Summer came very early that year, and the narrow streets of Bourg-Cailloux were full of the glare and heat of the season. The pavements of white stones, always rough and painful to the feet, were burning hot in the middle of the day, and outside the walls, especially towards the sea, the light coloured, sandy roads were more scorching still. The Hôtel des Bains, just waking up after its winter repose, had proved but a comfortless dwelling. After two or three days, therefore, Mrs. Costello had left it, and she and Lucia were now settled in a lodging in the city itself. Their windows looked out on the "Place," where a brave sea-captain, the hero of Bourg-Cailloux, stood in effigy, and still seemed tokeep watch over the place he had once defended, and where, twice a week, the market-women came in their long black cloaks and dazzling caps, and brought heaps of fragrant flowers and early fruit. In the very early morning, the shadow of a quaint old tower fell transversely upon the pavement of the square, and reached almost to their door; and in the evening Lucia grew fond of watching for the fire which was nightly lighted on the same tower that it might be a guide to sailors far out at sea. The town was quiet and dull—there was no theatre, no concerts, at present even no balls—the only public amusement of the population seemed to be listening in the still evenings to the band which played in front of the guard-house in the Place. There they came in throngs, and promenaded slowly over the sharp-edged stones, with a keen and visible enjoyment of the fresh air, the music, and each other's company, which was in itself a pleasant thing to see.
The journey, the discomforts of the first few days, and the second moving, had tried Mrs. Costello extremely. She spent most of her time on the sofa now, and had as yet only been able once or twice to go down and sit for a while on the sunny beach,where children were playing and building sand castles, and where the sea breeze was sweet and reviving.
There was a small colony of English people settled in the town, mostly people with small incomes and many children, or widows of poor gentlemen; but there was also a large floating population of English sailors, and for their benefit an English consul and chaplain, who supplied a temporal and spiritual leader to the community. But the mother and daughter kept much apart from their country people, who were inclined to be sociable and friendly towards them. Mrs. Costello's illness, and Lucia's preoccupation, made them receive with indifference the visits of those who, after seeing them at the little English church, and by the sea, thought it "only neighbourly to call."
Their home arrangements were different to those they had made in Paris. Here they were really lodgers, and their landlady, Madame Everaert, waited on them. She was a fat, good natured, half Dutch widow, who took from the first a lively interest in the invalid mother, and in the daughter who would have been so handsome if she had been stouter and more rosy; and in a very little while she foundthat her new lodgers had one quality, which above all others gave them a claim on her good will, they were excellent listeners. Almost every evening in the twilight she would come herself to their sitting-room, with the lamp, or with some other errand for an excuse, and would stay chattering in her droll Flemish French for at least half an hour. This came to be one of the features of the day. Another was a daily walk, which Lucia had most frequently to take alone, but which always gave her either from the shore, or from the ramparts, a long sorrowful look over the sea towards England—towards Canada perhaps—or instead of either, to some far-away fairy country where there were no mistakes and no misunderstandings.
Between these two—between morning and evening—time was almost a blank. Lucia had completely given up her habits of study. She did not even read novels, except aloud; and when she was not in some way occupied in caring for her mother, she sat hour after hour by the window, with a piece of crochet, which seemed a second Penelope's web, for it never was visibly larger one day than it had been the day before. Mrs. Costello gradually grew anxious as she perceived how dull and inanimateher daughter remained. She would almost have been glad of an excuse for giving her a gentle scolding, but Lucia's entire submission and sweetness of temper made it impossible. There seemed nothing to be done, but to try to force her into cheerful occupation, and to hope that time and her own good sense would do the rest. Hitherto they had had no piano; they got one, and for a day or two Lucia made a languid pretence of practising. But one day she was turning over her music, among which were a number of quaint old English songs and madrigals, which she and Maurice had jointly owned long ago at Cacouna, when she came upon one the words of which she had been used to laugh at, much to the annoyance of her fellow-singers. She had a half remembrance of them, and turned the pages to look if they were really so absurd. The music she knew well, and how the voices blended in the quaint pathetic harmony.
"Out alas! my faith is ever true,Yet will she never rue,Nor grant me any grace.I sit and sigh, I weep, I faint, I die,While she alone refuseth sympathy."
She shut the music up, and would have said, ifanybody had asked her, that she had no patience with such foolish laments, even in poetry; but, nevertheless, the verse stayed in her memory, haunted her fancy perpetually, and seemed like a living voice in her ears—
"Out alas! my faith is ever true."
She cared no more for singing, for every song she liked was associated with Maurice, and each one seemed now to have the same burden; and when she played, it was no longer gay airs, or even the wonderful 'Morceaux de Salon,' of incredible noise and difficulty, which had been required of her as musical exhibitions, but always some melancholy andante or reverie which seemed to come to her fingers without choice or intention.
