Bella's wedding-day rose as fair and bright as a day could be. The
waning summer seemed to have returned to the freshness of early June,
and to have determined that the bride, whatever else might be wanting,
should have all the blessing sunshine could give her. Lucia, however,
after that first eager look out at the weather which we naturally give
on the morning of a fête-day, began to be conscious of a mood far too
depressed and uneasy to be in harmony with either the weather or the
occasion. Partly perhaps it was that her eyes had turned from habit to
Maurice's window, which when he was at home was always open early, but
whose closed up, solitary look now, reminded her of his absence; partly
that the words her mother had spoken the previous evening lingered in
her mind, and not only brought back more forcibly than ever all her
puzzled and anxious thought about the past and future, but seemed to
throw a dark but impalpable cloud over the happiness of the present.
But there was too much business to be done for her to spend time in
dreaming, and by the time she was ready for breakfast, the inclination
to dream had almost past away. After breakfast, and after the various
daily affairs which in the small household fell to her share to attend
to, there were flowers to be gathered, and a short visit to Mr. Leigh to
be paid; and by the time all this was done, it was time to dress.
If this dressing was a longer process than usual, and if Lucia was a
little fanciful and hard to please over it, no one need be surprised.
Everybody knows that at a wedding, the bridesmaids rank next in
importance to the bride, and far before the bridegroom, who, for that
day at least, sinks into the most miserable insignificance. But it was
not only a perfect consciousness of the place in the eyes of the
multitude which she was expected to fill that made Lucia whimsical; much
stronger than even that, was the desire to please one,--the shy wish to
be admired, to see that she was so, possibly to hear it. She wondered to
herself whether she would look very awkward and rustic beside Lord
Lastingham's handsome daughters, and whether a certain Lady Adeliza,
whose name had somehow reached her ears, was much more beautiful than
she could ever hope to be. Poor child! her uneasiness on that point
would certainly have ceased if she could have peeped into Mr. Percy's
brain and seen the two portraits he carried about with him
there,--herself fresh and lovely as Psyche when she captivated Love
himself, and Lady Adeliza, highly distinguished and a little faded, but,
for a poor man, a very desirable match. She would have failed, probably,
to understand that last qualification, or to guess how it could
completely outweigh youth, beauty, and love, together; and so would have
felt even more joyous and less diffident than she did, when at last the
important business was finished, and she stepped into the carriage which
was to take her to Mrs. Bellairs'.
There she found Bella, for once tolerably subdued, and submitting with
more patience than anybody expected of her, to be dressed by her sister
and Magdalen Scott. The moment she saw Lucia, however, she whirled
herself round out of their hands, and vowed she would not do another
thing until she had had time to look at her bridesmaids both together.
"You are perfectly charming!" she exclaimed, holding up her hands in
mock ecstasy. "It's quite useless for me to dress, Elise. Who will look
at me when they are to be seen?"
"Don't be absurd, Bella. It is time you were ready now."
"I'm in despair, my dear. Give me any shabby old dress, and here, Lucia,
put this thing on, and be the bride instead of me."
She caught up her veil and threw it over Lucia's head before any one
could stop her.
"You must change the bridegroom as well then," said Magdalen, rather
maliciously, "and perhaps she might not object."
"What a pity Maurice is gone! It will have to be Mr. Percy, Lucia,"
cried Bella, loosing the veil to clap her hands.
"Be silent, Bella," said Mrs. Bellairs, "and finish dressing at once,
unless you intend me to leave you."
Lucia, flushed and half angry, had by this time freed herself from the
veil and smoothed her hair. Bella, a little sobered by her sister's
annoyance, returned to her toilette and was soon ready to go downstairs.
In the drawing-room the guests were rapidly assembling. A space near one
end had been kept clear, but every other corner soon filled; and the
party overflowed into Mrs. Bellairs' own little room adjoining. Mr. and
Mrs. Bayne were among the last arrivals, and punctual to the appointed
time came the bridegroom and Harry Scott.
