The Honourable Edward Percy was the younger son of the Earl of
Lastingham, and might therefore be readily excused if he considered
himself a person of some importance in a country where a baronetcy is
the highest hereditary dignity, and where many of the existing
"honourables" began life as country storekeepers or schoolmasters. It is
true that in his own proper orbit, this luminary appeared but a star of
small magnitude, his handsome person and agreeable qualities making
slight compensation for a want of fortune which he had always considered
a special hardship in his own case; regarding himself as admirably
fitted by nature for spending money, and knowing by experience that his
abilities were totally inadequate to saving it. His family was not rich;
so far from it, indeed, that the great object of the Earl had been to
marry his daughters like Harpagon's "sans dot," a task which was not yet
satisfactorily accomplished; and all he had been able to do for his
younger son, had been to use the very small political influence he
possessed, to start him in life as an _attaché_.
So the young man had seen various Courts, and improved his French and
German; and at nearly thirty years of age he had begun to think that it
was time to take another step in life.
This idea was strengthened by a short conversation with his father. He
had paid a visit to Lastingham with the double object of attending the
marriage of one of his sisters, and of trying to persuade the Earl to
pay some inconvenient debts. But the moment he mentioned, with due
caution, this second reason for his arrival, he found it a hopeless
cause. He represented that his income was small, and his prospects of
advancement extremely slender.
"Marry," said the Earl.
"Thank you. I would rather not. I want to get rid of my incumbrances,
not to increase them."
"Marry," repeated the Earl.
"But whom?" asked his son, staggered by this oracular response.
"Miss Drummond."
"She's fifty, at least."
"And has a hundred thousand pounds."
"She would not have me."
"You are growing modest."
"Not in that respect. She has refused half-a-dozen offers every season
for the last twenty years."
"Miss Pelham?"
"What would be the use of that?"
"Family interest."
"Too many sons in the way."
"Lady Adeliza Weymouth?"
Percy made a slight grimace.
"She is a year older than I am, and has a red nose; otherwise----"
"You had better think of it, at any rate," said the Earl, "and try if
she will have you. Depend upon it, a sensible marriage is the best thing
for you."
On which advice the son had dutifully acted. Fortune favoured him so far
as to give him opportunities of cultivating the good graces of Lady
Adeliza, and matters appeared to be going on prosperously. It seemed,
however, that either the gentleman found wooing in earnest to be a more
fatiguing business than he had anticipated, or he thought that a short
absence might increase the chances in his favour, for on the slightest
possible pretence of being sent out by Government he started off one day
for Canada.
Now, when Lord Lastingham had spoken so wisely about a sensible
marriage, he had been drawing lessons from his own experience. The late
Countess had been a very charming woman, of good family, but, like her
daughters, "sans dot;" and the infatuation which caused so imprudent a
connection not having lasted beyond the first year of matrimony, the
Earl had had plenty of time to repent and to calculate, over and over
again, how different the fortunes of his house might have been, had he
acted, himself, upon the principles he recommended to his son. It was
with some displeasure that he heard Edward's intention of giving up, for
a while, his pursuit of a desirable bride, and this displeasure was not
lessened by hearing that the truant intended prolonging his expedition,
for the purpose of visiting his mother's nephew, William Bellairs.
The journey, however, was made without any opposition on the Earl's
part. Mr. Percy spent a few weeks in Quebec, then the seat of
Government, and travelling slowly westward arrived finally at his
cousin's house at Cacouna. Mr. Bellairs was a barrister in good
practice; his pretty wife, a Frenchwoman by descent, had brought him a
fortune of considerable amount for the colonies, and knew how to make
his house sufficiently attractive. Both received their English relative
with hearty hospitality, and thus it happened that the even current of
Cacouna society was disturbed by the appearance of a visitor important
enough to be a centre of attraction.
The morning after the picnic Mr. Bellairs proposed to his guest that
they should drive along the river-bank to some rapids a few miles
distant, which formed one of the objects to which visitors to Cacouna
were in the habit of making pilgrimages. They went accordingly, in a
light waggon, and having duly admired the rapids, and the surrounding
scenery, started for home. Their way led past the Leighs' house and the
end of the lane leading to Mrs. Costello's. Mr. Bellairs pointed them
both out to his companion.