One day when she had gone for her solitary walk, and Mrs. Costello all alone was lying on the sofa, trying to read, but really considering with some uneasiness the condition of their affairs, Madame Everaert knocked at the door.
She brought with her a fresh bunch of flowers just bought in the market, but she was as usual overflowing with talk.
"It is extremely hot," she said, fanning herself with her pocket handkerchief, "and I met mademoiselle going out. It is excessively hot."
Mrs. Costello looked uneasy.
"Do you think it is too hot to be out?" she asked.
"No. Perhaps not. Certainly, mademoiselle has gone to the ramparts, and the walk there is not nearly so hot and fatiguing as down to the beach. Mademoiselle is very fond of the sea."
"Yes, she enjoys it greatly. It is new to her."
"One day, not long ago, I was coming along the top of the ramparts,—madame has not been there?"
"No."
"There is a broad space on the top, and it is covered with soft green turf quite pleasant to sit down upon. Very few people pass, and you can see a long way out to sea. Well, one day I came along there, because upon the grass it was pleasanter walking than on the stones in the street, and I saw Mademoiselle Lucia who was sitting quite quiet, looking out far away. I came very near, but she never saw me. I thought I would speak to her just to say how beautiful the day was, and the air so sweet, when I saw just in time madame, that shewas crying. Great big tears were falling down on her hands, and she never seemed to feel them even. Mon Dieu, madame! I could hardly keep from crying myself, she looked so sad; but I went by softly, and she never saw me. Mademoiselle regrets England very much."
"She has never been in England. She was born in Canada, and that, you know, is very far away."
"In Canada! Is it possible? Does madame come from Canada?"
"Yes."
"And it is in Canada our good father Paul has suffered so much! Oh, the terrible country!"
"Why should it be terrible? I have seen Father Paul, and he does not look as if he had suffered much."
"Not now, Dieu merci. But long ago. Madame, he went to convert the savages—the Indians."
Mrs. Costello started. Father Paul was a Jesuit priest—an old venerable man—old enough, as it flashed into her mind, to have been one of the Moose Island missionaries. Yet such an idea was improbable—there had no doubt been many other Jesuit missions besides the one where Christian had been trained.
"Do you know where it was that he went?" she asked, after a moment's pause.
"It was in Canada," Madame Everaert repeated, "and he lived among the savages; if madame is from Canada, she would know where the savages live."
"There are very few savages now," Mrs. Costello answered with a smile. "I know where there used to be some—possibly that was the very place."
"No doubt. I shall tell the good father that madame knows it."
"Stay. Don't be quite sure that it is the place. Canada is a very large country."
"Still it is so singular that madame should come from there. Father Paul will be delighted."
Mrs. Costello thought a minute. She was greatly tempted to wish to see this priest who might have known her husband. She need not betray herself to him. For the rest, she had noticed him often, and thought what a good, pleasant face he had—a little too round and rosy perhaps, but very honest and not vulgar. He might be an agreeable visitor, even if he had no other claim on her.
"Do you think," she said, "that he would mind coming to see me? I should be very glad to receive him."
"I am sure he would be charmed. He likes so much to talk of Canada."
"Will you say to him then, please, that I have lived there many years and should be very pleased to have a chat with him about it. I might be able to give him news."
Madame Everaert was delighted. She went away quite satisfied to find Father Paul at the very earliest opportunity, and to deliver to him withempressementMrs. Costello's invitation.
Lucia, meanwhile, took her usual walk. She went quickly along the stony streets and climbed up the grassy side of the rampart. It was all still and solitary, and she sat down where there lay before her a wide stretch of perfectly level country, only broken by the lines of the old fortifications, and bordered by the sea. In the clear morning sunshine, she could distinguish the white foam where the waves broke against the wooden pier, and out on the blue waters there were white shining specks of sails. Ships coming and going, and on the beach moving groups of people—everywhere something that had life and motion and looked on to a future, an object beyond this present moment—everywhere but here with her.
"Oh," she said to herself, "how wearisome life is! What good to myself or to anybody else is this existence of mine? Am I never either to be good or happy again? Happy, I suppose that does not so much matter—but good? If people are wrong once, can they never get right again? I used to think I should like to be a Sister of Mercy—and now that is all that is left for me, I do not feel any inclination for it. I don't think I have a vocation even for that."
And at this point she fell into a lower depth of melancholy—one of those sad moods which, at eighteen, have even a kind of charm in their exaggeration.
A day or two later there came, forwarded from Paris, an English letter for Mrs. Costello. It arrived in the evening, at a time when they had no expectation of receiving anything, and Madame Everaert brought it up, and delivered it into Mrs. Costello's own hand, so that Lucia was not near enough to see from whom it came. The general appearance of the letter made her think it was English, and she knew that Mr. Wynter had their present address and would not write to Paris. So she felt a half-joyful, half-frightened suspicion that it must be from Maurice, and her idea was confirmed by her mother's proceedings. For Mrs. Costello having looked at the address, put the letter quietlyin her pocket, and went on talking about Father Paul, from whom they were expecting a visit.
