Mrs. Costello and Lucia found their journey from Cacouna to New York a
very melancholy one. They had gone through so much already, that change
and travel had no power to stimulate their overstrained nerves to any
further excitement; the time of reaction had begun, and a sort of
languid indifference, which was in itself a misery, seemed to have taken
possession of them. Even Lucia's spirits, generally strong both for
enjoyment or for suffering, were completely subdued; she sat by the
window of the car looking out at the wintry landscape all day long, yet
saw nothing, or remembered nothing that she had seen. Once or twice she
thought, "Perhaps in a few days more, Maurice will be passing over this
very line; he will be disappointed when he reaches home and finds that
we are gone;" but all her meditations were dreamy and unreal--her mind
acted mechanically. A kind of moral catalepsy benumbed her. Afterwards
when she remembered this time, she wondered at herself; she could not
comprehend the absence of sensation with which she had left the dear
home and all the familiar objects of her whole life, the incapability of
feeling either keen sorrow at the parting, or hope in the unknown
future. The days they spent in hurrying hour by hour further away from
Canada, always remained in her recollection little more than a blank,
and she scarcely seemed to recover herself until Mr. Strafford touched
her gently on the shoulder, late in the evening and said,
"New York at last, Lucia."
She got up then, in a hurried, confused way, and looked at her mother
helplessly.
Mrs. Costello, though to some degree she had shared Lucia's stunned
feeling during their journey, had watched her child with considerable
anxiety, and was glad of any change in her manner. She hastened to leave
the train, thinking that the few hours' rest they would have before
going on board the steamer would be the best remedy for this strange
torpor. They found, however, when they reached the Hotel and went to
bed, that weary as they were, they could not sleep. The unaccustomed
noise of the city--the mere sensation of being in a strange place, kept
them both waking, and they were glad to get up early, and go down to the
vast empty drawing-room where Mr. Stafford could join them for the last
time, and talk of the subjects which were near the hearts of all three.
And yet, after all, they did not talk much. Those last hours which are
so precious, and in which we seem to have so much to say, are often
silent ones.
The great house, like a city in itself, with its wide passages and
halls, and groups of strangers passing constantly to and fro, had
something dismal and desert like about it. Even the drawing-room was so
large and so destitute of anything like a snug corner where people could
be comfortable, that there was little chance of forgetting that they
were mere wayfarers. When the gong had sounded, and everybody assembled
for breakfast, the vast dining-room, coldly magnificent in white and
gold, and all astir with white jacketed waiters, seemed stranger and
more unhomelike still. Everything was novel, but for once novelty only
wearied instead of charming.
By noon they were on board the steamer. Mr. Strafford went on board with
them and stayed till the last minute. But that soon came. The final
good-bye was said; the last link to Canada and Canadian life was broken.
They stood on deck and strained their eyes to watch the fast
disappearing figure till it was gone, and they felt themselves alone.
Then the vessel began to move out of the harbour, and night seemed to
come on all at once.
They went down together to their cabin, and seated themselves side by
side in a desolate companionship. After a minute Lucia put her arms
tightly round her mother, and laying her head upon her shoulder, cried,
not passionately, but with a complete abandonment of all self-restraint.
Mrs. Costello did not try to check those natural and restoring tears.
She soothed her child by fond motherly touches, kissed her cheek or
smoothed her hair, but said not a word until the whole dull weight that
had been pressing on her had melted away. There was something strangely
forlorn in their circumstances which both felt, and neither liked to
speak of to the other. Leaving behind all the friends, all the
associations of so many years, they were going alone--a feeble and
perhaps dying woman, and a young girl--into a strange world, where every
face would be new, and even their own language would grow unfamiliar to
their ears. Even the hope which had brightened this prospect to Lucia's
eyes, looked very dim, now that the time for proving it was at hand; and
of all others, the person who occupied her tenderest if not her most
frequent thoughts was the one who best deserved that she should think of
him--Maurice Leigh.
Two days of their voyage passed without events. They began to feel
accustomed to their ship-life, and to make some little acquaintance with
other passengers. In spite of the cold, Lucia spent a good many hours on
deck. She used to go with Mrs. Costello every morning for a few quick
turns up and down, and then, when her mother was tired, she would wrap
herself up in the warmest cloaks and shawls that she could find, and
take her seat in a quiet corner, where she could lose sight of all that
went on about her and, with her face turned towards Canada, see nothing
but the boundless sea and sky. On the third day she was sitting in this
manner. There were a good many persons on deck but she was left
tolerably undisturbed. Occasionally a lady would stop and speak to
her--the men, who were not altogether blind to her beauty, would have
liked perhaps to do the same, if her preoccupied air had not made a kind
of barrier about her, too great to be broken through without more
warrant than a two days' chance association; but she was thinking or
dreaming, and never troubled herself about them.
The day was very bright, and there was a ceaseless pleasure in watching
the ripples of the sea as they rose into the cold silvery sunlight and
then passed on into the shadow of the ship; or in tracing far away, the
broad even track marked by edges of tiny bubbles, where the vessel's
course had been. Gradually she became aware through her abstraction of a
greater stir and buzz of conversation on the deck behind her; she
turned, and seeing everybody looking in one direction, rose and looked
too. A lady standing beside her said,
"It is the Cunard steamer for New York. We think there are some friends
of ours on board, but I am afraid we shall not pass near enough to find
out."
"Oh, how I wish we could!" Lucia answered, now thoroughly roused, for
the idea that Maurice also might be on board suddenly flashed into her
mind.
