"You will be happy again!" Did any one of us in the first dull pain of a
new, inexplicable suffering, ever believe such words as those? Lucia
read her mother's face, tone, gestures too well to doubt that she
regarded this long-kept secret as something which must separate her from
Percy--must separate her, she therefore fancied, from all that was best
and sweetest in life. It was hard that she should have been suffered to
taste happiness, if it was instantly to be snatched from her. She felt
this half resentfully, shrinking into herself, and cowering before the
unknown trial, which, when fully understood, her natural courage would
enable to meet with energy. She sat with her head resting on her hands,
while Mrs. Costello left the room, and came back carrying a small,
old-fashioned desk, which she placed upon the table. This desk, which
she knew had been her mother's when a girl, and which contained many
little treasures, attracted Lucia's attention. Obeying a sign from Mrs.
Costello, she came forward, and watched while it was opened, and the
many familiar objects taken out. Underneath all, where she had always
thought the desk remained empty, the pressure of a spring opened another
compartment, in which lay a few papers and a likeness.
"You have often asked me to show you your father's likeness, Lucia,"
Mrs. Costello said with slow painful utterance. "There it is. Take it,
and you will know my secret."
Lucia put out her hand, but as it touched the portrait lying there face
downwards, she involuntarily drew it back, and glanced at her mother.
"Must I see it? Must I know?" she whispered tremblingly.
"You must."
She lifted the picture and looked, but the lines swam before her eyes.
As they steadied and came out clearly she saw a tall figure with black
hair, dressed in a gaily striped shirt and blanket, and leaning on a
spear--an Indian. She threw the likeness from her with a cry,
"Impossible! It is _not_ true," and with clasped hands tried to shut out
the hateful sight.
Shudder after shudder swept over her, and still she cried in her heart,
"I will not believe it," but she said no more aloud. Her father! All her
lifelong terror of his race, all that she had known of them up to the
encounter of that very evening, which now seemed years ago, surged
through her mind; and, as if mocking her, came above all, her own face
with the dark traits which she had believed to be Spanish, but which she
could now trace to such a different origin. In a moment, and for ever,
her girlish vanity fell from her. She felt as if her beauty were but the
badge of degradation and misery. And then there came the keen instinct
of resentment--it was to her mother, whom she loved, that she owed this
intolerable suffering. Crouching down and shivering, as if with cold,
she yielded to the storm of thought which swept over her, yielded to it
in a kind of blind despair, from which she had neither wish nor power to
rouse herself.
But this mood, which seemed to paralyse her, lasted in reality but a
few minutes; she was roused by her mother's voice and touch. She looked
up for a moment, but with hard tearless eyes and set lips, and only to
put away from her the hand that had been softly laid on her shoulder.
Mrs. Costello drew back; she returned to her chair, and sat down to
wait, but the long deep sigh which unconsciously escaped her, as she did
so, reached Lucia's heart. A strong impulse of love and pity seemed to
break through all her misery; she felt that, at least, she did not
suffer alone, and with a quick self-reproach she threw herself at her
mother's feet, and encircled her waist with her arms. For a moment
neither spoke. They held each other fast, and one, at least, thanked God
silently that the most bitter pang was averted, since they could still
so cling to each other.
But after a while, Mrs. Costello said, "I have much to tell you, my
child. Can you bear to hear it now?"
"Yes, mother. I must know all now."
Lucia rose, and bringing a footstool, sat down in her old childish
attitude at her mother's feet; only that her face, which was worn and
pale, was quite hidden.
"I am ready," she said. "Explain all I cannot understand."
No human being, perhaps, could tell his or her own story with perfect
truth; still less could tell it so to the hearer the most passionately
loved, and whose love seems to hang in the balance. It would be apt to
be a piece of special pleading, for or against, as egotism or conscience
happened to be strongest. Best, then, not to try to reproduce the words
spoken that night--spoken in the tuneless, level voice, which, in its
dull monotony, is a truer indication of pain than any other; but to
repeat only the substance of all that Lucia then heard for the first
time.
To her, the old house by the Dee was already familiar ground; she knew,
dimly, the figure of a lady who died there in her youth, and left a
desolate child, well cared for, but little loved, to grow up alone; and
she knew, more familiarly, but with a sense of awe which was almost
dislike, the child's father, her own grandfather, a man saddened,
silent, unsympathetic. These, and various relations and servants who had
surrounded her mother in her childhood, she had already heard of a
thousand times. The story, new to her, began in Mary Wynter's fifteenth
year.