Lucia could hardly restrain herself. It was clear that Mrs. Costello did not mean to open the letter before her, or to tell her whence it came; but her anxiety to know was only increased by this certainty. She had almost made up her mind to ask plainly whether it was from Maurice, when the door opened and the old priest came in.
He was a fine-looking, white-haired man of more than seventy, to whom the long black robe seemed exactly the most suitable dress possible, and he had a good manner too, which was neither that of a mere priest, nor of a mere gentleman, but belonged to both. The first few minutes of talk made Mrs. Costello sure that she did not repent having invited his acquaintance; a fact which had been in some little doubt before.
She had said to him, "Madame Everaert told me you knew Canada, and, as we are Canadians, I could not resist the wish to see one who might still feel an interest in our country," and this turned the conversation immediately to what she desired to hear.
He answered her with a smile, "Probably my knowledge of Canada is very different from yours;mine is almost entirely confined to the wilder and less settled parts—to the Indian lands, in fact."
"In Upper Canada?"
"Yes. And then it is many years since I returned."
"I have lived for twenty years in Upper Canada; and of some of the Indians, the Ojibways of Moose Island, I have heard a great deal; perhaps you know them?"
The priest's eye brightened, but next moment he sighed.
"The very place!" he said. "Unhappy people! But I am forgetting that you, madame, are not likely to share my feelings on the subject."
"I do not know," Mrs. Costello answered, "that we should be wholly disagreed. I have heard, I may almost say I know myself, much of your mission there."
"Is it possible? Can any good remain still?"
"One of your old pupils died lately, and in his last hours he remembered nothing so well as your teaching."
Her voice shook; this sudden mention of her husband, voluntary as it was, agitated her strongly. Father Paul saw it and wondered, but appeared to see nothing.
"Poor boys! You console me, madame, for many sad thoughts. I was a young man then, and, as you see, I am now a very old one, but I have known few more sorrowful days than the one when I left Moose Island."
"Yet it must have been a hard and wearisome life?"
"Hard?—Yes—but not wearisome. We were ready to bear the hardness as long as we hoped to see the fruit of our labours. I thought there had been no fruit, or very little; but you prove to me that I was too faithless."
Mrs. Costello remained a moment silent. She was much inclined to trust her guest with that part of her story which referred to Christian—no doubt he was in the habit of keeping stranger secrets than hers.
While she hesitated he spoke again.
"But the whole face of the country must have changed since I knew it. Did you live in that neighbourhood?"
"For several years—all the first years of my married life, I lived on Moose Island itself, and my daughter—come to me a moment, Lucia,—was born there."
She took Lucia's hand and drew her forward.The remaining daylight fell full upon her dark hair and showed the striking outlines of her face and graceful head.
Father Paul looked in amazement—looked from the daughter to the mother, and the mother to the daughter, not knowing what to think or say.
Mrs. Costello relieved his embarrassment.
"My marriage was a strange one," she said. "The old pupil of whom I spoke to you just now, was my husband."
"Your husband, madame? Do I understand you? Mademoiselle's father then was—"
"An Indian."
He remained dumb with astonishment, not willing to give vent to the exclamations of surprise and almost sorrow which he felt might be offensive to his hostess, while she told him in the fewest possible words of her marriage to Christian and separation from him.
There was one thought in the old priest's mind, which had never, at anytime, occurred to Mrs. Costello—Christian had been destined for the Church. He had taken no vows, certainly; but for years he had been trained with that object, and at one time his vocation had seemed remarkably clear andstrong—his marriage, at all, therefore, seemed to add enormity to his other guilt.
And yet there was a sort of lurking tenderness for the boy who had been the favourite pupil of the mission—who had seemed to have such natural aptitude for good of all sorts, until suddenly the mask dropped off, and the good turned to evil. It might be that his misdoings were but the result of a temporary possession of the evil one himself, and that at last all might have been well.
Mrs. Costello spoke more fully as she saw how deep was the listener's interest in her story; yet, when she came near the end, she almost shrank from the task. The sacred tenderness which belongs to the dead, had fallen like a veil over all her last memories of her husband; and now she wanted to share them with this good old man, whose teaching had made them what they were.
More than once she had to stop, to wait till her voice was less unsteady, but she went on to the very end—even to that strange burial in the waters. When all was told, there was a silence in the room; Father Paul had wet eyes, unseen in the dusk, and he did not care to speak; Lucia, whose tears were very ready of late; was crying quietly, with herhead lying against the end of the sofa, while Mrs. Costello, leaning back on her cushions, waited quietly till the painful throbbing of her heart should subside.
At last Lucia rose and stole out of the room. She went to her own, and lay down on her bed still crying, though she could hardly tell why. Her trouble about the letter still haunted and worried her, and her spirit was so broken that she was like a sick child, neither able nor anxious to command herself.