A little change and flutter of the colour on Bella's cheek, when the
well-known knock was heard, showed that she was not entirely without
trepidation, but she rose quietly, took a last look at herself in the
glass, and was standing ready when her brother-in law came to fetch her.
In the hall, the bridegroom and his two friends met them--the
drawing-room door opened, and, with a soft rustle and gleam of white
dresses, the little party passed up through the crowd, and took their
places before the clergyman.
There was no want of seriousness in Bella now. She had become so
extremely pale that Mrs. Bellairs watched her anxiously; but except that
her responses were made in a perfectly clear and audible tone, without
the smallest tremulousness, or appearance of what one of her neighbours
called "proper feeling," she was a most exemplary bride--even to the
point of looking prettier than she had ever been known to do before, and
almost eclipsing her bridesmaids. But, the ceremony over, she did not
remain long so unlike herself. She was quiet, certainly, but as gay,
mischievous, and childish as ever.
Breakfast followed the marriage almost immediately. It was, of course,
as brilliant an affair as the resources of Cacouna could produce, and
everybody really seemed to enjoy themselves. The newly-married pair were
in all eyes but Lucia's so well and happily matched, and had so
reasonable a prospect of being content with each other and their
fortunes, that there did not seem to be a single cloud on the day. The
same boat which had carried Maurice away three days before, took the
bride and bridegroom on their tour, and not long after, the guests who
had dispersed after breakfast began to reassemble for the evening dance.
Lucia and Magdalen, at the window of what had been Bella's room, amused
themselves by watching the arrivals and talking over the event of the
morning.
"Did you ever see such a girl as Bella?" said Magdalen. "It seems as if
she could never be serious for a moment. She went off laughing as if she
were just coming back in half an hour."
"Why should not she? She is not going away as some people do, hundreds
of miles from all her old friends."
"No, but then it must be a kind of parting; she will never be with her
sister again as she used to be. I am sure I should have cried. There is
something dreadful in it, I think. It seems like leaving all one's youth
behind."
Magdalen sighed rather affectedly. Lucia laughed.
"People should not marry till they are old, according to that. I don't
quite believe you think so, however. But, you know, Bella always
declared a bride ought not to cry. I wonder if she will be any graver
now she is Mrs. Morton?"
"What do you think Harry says about the doctor?"
"What?"
"He says Bella will find a difference between him and her guardian. Mr.
Bellairs used to let her spend her money just as she liked, and give
away a great deal, but Doctor Morton looks too sharply after the dollars
and cents for that. He never lets himself be cheated out of a farthing,
and never gives anything away."
"I don't like people who are quite so careful, to be sure; but Bella
used to be rather extravagant sometimes."
"Indeed she was. I can't think how she will do, so good-natured as she
is, if her husband is so dreadfully hard."
"Perhaps Harry is mistaken, though. Come, we must go down."
"You will have to dance Maurice's quadrille with Mr. Percy to-night,
Lucia; are not you sorry?"
Lucia blushed. "Poor Maurice!" she said, and they went downstairs.
Magdalen was right. Lucia danced with Percy, and thought no more of
Maurice. The evening passed too quickly; it seemed as if so much
happiness ought to last, but twelve o'clock came, and the elder people
began to disappear. Mrs. Bellairs had left the room where the dancers
were for a few minutes, and Lucia found her, looking tired and worried,
in a small one which was quite deserted.
"I think I ought to go home," she said. "It is getting late. But, dear
Mrs. Bellairs, how dreadfully tired you look!"
"I am tired; but weddings don't happen very often. Have you been
enjoying yourself?"
"Oh! yes, so much. I don't think there ever was such a delightful party.
It is only a pity Bella could not be here, and Maurice."
"I am afraid Maurice would not have enjoyed himself so much as you have
done. Lucia, I am a little vexed with you, though I do not know whether
I ought to say so."
