"Away from all you love!" The words haunted Lucia after she lay down in
her little white bed that night. There, in the midst of every object
familiar to her through all her life, surrounded by the perfect
atmosphere of home, she repeated, with wondering trouble, the threat
that had come to her. When at last she slept, these words, and the pale
face of her mother bending over her as she closed her eyes, mixed
themselves with her dreams. At last, she fancied that a violent storm
had come on in the very noon of a brilliant summer day. She herself, her
mother, Percy and Maurice seemed to be standing on the river bank
watching how the sky darkened, and the water rose in great waves at
their feet. Suddenly a canoe appeared, and in it a hideous old squaw,
who approached the shore, and stretching out a long bony hand drew her
away from her mother's side, and in spite of her terror made her step
into the frail boat, which instantly flew down the stream into the
darkest and wildest of the storm. She stretched out her arms for
help--Percy stood still upon the bank, as if anxious but unable to give
it--Maurice waved his hand to her, and turned away. She seemed to know
that he was deserting her for ever, and in an agony of fear and sorrow
she gathered all her strength to call him back. The effort woke her. She
lay trembling, with tears of agitation pouring from her eyes, while the
storm which had mingled with her dream raged furiously round the
Cottage.
Morning came at last, dim and dreary. The wind subsided at dawn, but the
sky was full of torn and jagged clouds, carried hither and thither by
its varying currents. All over the ground lay broken flowers and sprays
torn from the trees, the vine had been loosened in several places from
its fastenings and hung disconsolately over the verandah--all looked
ravaged and desolate, as Lucia pressed her hot cheek against the
rain-covered window, and tried to shake off the misery--still new to
her--which belongs to the early morning after a restless, fevered night.
But as the sun rose bright and warm, her spirits naturally revived; she
dressed early, and went out into the garden, intent upon remedying as
far as possible the mischief that had been done, before her mother
should see it; and accustomed as she was to work among her much-beloved
plants, the task was soon making quick progress. But among her roses,
the most valued of all her flowers, a new discouragement awaited her.
One beautiful tree, the finest of all, which yesterday had been splendid
in the glory of its late blossoms, had been torn up by the wind, and
flung down battered and half covered with sand at a little distance from
the bed where it had grown. The sight of this misfortune seemed to Lucia
almost more than she could bear; she sat down upon a garden-seat close
by, and looked at her poor rose-tree as if its fate were to be a type of
her own. She recollected a thousand trifles connected with it; how she
had disputed with Mr. Percy about its beauty, arguing that it was less
perfect than some others, because he had said it was more so; she
remembered how from that very tree she had gathered a blossom for him
the first day he came to the Cottage. Then, in her fanciful mood, she
reproached herself for letting her unfortunate favourite speak to her
only of him, and forgetting that it was Maurice who had obtained it for
her, who had planted it, and would be sorry for its destruction. She
rose, and tried to lift the broken tree; but as she leaned over it,
Maurice himself passed through the wicket, and came towards her. She
turned to meet him as if it were quite natural that he should come just
then.
"Oh, Maurice, look! I am so sorry."
"Your pet rose-tree? But perhaps it will recover yet."
He raised it carefully, while she stood looking on.
"It is not much broken, after all. I will plant it again; and with
plenty of support and shade, I think it will do."
Lucia flew to bring her spade. She held the tree, while Maurice
carefully arranged its roots and piled the earth about them; the
scattered leaves were picked up from the bed, and a kind of tent made
with matting over the invalid; at last she found time to say,
"But how did you happen to come just at the right moment?"
"I saw you from my window. I noticed that you were very busy for awhile,
and when you stopped working and sat down in that disconsolate attitude,
I guessed some terrible misfortune must have happened. So I came."
Lucia looked at him gravely, a little troubled.
"I never saw anybody like you," she said; "you seem always to know when
one is in a dilemma."
Maurice laughed.
"If all dilemmas were like this, I might easily get up a character for
being a sort of Providence; but come and show me what else there is to
do."
