Mrs. Harry Coghill - A Canadian Heroine, Volume 1

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

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"That's another thing. I don't want to be inhospitable to your cousin,
but I do wish with all my heart that he was back in England."

Mr. Bellairs threw his magazine on the table. "Why, what on earth is the
matter with him?"

"Do you know where he spends half his time?"

"Not I. To tell the truth, his listless, dawdling way rather provokes
me, and I have not been sorry to see less of him lately."

"He goes to the Cottage every day."

"Does he? I should not have thought that an amusement much in his way."

"You say yourself that Lucia is a wonderfully pretty girl."

"Lucia? She is a child. You don't think that attracts him?"

Mrs. Bellairs was silent.

"Elise, don't be absurd. You women are always fancying things of that
kind. A fellow like Percy is not so easily caught."

"I hope to goodness I am only fancying, but I believe you would give
Mrs. Costello credit for some sense, and she is certainly uneasy."

"Does she say so?"

"No. But I know it; and Maurice and Lucia are not the same friends they
used to be."

"Lucia must be an idiot if she can prefer Percy to Maurice; but most
girls do seem to be idiots."

"In the meantime, what to do? I feel as if we were to blame."

"We can't very well turn out my honourable cousin. I suspect the best
thing to do is to leave them alone. _He_ will not forget to take care of
himself."

"He? No fear. But it is of her I think. I should be sorry to see her
married to him, even if the Earl would consent."

"It will never come to that. And, after all, you may be mistaken in
supposing there is anything more than a little flirtation."

Mrs. Bellairs shook her head, but said no more. She knew by experience
that her husband would remember what he had heard, and take pains to
satisfy himself as to the cause of her anxiety. She had also (after ten
years of wedlock!) implicit faith in his power to do something, she did
not know what, to remedy whatever was wrong.

That evening, when the whole family were assembled, the half-abandoned
scheme of passing a long day in the country was revived, and the time
finally settled. It was agreed that Doctor Morton, Lucia, and Maurice
should be the only persons invited; but when all the other arrangements
had been made, it appeared that Maurice had some particularly obstinate
engagement which refused to be put off, and he was, therefore, of
necessity left behind.

The morning fixed for the excursion proved breathlessly hot; the sky was
of one unvaried, dazzling, blue, and the waters of the river seemed to
rise above their banks, while every object, even houses and trees at a
considerable distance, was reflected in them with a clearness which
foretold stormy weather. A note from Mrs. Bellairs had prepared Lucia,
and she was standing on the verandah, dangling her hat in her hand, when
Mr. and Mrs. Bellairs drove up. She only stopped to give her mother a
last hasty kiss, and then ran out to meet them.

The others had gone on, and were dawdling along the road, when Bob, at
his usual sober trot, turned out of the lane--Doctor Morton driving with
Bella, Mr. Percy on horseback. The party moved on leisurely, too hot to
think of a quicker movement, and, as was natural, Mr. Percy drew his
horse to the side of the phaeton where Lucia sat. A drive of three miles
brought them to the farm, where they left the horses in the care of a
servant, and walked across a wide, unenclosed space of green to the
house. It was a long, ugly building, with innumerable windows. The
walls were whitewashed, and glared out painfully in the sunshine; the
roof, window-frames, and doors painted a dull red; but the situation,
similar to that of Mrs. Costello's Cottage, was lovely, and a group of
fine trees standing just where the green bank began to slope down
abruptly to the river, gave a delicious shade to that side of the
building and to some seats placed under them. Mr. Latour, in letting the
house, had retained one room for his daughters, who were fond of the
place, and they still kept possession of it. Here they were to dine; for
the rest of the day, out of doors was much pleasanter than in.

A boat and fishing-tackle were at hand, but it was too hot to fish;
after wandering about a little, they all sat down under the trees. Mrs.
Bellairs, Bella, and Lucia had some pretence of work in their hands; the
three gentlemen lounged on the grass near them. The farmer's children,
at play at the end of the house, occasionally darted out to peep at
them, and flew back again the moment they were perceived. Everything
else was still, even the leaves overhead did not move, and the silence
was so infectious that by degrees all talk ceased--each had his or her
own dreams for the moment. Bella and Doctor Morton, utterly unromantic
pair of lovers as they were, must have had some touch of the ordinary
softness of human nature; they looked content with all the world. Lucia,
leaning back with her crochet lying on her lap, and her eyes half hidden
by their black lashes, had yielded herself up entirely to the indolent
enjoyment of perfect stillness, forgetting even to be conscious of the
pair of handsome blue eyes which rested on her, taking in luxuriously
the charm of her beauty.