Meanwhile the lamp had been brought into the sitting-room, and the two elder people had recommenced their conversation. It was of a less agitating kind now, but the subject was not very different, and both were deeply interested, so that time passed on quickly, and the evening was gone before they were aware. When Father Paul rose to go, he said, "Madam, I thank you for all you have told me. Your secret is safe with me; but I beg your permission to share the rest of your intelligence with one of my brothers—the only survivor except myself of that mission. If you will permit me, I shall visit you again—I should like much to make friends with mademoiselle, your daughter. She recalls to me strongly the features of my once greatly loved pupil."
With this little speech he departed, and left Mrs. Costello to wonder over this last page in her husband's history. Only a year ago how little would she have believed it possible that a man respectable, nay, venerable, as this old priest, would have thought kindly of Lucia for her father's sake!
After a little while she got up and went to look for her daughter. She found her sitting at a window, looking forlornly out at the lights and movements in the place, and not very ready to meet the lamplight when she came back into the sitting-room. Still, however, she heard nothing of the letter, nor even when she bade her mother good night and lingered a little at the very last, hoping for one word, even though it might be a reproach, to tell her that it was from Maurice.
She had to go to her room disconsolate. She heard Mrs. Costello go to hers, and close the door.
'Now,' she thought, 'it will be opened. It cannot be fromhim, or mamma could not have waited so long. But I don't know; she has such self-command! I used to fancy I could be patient at great need—and I am not one bit.'
However, as waiting and listening for every sound brought her no nearer to the obtaining of her wishes, she undressed and lay down, and began to try to imagine what the letter could be. Gradually, from thinking, she fell into dreaming, and dropped into a doze.
But before she was sound asleep, the door opened, and Mrs. Costello shading her candle with her hand, came into the room. Lucia had been so excited that the smallest movement was sufficient to awake her. She started up and said, "What is it mamma?" in a frightened voice.
"It is late," Mrs. Costello said. "Quite time you were asleep, but I am glad you are not. Lie down. I shall sit here for a few minutes and tell you what I want to say."
Lucia obeyed. She saw that her mother had a paper in her hand—no doubt the letter. Now she should hear.
"I had a letter to-night," her mother went on. "I dare say you wondered I did not open it at once. The truth was, I saw that it was in Mr. Leigh's writing, and I had reason to feel a little anxious as to what he might say."
"Yes, mamma."
Lucia could say no more; but she waited eagerly for the news that must be coming—news of Maurice.
"I shall give you the letter to read. Bring it back to me in the morning; but before you do so, think well what you will do. I would never ask you to be untrue to yourself in such a matter; but I entreat you to see that you do know your own mind, and to use your power of saying yes or no, if you should ever have it, not like a foolish girl, but like a woman, who must abide all her life by the consequences of her decision."
Mrs. Costello kissed her daughter's forehead, lighted the candle which stood on a small table, and leaving the letter beside it, went softly away.
The moment the door closed, Lucia eagerly stretched out her arm and took the letter. Her hands trembled; the light seemed dim; and Mr. Leigh's cramped old-fashioned handwriting was more illegible than ever; but she read eagerly, devouring the words.
"My dear Mrs. Costello,—You may think, perhaps, that I ought not to interfere in a matter in which I have not been consulted; but you know that to us, who have in all the world nothing to care for butone only child, that child's affairs are apt to be much the same as our own.
"Maurice told me, just before we left Canada, what I might have been certain of long before if I had not been a stupid old man—that it was the hope of his life to marry your Lucia. He went to Paris, certainly, with the intention of asking her to marry him; and he came back quite unexpectedly, and looking ten years older—so changed, not only in looks, but in all his ways of speaking and acting, that it was clear to me some great misfortune had happened. Still he said very little to me, and it appears incredible that Lucia can have refused him. Perhaps that seems an arrogant speech for his father to make—but you will understand that I mean if she knew how constantly faithful he has been to her ever since they were both children;—and if she has done so in some momentary displeasure with him (for you know they used to have little quarrels sometimes), or if they have parted in anger, I beg of you, dear Mrs. Costello, for the sake of his mother, to try to put things right between them.
"I must tell you plainly that I am writing without my son's knowledge. I would very muchrather he should never know I have written; but I have been urged to do it by some things that have happened lately.
