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A CANADIAN HEROINE.
A Novel.
BY
THE AUTHOR OF "LEAVES FROM THE BACKWOODS."
"Questa chiese Lucia in suo dimando,
E disse: Or ha bisogno il tuo fedele
Di te, e io a te lo raccomando."--_Inferno. Canto II._
"Qu'elles sont belles, nos campagnes;
En Canada qu'on vit content!
Salut ô sublimes montagnes,
Bords du superbe St. Laurent!
Habitant de cette contrée
Que nature veut embellir,
Tu peux marcher tête levée,
Ton pays doit t'enorgueillir."--_J. Bedard._
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
LONDON:
TINSLEY BROTHERS, 8, CATHERINE STREET. STRAND.
1873.
[_All rights Reserved._]
PRINTED BY TAYLOR AND CO.,
LITTLE QUEEN STREET, LINCOLN'S INN FIELDS.
A CANADIAN HEROINE.
CHAPTER I.
It was near sunset, and the season was early summer. Every tree was in
full leaf, but the foliage had still the exquisite freshness of its
first tints, undimmed by dust or scorching heat. The grass was, for the
present, as green as English grass, but the sky overhead was more
glorious than any that ever bent above an English landscape. So far away
it rose overhead, where colour faded into infinite space, that the eye
seemed to look up and up, towards the Gate of Heaven, and only through
mortal weakness to fail in reaching it. Low down around the horizon
there was no blue, but pure, pale green depths, where clouds floated,
magnificent in deep rosy and golden splendour. Under such skies the
roughest landscape, the wildest forest, softens into beauty; such light
and colour, like fairy robes, glorify the most commonplace; but here,
earth lent her own charms to be decked by heaven.
Through a quiet landscape went the river--the grand silent flood which
by-and-by, many miles further on its course, would make Niagara. Here it
flowed calmly, reflecting the sunset, a giant with its energies untaxed
and its passions unroused--a kindly St. Christopher, yet capable of
being transformed into a destroying Thor. Far away, seen over a low
projecting point of land, white sails gleamed now and then, as ships
moved upon the lake from whence the river came; and nearer, upon the
great stream itself, a few boats were idling. In the bend formed by the
point, and quite near the lake, lay a small town, its wooden wharves and
warehouses lining the shore for some distance. Lower down, the bank rose
high, dropping precipitously to the water's edge; and nearer still, the
precipice changed to a steep, but green and wooded bank, and here, on
the summit of the bank, stood Mrs. Costello's cottage.
It was a charming white nest, with a broad verandah all embowered in
green, so placed as to look out upon the river through a screen of
boughs and flowers. If you had seen Mrs. Costello and her daughter
sitting upon the verandah, as they were tolerably sure to be found every
day while summer lasted, you would have owned that it would be hard to
find a prettier picture set in a prettier frame.
This evening they were there alone. Mrs. Costello had her work-table
placed at the end nearest the river, and her rocking-chair beside it.
Some knitting was in her hands, but she could not knit, for her ball of
wool was being idly wound and unwound round her daughter's fingers.
Sitting on a footstool, leaning back against her mother's knee, was this
daughter--a child loved (it could almost be seen at a glance) with an
absorbing, passionate love. A girl of seventeen, just between child and
woman, who seemed to have been a baby but yesterday, and who still, in
the midst of her new womanly grace, kept her caressing baby ways.
Something unusual, not only in degree but in kind, belonged to her
brilliant beauty, and set it off. The marvellous blackness of hair and
eyes was so soft in its depth, the tint of her skin so transparent in
its duskiness, her slight figure so flexible, so exquisite in its
outlines, that it was impossible not to wonder what the type was which
produced so perfect an example. Spanish it was said to be, but the child
was Canadian by birth, and her mother English; it was clear that
whatever race had bestowed Lucia's dower of beauty, it had come to her
through her father.
Mother and daughter often sat as now, silent and idle both; Lucia
dreaming after her girlish fashion, and Mrs. Costello content to wait
and let her life be absorbed in her child's. But to-night Lucia was
dreaming of England, the far-away "home" which she had never seen, but
of which almost all her elder friends spoke, and where her mother's
childhood and girlhood had been passed. She still leaned her head back
lazily as she began to talk.
"Are English sunsets as lovely as ours, Mamma?"
Mrs. Costello smiled. "I can't tell," she said; "they are as lovely to
me,--but I only see them in memory."
"You have often talked about going home, when shall it be?"
"I have talked of _your_ going, not of mine--_that_ will never be."