When this pause had lasted a minute or two, a sudden glance passed
between Mr. and Mrs. Bellairs. His said, "I am afraid you were
right;"--hers, "What shall we do?" to which he replied by getting up,
and saying,

"Are you all going to sleep, good people?"

A reluctant stir, and change of position among the group, answered him.

"What else can we do?" asked Bella. "It is too hot to move."

"If you intend to go on the river to-day, it had better be soon," said
her brother-in-law. "There is every appearance of a storm coming on."

"Not before we get home, I hope. But look, there is a canoe."

As she spoke, a small object came darting across the river. It
approached so fast, that in a minute or two they could distinguish
plainly that it was, in fact, a tiny bark canoe. One Indian woman,
seated at the end, seemed to be its only occupant; the repeated flashes
of sunlight on her paddle showed how quick and dexterous were its
movements as she steered straight for the landing in front of the
farmhouse.

"Look here, Percy," said Mr. Bellairs; "I don't believe you have seen a
squaw yet. Get up and quote appropriate poetry on the occasion."

"'Hiawatha' I suppose? I don't know any," and Mr. Percy rose lazily.
"She is an odd figure. How do you know it's a woman at all?"

"Don't you see the papoose lying in the canoe?"

"Conclusive evidence, certainly; but upon my word the lady's costume is
not particularly feminine."

They were all standing up now, watching the canoe which had drawn quite
near the bank. In a minute or two longer it touched the land, and the
woman rose. She was of small size, but rather squarely built; her long
jet black hair, without ornament or attempt at dressing, hung loosely
down over her shoulders; she wore mocassins of soft yellow leather
ornamented with beads; trousers of black cloth, with a border of the
same kind of work, reached her ankles; a cloth skirt, almost without
fulness, came a little below the knee, and was covered, to within three
or four inches of its edge, by an equally scanty one of red and white
cotton, with a kind of loose bodice and sleeves, attached to it; a
blanket, fastened round her shoulders in such a manner that it could be
drawn over her head like a monk's cowl, completed her dress. A little
brown baby, tightly swathed in an old shawl, lay at her feet, exposed,
seemingly without discomfort, to the hot glare of the sun. She stood a
moment, as if examining the house, and the group of figures in front of
it; then picked up her child, slipped it into the folds of her blanket,
so that it hung safely on her back, its black eyes peeping out over her
shoulders, took a bundle of mats from under the seat of her canoe, and
stepped on shore.

As she came, with light firm steps, up the bank, not exactly approaching
them, but turning to the house-door, the party under the trees
separated; the gentlemen, attracted by the lightness and beauty of the
canoe, went down to the water's edge to look at it more closely. Bella
wanted to see the papoose, and perhaps to bargain with its mother for
some of her work; Mrs. Bellairs and Lucia remained alone, when the
former, turning to say something to her companion, was surprised to see
her pale, trembling, and looking ready to faint.

"My dear child," she cried in alarm, "what is the matter, you are ill?"

"Not ill, only stupid. Don't mind me. I shall be quite right again in a
minute." But her breath came in gasps, and her very lips were white.

"Will you come in? Can you walk?"

"No, no; it is nothing." By a strong effort she recovered herself a
little, and smiled. "Could anything be so absurd?"

"What was it? I can't understand."

"That poor woman. Is not it strange the sight of an Indian or a squaw
always throws me into a kind of panic. I am horribly frightened, and I
don't know why."

"It is strange, certainly; what are you afraid of?"

"Of nothing at all. I cannot think why I should feel so, but I always
have. Indeed I try not to be so foolish."

"I can't scold you for it at present, for you really frightened me, and
you are generally fearless enough."

"I am so glad there was no one but you here. Please do not tell
anybody."

"But do you know, child, that you are still as pale as ever you can be?
And they are coming back from the river. Your enemy is out of sight now;
let us walk up to the house."

They put on their hats, and walked slowly up the sunny slope; but as
they came upon the level space in front of the house, the squaw, who had
been bargaining with the farmer's wife at a side door, came round the
corner and met them face to face. She paused a moment, and then walked
straight up to the two ladies, holding out her mats as an invitation to
them to buy. Lucia shrank back, and Mrs. Bellairs afraid, from her
previous alarm, that she really would faint, motioned hastily to the
woman to go away. But she seemed in no hurry to obey; repeating in a
monotonous tone, "Buy, buy," she stood still, fixing her eyes upon Lucia
with a keen look of inquiry. The poor child, terrified, and ashamed of
being so, made an uncertain movement towards the door, when the squaw
suddenly laid her hand upon her arm.