"Some time ago Maurice, speaking to me of Mr. Beresford's will, told me that there had been a little difficulty in tracing one of the persons named as legatees. This was a cousin of Mr. Beresford's, with whom he seems to have had very little acquaintance, and no recent intercourse whatever; although, except Lady Dighton, she was the nearest relative he had. The lawyers discovered, while Maurice was in Canada, that this lady herself was dead. Her marriage had been unfortunate, and she had a spendthrift son, to whom, as his mother's heir, the money left by Mr. Beresford passed; but it appeared that she had also a daughter, who was in unhappy circumstances, being dependent on some relation of her father. Maurice, very naturally and properly, thought that, as head of the family, it was his duty to arrange something for this lady's comfort; and accordingly, being in London, where she lives, he called on her. She has since then been in this neighbourhood, and I have seen her several times. She is a young lady of agreeable appearance and manners, and seems qualified to becomepopular, if she were in a position to do so. I should not have thought of this, however, if it had not been for a few words Maurice said to me one day. I asked him some question about marrying, hoping to hear some allusion to Lucia, but he said very gravely that he should certainly marry some time; he had promised his grandfather to do so. Then he said suddenly, 'What would you think of Emma Landor for a daughter-in-law?' 'Emma Landor?' I answered; 'what has put her into your head?' 'Just this, sir,' he said; 'if I am to marry as a duty, I had better find somebody to whom I shall do some good, and not all evil, by marrying them. Emma would enjoy being mistress here; she would do it well, too; and having Hunsdon, she would not miss anything else that might be wanting.' With that he went out of the room; and after awhile I persuaded myself that he meant nothing serious by what he had said. However, Lady Dighton has spoken to me of the same thing since. Both she and I are convinced now that Maurice thinks—you may be, better then we are, able to understand why—that he has lost Lucia, and that, therefore, a marriage of convenience is all that he can hope for. Perhaps I am mistaken, or,at all events, too soon alarmed; but the mere idea of his proposing to this young lady throws me into a panic. If she should accept him (and Lady Dighton thinks she probably would), it would be a life-long misery. I am old-fashioned enough to think it would be a sin. He will not do it yet; perhaps he may see you again before he does. Do, I entreat of you, use the great influence you have always had with him to set things right. I have written a very long letter, because I could not ask your help without explaining; but I trust to your kindness to sympathize with my anxiety. Kindest regards to Lucia."
Lucia put down the paper. The whole letter, slowly and painfully deciphered, seemed to make no impression on her brain. She lay still, with a sort of stunned feeling, till the sense of what she had read came to her fully.
"Oh, Maurice!" she cried under her breath, "I want you! Come back to me! She shall never have you! You belong to me!" She covered her face with her hands, ashamed of even hearing her own words; then she got up and went across to her window, and looked out at the light burning on the tower—the light which shone far across the seatowards England. But presently she came back, and reached her little desk—Maurice's gift long ago—and knelt down on the floor, and wrote, kneeling,—
"Dear Maurice, you promised that if ever I wanted you, you would come. I want you now more than ever I did in my life. Please, please come."Lucia."
"Dear Maurice, you promised that if ever I wanted you, you would come. I want you now more than ever I did in my life. Please, please come.
"Lucia."
Then she leaned her head down till it almost touched the paper, and stayed so for a few minutes before she got up from her knees and extinguished her candle.
In the morning, when Lucia woke, her note to Maurice lay on the open desk, where she had left it, and was the first thing to remind her of what she had heard and done. She went and took it up to destroy it, but laid it down again irresolutely.
"I do want him," she said to herself. "Without any nonsense, I ought to see him again before he does anything. I ought to tell him I am sorry for being so cross and ungrateful; and if he were married, or even engaged, I could not do it; it would be like confessing to a stranger."
There was something very like a sob, making her throat swell as she considered. He would perhaps see them again, Mr. Leigh said. Ought she totrust to that chance? But then her courage might fail if he came over just like any ordinary visitor; and her young cousins from Chester were coming; and if they should be there, it would be another hindrance. "And, oh! I must see him again," she said, "and find out whether we are not to be brother and sister any more."
She said "brother and sister" still, as she had done long ago; but she knew very well in her heart now, thatthathad never been the relationship Maurice desired. And so she tore her note into little bits, and remained helpless, but rebelling against her helplessness. In this humour she went to her mother's room.
Mrs. Costello was not yet up. Lucia knelt down by the bedside, and laid Mr. Leigh's letter beside her.
"Mamma, I am very sorry," she said; "I think Mr. Leigh must have been very unhappy before he would write to you so."
"I agree with you. He is not a man to take fright without cause, either."
"Why do you say, 'to take fright?'"
"Why do I say so? Are you such a child still, that you cannot understand a man like Maurice,always so tender towards women—Quixotically so, indeed—making himself believe that he is doing quite right in marrying a poor girl in Miss Landor's position, when, in fact, he is doing a great wrong? It is a double wrong to her and to himself; and one for which he would be certain to suffer, whether she did or not. And, Lucia I must say it, whatever evil may come of it, now or in the future, is our fault."
"Oh, mamma! mamma, don't say 'our'—say 'your'—if it is mine—for certainly it is not yours."
"I will say your fault, then; I believe you feel it so."
"But, mamma, really and truly, is it anybody's fault? Don't people often love those who can't care for them in return?"
"Really and truly, quite honestly and frankly, Lucia, was that the case with you?"
