safely bestowed in
the keeping of "a sensible man."
CHAPTER V.
At the time when Bella informed Lucia of her engagement, her
newly-accepted lover was having a long conversation with her
brother-in-law and guardian. There was no reason why the marriage once
arranged should be delayed; on the contrary, everybody was happily
agreed in the opinion that it might take place almost immediately. The
conference of the two gentlemen, therefore, passed readily into the
region of business, and chiefly concerned dollars and cents.
Mr. Latour, the father of Mrs. Bellairs and Bella, had died rich; all
his property in hind, houses, and money was carefully divided between
the sisters; and as he had been dead less than two years, very slight
changes had taken place during Mr. Bellairs' guardianship. Bella spoke
reasonably enough when she said her fortune would be acceptable to
Doctor Morton. He made no secret of the fact that it would be very
acceptable, and Mr. Bellairs--though, for his own part, he would have
married his charming Elise with exactly the same eagerness if she had
been penniless--was too sensible to be at all displeased with his future
brother-in-law's clear and straightforward manner of treating so
important a subject. It is true that his brains and his diploma were
almost all the capital the young man had to bring on his side, but
these, had their acknowledged value, and, after all, Bella was very
nearly of age, and it would be rather a comfort to see her safely
disposed of, instead of having to give up her guardianship into her own
giddy keeping.
Mr. Bellairs' office was a small wooden-frame building containing two
rooms. In the outer one half-a-dozen budding lawyers, in various stages,
sat at their desks; the inner one, where the two gentlemen discussed
their arrangements, was small, and contained only a stove, a
writing-table, two chairs, and some cupboards. Mr. Bellairs sat at the
table with a pile of papers before him: in the second chair--an easy
one--Doctor Morton lounged, and amused himself while he talked, by
tracing the pattern of the empty stove with the end of a small cane. He
was a good-looking young man, with very black eyes, and a small black
beard; of middle height and strongly built, and noted in Cacouna as the
boldest rider, the best swimmer, and one of the best shots, in the
neighbourhood.
A little stir, and a loud rough voice speaking in the outer office, was
followed by the entrance of a clerk.
"Here is Clarkson, sir. Says he must see you."
A shaggy head appeared over the clerk's shoulder, and the same rough
voice called out, "Just a minute, Mr. Bellairs; it's only a small matter
of business."
Mr. Bellairs went out, drawing the door together after him, and after a
few minutes dismissed the man, and came back.
"That fellow may give you some trouble," he said as he sat down again.
"Me? How?" asked the Doctor, surprised.
"Some years ago, Mr. Latour bought a hundred acres of wild land on
Beaver Creek. He took no trouble about it, except what he was actually
obliged; never even saw it, I believe; and about a year before his
death, this Clarkson squatted on it, built a house, married, and took
his wife to live there. Mr. Latour heard of all this by chance, and went
to see if it were true. There, he found the fellow comfortably settled,
and expecting nothing less than to be turned out. The end of the matter,
for that time, was, that Clarkson promised to pay some few dollars rent,
and was left in possession. The rent, however, never was paid. Mr.
Latour died, and when his affairs came into my hands I tried again to
get it; threatened to turn Clarkson out, and pull down his house if he
did not pay, and certainly would have done it, but for Bella, to whom I
should tell you the land belongs. Mrs. Clarkson came into town, and went
to her with such a pitiful story that she persuaded me to wait. The
consequence is that nothing has been done yet, though I believe it is
altogether misplaced kindness to listen to their excuses."
"I have no doubt it is."
"Clarkson is a great scamp, but I hear his wife is a very decent woman,
and naturally Bella was humbugged."
"Naturally, yes. But I hope it is not too late to get rid of such
tenants, or make them pay?"
"I would rather you undertook the task than I, except, of course, in the
way of business. Professionally, a lawyer has no tenderness for people
who can't pay."
"And in what condition is the rest of the land?"
"Much as it always was. The Indians are the only people who profit by it
at present; they hunt over it, and dry the fish they catch in the creek,
along the bank."
"Yet, if it were cleared, it ought not to be a bad position. Where is it
on the creek?"
Mr. Bellairs reached a map, and the two became absorbed in discussing
the probable advantages of turning out Clarkson and the Indians, and
clearing the farm on Beaver Creek.
Mr. Bellairs left his office earlier than usual that day, and found his
wife sitting alone in her little morning room. He took up a magazine
which lay on the table, and seated himself comfortably in an easy-chair
opposite to her.
"Where's Bella?" he asked presently.
"Upstairs, I believe. She and I have nearly quarrelled to-day."
"What about?"
"About her marriage. I declare, William, I have no patience with her."
Mr. Bellairs laughed. "An old complaint, my dear; but why?"
"She is so matter-of-fact. I asked her, at last, what she was going to
marry for, and she told me coolly, for convenience."
Mrs. Bellairs' indignation made her husband laugh still more. "They are
well matched," he said; "Morton is as cool as she is. He might be
Bluebeard proposing for his thirteenth wife."
"Well, _you_ may like it, but I don't. If they care so little about each
other now, what will they do when they have been married as long as we
have?"
"My dear Elise, you and I were born too soon. _We_ never thought of
marrying for convenience; but as our ideas on the subject don't seem to
have changed much in ten years, perhaps theirs may not do so either. By
the way, where's Percy?"
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