They worked together for an hour, by the end of which, all was restored
nearly to its former neatness. Mrs. Costello came out and found them
busy at the vine. Maurice was on a ladder nailing it up, while Lucia
handed him the nails and strips of cloth, as he wanted them. She felt a
lively pleasure in seeing them thus occupied. Maurice was too dear to
her, for her not to have seen how Lucia's recent and gradual
estrangement had troubled him; for his sake, therefore, as well as for
her own and her child's, she had grieved daily over what she dared not
interfere to prevent,--the breaking up of old habits, and the
intervention between these two of an influence she dreaded. The
experience of her own life had convinced her, rightly or wrongly, that
it was worse than useless for parents to try to control their children's
inclinations in the most important point where inclination ever ought to
be made the rule of conduct. But for years she had hoped that Lucia's
affection for Maurice would grow, unchecked and untroubled, till it
attained that perfection which she thought the beau ideal of married
love; and even now, she held tenaciously to such fragments of her old
hope as still remained. This morning, after a night of the most painful
anxiety and foreboding, her mind naturally caught at the idea that _all_
could not go wrong with her; that she must have exaggerated the change
in Lucia, and that, at least, some of the trouble she had anticipated
for her child was a mere chimera.
She came out to them, therefore, pale and weary from her vigil, but
cheerful and composed.
"How is your father, Maurice?" she asked; "can you stay with us to
breakfast?"
"Thank you, no; my father is so much alone. He seemed better last night.
Your visit did him good."
"I am glad of that. Lucia will go over to-day and stay with him for a
while."
"Will she? He says she never comes to see him now."
"Indeed, I will," said Lucia, with a little remorse in her tone. "I will
go and read the newspaper straight through to him, from one end to the
other."
"Poor Lucia! What a sacrifice to friendship," answered Maurice laughing.
"But to reward you, Blackwood arrived last night, and you will find the
new chapter of your favourite story."
Soon after ten o'clock Lucia put on her hat, and, strong in her good
resolutions, went along the lane to Mr. Leigh's. She lifted the latch
rather timidly, and peeped in. From the tiny entrance she could see into
the large square sitting-room, so tidy and so bare, from which the last
trace of feminine occupation had passed away three years ago, when Alice
Leigh, her old playfellow, died. There, in his high-backed chair, sat
the solitary old man, prematurely old, worn out by labour and sorrow
before his time. He turned his head at the sound of her entrance, and
held out his hand, with a smile of welcome.
"My child, what a stranger you have grown!"
She came forward with a tender thrill of pity and affection.
"And you have been ill?" she said; "why did not you tell Maurice you
wanted me?"
"Never mind, now. There is your own chair; sit down and tell me all your
news."
She brought her chair to his side, and began to talk to him. How many
happy hours she had spent in this room! Long ago, when she could first
remember, when her mother and Mrs. Leigh had been dear friends; later,
when there were yet others left of the ever-diminishing circle; later
still, when Alice and Maurice were her daily companions; and even since,
when she herself seemed to be, in the quiet household, the only
representative of the daughters and sisters passed away. She felt that
she had been selfish lately, and began to reproach herself the more
strongly as she saw how affectionately she was still welcomed.
She told all the little scraps of news she could think of; she arranged
on the mantelpiece some flowers she had brought in; finally, she found
the new Blackwood, and entertained both her old friend and herself so
well with it that two hours passed almost unperceived. Mr. Leigh's old
servant, coming in with his early dinner, interrupted them in the middle
of an interesting article, and reminded her that it was high time to go
home.
"I will come again to-morrow," she said, as she put aside her book, and
taking up her hat she hurried away.
As she walked up the lane, she could not help feeling a certain anxiety
to know whether there had been any visitors at home during her absence.
Mr. Percy often came in the morning, and if he had been there--
She ran up the verandah steps and into the parlour. Mrs. Costello sat
there alone, and two letters lay on the table.
"Here is a note for you," she said, as Lucia came in. "Mr. Percy brought
it."
"He has been here, then?" and she took up the note, not much caring to
open it when she saw Bella's writing.
"Yes. He came very soon after you were gone. He said he was coming to
say good-bye, and Bella asked him to bring that."
"To say good-bye?"
Lucia felt the colour fade out of her cheeks. She held the note in a
tight grasp to keep her hand from trembling, and sat down.
"He and Mr. Bellairs are going up the Lakes. They will be back, I
imagine, in a week or two. Perhaps, Bella tells you more."
In fact, Mr. Percy had been annoyed at not finding Lucia, and slightly
discontented at being drawn into an excursion which would take him away
from Cacouna. Only a small time yet remained before he _must_ return to
England, and he had been sufficiently conscious that Mrs. Costello would
not regret his departure, to be very uncommunicative on the subject.
Bella, however, was much more explicit.
"My dear Lucia," she said, "shall you be much surprised to hear that
these good people have arranged for a certain wedding, in which both you
and I are interested, to take place on the first of next month; that is,
not quite three weeks from to-day? How I am to be ready I do not know;
but as you are to be bridesmaid, I implore you to come to me either this
evening or to-morrow, that we may arrange about the dresses and so on.