Lucia's eyes fell. She could not say yes.
"I will tell you," Mrs. Costello went on, "what I believe to be the truth, and you can set me right if I am wrong. You knew that Maurice had always been fond of you—devoted to you, in a way that had come by use to seem natural; and it had never entered your mind to think either how much of yourregard he deserved, or how much he really had. I will not say anything about Percy; but I do believe," and she spoke very deliberately, laying her hand on Lucia's, "that since Maurice went away, you have been finding out that you had made a mistake, and that your heart had not been wrong nearly so much as your imagination."
Lucia was still silent. If she had spoken at all, it must have been to confess that her mother was right, and that was not easy to do. Whatever suspicions she might have in her own heart, it was a mortifying thing to be told plainly that her love for Percy was a mistake—a mere counterfeit—instead of the enduring devotion which it ought to have been. But she was very much humbled now, and patiently waited for what her mother might say next.
"Well!" Mrs. Costello began again, "it is no use now to go on talking of the past. The question is rather whether anything can be done for the future. What do you say?"
"What can I say, mamma? What can I do?"
"I don't know. Maurice used to tell me of his plans, but he is not likely to do that now. I would write and ask him to come over, but it is more than doubtful whether he would come."
"He promised that if ever I wanted him he would come," Lucia said, hesitating.
"If you were in need of him I am sure he would, but it would be a kind of impertinence to send for him on that plea when it was not really for that."
"But itis. Mamma, don't be angry with me again! Don't be disgusted with me; but I want, so badly, to see him and tell him I behaved wrongly. I was so cross, so ungrateful, sohorrid, mamma, that it was enough to make him think all girls bad. I shouldliketo tell him how sorry I am; I feel as if I should never be happy till I did."
When, after this outbreak, Lucia's face went down upon her hands, Mrs. Costello could not resist a little self-gratulatory smile. 'All may come right yet,' she thought to herself, 'if that wilful boy will only come over.'
"I think you are right," she said aloud. "Possibly he may come over, and then you will have an opportunity of speaking to him, perhaps."
"Yes," Lucia said, very slowly, thinking of her note, and of the comfort it would have been if shecouldbut have sent it. "Oh, mamma, if we were but in England!"
"Useless wishes, dear. Give me your advice about writing to Mr. Leigh."
"You will write, will you not?"
"I suppose I must. Yet it is a difficult letter for me to answer."
"Could not you just say 'I will do what I can?'"
"Which is absolutely nothing—unless Maurice should really pay us a visit here, a thing not likely at present."
So the conversation ended without any satisfaction to Lucia. Nay, all her previous days had been happy compared to this one. She was devoured now, by a restless, jealous curiosity about that Miss Landor whom Mr. Leigh feared—she constantly found her thoughts reverting to this subject, however she might try to occupy them with others, and the tumult of her mind reacted upon her nerves. She could scarcely bear to sit still. It rained all afternoon and evening, and she could not go out, so that in the usual course of events she would have read aloud to her mother part of the time, and for the other part sat by the window with her crochet in her hand, but to-day she wandered about perpetually. She even opened the piano and began to sing her merriest old songs,but that soon ceased. She found the novel they were reading insufferably stupid, and took up a volume of Shakespeare for refreshment, but it opened naturally to the 'Merchant of Venice,' and, to the page where Portia says:—
"Though for myself alone,I would not be ambitious in my wish,To wish myself much better, yet for youI would be trebled twenty times myself;A thousand times more fair, ten thousand times more rich;That only to stand high on your account,I might in virtues, beauties, livings, friends,Exceed account."
She shut the book—yes, this was a true woman, who for true love thought herself and all she possessed too little to give in return; but for the little, foolish, blind souls that could not see till too late, whatwastrue love, she was no fit company.
The evening passed on wearily, and Mrs. Costello, who had her own share of disquiet also, though it was mixed with a little amusement at the impetuosity of these young people, who were so dear to her and so troublesome, did very little in the way of consolation.
Next day, the weather had cleared again, and was very lovely. In the afternoon, Lucia persuaded Mrs. Costello to go with her to the beach. There they got chairs, and sat for a long while enjoying the gay, and often comical, scene round them. Numbers of people were bathing, and beside the orthodox bathers, there was a party of little boys wading about with bare legs, and playing all sorts of pranks in the water.
A little way to the left of where they sat, there was a curious kind of wooden pier, which ran far away out into the sea and terminated in a small square wooden building. The whole thing was raised on piles about five or six feet above the present level of the water which flowed underneath it. The pier itself, in fact, was only a narrow bridge or footpath railed partly on one side only, partly on both, and with an oddly unsafe and yet tempting look about it. Lucia had been attracted by it before, and she drew her mother's attention to it now—
"Look, mamma," she said, "does not it seem as if one could almost cross the Channel on it, it goes so far out. See that woman, now—I have watchedsince she started from this end, and now you can scarcely distinguish her figure."