At that time Mr. Wynter's family consisted of four persons--himself,
his daughter, her governess, and a nephew, George Wynter, who was, in
fact, an adopted son. The governess had been lately and hastily added to
the household, on the discovery of Mary's amazing ignorance; and her
selection had been a mistake. She and her pupil were at open warfare,
she endeavouring to teach, Mary determined not to learn. The poor lady
was very conscientious, and very well instructed, but she was not
judicious. She never found out that her pupil would have been an
absolute slave to affection, but was altogether hardened to severity,
and when she failed in herself enforcing her authority, she made the
great and most unlucky mistake of appealing to George Wynter. Mary, up
to that time, had had no dislike to her cousin. He was nearly twenty
years older than herself, an excellent man, who took everything _au pied
de la lettre_, and who, perceiving that what Miss Smith said was
reasonable, thought duty and common sense required him to "speak to" her
_un_reasonable pupil. He never discovered his mistake--nor Miss Smith
hers; but things grew more and more uncomfortable. Miss Smith tired of
her struggles, and sought more manageable pupils; and Mary, immediately
after her fifteenth birthday, was sent to school.
Removed to a new atmosphere, no longer chilled by loneliness or
embittered by the consciousness of perpetual disapproval, the girl began
to bloom sweetly and naturally. For the first time she was fortunate in
her surroundings. Companionship made her gay, and emulation woke keen
and successful ambition. Nearly three years passed, and, in place of
ignorance and insubordination, she had gained a bright intelligence and
a becoming submission. At seventeen she returned home, a girl who would
have brought to a mother both pride and anxiety.
But there was no mother to receive her. At the sight of her, her father
was a little shaken out of his accustomed thoughts and habits. He tried
to imagine what his wife would have done or counselled for their child's
good, but his imagination was unpractised and would not help him much.
He made one great effort for her sake. He took her abroad, and for a
whole year travelled about, showing her much that was best worth seeing
in the south of Europe--but seeing _places_ chiefly, people seldom. In
all this time she saw nothing of her cousin George--he had almost fallen
out of her acquaintance, and taken the place of a disagreeable memory.
But when she and her father came home, he was there to receive them, and
she began to realize that his presence was to be an essential part of
her home life. More than that, she now perceived how distinctly he stood
between her and her father--a fact she had forgotten while they were
together without him. The acquaintance and sympathy between them, which
had been slowly growing up during their year of travel, froze to death
now that he was there; and Mary, at eighteen, found herself completely
isolated.
It did not occur to her father that she ought to go into society, or
that she needed a chaperone. Society had lost all its charms for him;
and he intended to marry his daughter early, and so give her the best of
protection. Neither did it seem necessary to him that she should be
consulted in any way about her marriage. However insubordinate she might
as a child have been to others, to him, whenever they were brought into
direct contact, she had always been perfectly submissive, and he
expected her to continue so. To such a length had his confidence in the
success of his plans gone, that he had never in any way hinted them to
his daughter--the thing was settled, and had become a part of the course
of nature, in no way requiring to be discussed. Under these
circumstances, Mary spent two years of grown-up life at home. They were
very wearisome and depressing years, partly from her position, partly
from her strong, and always growing, dislike to the cousin, who was so
much more to her father than she was. She saw very few people; now and
then she went with her father to a dinner-party where most of the guests
were "grave and reverend seigniors" like himself; now and then to a
dance, where people were civil to her, and where some stranger in the
neighbourhood would occasionally show signs of incipient admiration,
pleasantly exciting to a girl in her teens. And now and then she had to
receive visitors at home, feeling constrained and annoyed while she did
so, by the invariable presence of George. There were neighbours who
would gladly have been good to her. It was common for mothers to say to
each other, "Poor Mary Wynter! I should like to ask here more, but I
really dare not, Mr. Wynter is _so_ odd,"--and Mary had even a certain
consciousness of this goodwill and its suppression; but there were other
sayings, common as household words, among these same people, of which
she had no suspicion. It would, perhaps, have changed the whole story
of her life, if she had known that the reason why she lived as much
apart from the whole region of lovemaking or flirtation as if she had
been a staid matron of fifty, was, the general belief that she was
engaged, and before long to be married to the one man in the world whom
she cordially hated. If she had known it then, she might, perhaps, have
found a substitute for her cousin among her own equals and countrymen,
but her entire unconsciousness, which they could not suspect, so
deceived every possible lover as to make them believe her utterly out of
their reach.