Lucia hung her head for a moment, and then raised it saucily, confident
that, as she stood half in shadow, her glowing cheeks could not be seen.
"Why are you vexed with me?" she asked.
But it was not so easy to answer the question straightforwardly, and
Mrs. Bellairs paused, half repenting that she had spoken.
"Do you know," she said, "what people are beginning to call you? They
say that you are a flirt; and that is not a desirable character for a
girl to acquire."
Lucia's cheeks burned in good earnest now, but it was with anger, not
shame.
"But it is not true. I am not a flirt. It is quite absurd to say so. You
know I am not, Mrs. Bellairs."
She was right. This was not at all the accusation which her friend had
in her heart to make, though people _did_ say it, and Mrs. Bellairs had
heard them.
Lucia turned around. "I will get ready to go," she said. But some one
was standing close beside her.
"Mr. Percy!" she exclaimed angry and annoyed, while Mrs. Bellairs
hastily congratulated herself that he had neither been mentioned nor
alluded to.
"I beg your pardon," he said. "I came in this instant to look for you
for our waltz. Some one told me you were here."
But Lucia could not recover her temper in a moment.
"It is very late," she said, "and I am too tired to dance any more--pray
excuse me;" and she walked out of the room with the most dignified air
in the world, leaving Mr. Percy in considerable surprise and some
offence. There was something so charming, however, in her little air of
pride and displeasure, that he admired her more then ever; while she,
quite unconscious of the effect her ill-humour had produced, made haste
to prepare for her drive home, but found an opportunity at the last
moment to throw her arms round Mrs. Bellairs' neck and whisper, as she
said good-night,
"Don't be vexed with me. Indeed I shall never be a flirt."
As usual, on Lucia's return from any evening amusement, Mrs. Costello
herself opened the door of the Cottage on her arrival. They went
together to the parlour for a few minutes, and afterwards to Lucia's
room, but it was not until her mother left her that it struck the poor
child that some new alarm or distress had happened.
"I shall not go to sleep," she said to herself, "but wait and ask mamma
when she comes in;" but youth and fatigue were too strong for her
resolution, and she was soon fast asleep. It was not, indeed, till dawn
that Mrs. Costello came; her night had been spent like so many before
it, in painful thought and vigil; but before she slept, she had, as she
hoped, fixed clearly and definitely her plans for the future. To have
done this, was in itself a kind of relief. She slept at last calmly, and
woke in the morning with a sensation of certainty and renewed courage,
which she had long been without.
At breakfast she was so cheerful and had so many questions to ask about
the previous day, that Lucia readily persuaded herself that she had no
need to be uneasy.
She did indeed say, "Have you heard from Mr. Strafford?" but Mrs.
Costello's answer satisfied her: "I had a note yesterday evening. He is
coming up, and may be here to-morrow," and no more was said.
She found when she went over, soon after breakfast, to Mr. Leigh's, that
the post of the evening before had brought him also a letter, full of
interest to them all. It was from Maurice; and though it only described
his journey to New York, his stay there, and the steamer in which he had
taken his passage for England, it seemed for the moment almost to bring
him back home. They lingered over it, as people do over the first
letter, and amused themselves by guessing how far he could yet be on
his voyage; whether the weather, which at Cacouna had been fair and
calm, would have been good or bad for those far out on the Atlantic.
That day neither Lucia nor Mr. Leigh cared for newspaper or book. They
had plenty to talk about, for when the subject of the letter was
completely finished, there still remained the wedding, of which Mr.
Leigh said Maurice would be sure to demand a full account. So they
talked hour after hour, and forgot how time was going, until Mrs.
Costello, growing uneasy, came to look for her daughter, and found them
still absorbed in their gossip.
But when the afternoon began to be almost over, and there had been no
other interruptions to their quiet, Lucia found the interest of
yesterday worn out, and felt a vague want of something beyond her
mother's or Mr. Leigh's companionship. Mr. Percy's usual visit had not
been paid, and she could not help wondering whether he stayed away
because he was offended with her last night; whether he would come yet,
whether he had heard what Mrs. Bellairs had said, or what she answered;
and while she wondered, her attention grew so engrossed that she did not
hear when her mother spoke to her, until the words had been twice
repeated.
