At the time when Bella informed Lucia of her engagement, her
newly-accepted lover was having a long conversation with her
brother-in-law and guardian. There was no reason why the marriage once
arranged should be delayed; on the contrary, everybody was happily
agreed in the opinion that it might take place almost immediately. The
conference of the two gentlemen, therefore, passed readily into the
region of business, and chiefly concerned dollars and cents.
Mr. Latour, the father of Mrs. Bellairs and Bella, had died rich; all
his property in hind, houses, and money was carefully divided between
the sisters; and as he had been dead less than two years, very slight
changes had taken place during Mr. Bellairs' guardianship. Bella spoke
reasonably enough when she said her fortune would be acceptable to
Doctor Morton. He made no secret of the fact that it would be very
acceptable, and Mr. Bellairs--though, for his own part, he would have
married his charming Elise with exactly the same eagerness if she had
been penniless--was too sensible to be at all displeased with his future
brother-in-law's clear and straightforward manner of treating so
important a subject. It is true that his brains and his diploma were
almost all the capital the young man had to bring on his side, but
these, had their acknowledged value, and, after all, Bella was very
nearly of age, and it would be rather a comfort to see her safely
disposed of, instead of having to give up her guardianship into her own
giddy keeping.
Mr. Bellairs' office was a small wooden-frame building containing two
rooms. In the outer one half-a-dozen budding lawyers, in various stages,
sat at their desks; the inner one, where the two gentlemen discussed
their arrangements, was small, and contained only a stove, a
writing-table, two chairs, and some cupboards. Mr. Bellairs sat at the
table with a pile of papers before him: in the second chair--an easy
one--Doctor Morton lounged, and amused himself while he talked, by
tracing the pattern of the empty stove with the end of a small cane. He
was a good-looking young man, with very black eyes, and a small black
beard; of middle height and strongly built, and noted in Cacouna as the
boldest rider, the best swimmer, and one of the best shots, in the
neighbourhood.
A little stir, and a loud rough voice speaking in the outer office, was
followed by the entrance of a clerk.
"Here is Clarkson, sir. Says he must see you."
A shaggy head appeared over the clerk's shoulder, and the same rough
voice called out, "Just a minute, Mr. Bellairs; it's only a small matter
of business."
Mr. Bellairs went out, drawing the door together after him, and after a
few minutes dismissed the man, and came back.
"That fellow may give you some trouble," he said as he sat down again.
"Me? How?" asked the Doctor, surprised.
"Some years ago, Mr. Latour bought a hundred acres of wild land on
Beaver Creek. He took no trouble about it, except what he was actually
obliged; never even saw it, I believe; and about a year before his
death, this Clarkson squatted on it, built a house, married, and took
his wife to live there. Mr. Latour heard of all this by chance, and went
to see if it were true. There, he found the fellow comfortably settled,
and expecting nothing less than to be turned out. The end of the matter,
for that time, was, that Clarkson promised to pay some few dollars rent,
and was left in possession. The rent, however, never was paid. Mr.
Latour died, and when his affairs came into my hands I tried again to
get it; threatened to turn Clarkson out, and pull down his house if he
did not pay, and certainly would have done it, but for Bella, to whom I
should tell you the land belongs. Mrs. Clarkson came into town, and went
to her with such a pitiful story that she persuaded me to wait. The
consequence is that nothing has been done yet, though I believe it is
altogether misplaced kindness to listen to their excuses."
"I have no doubt it is."
"Clarkson is a great scamp, but I hear his wife is a very decent woman,
and naturally Bella was humbugged."
"Naturally, yes. But I hope it is not too late to get rid of such
tenants, or make them pay?"
"I would rather you undertook the task than I, except, of course, in the
way of business. Professionally, a lawyer has no tenderness for people
who can't pay."
"And in what condition is the rest of the land?"
"Much as it always was. The Indians are the only people who profit by it
at present; they hunt over it, and dry the fish they catch in the creek,
along the bank."
"Yet, if it were cleared, it ought not to be a bad position. Where is it
on the creek?"
Mr. Bellairs reached a map, and the two became absorbed in discussing
the probable advantages of turning out Clarkson and the Indians, and
clearing the farm on Beaver Creek.
Mr. Bellairs left his office earlier than usual that day, and found his
wife sitting alone in her little morning room. He took up a magazine
which lay on the table, and seated himself comfortably in an easy-chair
opposite to her.
"Where's Bella?" he asked presently.
"Upstairs, I believe. She and I have nearly quarrelled to-day."
"What about?"
"About her marriage. I declare, William, I have no patience with her."
Mr. Bellairs laughed. "An old complaint, my dear; but why?"
"She is so matter-of-fact. I asked her, at last, what she was going to
marry for, and she told me coolly, for convenience."
Mrs. Bellairs' indignation made her husband laugh still more. "They are
well matched," he said; "Morton is as cool as she is. He might be
Bluebeard proposing for his thirteenth wife."
"Well, _you_ may like it, but I don't. If they care so little about each
other now, what will they do when they have been married as long as we
have?"
"My dear Elise, you and I were born too soon. _We_ never thought of
marrying for convenience; but as our ideas on the subject don't seem to
have changed much in ten years, perhaps theirs may not do so either. By
the way, where's Percy?"
"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.