The only real enjoyment which brightened these dull years, came to Mary
when she visited an old school-friend. There were two or three with whom
she had kept up affectionate intercourse; and one, especially, whose
house was her refuge whenever she could get permission to spend a week
away from home. This girl had married at the very time of Mary's leaving
school--she lived much in the world, and would have carried Mary into
the whirl of dissipation if Mr. Wynter had allowed it. But he had
restricted his daughter's visits to those times of the year when Helen
Churchill and her husband were in the country, fatigued and glad of a
few weeks of quiet; there Mary went to them, and found their quiet
livelier than the liveliest of her home-life.
But in the spring of her twenty-first year, leave, often refused, was
granted, and she joined the Churchills in London. The first week passed
in a delightful confusion--whether her new dresses, or her unaccustomed
liberty, or the opera, or the park, or the companionship of Helen, or
the absence of George, were the most delightful, she would have been
puzzled to say. The next week her head steadied a little--everything was
delightful, but it was London, and not fairyland; it could not be denied
that the rooms were hot, and that one came down rather tired in the
morning. Mrs. Churchill, however, had a remedy for that. She had a
pretty pair of ponies which carried her well out of London almost every
morning, into fresh air and green lanes, and she took Mary with her.
After breakfast they used to start, and make their expedition long or
short, according to the day's engagements.
One morning they had completely escaped from town, and were driving
along a pleasant road, shady and quiet, where, in those days, no
suburban villas had sprung up, but where a park paling was overhung by
trees on one side, and on the other, fields stretched away upon a gentle
slope. They had lately met but few people, and Helen, never a very
careful driver, had been letting her ponies do pretty much what they
liked. At last the lively little animals, perhaps out of pure
wilfulness, chose to take fright at something by the roadside; they made
a sudden rush, and their mistress all at once found herself quite unable
to hold them. There was no immediate danger, the road being both good
and clear, but as they went on, their pace, instead of subsiding, seemed
to increase. The carriage was not of the low build of these days, and
the servant hesitated to risk a jump from his perch at the back.
Meantime a corner was in sight, which it would be hazardous to turn at
this pace. Mary sat, pale and terrified, only just sufficiently mistress
of herself not to scream when suddenly, two men appeared coming towards
them round the dreaded corner. In another moment the adventure was
over--the ponies had been stopped by one of the two strangers, and were
standing panting but subdued; and Helen, recovering her self-possession
the moment she was out of danger, was leaning forward to pour out
thanks and explanations.
Mary, having less to do, had more leisure to look at the new-comers.
They were both young, and dressed like English gentlemen, but they had
both something foreign and unusual in their appearance. But there was
this difference--that the foreign aspect was of a kind singularly
attractive in the one, and unattractive in the other. One might have
been a Frenchman of _mauvais ton_, but that he spoke English like an
American. The other, who resembled a very handsome Spaniard, spoke with
a slight French accent, and in a remarkably musical voice. The handsome
one, indeed, spoke very little--it was he who had first stepped into the
road and caught the runaway ponies; but having done so, he left his
companion to take the lead in replying to Mrs. Churchill's civilities.
And when she finally begged to know their names, in order that her
husband might also express his gratitude, it was the unprepossessing one
who produced his card, and, having written an address upon it, gave it
to her, saying that it would serve for both. He and his friend were fond
of long walks, he added, neither of them being used to London life, and
that was the cause of their being so fortunate as to have been of use
to the ladies. He ended this little speech with an elaborate bow, his
companion raised his hat, and they parted.
The ponies went home quietly enough, and Helen took care to look after
her driving. She handed the card to Mary, who read on it, "Mr. Bailey,"
and an address, which Helen said was probably that of a lodging.
"I should like to know who the other is," she added; "he was very much
the nicest looking. I must get my husband to call to-morrow, and then we
shall know more about them."
Mary did not say much on the subject. Love at first sight may be fairly
owned as a possibility, but it would be ridiculous to say that Mary
Wynter had proved its reality. The thin end of the wedge, perhaps, had
wounded her, and a succession of blows would easily drive it deep into
her heart, or her fancy, as the case might be. Perhaps, too, it was more
tempting to think of a stranger so attractive without being able to give
him a name, than it would have been if he had to be recognized as Mr.
Thomas Brown or Mr. John Robinson.