"Where live?" she said, in broken English.

"Go, go!" cried Mrs. Bellairs impatiently. "We have nothing for you;"
and taking Lucia's arm, she drew her into their sitting-room, and shut
the door.

"Lie down on the sofa;" she said, "what could the woman mean? You must
have an opposite effect on her to what she has on you. But you need not
fear any more; she is going down to her canoe."

By degrees, Lucia's panic subsided, her colour came back, and she
regained courage to go out and meet the others. They found that Doctor
Morton and Bella had strolled away along the shore, while the other two
were occupied in discussing Indian customs and modes of life, their
conversation having started from the bark canoe. The two ladies took
their work, and remained quiet listeners, until a rough-looking, untidy
servant-girl came to tell them dinner was ready.

Fish caught that morning, and fowls killed since the arrival of the
party, were on the table; the untidy servant had been commissioned by
her mistress to wait, which she did by sitting down and looking on with
great interest while dinner proceeded. It was not a particularly
satisfactory meal in its earlier stages, but all deficiencies were
atoned for by the appearance of a huge dish of delicious wild
raspberries, and a large jug of cream, which formed the second course.

As soon as dinner was over, the boat was brought out, and they spent an
hour or two on the river; but the weather had already begun to change,
and, to avoid the approaching storm, they were obliged to leave the farm
much earlier than they had intended, and hasten towards home. When they
approached the Cottage, Lucia begged to be set down, that her friends
might not be hindered by turning out of their way to take her quite
home; Mr. Bellairs drew up, therefore, at the end of the lane, and Lucia
sprang out. Mr. Percy, however, insisted on going with her. He
dismounted and led his horse beside her.

"I am sure you will be wet," she said; "you forget that I am a Canadian
girl, and quite used to running about by myself."

"That may be very well," he answered, "when you have no one at your
disposal for an escort, but at present the case is different."

She blushed a little and smiled. "In England would people be shocked at
my going wherever I please alone?"

"I don't know; I believe I am forgetting England and everything about
it. Do you know that I ought to be there now?"

"Ought? that is a very serious word. But you are not going yet?"

"Not just yet. Miss Costello, your mother is an Englishwoman, why don't
you persuade her to bring you to England."

"My mother will never go to England." Lucia repeated the words slowly
like a lesson learned by rote; and as she did so, an old question rose
again in her mind,--why not?

"Yet you long to go--you have told me so."

"Yes, oh! I do long to go. It seems to me like Fairyland."

It was Mr. Percy's turn to smile now. "Not much like Fairyland," he
answered; "not half so much like it as your own Canada."

"Well, perhaps I shall see it some day, but then alone. Without mamma, I
should not care half so much."

"Are you still so much a child? 'Without mamma' would be no great
deprivation to most young ladies."

"I cannot understand that. But then we have always been together; we
could hardly live apart."

"Not even if you had--Doctor Morton for instance, to take care of you?"

Lucia laughed heartily at the idea, and Mr. Percy laughed too, though
his sentence had begun seriously enough. They were now at the gate, he
bade her good-bye, and springing on his horse, went away at a pace which
was meant to carry off a considerable amount of irritation against
himself. "I had nearly made a pretty fool of myself," he soliloquised.
"It is quite time I went away from here. But what a sweet little piece
of innocence she is, and so lovely! I do not believe anything more
perfect ever was created. Pshaw! who would have thought of _my_ turning
sentimental?"

As Lucia turned from the gate, Margery put her head round the corner of
the house, and beckoned.

"Your ma's lying down, Miss Lucia,--at least I guess so,--and she
doesn't expect you yet, and I've something to tell you."