She leaned forward over the railing of the deck, and caught sight of the
'India' coming quickly in the opposite direction, and could even
distinguish the black mass of her passengers assembled like those of the
'Atalanta' to watch the passing vessel. But that was all. Telescopes and
even opera-glasses were being handed from one to another, but she was
too shy to ask for the loan of one, though she longed for it, just for a
moment. Certainly it would have been useless. At that very time Maurice,
standing on the 'India's' deck, was straining his eyes to catch but one
glimpse of her, and all in vain. Fate had decided that they were to pass
each other unseen.
But this little incident made Lucia sadder and more dreamy--more unlike
herself--than before. The voyage was utterly monotonous. In spite of the
season, the weather was calm and generally fine; and they made good
progress. The days when an unbroken expanse of sea lay round them were
not many, and on the second Sunday afternoon land was already in sight.
That day was unusually mild. Mrs. Costello and Lucia came up together
about two o'clock, and, after walking up and down for some time, they
sat down to watch the distant misty line which they might have thought a
cloud on the horizon, but which was gradually growing nearer and more
distinct.
While they sat, a single bird came flying from the land. Its wings
gleamed like silver in the sunlight, and as it came, flying now higher,
now lower, but always towards the ship, they saw that it was no
sea-bird, but a white pigeon--pure white, without spot or tinge of
colour, like the glittering snow of Canada. It came quite near--it flew
slowly and gracefully round the ship--two or three times, it circled
round and round, and at last alighted on the rigging. There it rested,
till, as the sunlight quite faded away and the distant line of land
disappeared, it took flight again and vanished in the darkness.
Perhaps the strong elasticity of youth and hope in Lucia's nature had
only waited for some chance touch to set it free, and make it spring up
vigorously after its repression. At any rate she found a fanciful omen
in the visit of the snow-white bird; and began to believe that in the
new country and the new life, there might be as much that was good and
happy as in the old one. The last hours, full of excitement and
impatience as the voyage drew to a close, were not unpleasant ones. Very
early one morning a great commotion and a babel of unusual sounds on
deck awoke the travellers, and the stewardess going from room to room
brought the welcome news,
"We are at Havre."
Lucia was up in a moment. The stillness of the vessel, after its
perpetual motion, gave her an odd sensation, not unlike what she had
felt when it first began to move; but she was quickly dressed and on
deck. There were a good many people there, and the water all round was
alive with boats and shipping of every description, but Lucia's eyes
naturally turned from the more familiar objects to the unfamiliar and
welcome sight of land.
A strange land, truly! The solid quays, the masses of building, older
than anything (except forest-trees) which she had ever seen, the quaint
dresses of the peasants already moving about in the early morning, all
struck her with pleased and vivid interest. For the wider features of
the scene she had at first no thought. Nature is everywhere the same,
through all her changes. To those who love her she is never wholly
unrecognizable, and when we meet her in company with new phases of human
life, we are apt to treat her as the older friend, and let her wait
until we have greeted the stranger. At least, Lucia did so. She had
indeed only time for a hurried survey, for their packing had to be
completed by her hands; and she knew that the arrival of the ship would
soon be known, and that if Mr. Wynter had kept his promise of meeting
them, he might appear at any moment. She went down, therefore, and found
Mrs. Costello dressing with hurried and trembling fingers, too much
agitated by the prospect of meeting her cousin, after so long and
strange a separation, to be capable of attending to anything.
All was done, however, before they were interrupted. They wrapped
themselves up warmly, for the morning was intensely cold through all its
brightness, and went up on deck together. Lucia found a seat in a
sheltered place for Mrs. Costello, and stood near her watching the
constant stream of coming and going between the ship and the shore. They
had nothing to do for the present but wait, and when they had satisfied
themselves that, as yet, there was no sign of Mr. Wynter's arrival,
they had plenty of time to grow better acquainted with the view around
them.
The long low point of land beside which they lay; the town in front,
with a flood of cold sunlight resting on its low round tower, and the
white sugar-loaf shaped monument, which was once the sailor's
landmark--the lofty chapel piously dedicated to Notre Dame de Bons
Secours now superseding it--the broad mouth of the Seine and the Norman
shore, bending away to the right--all these photographed themselves on
Lucia's memory as the first-seen features of that new world where her
life was henceforth to be passed.
At last, when nearly all their fellow-passengers had bidden them
good-bye and left the ship, they saw a gentleman coming on board whom
they both felt by some instinct to be Mr. Wynter. He was a portly,
white-bearded man, as strange to Mrs. Costello as to Lucia, for the last
twenty years had totally changed him from the aspect she remembered and
had described to her daughter. Perhaps his nature as well as his looks
had grown more genial; at any rate, he had a warm and affectionate
greeting for the strangers, and if he had any painful or embarrassing
recollection such as agitated his cousin, he knew how perfectly to
conceal them. He had arrived the day before, but on arriving had heard
that the 'Atalanta' was not expected for twenty-four hours, so that the
news of her being in port came to him quite unexpectedly. He explained
all this as they stood on deck, and then hurried to see their luggage
brought up, and to transfer them to the carriage he had brought from his
hotel.
Lucia felt herself happily released from her cares. She had no
inclination to like, or depend upon, her future guardian; but without
thinking about it, she allowed him to take the management of their
affairs, and to fall into the same place as Mr. Strafford had occupied
during their American journey.
Only there was a difference; she was awake now, and hopeful, naturally
pleased with all that was new and curious, and only kept from thorough
light-heartedness by her mother's feeble and fatigued condition.