Is not it a mercy? William has taken into his head that he is obliged to
go up the Lakes to Sault Ste. Marie, in the interest of some client or
other, and has persuaded his cousin to go with him, so that Elise and I
will be left in peace for our last few weeks together. They are to be
back about the 26th, and I have done all I could to make Doctor Morton
go with them, but he says if he does, the house will not be ready, so, I
suppose, he must stay. They start by this evening's boat, and as the
dearly beloved cousin is sure to go to see you first, I shall ask him to
take my note. Entre nous, I don't believe he is particularly anxious to
go. And you? I expect every time I come near the Cottage, I shall hear
you singing your mother's favourite song:
'Alas! I scarce can go or creep,
Now Lubin is away.'
Lubin! What a name! Mind you come, whatever else you do. Think of the
importance of the subject. Dresses, my dear, wedding-dresses!
"Ever yours,
"BELLA."
Lucia read Bella's effusion hastily through, and gave it to her mother.
Mrs. Costello laughed as she finished it.
"When will you go on this important errand?" she asked.
"Oh! not to-day, mamma, I am tired, and they don't really want me. I
shall stay with you this afternoon."
"I have been writing to Mr. Strafford," Mrs. Costello said after a
pause. "Some time ago I asked him to come up and see us; he could not do
so then, but I hope now to be able to persuade him. I think, too, that
the squaw who was here yesterday may be one of his people. Formerly I
knew something of many of them; that might account for her coming. I
have told him of it, and will do nothing until I receive his answer."
Lucia was silent; she longed to say something, but the conviction that
her mother was quite decided in her reticence on the subject of the
mystery, which was clearly so painful a one, restrained her. They dined,
and spent the afternoon together without any further allusion to the
subject; and Lucia was thankful to perceive that her mother's
tranquillity seemed to have been far less disturbed by this second alarm
than it had been by the first.
In the evening, quite late, Maurice came in. He said his father was much
better. Lucia's long visit had cheered him and done him good, and he
hoped in a day or two to be able to get out a little. Lucia was very
quiet during Maurice's stay; it would not have been easy to say whether
she was happy or sorrowful. She sat in her low chair and thought of
yesterday, of the night and her dream, of old Mr. Leigh sitting alone in
his dreary house so many hours each day, of his pleasure at seeing her,
of Mr. Percy's absence; finally, of the comfort and pleasantness of
sitting there undisturbed and hearing the voices of her mother and
Maurice gradually subsiding into a drowsy hum. The next thing she knew
Maurice was saying softly, "She is asleep. Don't wake her, Mrs.
Costello. Good-night." And she woke just in time to catch the last
glimpse of his figure as he went out.
The next day's consultation with Bella about dresses was only the first
of many, in which the arrangements for the wedding were completely
settled. Lucia and Magdalen Scott were to be bridesmaids; Harry Scott
and Maurice, groomsmen; and the ceremony was to take place in the house,
according to a whim of the bride, who did not choose to exhibit her own
and her friends' pretty dresses in the church--"a great ugly barn."
Lucia had also a daily visit to Mr. Leigh to occupy her. He was
recovering from his slight attack of illness, and enjoyed her lively
talk and affectionate care. One day he even let her persuade him to
walk, with her assistance, as far as the Cottage; and when she had
established him in the most comfortable chair beside her mother, he was
so content with the change that Maurice, coming home from Cacouna, was
met by the unheard-of announcement, "Mr. Leigh is out."
He followed the truant, and found him in no hurry to return. The two
elder people, indeed, both enjoyed this visit, which seemed to carry
them back to a time brighter than the present. They talked of trifles,
but of trifles which were in a kind of harmony with the happier days of
both. Lucia, sitting at the door, where she could see the sunny
landscape and the river, listened idly to their talk, but mixed it with
her own girlish fancies; while near to her Maurice sat down, glad of the
homelike rest of the moment, glad of the friendly look of welcome with
which she met him; knowing distinctly that if at that moment he had
asked her for anything more than friendship, she would have been shocked
and distressed, but willing to enjoy to the utmost all the happiness
her present and grateful regard could give him. Not that he was content;
an unspeakable longing to get rid of all this veil of reserve, to make
her understand what she was so blind to, to carry her off from all the
frivolities which came between them, and make her love him as he thought
she might love, lay deep down in his heart and swelled up, at times
almost uncontrollably. But she never guessed it, and never should,
unless, perhaps, time should bring her a harder discipline than his.