"Do you see that cottage close to the river? That is the nest of the
prettiest bird in Cacouna; and in this long white house to the right
lives my most hopeful pupil and my wife's right hand, Maurice Leigh."
"Miss Costello told me they were near neighbours," said Mr. Percy. "Has
she no father or brother, that she seems to be so much the property of
this pupil of yours?"
"No, indeed, poor girl! Her father died, I believe, when she was an
infant. Mrs. Costello came here twelve years ago, a widow, with this one
child."
"Is young Leigh any relation?"
Mr. Bellairs laughed. "Not at present certainly, though I have thought
it would come to that by-and-by. It is only a case of devoted
friendship. Alice Leigh, Maurice's sister, and Lucia used to be always
together; but poor Alice died, and I suppose Maurice felt bound to make
up to Lucia for the loss."
"Who or what are the Leighs then? It is a queer-looking place."
"Mr. Leigh is an Englishman; he came out here many years ago with a
young wife; she is dead and so are all her children except Maurice.
Father and son live there together alone."
"I don't of course pretend to know how you manage such things in Canada,
but it appears to me that a beautiful girl, like Miss Costello, might
expect a better match, at least if one is to judge of the Leighs by
their house."
"I am not sure that we should call Maurice a bad match for any girl.
With a fair amount of brains, and a great capacity for work, he would be
sure to get on in a country like ours, even if he were less thoroughly a
good fellow. He has but two faults; he is too scrupulous about trifles,
and a little too Quixotic in his ideas about women. However, my wife
will never let me say that."
The subject did not interest Mr. Percy; he began to ask questions about
something else, and they soon after reached home. Later in the day Mrs.
Bellairs met him coming in extremely bored from her husband's office.
"I am going to pay some visits," she said, "are you disposed to go with
me?"
"Most thankfully," he answered. "I have been listening to half-a-dozen
cases of trespass, not a single word of which I could understand. It
will be doing me the greatest kindness to take me into civilized
society."
"I thought," she said laughing, "that you came to the backwoods to
escape civilized society."
"If I did," he replied, handing her into the pony-carriage, "it is quite
clear that I made a happy mistake."
"I am going first," she said, as soon as Bob was fairly in motion, "to
the Parsonage. Mr. and Mrs. Bayne were to have been with us yesterday,
but one of the children was ill, and I must inquire after it."
Mr. Percy's politeness just enabled him to suppress a groan. He had seen
Mrs. Bayne once, and not been delighted,--and a sick child! However,
duty before all. They stopped at the gate of the Parsonage. It was a
tolerably large house, standing on a sloping lawn, overlooking the river
on one side and the little town on the other; but the lawn was entered
only by a wicket, so that Bob had to be fastened to the railing, while
the visitors walked up to the house.
The moment they were seen approaching three or four children ran out of
the hall, where they were playing, and fell upon Mrs. Bellairs.
"Don't eat me," she cried, kissing them all in turn. "Which is the
invalid? Where is mamma?"
"It was Nina," shouted a chorus; "she fell into the river. Mamma's in
the house."
By this time they had reached the door, and Mrs. Bayne appeared, having
been attracted by their voices. She was a little woman, thin and worn,
so worn indeed, by many children and many cares, that she looked fifty
instead of thirty-five. She had on a faded dress, and her collar and
cuffs had been soiled and crumpled by the attacks of her younger boys
and girls, especially the fat baby she held in her arms; but she had
long ago ceased to be embarrassed by the shabbiness of her toilette, or
the inevitable disorder of her sitting-room. She found seats for her
guests, and to do so pushed into the background the baby's cradle and an
old easy-chair, in which the luckless Nina was sitting bundled up in
shawls.
Mrs. Bellairs took the baby, which instantly became absorbed in trying
to pull out the long feather of her hat, drew her chair close to the
little invalid, and began to inquire into the accident. Mr. Percy,
determined to make the best of his circumstances, endeavoured to make
friends with the heir of the house, a sturdy boy of nine or ten, but as
the young gentleman declined to do anything, except put his finger in
his mouth and stare, he found himself without other occupation than that
of listening to the conversation of the two ladies.