Mrs. Costello, at last, touched her arm.
"Are you asleep, Lucia?" she said. "I have spoken to you two or three
times already."
"Have you, mamma? I am very sorry. I believe I was half asleep."
"You should have a walk. You have not been further than Mr. Leigh's all
day."
"I do not wish to go. I am quite content here, and I will not go to
sleep again. Tell me what you were going to say?"
"Something of so little consequence that I have forgotten it. But do go,
like a good child, and have a little walk. You must go to-morrow to see
Mrs. Bellairs, but to-day I dare say she is glad to be quiet."
Lucia went reluctantly, put on her hat, and started. She was so
accustomed to walking alone that she never thought of objecting on that
score, and turned, without deliberation, along the road that led to
Cacouna. It was a very quiet country road, running along the course of
the river; sometimes quite close to the bank, sometimes, as at the
Cottage, leaving room for a house and garden. The bank itself was high
and generally precipitous, but in some places it sloped more gradually
and was covered with soft turf. On the opposite, or American side, the
land was lower, and a little of town which lay almost opposite to
Cacouna was girdled in on all sides by pine-woods, the tops of which
showed like a black fringe against the brilliant light and colour of the
sunset sky. This contrast of brightness and darkness in the distance,
was heightened by the fainter, but still vivid gleam of the water, as
the river, stretching away in an unbroken sheet more than half a mile in
width, caught and reflected the changing colours of the clouds. This
view, which she had seen daily ever since she could remember, seemed
always to possess a new charm for Lucia; whatever might be her humour,
it was certain to subside into the same calm and almost reverent
attention while she watched the scene reach its most perfect splendour,
and then fade softly and gradually into night.
But; at present, it wanted at least half an hour of sunset. There was
plenty of time for her walk before the short twilight would begin. She
strolled on, rather pleased to be alone, and in no hurry to traverse the
space of lonely road which intervened between Mr. Leigh's and the first
houses of the town. As she had expected, there was not a single
passenger on the way, nor did she see any one until, just as the first
roof began to be visible in front of her, she perceived lying by the
roadside what looked like a large bundle of old clothes. Coming nearer,
she found that it was a man apparently fast asleep, his head hidden by
his arms. Suspecting him, from his attitude, to be tipsy, she felt for a
moment inclined to turn back, but her hesitation seemed so foolish that
it was immediately conquered, and, keeping on the opposite side, she
walked quietly past. She had scarcely done so, however, when a loud
discordant shout was heard from the river, and the sleeper, awakened by
it, suddenly raised his head, and began to scramble as quickly as he
could to his feet. Lucia hurried on, but in a moment, hearing unsteady
footsteps coming fast behind her, and a thick inarticulate voice
calling, she turned to look. Scarcely three yards from her, staggering
along, and muttering, as if he thought the call which had awakened him
was hers, was an Indian, his dark face bloated and brutalized by drink.
As she turned, he came nearer and tried to catch her dress. Happily, he
was so much intoxicated that she easily evaded his hand, and with a cry
of terror fled along the road. But the Indian still pursued, and she was
hurrying blindly on, only conscious of that horrible face behind her,
and of the failing of her strength from excess of terror, when a voice
she knew cried "Lucia!" and she found Mr. Percy by her side.
In another moment her agony of alarm was over; she was standing, still
trembling violently, but feeling safe and supported, with her hand drawn
firmly through his arm, while her pursuer seemed to have slunk away at
the sight of a third person, and was now reeling towards the river bank,
whence the same voice as before could be heard calling.
Mr. Percy did not attempt to question or comment. He waited patiently
till Lucia's panic had subsided and she found voice to say, "Oh! I am so
glad you came."