However that might be, she did not find her enjoyment of the day at all
interfered with by the morning's incident. She and Helen paid some
visits, then dined out, and finally arrived rather late at a house where
there was a great evening gathering. This house was one at which she had
not before been a guest, and she was full of lively curiosity about the
people she was to meet there. The hostess was fond of collecting
together all sorts of stray oddities, and of trying to further a scheme
of universal brotherhood by mixing up in her drawing-room a most motley
crowd, including all classes, from the ultra fine lady to the
emancipated slave. It was not, perhaps, very amusing to the portion of
her guests who found themselves lost in a sea of unknown faces, through
which no pilot guided them; yet people went to her, partly because she
was _grande dame_, and partly as to a lion show. Mrs. Churchill thought
her country girl would be amused by one visit to this lady, and Mary was
delighted at the prospect of seeing the possessors of various well-known
names.
The rooms were very full when they arrived; and when, after considerable
exercise of patience and perseverance, they had struggled in and got to
a corner where they could breathe, and speak to each other, Helen said,
"Well, my dear, I hope you will find the sight worth the scramble--it is
fuller than usual to-night, I think; and if I followed my own
inclinations, I should try to slip round to a little room I know, where
there are seldom many people, and rest there. But that would not be fair
to you."
"Indeed it would," Mary answered. "Do let us go; we can perhaps move
about a little, later, and I positively cannot breathe here now."
They worked their way accordingly to the little boudoir Helen spoke of.
Their progress was not without incidents--now an acquaintance, now a
celebrity, now a woolly-haired princess, now a jewelled Oriental, met
them as they went; but at last they turned out of the crowd and passed
into a room nearly dark, quite empty, and cool. "Nobody has found it out
yet," said Helen, sinking into a chair with a sigh of relief.
They remained silent, enjoying the quiet and fresh air. A large window
opening on a balcony occupied the greater part of one side of the room,
and a glimmer of reflected light, and a murmur of voices, came from the
windows of the great drawing-room which also opened to the balcony. But
both light and sound were subdued to the pleasantest softness, and the
night-air was still and sweet; Mary's seat was beside the window, Mrs.
Churchill sat further back towards the middle of the room.
Presently there was a sound of steps on the balcony. Helen moved
impatiently. "Somebody coming," she murmured.
Mary involuntarily raised her hand as a sign that she should be silent;
a voice had begun to speak which she recognized with surprise. It was
that of their acquaintance of the morning. He was speaking in French,
with a bad accent, and a voice which sounded even more disagreeable than
it had done when he spoke to Helen.
"Bah! one can breathe here. What a crowd! And, my good friend, allow me
to remind you that you are not doing your duty. If you don't look a
little more sharply after our interest we shall quarrel."
"What am I to do?" another voice answered, and this time the accent was
perfect, and the tones marvellously harmonious. "You bring me here, into
this horrible crowd, where I am stifled, and I do not see what I can do
except answer everybody who speaks to me, and try to look as if I were
not longing to get away."
"Do?" repeated the first. "Why, _pose_ a little. I wish I had made you
come in paint and feathers. I believe my lady would have liked it
better."
They had been drawing nearer as they spoke, and now stepped into the
room. Bailey, who was first, passed Mary without seeing her, but the
gleam of Mrs. Churchill's dress caught his eye, and he paused abruptly.
Helen rose and moved a step towards him.
"Mr. Bailey," she said graciously, "you must allow me to introduce myself
to you now that chance has given me the opportunity. I am Mrs.
Churchill, and I am glad to be able to repeat my thanks for the service
you did me this morning."
Upon this Bailey came forward; he had had time to make himself pretty
certain that nothing serious could have been overheard, and was ready to
receive with rather florid politeness all the acknowledgments and
civilities offered.
Mary alone seemed to remember that the ponies had really been stopped,
not by Bailey, but by the man who now stood silent near to her. She in
turn rose, and spoke with some diffidence. "I should like to offer my
thanks too. I think I was too frightened to say anything this morning,
but indeed I thank you."
The stranger bowed. "You make too much of a very small matter," he
answered; "the ponies would most likely have become quiet of themselves,
only it did not seem certain they would have turned the corner quite
safely."
"I am sure they would not; they were quite unmanageable, and we had not
met anybody for a long time. That road is so quiet."
Mary went on talking, fascinated by the charm of the voice that replied
to her, until other people did come in, and the spell was broken. But
when Helen moved back into the larger rooms, and she was obliged to
follow, she went dreamingly until they found themselves beside their
hostess. Upon her Helen seized, and assailed her with questions. Who
were these two men? But of all the amazing announcements Lady Deermount
had ever had to make respecting her guests, the most amazing perhaps was
in her reply.