"Mamma!" Lucia raised her head. She looked at her mother inquiringly,
but somehow she felt that Mrs. Costello could not talk to her just then.
A troubled expression crossed her own face for a moment, then she put
down the ball of wool and laid her arms caressingly round her mother's
waist.
But both again remained silent for many minutes, so silent that the
faint wash of the river against the bank sounded plainly, and a
woodpecker could be heard making his last tap-tap on a tree by the
garden-gate.
By-and-by Mrs. Costello spoke again, as if there had been no
interruption. "But about this picnic, Lucia; do you think it would be a
great sacrifice to give it up?"
"A great sacrifice? Why, mamma, you must think me a baby to ask such a
question. I stayed away from the best one last summer without breaking
my heart."
"Last summer I thought you too young for large parties, but this year I
have let you go--and, indeed, I do not forbid your going this time.
Understand that clearly, my child. I have only fancy, not reason, to set
against your wishes."
"Mother, you are not fanciful. Since you wish me to stay at home, I
wish it also. Forget the picnic altogether."
She sprang up, kissed her mother's forehead, and darted away to the
further end of the verandah, bursting out into a gay song as she leaned
over to gather a spray of pale prairie roses that climbed up the
trellis-work. The pretty scentless blossoms were but just caught, when a
rattling of wheels was heard on the stony lane which led from the
high-road to the cottage.
"Who can be coming now? Margery is out, mamma, and the gate is fastened;
I must go and open it."
She darted into the house on her errand--for the principal entrance was
in the gable end of the building--but before she had had time to cross
the parlour and hall to the outer door, the little garden-gate opened,
and a very pretty woman in a grey cloak and straw hat came through, and
up the verandah steps with the air of a person perfectly at home.
Mrs. Costello rose to meet her with an exclamation.
"Mrs. Bellairs! We never thought of it being you. Lucia is gone to open
the gate."
"I found the little one open; so I left Bella to take care of Bob, and
came round. In fact, I ought not to be here at all, but as I wanted to
persuade you about to-morrow, I ran away the moment dinner was over, and
must run back again instantly."
"Sit down, at any rate, while you _are_ here."
She sat down, and taking off her hat, threw it on the floor.
"How delicious this is! I believe you don't know what heat means. I have
been half dead all day, and not a moment's rest, I assure you, with the
people continually coming to ask some stupid question or to borrow
something. The house is half stripped now and I fully expect that before
to-morrow night it will be emptied of everything movable in it."
"You are surely getting up something more elaborate than usual; do you
expect to have so much pleasure?"
"Oh, I suppose the young people do. Of course, staid matrons like you
and me," with a gay laugh, "cannot be quite so sanguine; but, however,
they do expect great fun, and I came to _implore_ you to let Lucia
come. I assure you I won't answer for the consequences if she does not."
"Lucia shall go if she wishes it." Mrs. Costello spoke gravely, and
stopped abruptly. She resumed, "You know I never leave home; and it may
be excused to a mother who sees nothing of the world, to fear it a
little for her only child."
"_Such_ a child, too! She is growing perfectly lovely. But, then, dear
Mrs. Costello, the very idea of calling our tiny backwood's society,
'the world;' and as for Lucia, if you _will_ not come with her, I
promise, at any rate, to take the same care of her as I will of my Flo
when she is big enough to face our great world."
She spoke laughing, but with some earnestness under the sparkle of her
bright eyes; and immediately afterwards rose, saying, "I suppose Bella
cannot leave Bob, and Lucia will not leave Bella, so I must go to them;
and if Lucia pleases, she may come to-morrow?"
"Yes, yes; I am foolish. She shall come, I promise you for her. And,
indeed, I ought to thank you also."
"No, no; I can't expect to be thanked for committing a theft. Good-bye.
I shall send Bella to fetch her. Good-bye."
She took up her hat, gave her friend a kiss, and ran down the steps and
out again, through the wicket by which she had entered. A minute after
the sound of her little carriage rolling away was heard, and Lucia came
back flushed and puzzled.
"But, mamma, you have been overpersuaded. Indeed; I do not want to go."
"I think you do, darling; or will do by-and-by. I have quite changed my
mind, and promised Mrs. Bellairs to send you to her in the morning; so
now all you have to do is to see that your things are ready. Two
toilettes to prepare! What an event for such a country girl as you! Come
in and let us see."
"Mamma, you know my things are all ready. I don't want to go in. I don't
want to go."
"Lucia! Are _you_ changeable, also, then?"
"No, mamma. At least not without cause."
Mrs. Costello smiled, "What is the cause at present?"
Lucia moved impatiently. "Oh, it is so stupid!" she said.