Lucia went into the kitchen and sat down. She was feeling tired after
the heat of the day, and the excitement of her alarm, and expected only
to hear some tale of household matters. But to her surprise Margery
began, "There've been a squaw here to-day, and, you know, they don't
come much about Cacouna, thank goodness, nasty brown things--but this
one, she came with her mats and rubbish, in a canoe, to be sure. Your
ma, she was out, and I caught sight of something coming up the bank
towards the house, so I went out on the verandah to see. As soon as she
saw me, she held up her mats and says, 'Buy, buy, buy,' making believe
she knew no more English than that, but I told her we wanted none of her
goods, and then she said, 'Missis at home?' I told her no, and she said
'Where?' as impudent as possible. I told her that was none of her
business, and she'd better go; but instead of that, she took hold of my
gown, and she said "Lucia" as plain as possible. I do declare, Miss
Lucia, I did not know what to make of her, for how she should come to
know your name was queer anyhow; but I just said, Mrs. Costello is not
in, nor Miss Lucia neither, so you'd better be off; and she nodded her
head a lot of times, and seemed as if she were considering whether to go
or not. I asked her what she wanted, but she would not tell me, and
after awhile she went off again in her canoe as fast as if she was going
express."

Lucia was thoroughly startled by this story. Mr. Strafford's letter came
to her mind, and connected itself with the singular look and manner of
the squaw, at the farm. This could not certainly be the mysterious "C."
of the letter, for Mr. Strafford said "_he_ is in the neighbourhood,"
but it might be Mary Wanita, who had apparently given the first friendly
warning, and might possibly have come to Cacouna for the purpose of
giving a second, and more urgent one.

"Where was mamma?" she asked.

"Gone in to see Mr. Leigh," Margery answered; "he is quite sick to-day,
and Mr. Maurice came to ask your mamma to go and sit with him awhile."

"Did you tell her about this squaw?"

"Well, no, Miss Lucia, I had a kind of guess it was better not. You see
she is not very strong, and I thought you could tell her when you came
if you thought it was any use."

"Thank you, Margery, you were quite right."

Lucia went in slowly, thinking the matter over. It did not, however,
appear to her advisable to conceal from her mother the squaw's
visit--it might have greater significance than she, knowing so little,
could imagine--but she wished extremely that she possessed some gauge by
which to measure beforehand the degree of agitation her news was likely
to produce. She had none, however, and could devise no better plan than
that of telling Mrs. Costello, quite simply, what she had just heard
from Margery.

As she opened the door of the parlour, Mrs. Costello half rose from the
sofa, where she was lying.

"Is it you, darling," she asked, "so soon?"

"There is a storm coming on," Lucia answered; "we hurried home to escape
it."

"And you have had a pleasant day?"

"Very pleasant. You have been out, too?"

"Yes; poor Mr. Leigh is quite an invalid, and complains that he never
sees you now."

"I will go to-morrow," Lucia said hastily, and then, glad to escape from
the subject, asked if her mother had seen an Indian woman about?

Mrs. Costello answered no, but Lucia felt her start, and went on to
repeat, in as unconcerned a tone as possible, Margery's story; but when
she said that her own name had been mentioned, her mother stopped her.

"Was the woman a stranger? Have you ever seen her?"

"She was a stranger to Margery certainly. I think I saw her to-day."

"Where? Tell me all you know of her."

Lucia described the squaw's appearance at the farm.

"It must be Mary," Mrs. Costello said half to herself. "What shall I do?
How escape?"

She rose from the sofa and walked with hurried steps up and down the
room. Lucia watched her in miserable perplexity till she suddenly
stopped.

"Is that all?" she asked. "Did she go away?"

Lucia finished her account, and when she had done so, Mrs. Costello came
back to the sofa and sat down. She put her arm round her daughter, and
drawing her close to her, she said, "You are a good child, Lucia, for
you ask no questions, though you may well think your mother ought to
trust you. Be patient only a little longer, till I have thought all
over. Perhaps we shall be obliged to go away. I cannot tell."

"Away from Cacouna, mamma?"

"Away from Cacouna and from Canada. Away from all you love--can you bear
it?"

"Yes--with you;" but the first pang of parting came with those words.

CHAPTER VI.

"Away from all you love!" The words haunted Lucia after she lay down in
her little white bed that night. There, in the midst of every object
familiar to her through all her life, surrounded by the perfect
atmosphere of home, she repeated, with wondering trouble, the threat
that had come to her. When at last she slept, these words, and the pale
face of her mother bending over her as she closed her eyes, mixed
themselves with her dreams. At last, she fancied that a violent storm
had come on in the very noon of a brilliant summer day. She herself, her
mother, Percy and Maurice seemed to be standing on the river bank
watching how the sky darkened, and the water rose in great waves at
their feet. Suddenly a canoe appeared, and in it a hideous old squaw,
who approached the shore, and stretching out a long bony hand drew her
away from her mother's side, and in spite of her terror made her step
into the frail boat, which instantly flew down the stream into the
darkest and wildest of the storm. She stretched out her arms for
help--Percy stood still upon the bank, as if anxious but unable to give
it--Maurice waved his hand to her, and turned away. She seemed to know
that he was deserting her for ever, and in an agony of fear and sorrow
she gathered all her strength to call him back. The effort woke her. She
lay trembling, with tears of agitation pouring from her eyes, while the
storm which had mingled with her dream raged furiously round the
Cottage.