"He is an Indian Chief, your hero, a true, genuine Uncas, only educated;
and the other is an American."
An Indian Chief! These were the days when Cooper's novels were the
latest fashion, and many a girl's head was turned by visions of splendid
heroes--stately, generous, brave, and beautiful--capable of everything
that was grandest, noblest, and most fascinating. Here was one in
_propriâ personâ_; and one, too, who, in addition to all the heroic
virtues, could speak excellent French and English, and dress like an
English gentleman.
What wonder if that night mischief was done never to be undone, however
long, however bitterly repented?
It would be too tedious to continue the story in detail. Lady Deermount
had constituted herself the patroness of many adventurers, but never of
one cleverer than Bailey. She absolutely believed and duly repeated the
story he told her, which was briefly this:--His companion, whose
many-syllabled Indian name he taught her, but who, in England, found his
baptismal one of Christian more convenient, was the chief of a tribe
once powerful, now fallen into decay. To raise this tribe again was his
one idea, his fervent ambition. He had himself been educated by the
French Jesuits, but, when fully informed, had seen the errors of their
faith, and now earnestly desired to found among his people, English
civilization and the Protestant religion. Money was needed; for this he
had consented to come to England, accompanied by about a dozen men and
women of his tribe, hoping that the sight of these poor creatures in all
their native savagery would prevail upon the rich and generous to help
him in his work of education.
What could be more interesting? As a matter of fact, considerable
assemblies did gather, daily, to see the Indians perform their dances,
or sing their songs, or to hear one of them relate their legends, which
Christian translated into musical and fluent English. Bailey explained
his own connection with the party by saying that they required some one
to look after the more practical matters of lodging, food, etc., which
Christian, a stranger in Europe, could not well do, and professed
himself to be a mere hired accessory. It was Christian who was the soul
of all, the hero, who, for a noble purpose, endured a daily
mortification of his legitimate pride. And with Christian, Mary Wynter
fell deeply in love. Everything helped her--nothing hindered. Did no
other girl ever fall in love with a creature as purely of her
imagination? A good many wives, perhaps, know something about it, and a
good many old maids also--who are the better off.
When the visit to London ended, and she went back to the old solitary
life, everything had changed to her. Her days, which had been empty,
were full of dreams, her heart grew tender, glad, hopeful, with a sweet
unreasonable content. Even George seemed less disagreeable to her; she
began to think she had been often ill-tempered, and must try to make
amends. Christian had found means--or Bailey had found them for him--to
make her believe herself as much to him as he was to her. She knew that
the whole party had left London, and were moving from place to place.
By-and-by they would come to Cheshire, and then she would see or hear of
them. Christian had not proposed to her to marry him, nor had she
deliberately considered such a possibility--she loved him, and he would
soon be near her again, that was enough for the present.
In this mood she passed the rest of summer, and the early autumn. Mr.
Wynter and George spent most of the day together, and she saw little of
them until dinner-time. The evenings were social, after a fashion.
Sometimes Mary played or sung--sometimes George read aloud. Mr. Wynter
liked to be amused, but he did not care to talk. Thus, even the hours
they spent together led to no acquaintance between father and
daughter--each was altogether in the dark as to the thoughts, feelings,
and projects of the other.
One November morning Mary was sitting alone as usual. She had intended
to go out, but it was grey and cheerless out of doors, and the
attraction of a bright fire, and a new book, proved too strong for her.
The book was one of her favourite Indian stories, and she lost herself
in the delightful depths of the "forest primeval" with an entire and
blissful forgetfulness of England and common sense. But she roused
herself, with a start of no little surprise, when her father suddenly
walked into the room.
"Papa!" she cried, jumping up and letting her book fall, with a sudden
conviction that something important indeed, must have brought so unusual
a visitor.
"Sit down, my dear," he answered kindly; "I have something to say to
you. It did not seem necessary to say anything about it before, but now
you are nearly twenty-one, and that is the time I have always fixed
upon."
"Fixed upon for what, papa?" she said, utterly at a loss.
"For your marriage, my dear. It is a good age, quite young enough, and
yet old enough for a girl to have some idea of her duties. I wish you to
be married in February. A month after your birthday."
Mary looked at him in complete bewilderment. Her very marriage-day
fixed, and where was the bridegroom? She almost laughed, as she thought
that she could not even guess at any person who as likely to propose for
her--except one.
"But who is it?" she managed to ask, at last. "Nobody wants to marry
me."
"Who is it?" Mr. Wynter repeated in surprise. "George, of course."