"It was the night before last," Mrs. Bayne was saying; "they were
playing on the bank, and Miss Nina chose to climb into a tree that
overhangs the river. Of course when she got up, the most natural thing
in the world was that she should slip down again, but unluckily she did
not fall on the grass, but into the water."
Mrs. Bellairs shuddered. "What an awful risk!"
"My dear, they are always running risks. I am sure among the seven there
is always one in danger."
"Well?"
"Well, Charlie ran to the study to his papa, and when Mr. Bayne went
out, there was Nina, who had been partly stunned by her fall, beginning
to float away with the current. Fortunately she had fallen in so near
the edge that the water was very shallow, and if she had been in
possession of her senses, she might have dragged herself out I dare say;
but, you know, the current is very strong, and her papa had to get into
the river a little lower down and catch her as she was passing."
"And she was insensible?"
"Not quite when they brought her in, but then unluckily her wetting
brought on ague again, and she was shivering all night."
"Poor Nina!" and Mrs. Bellairs turned to the miserable pale child, who
looked as if another shivering fit were coming on. "You must make haste
and get better, and come and stay with Flo for a while. We never have
ague."
"You are fortunate," sighed Mrs. Bayne. "I wish that wretched swamp
_could_ be done something to."
"So do I, with all my heart. I must tease William into giving the people
no rest until they do it."
"You will be doing us and our poor neighbours at the shanties no small
service. Ague is dreadfully bad there just now."
A frantic pull at Mrs. Bellairs' hat from the baby interrupted the
conversation, and the visitors rose to go.
When they were once more on the road Mrs. Bellairs turned laughingly to
her companion, "Tell me," she said, "don't you agree with me that a
visit to the Parsonage furnishes a tolerably strong argument in favour
of a clergy such as the Roman Catholic?"
"That is, an unmarried one? Are many of your clergymen's wives like Mrs.
Bayne?"
"If you mean are they worn out, overworked women? Yes, I believe so. How
can they help it indeed, when one hundred a year is a very ordinary
amount for a clergyman's income?"
Mr. Percy shrugged his shoulders. "I agree with you entirely. No man
ought to marry under those circumstances. But I wish you would enlighten
me on one point,--what are shanties?"
"Log-houses of the roughest possible kind, such as are built in the
woods for the gangs of lumberers; that is, you know, the men who cut
down the trees and prepare them for shipping."
"But Mrs. Bayne said something about shanties near here."
"Yes. Beyond their house, there lies, along the river, a swamp of no
great extent, which ought to have been drained long ago. Beyond that, on
the edge of the bush, is a large saw-mill, and the families of the men
employed at this mill live in shanties close by. Every spring and autumn
the sickness among them is terrible, and sometimes there are bad cases
all through the summer. But you may imagine what it is among those
people in their wretched damp, unventilated homes, when even the Baynes
suffer as poor little Nina is doing now, and did most of the spring."
"Delightful country!" said Mr. Percy, "and people positively like to
live here."
"Yes!" replied Mrs. Bellairs, with spirit, "and with good cause. As for
what I have been telling you, has not England been quite as bad? I have
heard that in Lincolnshire, and the adjoining counties, not a lifetime
ago, ague was as prevalent as in our worst districts. The same means
which destroyed it there, will do so here; the work is half accomplished
already, for this very road on which we are driving was, twenty years
ago, little better than a bog along which it was not safe for a horse to
pass."
"Wonderful energy your people must have, certainly. Where are we going
next?"
Mrs. Bellairs was provoked. She was an ardent lover of her country; and
to talk of its advantages and disadvantages with an interested companion
was to her a keen pleasure; the intense indifference of Mr. Percy's
reply, therefore, made her regard him for a moment with anything but
goodwill. She gave Bob a sharp "flick" with her whip, and paused a
minute before answering; when she did speak, it was with a little
malice.
"I suppose you have not yet had time to call on Maurice Leigh? I can
take you there now if you like. I often go to see old Mr. Leigh."
"Thank you. I saw young Leigh just now at William's office."
"I am going to the Cottage then, that is, Mrs. Costello's."