"What is stupid? A picnic?"
"No, people," and she laughed half shyly, half saucily, and blushed
deeper still.
"What people?"
"Bella has been telling me--;"
"Telling you what, my child? That people are stupid?"
Lucia sat down again in her old place, and pulled her mother back into
hers. Then with her two elbows resting on Mrs. Costello's lap, and her
red cheek hidden by her hands, she answered, with a comical sort of
disdain and half-affected anger,
"Mamma, just think. At Mrs. Bellairs' to-day, at dinner, Mr. Percy was
asking questions about what was going to be done to-morrow, and he did
not seem to think, Bella said, that the picnic would be much fun, but he
was greatly amused by the idea of dancing in a half-finished house, and
wanted to know where they would find enough ladies for partners; so Mr.
Bellairs said there were plenty of partners in the neighbourhood, and
pretty ones, too; and Mr. Percy made some speech about being already
quite convinced of the beauty of the Cacouna ladies. You know the kind
of thing a man would say when Mrs. Bellairs and Bella were there. But
Mr. Bellairs told him he had not yet seen a fair specimen; but that
there was a little half Spanish girl here who would show him what beauty
meant. Mamma, was it not dreadfully stupid of him?" And Lucia, in spite
of her indignation, could not restrain a laugh as she looked, half shy,
half saucy, into her mother's face.
Mrs. Costello laughed too; but there was as deep a flush on her cheek as
on her daughter's, and her heart throbbed painfully.
"Well," she said, "but this _rara avis_ was not named?"
"Yes she was. Oh! I can't tell you all; but you know Maurice was there,
and Mr. Bellairs told Mr. Percy that he ought to be the best qualified
to describe her, because he saw her every day. Then Mr. Percy asked what
was her name, and Mr. Bellairs told him. But when Mr. Percy asked
Maurice something, he only said, 'Do you believe people _can_ be
described, Mr. Percy? I don't; and if I did, I should not make a
catalogue of a lady's qualities for the benefit of others.'"
"Well done, Lucia, most correctly reported. Who has been telling tales?"
An unsuspected listener stepped out with these words from the dark
parlour on to the verandah; but Lucia, springing up at the sound of his
voice, flew past him and disappeared.
He came forward, "Don't be angry, Mrs. Costello. I met Margery at the
gate, and she sent me in. I assure you I did not hear more than the last
sentence; yet, you see I met with a listener's fate."
"I _don't_ see it at all. On the contrary, you did hear good of
yourself."
"I am glad you think so. Lucia is to be with Mrs. Bellairs to-morrow?"
"Yes. She says at present that she will not, but we shall see."
"I left early, and met Mrs. Bellairs and Miss Latour on the way. They
told me they had been here."
Maurice leaned against a pillar of the verandah and was silent, his eyes
turned to the door through which Lucia had vanished.
The new guest was much too intimate for Mrs. Costello to dream of
"making conversation." She sat quite still looking out.
By this time sunset had entirely faded from the sky, and a few stars
were beginning to twinkle faintly; but the rising moon, herself
invisible, threw a lovely silver brightness over the river and made a
flitting sail glimmer out snowy white as it went silently with a zigzag
course up the stream. Between the river and the cottage every object
began to be visible with that cold distinctness of outline which belongs
to clear moonlight,--every rail of the garden fence, every plant that
grew beyond the shadow of the building. A tall acacia-tree which stood
on one side waved its graceful leaves in the faint breeze, and caught
the light on its long clusters of creamy blossom.
Everything was so peaceful that there seemed, even to herself, a strange
discord between the scene within and the heavy pain that sunk deep into
her heart this evening--a trembling sense of dread--a passionate yet
impotent desire to escape. She pressed her hand upon her heart. The
motion roused her from her reverie which indeed had lasted but a
minute--one of those long minutes when we in one glance seem to retrace
years of the past, and to make a fruitless effort to pierce the veil of
the future. She rose, and, bidding her companion "Come in," stepped into
the little parlour.
A shaded lamp had been brought in and placed on the table, but the flame
was turned down so as to throw only a glimmering light just around it.
Mrs. Costello turned it up brightly, and opening the door of the
adjoining room, called Lucia, who came, slow and reluctant, at the
summons. Maurice pushed forward a little chintz-covered chair into its
accustomed place by the table, and looked at the wilful girl as much as
to say, "Be reasonable and make friends," but she did not choose to see.
"I can't sit indoors," she said, "it is too hot;" so she went and sat
down on the doorstep.