"George!" she stopped a minute to recover breath.
Mr. Wynter remained silent. He had said all that was needful. She was
going to say, "Papa, you must be joking," but she looked at his face and
could not. He was too much in earnest--she perceived that with him the
thing was settled--and therefore done. She took courage from the
despair of the moment; "Papa," she said deliberately, "I will _never_
marry my cousin George."
For one moment, his face seemed to change. Then he got up, as calm and
assured as before.
"You are surprised, I see," he answered. "I supposed you must have
guessed my intentions. I will speak with you about it again to-morrow."
So he went out, and left her stunned, but by no means beaten. And, from
that day a struggle began--if indeed it could be called a struggle,
where the one party had not the slightest comprehension of the
resistance of the other. At Christmas, Mary, by this time driven almost
frantic, heard of the arrival of Christian at Chester. They met by
Bailey's contrivance, and Mary came back home pledged to marry her hero.
Delay, however, was necessary. The marriage could not take place until
just before the Indians sailed for Canada, which would be in March, and
Mary could obtain delay, only by a kind of compromise. She made her
cousin himself the means of obtaining this, by reminding him that the
least he could do for her, was to give her time to reconcile herself to
so new an idea. He, not the least in love, and far from suspecting a
rival, asked that the marriage might be put off for three months. This
was all that was needed. On the night of the 16th March, Mary left home,
and travelled under Bailey's guidance to Liverpool. There Christian met
her. All had been arranged, and they were married, and started for
Ireland. After a week or two of honeymoon, they went to Queenstown, and
there joined the ship, which was carrying the rest of the party to
Quebec.
It was during the two or three weeks spent in Ireland, and still more
completely during the voyage, that all the fair fabric of the young
wife's delusions fell to pieces.
The truth of Bailey's history was very different from what he said of
himself. He had been long the disgrace and torment of his own relations
in the United States, and at last, after years of every kind of vice,
had been obliged to fly from his country under strong suspicions of
forgery. He went to the north, and for a year or two lived a wild life
full of adventure; during which he occupied himself diligently in
becoming acquainted with the Indian tribes, learning some of their
dialects, and trying by every means to ingratiate himself with them.
Probably at first, this was only for amusement, but after awhile, he
seems to have entertained the idea of making a profit of his new
associates. He soon found, however, that the more independent and
uncivilized tribes, though they might form the most piquant exhibition,
were too unmanageable for his purpose. He came down therefore to Canada,
to seek for more promising materials. Here he met with exactly the
opposite difficulty--most of the tribes were more or less civilized, and
had, at any rate, advanced so far in knowledge of the world as to be
unwilling to put themselves into his power. He soon saw that the best
way of securing such a party as he wished, would be to find one Indian,
whom he might make to some degree a confidant and partner in the
enterprise, and who would naturally possess a stronger influence with
the rest, than he could himself obtain. It was a long time before he
succeeded in doing this; but when he did, it was to perfection. An
island about fifty miles from Cacouna, called Moose Island, was then,
and still is, occupied by a settlement of Ojibways. A Jesuit mission,
established on the Canadian bank of the river, had been devoted to the
conversion of these people, with so much success that nearly all of them
were nominal Christians. For the rest, they lived in their own way,
providing for themselves by hunting and fishing, and keeping their
national customs and character almost unchanged. In the mission-house,
however, a few children were brought up by the priests with the greatest
care,--probably because it was by means of these boys, that they hoped
more effectually to civilize the whole tribe. At any rate, they taught
them all that they could have taught Europeans; having them completely
in their own hands, there was no difficulty about this, and the more
intelligent among them became good scholars. There was one boy, however,
who distinguished himself above the rest, and was naturally the pride
and favourite of the mission. He was an orphan, whom they had named
Christian, and whom they were turning expressly for a priest. But when
Christian was about sixteen, the mission was for the first time
disturbed. Some Protestant missionaries invaded the island itself, and
built their house close to the Indian wigwams. They spoke the language
sufficiently to be understood, and took every means of making themselves
acceptable to the people. They were men of great fervour and
earnestness, and to the Indian senses, their religion, with its
abundant hymns, and exclamatory prayers, had an attraction greater than
that of the more decorous service to which they were accustomed. One by
one, the so-called converts left the Jesuit church, and were
re-converted with great acclamation. But when the infection reached
their own pupils, their own particular and beloved flock, the priests
were in despair; and the very first of their children to leave them, was
Christian. He had been, for some time, tired of the sober and
self-denying life which he was obliged to lead; and having gained all