They were almost at the turning of the lane as she spoke, and directly
after came in sight of the pretty low house, standing in a perfect nest
of green. They stopped at the gate; and Margery, a decent middle-aged
woman, immediately came out to open it. She took hold of the pony like
an old acquaintance, and fastened him to a post in such a way that he
could amuse himself by nibbling the grass which grew along the
little-frequented path; then smoothing down her white apron, ushered
the visitors into the parlour. The room was very dark, the Venetian
shutters being closed and blinds drawn down to keep out the glare and
heat of the day, but the flicker of a white dress on the verandah showed
where the two ladies were to be found. Mrs. Bellairs stepped out, and
was greeted by a cry of delight from Lucia.
"Oh, you are good! Is Bella here?"
"Bella is gone to the Scotts', but Mr. Percy is with me."
Lucia grew demure instantly, as the second guest came forward. "Mamma is
there," she said, and made room for them to pass along the verandah.
Mrs. Bellairs presented her companion to her friend, and more chairs
were brought out, that the new-comers might enjoy the cool breeze and
shade. Mr. Percy might have preferred a seat near Lucia; fortune,
however, placed him beside her mother, and, like a wise man, he applied
himself to make the best of his position. How little trouble this cost
him he did not discover until afterwards; but, in fact, he had rarely
met with a woman who, by her own personal qualities, was so well fitted
to inspire feelings of both friendship and respect as this quiet
undemonstrative Mrs. Costello.
Lucia and Mrs. Bellairs meantime had discussed yesterday and its doings,
and passed to other plans of amusement--rides, drives, and fishing
parties. Time passed, as pleasant times often do, without anything
particular being said or done, to mark its flight, and the call had
lasted nearly an hour before it came to a close.
When it did, permission had been wrung from Mrs. Costello for Lucia to
spend a long day with Mrs. Bellairs, at a farm in the country, which
belonged, jointly, to her and her sister. The whole family were to drive
out from Cacouna in the morning, calling for Lucia, and were to bring
her back in the evening.
"Let us go this way," said Mrs. Bellairs, turning to the steps which led
down into the garden. Lucia followed her. "You have not seen my new
roses," she said. "Do come and look at them."
"Bella told me you had some fine ones," answered Mrs. Bellairs, "but I
have not patience to look at my neighbours' flowers this year, mine have
been such a failure."
"These certainly are not a failure," said Mr. Percy, as they reached a
bed of beautiful roses in full bloom. "Have you any flower-shows in
Canada? You ought to exhibit, Miss Costello."
Lucia laughed. "What chance should I have? They say an amateur never can
compete with a professed gardener, and ours is all amateur work."
"Is it possible? Do you mean to say that you do actually cultivate your
flowers with your own hands?"
"Certainly, with a little help from my friends." She was about to say
"from Maurice," but changed the phrase. "If you saw me at work here in
the mornings, you would at least give me credit for trying to cultivate
them."
"Should I? You tempt me to take a peep into your Eden some morning when
you are gardening."
"Pray don't," she answered, laughing. "The effects would be too
dreadful."
"What would they be?"
"The moment you caught sight of my working costume you would be seized
with such a horror of Backwoods manners and customs that you would fly,
not only from Cacouna, but from Canada, at the expense of I do not know
what business of State."
"I wonder why you, and so many of your neighbours, seem to think of an
Englishman as if he were a fine lady. That has not generally been the
character of the race."
Lucia felt inclined to say, "We do not think so of all Englishmen;" but
she held her tongue. Either intentionally, or by accident, Mr. Percy had
stood, during this short dialogue, in such a manner as to prevent her
from following Mrs. Bellairs when she turned back from the rose-bed;
and, in spite of her sauciness, she was too shy to make any effort to
pass. He moved a little now, and she had half escaped, when he said, "I
have not seen a really beautiful rose in Canada till now; may I have
one?"
She was obliged to go back and gather one of her pet flowers for him;
then choosing another for Mrs. Bellairs, she carried it to her friend,
who, by this time had reached the pony-carriage, and was just taking her
seat.
Lucia gave her the rose, and then remained standing by the little gate
until Bob's head was turned towards home, when his mistress suddenly
checked him.
"Oh! Lucia," she called out, "I had nearly forgotten; will you give
Maurice a message for me?"
"Yes, if I see him," and for the first time in her life, Lucia blushed
at Maurice's name. But then Mr. Percy was looking at her.
