Two or three weeks passed. The inhabitants of Cacouna had grown
accustomed to the sight of Mr. Percy's tall figure, as he lounged from
his cousin's house to his office, or rode and drove with Mrs. Bellairs.
From different causes, the project of spending the day at the farm, as
well as some other schemes of amusement, had been deferred, and, with
one or two exceptions, all was going on as usual. The most notable of
these exceptions was in the life at the cottage, formerly so calm, so
regular, so smooth in its current. Now a change had crept over both
mother and daughter, and the very atmosphere of the house seemed to have
changed with them.
In Lucia, even a casual visitor would have remarked the difference. Her
beauty seemed suddenly to have burst from bud into blossom; her
childishness of manner had almost left her; her voice, especially in
singing, had grown more full and musical.
In Mrs. Costello, the change was the reverse of all this. Mrs. Bellairs
and Maurice Leigh, the two people, who, except her daughter, loved her
best, grieved over her unrested, pallid face, and noticed that her soft
brown hair had more and more visible streaks of grey. They thought her
ill, and each had said so, but she answered so positively that nothing
was the matter, that they were unable to do more than seem to accept her
assurances. But to Lucia, when, with a tenderness which seemed to have
grown both deeper and more fitful, she would implore to be told the
cause of such evident suffering, Mrs. Costello gave a different answer.
"I have told our friends the truth," she said; "I am not ill in body,
but a little anxious and disturbed in mind. Have patience for a while,
my darling, the time for you to share all my thoughts is, I fear, not
far distant."
So Lucia waited, too full of life and happiness herself to be much
troubled even by the shadow resting on her mother, and growing daily
more absorbed in a strange new delight of her own--seeing all things
through a new medium, and filling her heart too full of the joy of the
present, to leave room in it for one grave fear of the future.
Wonderful alchemy of the imagination, which can draw from a nature
ignoble, and altogether earthly, nourishment for dreams so sweet and so
sunny! Lucia's fancy had made for her a picture, such as most girls make
for themselves once in their lives, and the portrait was as unfaithful
as the original himself could have desired. Mr. Percy had become almost
a daily visitor at the Cottage. Attracted by Lucia's beauty, he came, as
he would have said, had he spoken frankly, to amuse himself during a
dull visit, with no thought but that of entertaining himself and her for
the moment. But, in fact, the magnet had more power over him than he
knew; he came, because, without a much stronger effort of self-denial
than was possible to him, he could not stay away. And though he thought
himself free, Lucia had in her heart an unacknowledged sense of power
over him; the old ability to torment, which she had so often exercised
on Maurice in mere girlish playfulness. Once or twice she had purposely
exerted this power over her new acquaintance, but not with her old
carelessness; too deeply interested in the question of how far it
extended, she used it with trembling as a dangerous instrument which
might fail, and wound her in its recoil. But as days passed on, and each
one brought him to the Cottage, or found Lucia with Mrs. Bellairs, and
therefore in his society, it began to seem incredible that his coming
was an event of only a few weeks ago; the past seemed to have receded,
and this present, so bright and perfect, to be all her life. Yet, in
truth, she had no notion of anatomizing her thoughts or feelings. They
had come to be largely, almost wholly occupied by a new inmate, but she
was simply content that it should be so, without once considering the
subject.
One person, however, spent many bitter thoughts upon this recent change.
To Maurice Leigh every day had brought a more thorough knowledge of
Lucia's infatuation and of his own loss. He had loved her almost all his
life, and would love her faithfully now, and always; but he began to be
aware now, that he required more of her than the affection which he
could still claim; that he wanted her daily companionship; her sympathy
in all that interested him; her confidence with regard to all that
concerned herself. He wanted all this; but he could do without it: he
could love her and wait, if that were all. But what was hardest, nay,
almost unendurable, was the anticipation of her day of disenchantment,
when she must see the truth as he saw it now, and find herself thrown
aside to learn, in solitude and suffering, how blindly she had suffered
herself to be duped by a fair appearance. For, of course, Maurice was
unjust. Seeing Lucia daily as she grew up, he had no idea how much the
charm of her grace and beauty had influenced even him, and failed
utterly to estimate their effect upon others. He said to himself that
Mr. Percy was a mere selfish fop, who, tired of the amusements of Europe
and too effeminate for the hardier enjoyments of a new country, was
driven by mere emptiness of head to occupy himself with the pursuit of
the prettiest woman he met with.
Meanwhile Mr. Percy came and went, and found in his visits to the
Cottage an entirely new kind of distraction. It was strange to him to
find himself welcomed and valued, genuinely, if shyly, for his own sake.
He had known vulgar women, who had flattered him because he was the son
of an earl; and prudent ones who gave him but a carefully measured
civility, because he was a portionless younger son. Here he knew that
both facts were absolutely nothing; and egotist as he was, this
knowledge stirred most powerfully such depths as his nature possessed.
In Lucia's presence he became almost as unworldly as herself; he gave
himself up half willingly, half unconsciously to the enjoyment of
feelings which no woman less thoroughly simple and natural could have
awakened; but, it is true that when he left her he left also this
strange region of sensations--he returned precisely to his former self.
The only person, perhaps, who did him strict and complete justice was
Mrs. Costello. She, who had peculiar reasons for looking with
unspeakable terror upon the suitors whom her child's beauty was certain
to attract, had weighed each look, word, gesture--gleaned such knowledge
as she could of his life, past and present, and judged him at last with
an accuracy which her intense interest in the subject made almost
perfect. Over this result she both rejoiced and lamented; but for the
present the one idea most constantly and strongly present to her was
that Lucia must pass by-and-by, only too soon, out of the sweet hopes
and dreams of girlhood, into the deep shadow which continually rested
upon her own heart. She knew how youth, which has never suffered, rebels
with passionate struggles against its first sorrows. She lived over and
over again in imagination her child's predestined trial.
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."