"So am I. What a brute! Yes, I am glad I came just then."
He was so earnest, so shaken out of his usual listless manner, that she
was almost startled. It flashed into her mind too how he had cried
"Lucia" in a tone which she had heard in her terror without remarking.
"Are you able to walk on now?" he asked, looking at her with real
solicitude and anxiety.
"Oh! yes," she answered, and they went on slowly.
"But how did you come?" she inquired after a minute's silence. "The road
seemed quite deserted just before."
"I came up from the landing below there. Bellairs persuaded me to go out
fishing with him this evening, and as we came back I caught sight of a
figure I thought was yours, and made him land me--happily just in time."
"Happily indeed. I did not even see your boat."
"We were too close under the bank most of the time. At the landing,
there was a canoe lying, with a man in it, most likely waiting for that
brute. You see he is gone down towards it."
Lucia shuddered. "I think I should have fallen down in another minute. I
looked round once, and saw such a horrible face, red and swollen and
frightful, with the hair all hanging about it. I shall never forget
it."
"Don't speak of it at present. You see it is not safe for you to go
about alone."
"But I never was frightened before. Now, I believe I shall be, always."
"And I shall not be here again. I was coming to-night to tell you that I
am summoned home."
They stopped involuntarily, and their eyes met. There was an equal
trouble in both faces. Lucia was the first to recover herself; she made
a movement to go on, and tried to speak, but felt instantly that her
voice could not be trusted.
Mr. Percy's prudence failed utterly. "I meant to say good-bye" he said,
"but it is harder than I thought. I can't leave you here, after all.
Lucia, you must come with me."
He was holding her hand, forcing her to stop and to look at him, and
finding in her beautiful, innocent face the sweetest excuse a man could
have for such madness. Madness it must have been, for he had wholly
forgotten himself, and all his life had taught him; and for the moment
felt that this girl, who loved him, was worth more than everything else
in the world would be without her.
That night Lucia saw nothing of the sunset. Dusk came on, and the
fireflies began to flit round them, before the two, who were so
occupied with each other, came to the Cottage gate. When they did so,
they had yet a few last words to say.
"What will mamma say?" Lucia half whispered. "I am almost afraid to see
her."
"Will you tell her or shall I? Which shall you like best? I will come in
the morning."
"I shall not sleep to-night if she does not know. I suppose I must tell
her, if you will not come in now."
"Not now. I must arrange my thoughts a little first. After all, Lucia,
you don't know how little I have to offer you."
"What does that matter?" she asked simply. "Mamma will not care--nor I."
"You will not, of course. You would be content to live like a bird, on
next to nothing; but then you know nothing of the world."
"No, indeed. I am nothing better than a baby."
"You are a million times better than any other woman, and will make the
best and dearest of wives--if you had only a luckier fellow for a
husband."
"Are you unlucky, really? Are you very poor?"
"Poor enough for a hermit. My father is not much richer; and as I have
the good fortune to be a younger son, the little he has will go to
George, my elder brother, not to me."
Lucia was silent a moment, thinking.
"Are you frightened?" he asked her. "You did not know things were quite
so bad?"
"I am not frightened," she answered. "But I was considering. Mamma has
some money; she would give me what she could, but I am not like Bella,
you know. I have not any fortune at all."
Mr. Percy laughed, "Do not puzzle yourself over such difficulties
to-night, at any rate. Leave me to think of those. I will tell you what
you must do. Make up your mind to be as charming as possible when you
see my father, and fascinate him in spite of himself; for, I assure you
he will not very readily forgive us for deranging his plans. Good-night
now, I shall be here early to-morrow."
He went away up the lane, while she lingered yet for a moment, looking
after him, trying to understand clearly what had happened--to realize
this wonderful happiness which was yet only like a dream. How could she
go out of the soft summer darkness into the bright light of the parlour
and its every day associations? But as she retraced every word and look
of the past hour, she came back at last to the horrible recollection of
the Indian who had alarmed her. That hideous besotted face seemed to
stare at her again through the obscurity, and, trembling with fright,
she hurried through the garden and up the verandah steps.