Then, if ever she came to want love, to want happiness, it would be his
opportunity; at present, he could still wait.
This evening might well be one of enjoyment. It was the last that those
four were ever to spend together at the Cottage. Nearly a fortnight had
passed since Mr. Bellairs and his cousin had started for Sault Ste.
Marie, and they were expected back in a day or two. The preparations for
Bella's marriage were almost completed, and Lucia was looking forward
with a pleasant flutter of excitement to her own appearance as
bridesmaid. Mrs. Costello's letter to Mr. Strafford remained unanswered,
but from the circuitous route by which their communication now took
place that was not wonderful; rather, indeed, the fact of having heard
nothing from him seemed reassuring, and in the interval, no further
incident had occurred to disturb her tranquillity. Thus the hours that
Maurice and his father spent together at the Cottage were, to the whole
party, hours of a certain calm and peace, pleasant to recollect after
the calm had been broken.
The next day Lucia spent almost entirely at Mrs. Bellairs'. Bella drove
her home in the evening, and when she came in she found Maurice alone on
the verandah. It was quite dusk, very nearly dark--a soft, still, dewy
evening, and she could but just distinguish his figure as he moved, to
meet her.
"Is it you, Maurice?" she said. "Is mamma there?"
"Yes, and no," he answered; "Mrs. Costello is just gone in."
"How is Mr. Leigh? I have not seen him to-day."
"No; I have been at home most of the day."
"Is he worse then?" she said, alarmed.
"He is not quite so well, but nothing serious. Are you tired?"
"No, not at all. Something is the matter, Maurice. I can hear it in your
voice."
"Nothing is the matter, I assure you. Something unexpected has happened,
but only to my father and me, and I want to talk to you about it. That
is all."
"Something unexpected? What?"
"Come down to the river side; it is quiet there and cool."
They went down together; it was growing very dark, and the turf on the
bank was soft and uneven. Lucia put her hand through Maurice's arm with
her old childlike familiarity, and said,
"Why do you excite my curiosity if you don't mean to satisfy it, you
tiresome Maurice?"
"Are you in such a hurry to hear my news, then? I feel in no such haste
to tell it. Look, do you see those lights on the river?"
"Yes. How quickly they move! What are they?"
"What we very seldom see here. They are the lights Indians use in
spearing fish."
"Indians!"
Lucia's voice was faint, and she clung to Maurice's arm. Surprised to
feel her trembling, he said, "I intended a night or two ago to tell you
to look out for them. Surely, you are not afraid of an Indian?"
"I am a little," she answered, trying to overcome her terror. "But where
do these come from?"
"You know the saw-mill at the other end of the town, beyond Mr. Bayne's?
There are three or four Indians at work there, and they go out sometimes
at night to fish."
The two lights, which had been but just visible when they first came
out, flitting here and there through the darkness, had now approached
much nearer, so that the canoes could be plainly distinguished. They
were quite small, and each contained two men, one sitting down in the
stern, a dark undefined shadow, scarcely seen except for the occasional
flash of his paddle in the light; the other standing at the prow in the
full glare of the fire which burned there, and lit up his wild
half-naked figure and the long fish-spear in his hand. As the canoe
moved from place to place, they could see the spear dart swiftly into
the water, and the sparkle of wet scales as the fish was brought up and
thrown into the boat.
Lucia's terror had at first overpowered her curiosity, and as it
subsided, she was, for a minute or two, too much interested in the novel
sight to renew her questions. As for Maurice, he was, as he had said, in
no haste to speak.
It was pleasant to have her for a little while all to himself, pleasant
to feel her hand resting more closely on his arm as if he could protect
her, even from her own foolish fear, and all was the sweeter, because it
might be for the last time. At last, however, she said again,
"But tell me what you were going to. What has happened?"
"One thing that has happened," he replied, rousing himself, "is that I
have heard more family history than I knew before. Do you care to hear
that?"
"Yes; I should like to if you don't mind."
"Well, you know that my father and mother came out here from England
many years ago, directly after their marriage. This marriage, it
appears, was disapproved of by my mother's family--was a runaway match,
indeed, and never forgiven even to the time of her death."
"Oh, Maurice! and were her father and mother alive?"