"'If you see him,'" laughed Mrs. Bellairs "tell him, please, that I
want him to pay me a little visit to-morrow morning before he goes to
the office. Say that it is very important and will only detain him a few
minutes."
"Very well."
"Mind you don't forget. Good-bye."
"'Maurice,' 'Maurice,'" said Lucia, pettishly to herself. "It seems as
if there was no one in the world but Maurice."
There was an odd coincidence at that moment between Lucia's thoughts and
Mr. Percy's; neither, however, said anything about them to their
companions.
Mrs. Costello was quietly knitting, when her daughter came slowly back,
up the steps of the verandah, but Lucia was too restless and
dissatisfied to sit down. She wanted something, and had not the least
idea what. At last, she began to think that staying at home all day had
made her feel so cross and uncomfortable.
"Mamma, do come for a walk," she said, putting her arm round her mother.
"Come, I am tired of the house."
"You are tired, darling, I believe. Remember how late you were last
night. But it is tea-time now."
"Oh, what a nuisance! I can go out afterwards, though."
"Yes, I dare say Maurice will walk with you."
"Mamma, I think I shall go to bed."
"In the meantime sit down here and talk to me."
She dropped down on the floor, and laid her head on her mother's lap.
"Talk to me, mamma. Talk about England."
An old, old theme. Mother and daughter had talked about England, the
far-away Mother Land, many many hours full of pleasure to both; to one
the subject had all the enchantment of a fairy tale, to the other of the
tenderest and sweetest recollections. Lucia had heard, over and over
again, each detail of the landscape, each incident in the history, of
her mother's birthplace; she knew the gentle invalid mistress and the
kind stern master, her grandfather and grandmother; she had loved to
gather into her garden the flowers which had grown about the grey walls
of the old house by the Dee; the one wish she had cherished from a child
was to see with living eyes all that was so familiar to her fancy. But
to-day, though she said, "Talk about England," it was not of all this
she wished to hear; and an instinctive feeling that it was not, kept
Mrs. Costello from speaking. She laid her hand gently upon her child's
head and remained silent. Lucia was silent, also. She wanted her mother
to talk, yet hesitated to ask her the questions she wanted answered. At
last she said abruptly,
"Mamma, did you _ever_ gossip?"
Mrs. Costello laughed.
"Do you think I never do now, then? I am afraid I cannot say as much for
myself."
"I never hear you. But when you were a girl, you must have heard things
about people."
"No doubt I did. And I suppose that, as I lived in almost as quiet a
neighbourhood as this, I must have been curious and interested about a
new-comer, much as you are."
Lucia turned her head a little, and smiled to herself.
"And then?" she said.
"Then most likely I asked questions, and found out all I could about the
new-comer, which, I suppose, you have been doing about Mr. Percy. Bella
Latour ought to be a good authority."
"I have not asked any questions. I thought perhaps you might know
something about him, or at least about his family."
"About him I certainly know nothing. It is twenty years since I left
England, and he would then be only a child. His father I have seen two
or three times. Mr. Percy resembles him extremely."
"Was he a handsome man, then?"
"Very handsome. And Lady Lastingham was said to be a most beautiful
woman."
"You never saw her?"
"No, she died young. Lord Lastingham married her, as people said, for
love; that is to say, her great beauty tempted him. They were very poor,
and he was not of a character to bear poverty. She was good and amiable,
but he wearied of her, and scarcely pretended to feel her death as a
loss."
"Oh! mamma, how could that be possible? if he married her for love?"
"For what he called love, at least. There are men, my child, and perhaps
women also, whose only kind of love is a fancy, like a child's for a
toy. They see something which attracts them; they try their utmost to
obtain it. If they fail, they soon forget their disappointment; if they
succeed, they are delighted for the moment, until, the novelty having
worn off, they discover that they have paid too dearly for their
gratification, and throw aside their new possession in disgust."
Mrs. Costello spoke earnestly, and with a kind of suppressed passion. It
seemed as if her words had an application beyond Lucia's knowledge; yet
they awed her strangely. Could they be true? Who then could be trusted?
for according to her mother's story, Lord Lastingham had not merely
deceived his wife, he had deceived himself also, with this counterfeit
love. She fell into a reverie, which lasted till the noise of cups and
saucers, as Margery brought in tea, put it to flight.