the advantages the priests could give him, and knowing that his
profession of Protestantism would be hailed with the greatest joy by the
new missionaries, he went to them, and so succeeded in persuading them
of his sincerity, that he became as great a favourite as he had before
been with his old teachers. The Jesuits, soon after, finding themselves
almost entirely abandoned, gave up their mission and left the field to
their opponents. How Christian spent the next few years it is not easy
to tell. From the missionaries he learned to speak English perfectly
well, and was for a time master of a school, which they established for
the Indian children; but he lost their favour by the very same means by
which he gained it. He was insincere in everything, and as he frequently
visited both banks of the river, and was trusted to execute commissions
for them, he had many opportunities for deceiving them. At last, he left
the island altogether and joined a party of smugglers. With them he must
have remained some time; but he had left them also and returned to the
island, when Bailey came to the neighbourhood. They soon became
acquainted; and Bailey, finding how exactly Christian suited his
purpose, spared no pains to persuade him to join in collecting a
sufficient number of his people for the expedition. In this he
succeeded; but Christian was not to be imposed upon, and refused to stir
in the matter, without an engagement from Bailey to pay him a
considerable sum, on their return to Canada. Bailey was obliged to
yield, and the agreement was signed, with a fixed determination to avoid
keeping it, if possible. The other Indians were found without much
trouble among those on the island, who, in spite of their change of
teachers, were still in the same half-savage or more than half-savage
state. A bad hunting season had reduced them to great misery, and a
dozen of them were willing enough to undertake the voyage under the
guidance of Christian, whose education had given him a kind of
ascendancy to which he had no other claim, for the chieftainship, with
which Bailey chose to invest him, was purely imaginary. Christian was a
natural actor. Bailey understood perfectly what would suit the popular
idea of an Indian chief, and the story which he intended to tell, so
that, together, they succeeded admirably. They made a profitable tour,
and their success culminated in London when they began to count leaders
of fashion among their dupes.
It was at this moment of their success, that accident threw in their way
a girl who was evidently well-born and susceptible, and whom a few
inquiries proved to be an heiress. At first, Bailey had had some thought
of himself winning this prize; but he had wit enough to see that he
would not succeed, and that Christian might, which would be equally to
his advantage. Christian cared little about it, but he let Bailey guide
him, and so the prey fell into their hands.
So far, the story told had been intensely personal, and of the kind
which must inevitably be coloured by the teller. From this point, Mrs.
Costello was no longer leading her daughter through places and scenes
entirely strange. She paused, and faltered, yet began again with a sense
of having surmounted her greatest difficulties, and from hence is
perhaps the best narrator of her own life.
"When I found out," she went on, "how different the reality was from my
dreams, I took no care to hide, either from Bailey or my husband, the
horror I began to feel for them both. Christian took my reproaches
carelessly--his education had not prevented him from regarding women as
other Indians do--to him I was merely his squaw, the chief and most
useful of his possessions, and it made no difference to him whether I
was contented with my position or not. But Bailey was not quite so
insensible; and when I spoke to him with the same bitterness as to my
husband, he retorted, and took trouble to show me how my own folly had
been as much to blame as their schemes, in drawing me into such a
marriage. He explained to me precisely how, and why, I had been
entrapped, and made me perceive that I was utterly helpless in their
hands. There came, about the middle of our voyage, a time when I sunk
into a kind of stupor; worn out with the misery of my disappointment, I
gave up my whole mind to a gloomy passiveness. Morning after morning I
crept out on deck, and sat all day leaning against the bulwarks, with a
cloak drawn round me, seeing nothing but the waves and sky, and
indifferent to wind or rain, or the hot sun which sometimes shone on me.
All this time I had taken no notice of the Indians, who for their part
avoided me, and left me a portion of the deck always undisturbed. But
one day as I sat as usual vacantly looking out to sea, I was disturbed
by the cries of a child. The babies, although there were four or five in
the party, were usually so quiet that the sound surprised me. I looked
round, and saw the women gathered together in a group, consulting over
the child, which still cried as if in violent pain. At last I got up,
and went to the place, where I found that the poor little creature, a
girl of about a year old, had fallen down a hatchway and broken her arm.
She had lost her mother in England, and was in the care of an elder
sister, who hung over her in the greatest distress, while the other
women were preparing to bandage the arm. I had had no idea till then how
wretchedly these poor creatures were huddled together, without even such
comforts as they were used to; but when I found that it was impossible
for the sick child to be cared for in the miserable place where they
lived, I began to come to myself a little, or rather to forget myself,
and contrive something to help others.