"Her father was, and still is. She was an only daughter, with but one
brother; and my grandfather, who is a Norfolk gentleman of large
property, expected her, reasonably enough, to marry a man who was her
equal in fortune. However, she chose to marry my father, who was then a
soldier, a poor lieutenant, with little money, and equally little
prospect of rising. I don't know whether women are very wise or very
foolish, Lucia, but they seem to see things with different eyes to men.
My mother chose to marry, then, though my father was poor, and certain
to remain so; though she was a gay spoiled girl of just twenty-one, and
he a grave man not much under forty. He sold out, and they came here. I
don't believe she ever was unhappy, or repented her marriage, and my
father while she lived had all he cared for; since her death, indeed,
there has been sorrow after sorrow."
Maurice stopped a moment.
"But you know all that," he said hastily, and went on. "My mother wrote
several times to her father and to her brother, first after her arrival
in Canada, then after the birth of her eldest child, and last of all
just before she died; but no answer ever came. After her death my
father, as she wished, wrote again, but until this morning he had heard
nothing from my grandfather for all these six-and-twenty years."
"You have heard, then, at last?"
"At last. This morning a letter came. It is a pitiful one to read. My
grandfather is, as you may suppose, a very old man; he is ill and alone,
and begins to repent, I think, of his harshness to my mother."
"But why is he alone? You said he had a son."
"Yes, but he is dead. He died six months ago, and left but one child, a
daughter, who is married and has no children."
"No children? and your grandfather is very rich?"
"I believe so."
"But you are his heir, then? Is that it?"
"He says so, or rather, he says my mother's eldest son is his heir. He
knows nothing of me individually."
"And you are the only one left? Ah, Maurice, if Alice even had been
alive!"
Maurice sighed.
"If poor Herbert had been alive, how gladly I would have left the
heirship to him!"
"But why? I think that is foolish. It is a good thing to be rich. It
will be a good thing for you, because you are good."
Maurice laughed.
"Your flattery, Lucia, will not reconcile me to my fate. You have not
yet heard all."
"What else? Is Mr. Leigh pleased?"
"Not more than I am. My grandfather wants to see his heir."
"Do you mean that he wants you to go to England?"
"Yes. And my father consents."
"But not yet?"
"At once. To sail from New York on Saturday."
"It is Wednesday now."
"I start to-morrow night."
"When will you come back?"
"When, indeed? Lucia, do not you see that this is a heavy price to pay?"
"Ah! don't go. This grandfather has been cruel all these years; let him
wait now. Beside, what will Mr. Leigh do without you?"
"He insists upon my going. He believes it would have been my mother's
wish, and therefore he will rather stay here alone than refuse."
"Then you _must_ go. But could not you persuade him to come and stay
with us? Mamma would like it, I know."
"Impossible, dear child. Who knows how long I may be away, or what
changes may take place before I come back."
"Well, we shall see him every day, in any case. But what shall I do
without you? and mamma?"
"You remind me of the last thing I have to say. It seems to me, I cannot
tell you why, as if this change in my own life was to be followed by
other changes. I think Mrs. Costello has something of the same feeling,
and I want to say this to you, that if you should find it true, you may
remember in any disturbance of this quiet life of yours that I had some
vague anticipation of it, and not hesitate to let me be any help, any
use, to you that I can be. Do you understand? I shall be away, but I
shall not be changed in anything. You told me the other day I always
came to your help in your dilemmas. I want you to think of me always
so. Can you manage to keep such, a living recollection of the absent?"
Lucia's tears were falling fast by this time in the darkness, yet she
thought there was something cold and restrained in Maurice's words and
tone, and she could not guess how much the restraint cost him.
"As if I should forget you!" she said rather resentfully. "I could just
as soon forget my brother, if I had one."
The word did not suit Maurice. He sighed, with a kind of impatience.
"Shall we go in?" he said.
They turned towards the house, but when they reached it, instead of
following Lucia in, he said "Good-night."
She turned in surprise.
"But you are coming in?"
"Not to-night; my father will be waiting for me."
"Let me call mamma, then."
"I have said good-night to her. You will not forget? I do not mean
forget me, but, forget that wherever I am, or wherever you are, you have
the right to ask anything of me that a friend can do for you."
"But we shall see you to-morrow?"
"Certainly. Go in; the air is damp and cold."
He went away quickly, but Lucia lingered on the verandah until Mrs.
Costello came to look for her. Already she thought the house looked
desolate. What should they do without Maurice? Never in her life had she
been so sorrowful, yet she had not the slightest idea how far his pain
exceeded hers, or how he had longed for a word from her which would have
encouraged him, at this last moment, to say all that was in his heart.