Mrs. Costello was sitting at work by the table where the light fell
brightly, but Lucia was glad that the lamp-shade threw most of the room
into comparative darkness. Even as it was, she came with shy lingering
steps to her mother's side, and was in no hurry to answer her question,
"Where have you been loitering so long?"
"I have been at the gate some time," she said. "It is so pleasant out of
doors."
"I went to the top of the lane to look for you a long time ago, and saw
you coming with, I thought, Mr. Percy."
"Yes. He met me. Mamma, I want to tell you something about--"
Mrs. Costello laid down her work.
"What?" she said almost sharply, as something in her child's soft
caressing attitude, and broken words struck her with a new terror.
Lucia slid down to the floor, half kneeling at her mother's feet. "About
myself--and him," she murmured.
Mrs. Costello raised her daughter's face to the light, and looked at it
closely with an almost bitter scrutiny.
"Child," she said, "I thought you would have been safe from this. I did
him injustice, it seems."
A new instinct in Lucia's mind roused her against her mother. She let
her clinging arms fall, and raised her head.
"I do not understand you, mother," she answered, and half rose from
where she had been kneeling.
"Stay, Lucia," and her mother's hand detained her. "I have tried to save
you from suffering. I see now that I have been wrong. But tell me all."
Awed and startled out of the sweet dreams of a few minutes ago, Lucia
tried to obey. She said a few almost unintelligible words, then came to
a sudden pause. She had slipped back again to her old place after her
little burst of anger, and now looked up pleadingly to her mother.
"But, indeed, I don't know how it was," she said; "only it was after
the Indian went away."
Mrs. Costello started. "What Indian?" she asked.
And then the story came out, vivid enough, but broken up as it were by
the newer, sweeter excitement of that other story which she could only
tell in broken words and blushes. As she spoke her eyes were still
raised to her mother's face, looking only for the reflection of her own
terror and thankfulness; but she saw such deadly paleness and rigidity
steal over it, that she started up in dismay.
Mrs. Costello signed to her to wait, and in a moment was again so far
mistress of herself as to be able to say,
"Sit down again. Finish your story, and then describe this man if you
can."
Her voice was forced and husky, but Lucia dared not disobey. She had
only a few words to add, but her description had nothing characteristic
in it, except the utterly degraded and brutal expression of the
countenance, which had so vividly impressed her.
When she ceased speaking, both remained for some minutes silent and
without moving. Then Mrs. Costello rose, and began to walk slowly up and
down the room. She felt that she had made a mistake in the affair
nearest to her heart. She knew that Lucia had a girl's fancy for Mr.
Percy; he had done all he could to awaken it, and it was not likely that
the poor child would have been entirely untouched by his efforts; but
she had believed that it was only for the amusement of his leisure that
he had been so perseveringly blind to her own coldness, and that he was
too thoroughly selfish to be guilty of such an imprudence as she now saw
had been committed. That Lucia could ever be his wife, she knew was
utterly impossible. She had thought that the worst which could happen,
was that when he had left Cacouna his memory would have to be slowly and
painfully eradicated from her heart, but now it had become needful to
cause this beloved child a double share of the trouble, which she had so
dreaded for her. All these thoughts, and with them the idea of an added
horror overhanging herself, seemed to press upon her brain with
unendurable weight. Yet, suffer as she might, time must not be suffered
to pass. Night was advancing, and before morning Lucia must know all the
story, which once told, would shadow her life, and throw her new-born
happiness out of her very recollection.
She stopped at last in her restless walk. She went up to the chair where
Lucia sat, and putting her arms round her, kissed her forehead.
"You are very happy, my child?" she said tenderly.
"Mamma, I don't know. I _was_ happy."
"You will be again--not yet, but later. Try to believe that, for it is
time you should share my secret and my burden, and they are terrible for
you now."