"There is a priest coming along it—is it not Father Paul?"
"I do believe it is. I wish he would come and talk to you for a little while, and then I would go."
"You need not stay for that, dear. I shall sit here alone quite comfortably, if you wish to go out there."
"I should like very much to go. I want to see what the sea looks like away from the beach. There is no harm, is there?"
"None whatever. Go, and I will watch you."
Lucia rose to go.
"ItisFather Paul," she said, "and he is coming this way."
She lingered a minute, and the priest, who had recognized them, came up.
Mrs. Costello told him of Lucia's wish to go out on the pier, and he assured her she would enjoy it.
"The air seems even fresher there than here," he said; and she went off, and left him and her mother together.
For a few minutes they talked about the weather, the sea, and the people about them, as two slightacquaintances would naturally do; but then, when there had been a momentary pause, Father Paul startled Mrs. Costello, by saying,
"Last night, madam, you told me of persons I had not heard of for years—this morning, strangely enough, I have met with a person of whom you probably know something—or knew something formerly."
"I?" she answered. "Impossible! I know no one in France."
"This is not a Frenchman. He is named Bailey, an American, I believe."
"Bailey?" Mrs. Costello repeated, terrified. "Surely he is not here?"
"There is a man of that name here—a miserable ruined gambler, who says that he knows Moose Island, and once travelled in Europe with a party of Indians."
"And what is he doing now?"
"Nothing. He is the most wretched, squalid object you can imagine. He came to me this morning to ask for the loan of a few francs. He had not even the honesty to beg without some pretence of an intention to pay."
"Is he so low then as to need to beg?"
"Madame, he is a gambler, I repeat it. If he had a hundred francs to-night, he would most likely be penniless to-morrow morning."
"And he claimed charity from you because of your connection with Canada?"
"Exactly. Having no other plea. I was right, madame: you know this man?"
"He was my bitterest enemy!" she answered, half rising in her vehemence. "But for him I might have had a happy life."
Father Paul looked shocked.
"Forgive me," he said, in a troubled voice, "I am grieved to have spoken of him."
"On the contrary, I am thankful you did so. If I had met him by chance in the street, I believe he could not change so much that I should not know him, and he—"
She stopped, then asked abruptly,
"You did not mention me?"
"Most assuredly not."
"Yet he might recognise me. What shall I do?"
She was speaking to herself, and not to her companion now, and she looked impatiently towards the pier where Lucia was slowly coming back.
Presently she recovered herself a little, and askeda few more questions about Bailey. She gathered from the answers that he had been some time at Bourg-Cailloux, getting gradually more poverty-stricken and utterly disreputable. That he was now wandering about without a home, or money even for gambling. She knew enough of the man to be certain that under such circumstances he would snatch at any means of obtaining money, and what means easier, if he only knew it, than to threaten and persecute her. And at any moment he might discover her—her very acquaintance with Father Paul might betray her to him. She cast a terrified look over all the groups of people on the beach, half expecting to see the well-remembered features of Bailey among them; but he was not there. Close by her, however, stood Lucia, and at a little distance the carriage, which had been ordered to fetch them, was just drawing up.
Mrs. Costello said nothing to Lucia on their way home about Bailey. She sat in her corner of the carriage, leaning back and thinking despairingly what to do. Her spirits had so far given way with her failing health that she no longer felt the courage necessary to face annoyance. And it was plainly to be feared that in case this man discovered her, he would have no scruples, being so needy and degraded, about using every means in his power to extort money from her. Undoubtedly he had such means—he had but to tell her story, as hecouldtell it, and not only her own life, but Lucia's, would be made wretched; the separation from Maurice, which she was beginning to hope might be onlytemporary, would become irrevocable—and, what seemed to her still more terrible, there would be perpetual demands from her enemy, and the misery of perpetual contact with him. To buy off such a man, at once and finally, was, she knew, utterly beyond her power—what then could she do?
When they were at home, and the door of their sitting-room safely closed, she turned anxiously to Lucia,
"Bailey is here," she said.
"Bailey?" Lucia repeated—she had forgotten the name.
"The man who was present at my marriage—the American."
"Mamma! How do you know?"
"Father Paul told me just now."
"How did he know?"
"The wretched man had gone to him begging, and he mentioned him to me by chance, thinking I might know something about him."
"But surely he would not remember you?"
"I think he would. If by any accident he met you and me together, I am certain he would."
"Ah! I am so like my father."
"Lucia, Idarenot meet him. I believe the very sight of him would kill me."
"Let us go away, mamma. He knows nothing about us yet. We might start to-morrow."
"Where should we go? Even at our own door we might meet him, at the railway station—anywhere. No, it is only inside these walls we are safe, and scarcely here."
Mrs. Costello was literally trembling, the panic which had seized her was so great; Lucia, not fully understanding yet, could not help being infected by her terror.