Morning came at last, dim and dreary. The wind subsided at dawn, but the
sky was full of torn and jagged clouds, carried hither and thither by
its varying currents. All over the ground lay broken flowers and sprays
torn from the trees, the vine had been loosened in several places from
its fastenings and hung disconsolately over the verandah--all looked
ravaged and desolate, as Lucia pressed her hot cheek against the
rain-covered window, and tried to shake off the misery--still new to
her--which belongs to the early morning after a restless, fevered night.
But as the sun rose bright and warm, her spirits naturally revived; she
dressed early, and went out into the garden, intent upon remedying as
far as possible the mischief that had been done, before her mother
should see it; and accustomed as she was to work among her much-beloved
plants, the task was soon making quick progress. But among her roses,
the most valued of all her flowers, a new discouragement awaited her.
One beautiful tree, the finest of all, which yesterday had been splendid
in the glory of its late blossoms, had been torn up by the wind, and
flung down battered and half covered with sand at a little distance from
the bed where it had grown. The sight of this misfortune seemed to Lucia
almost more than she could bear; she sat down upon a garden-seat close
by, and looked at her poor rose-tree as if its fate were to be a type of
her own. She recollected a thousand trifles connected with it; how she
had disputed with Mr. Percy about its beauty, arguing that it was less
perfect than some others, because he had said it was more so; she
remembered how from that very tree she had gathered a blossom for him
the first day he came to the Cottage. Then, in her fanciful mood, she
reproached herself for letting her unfortunate favourite speak to her
only of him, and forgetting that it was Maurice who had obtained it for
her, who had planted it, and would be sorry for its destruction. She
rose, and tried to lift the broken tree; but as she leaned over it,
Maurice himself passed through the wicket, and came towards her. She
turned to meet him as if it were quite natural that he should come just
then.

"Oh, Maurice, look! I am so sorry."

"Your pet rose-tree? But perhaps it will recover yet."

He raised it carefully, while she stood looking on.

"It is not much broken, after all. I will plant it again; and with
plenty of support and shade, I think it will do."

Lucia flew to bring her spade. She held the tree, while Maurice
carefully arranged its roots and piled the earth about them; the
scattered leaves were picked up from the bed, and a kind of tent made
with matting over the invalid; at last she found time to say,

"But how did you happen to come just at the right moment?"

"I saw you from my window. I noticed that you were very busy for awhile,
and when you stopped working and sat down in that disconsolate attitude,
I guessed some terrible misfortune must have happened. So I came."

Lucia looked at him gravely, a little troubled.

"I never saw anybody like you," she said; "you seem always to know when
one is in a dilemma."

Maurice laughed.

"If all dilemmas were like this, I might easily get up a character for
being a sort of Providence; but come and show me what else there is to
do."

They worked together for an hour, by the end of which, all was restored
nearly to its former neatness. Mrs. Costello came out and found them
busy at the vine. Maurice was on a ladder nailing it up, while Lucia
handed him the nails and strips of cloth, as he wanted them. She felt a
lively pleasure in seeing them thus occupied. Maurice was too dear to
her, for her not to have seen how Lucia's recent and gradual
estrangement had troubled him; for his sake, therefore, as well as for
her own and her child's, she had grieved daily over what she dared not
interfere to prevent,--the breaking up of old habits, and the
intervention between these two of an influence she dreaded. The
experience of her own life had convinced her, rightly or wrongly, that
it was worse than useless for parents to try to control their children's
inclinations in the most important point where inclination ever ought to
be made the rule of conduct. But for years she had hoped that Lucia's
affection for Maurice would grow, unchecked and untroubled, till it
attained that perfection which she thought the beau ideal of married
love; and even now, she held tenaciously to such fragments of her old
hope as still remained. This morning, after a night of the most painful
anxiety and foreboding, her mind naturally caught at the idea that _all_
could not go wrong with her; that she must have exaggerated the change
in Lucia, and that, at least, some of the trouble she had anticipated
for her child was a mere chimera.

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