"The child's sister, Mary, spoke a little French, so that we could
manage to understand each other; and with shawls and pillows, we made a
comfortable little bed, in an unoccupied space close to my cabin. There
we nursed the poor little creature, which got well wonderfully soon, and
Mary became my firm and faithful friend. It was she whom you saw a few
weeks ago, when she came, hoping to bring me a useful warning.
"We were six weeks at sea; and when we reached Quebec, and had to take
the steamboats, a new kind of misery began for me. I shrank from the
sight of our fellow-passengers, for I felt that wherever we went, they
looked at me curiously, and sometimes I heard remarks and speculations,
which seemed to carry the sense of degradation to my very heart. But
Mary and her little sister had done me good. I had already lost some of
my pride, and began to remember that, however I might repent my
marriage, I had entered into it of my own will, and could not now free
myself either from its ties or duties. My husband seemed pleased with
my change of manner towards him; he was not unkind, and I hoped that
perhaps when we reached his own tribe, and I had a home to care for, my
life might not yet be so hopelessly wretched as it appeared at first.
"The last part of our journey was made in waggons. When we were within a
few hours' distance of Moose Island the others went on, while Bailey,
Christian, and I, remained at a small wayside tavern. It was a wretched
place, but they gave me a small room where I could be alone, and try to
rest. The one adjoining it was Bailey's, and late in the evening I heard
him and Christian go into it together. The partition was so thin that
their voices reached me quite distinctly, and I soon found that they
were disputing about something. From the day when, on board ship, Bailey
had told me how they had entrapped me simply for the money to which I
was entitled, there had never been any allusion made, in my presence, to
the profit they expected to make of me. I could hear now, however, as
their voices grew louder, that this was the cause of their dispute. I
caught only broken sentences, and never knew how the quarrel ended, for
in the morning Bailey was gone, and I had learned already that it was
useless to question Christian. I had written from Quebec to my father.
The only answer I received was through his solicitor, who formally made
over to me all my mother's fortune; but, of course, this did not happen
until some weeks after our arrival at Moose Island.
"We remained three or four days at the tavern, and then removed to the
island, where a small log-house had been got ready for me. It was clean
and neat, though not better than the cottages of many farm-labourers in
England, and I was so humbled that I never thought of complaining. It
stood on a small marshy promontory at one end of the island, at a
considerable distance from the village, and was more accessible by land
than by water.
"In that house, Lucia, you were born; but not until three years of
solitude, terror, and misery had almost broken my heart.
"As soon as ever we were settled in our home, which I tried to make
comfortable and inviting according to my English ideas, Christian
returned to the wandering and dissipated life he had led in the last few
years before his journey to England. He was often away from me for many
days without my knowing where he was, and I only heard from others,
vague stories of his spending nights and days, drinking and gambling, on
the American side of the river. At first, he always came back sober, and
in good humour, and never left me without sufficient money for the few
expenses which were necessary; but within six months this changed, and I
began to suffer, not only from ill-usage, but from want.
"The missionaries, of whom I told you, were still on the island when I
arrived there; but although they pitied, and were disposed to be kind to
me, I could not bear to complain to them, or to make my story a subject
for missionary reports and speeches. You see I had a little pride still,
but I do not know whether it would not have yielded to the dreadful need
for a friend of my own race, if events had not brought me one whom you
know, Mr. Strafford.
"Although the island was large enough to have maintained the whole
Indian population by farming, it remained, when I came there, entirely
uncultivated, and hunting and fishing were still the only means the
people had of supporting themselves. The consequence was, that at times
they suffered greatly from scarcity of provisions, and this naturally
brought disease. The year after my marriage was a bad one, and the
women and children especially felt the want of their usual supplies. A
great many of them left the island, and tried to find food by begging,
or by selling mats, and baskets, at the nearest settlements. The misery
of these poor creatures attracted attention, and people began to wonder
why, since they were Christians, and had received some degree of
teaching, they were still so ignorant of the means of living. The answer
was easy. The missionaries who had taught them were as ignorant as
themselves of these things; and, indeed, had not thought it necessary to
civilize while they Christianized them. Mr. Strafford had then lately
arrived in the country. He held different views to those of the
missionaries, and, pitying the forlorn condition of the islanders, he
offered to come and help them. Almost the first sensation of gladness I
remember feeling, from the day I left my father's house, was when I
heard that a clergyman of our own Church was to be settled among my poor
neighbours."