Maurice gave a little impatient sigh, and dropped into a chair which
stood opposite to Mrs. Costello, but turned so that without positively
looking round, he could see the soft flow of Lucia's muslin dress, and
the outline of her head and shoulders.
He had brought, as usual, various odds and ends of news, scraps of
European politics or gossip, and morsels of home intelligence, such as
women who do not read newspapers like to be told by those who do, and he
began to talk about them, but with no interest in what he said;
completely preoccupied with that obstinate figure in the doorway.
By-and-by, however, the figure changed its position; the head was
gradually turned more towards the speakers, and Maurice's as gradually
was averted until the two attitudes were completely reversed; he and
Mrs. Costello appeared to be engrossed in the subject of a conversation
which had now grown animated, while Lucia, from her retreat, stole more
and more frequent glances at the visitor. At length she rose softly, and
stealing, with the shy step of a child who knows it has been naughty, to
her own chair, she slipped into it. A half smile came to Maurice's lips,
but he knew his old playfellow's moods too well to take the least notice
of her movement, and even when she asked him a question, he simply
answered it, and did not even look at her in doing so.
An hour passed. Lucia had entirely recovered from her little fit of
sulkiness, and, to the great content of Maurice, was, if possible, even
more sweet and winning than usual; but nothing had been said of the next
day's plans. When the young man rose to leave, however, Lucia followed
him out to the verandah to look at the moonlight.
"We shall have a fine day to-morrow" he said.
"Oh, Maurice," she answered, quickly, as if she had been waiting for the
opportunity of speaking, "I am sure mamma does not want me to go, and I
would so much rather stay at home. Will you go and tell Mrs. Bellairs in
the morning for me?"
"Impossible! Why Lucia, this is a mere fancy of yours."
"Indeed it is not. I am quite in earnest."
"But, my dear child, Mrs. Bellairs has your mother's promise, and I do
not see how you can break a positive engagement without better reason."
She stood silent, looking down.
"Are you thinking of that foolish conversation at dinner to-day? I
wonder Mrs. Bellairs should have repeated it."
"It was Bella Latour who told me."
"Ah," said Maurice, "I forgot her. Of course it was. Well, at any rate,
think no more of it."
"That's very easily said," she answered dolorously "but I do think it's
not right," she added with energy, the hot colour rushing into her
cheeks, "to speak about one so. It is quite impertinent."
Maurice laughed. "Upon my word I believe very few young ladies would
agree with you; however, I assure you it would be giving the enemy an
advantage to stay away to-morrow, and I suppose, if I constitute myself
your highness's body-guard, you will not be afraid of any more
impertinence of the same kind."
He said "Good-night," and ran down the steps. As he passed along the
path under the verandah where she stood, she took one of the half-faded
roses from her belt and flung it at him. He caught it and with mock
gallantry pressed it to his heart; but as he turned through the wicket
and along the footpath which led to his home close by, he continued
twirling the flower in his fingers. Once it dropped, and without
thinking he stooped, and picked it up. He carried it into the house with
him, and into his own room, where he laid it down upon his writing-table
and forgot it.
Meanwhile, Margery had fastened doors and windows at the cottage, and
soon all was silent and dark, except the glimmer of Mrs. Costello's lamp
which often burned far into the night. Lucia had been long asleep when
her mother stole into her room for that last look which it was her habit
to take before she lay down. It was a little white chamber which had
been fitted up twelve years before for a child's use; but the child had
grown almost into a woman, and there were traces of her tastes and
occupations all about. There was a little book-shelf, where Puss in
Boots, and Goldsmith's History of England, still kept their places,
though the Princess had stepped in between them; there was a drawing of
the cottage executed under Maurice's teaching; here was a little
work-basket, and there a half-written note. Enough moonlight stole in
through the window to show distinctly the lovely dark face resting on
the pillow, and surrounded by long hair, glossy, and black as jet. Mrs.
Costello stood silently by the bedside.
A kind of shudder passed over her. "She is lovely," she said to herself;
"but that terrible beauty! If she had had my pale skin and hair, I
should have feared less; but she has nothing of that beauty from me. Yet
perhaps it is the best; the whole mental nature may be mine, as the
whole physical is----" Her hand pressed strongly upon her heart. "I have
been at peace so long," she went on, "yet I always knew trouble must
come again, and through _her_; but if it were only for me, it would be
nothing. Now _she_ must suffer. I had thought she might escape. But it
is the old story, the sins of the fathers----Can no miseries of mine be
enough to free her?"
She turned away into her own room, and shut the door softly, so as not
to wake her child; yet firmly, as if she would shut out even that child
from all share in her solitary burden.