"But, mamma, we cannot shut ourselves up in these rooms. That, with the constant fear added to it, would soon make you ill again."
"What can we do?" Mrs. Costello repeated helplessly. "If, indeed, we could start to-night, and go south, or go out of France altogether. But I have not even money in the house for our journey."
"And if you had, you have not strength for it. Would not it be well to consult Mr. Wynter? If we had any friend here who would make the arrangement for us, I don't see why we should not be able to go away without any fear of meeting this man."
"No; that would not do. To consult George would just be opening up again all that was most painful—it would be almost as bad as meeting Bailey himself."
"And we could not be stopped even if we did meet Bailey. Let me go alone, mamma, and do what is to be done—it is not much. If I meet him I shall not know it, and seeing me alone, the likeness cannot be so strong as to make him recognize me all at once."
"But he might see us together when we start from here; and he might trace us. He would know at once that he could get money from me, and for money he would do anything."
She leaned back, and was silent a minute.
"We must keep closely shut up for a little while, till I can decide what to do. I wish Maurice would come."
Lucia looked up eagerly. It was her own thought, though she had not dared to say it. Maurice could always find the way out of a difficulty.
"Mamma," she said anxiously, but with some hesitation, "I think this is need—the kind of need Maurice meant."
"Need, truly. But I do not know—"
"He would be glad to help you. And he knows all about us."
"Yes, I should not have to make long explanations to him."
Just then there was a knock at the door. Both started violently. Absurd as it was, they both expected to see Bailey himself enter. Instead, they saw Madame Everaert, her round face flushed with walking and her hands full of flowers.
"For mademoiselle," she said, laying them down on the table, and nodding and smiling good humouredly. "I have been to Rosendahl to see my goddaughter there, and she has a magnificent garden, so I brought a few flowers for mademoiselle."
Lucia thanked her, and admired the flowers, and she went away without suspecting the fright her visit had caused.
"Get your desk, Lucia," Mrs. Costello said, gasping for breath, and almost exhausted by the terrible beating of her heart, "and write a note for me."
The desk was brought and opened.
"Is it to Maurice?" Lucia asked.
"Yes. Say that we are in great need of a friend."
Lucia began. She found it much more difficult than she had done the other night, when she wrote those few impetuous lines which had been afterwards torn up.
"Dear Maurice," she said, "mamma tells me to write to you, and say that something has happened which has frightened her very much, and that we are in great need of a friend. Will you keep your promise, and come to us?"
"Dear Maurice," she said, "mamma tells me to write to you, and say that something has happened which has frightened her very much, and that we are in great need of a friend. Will you keep your promise, and come to us?"
This was what she showed to her mother. When Mrs. Costello had approved of it, she wrote a few words more.
"I want to ask you to forgive me. I don't deserve it, but I am so unhappy."Yours affectionately,"Lucia."
"I want to ask you to forgive me. I don't deserve it, but I am so unhappy.
"Yours affectionately,
"Lucia."
She hesitated a little how to sign herself, but finally wrote just what she had been accustomed to put to all her little notes written to Mauriceduring his absences from Cacouna in the old days.
When the letter had been sealed and sent off by Madame Everaert's servant to the post-office, they began to feel that all they could do for the present was done. Mrs. Costello lay still on her sofa, without having strength or energy to talk, and Lucia took her never-finished crochet, and sat in her old place by the window.
But very soon it grew too dark to work. The Place was lighted, and alive with people passing to and fro. The windows of the guard house opposite were brilliant, and from those of a café on the same side as Madame Everaert's there shone out, half across the square, a broad line of light. In this way, at two places, the figures of those who moved about the pavement on each side of the Place, were very plainly visible; even the faces of some could be distinguished. Lucia watched these people to-night with a new interest. Every time the strong glare fell upon a shabby slouching figure, or on a poorly dressed man who wanted the air of being a Frenchman, she thought, "Is that Bailey?" When the lamp came in, Mrs. Costello had fallen asleep, so Lucia turned it down low, andstill sat at the window. The light on the tower shone out clear and bright—above it the stars looked pale, but the sky was perfectly serene. Maurice, if he came soon, had every prospect of a fair passage. "And he will come," she thought to herself, "even if he is really too much vexed with me to forgive me, he will come for mamma's sake."
All next day they both kept indoors. Lucia tried to persuade her mother to drive out into the country, but even for this Mrs. Costello had not courage. At the same time she seemed to be losing all sense of security in the house. She fancied she had not sufficiently impressed on Father Paul the importance of not betraying her in any way to Bailey. She wished to write and remind him of this, but she dared not lest her note should fall into wrong hands. Then she thought of asking him to visit her, but hesitated also about that till it was too late. In short, was in a perfectly unreasonable and incapable condition—fear had taken such hold of her in her weak state of health that Lucia began to think it would end in nervous fever. With her the dread of Bailey began to be quite lost in apprehension for her mother, and herown affairs had to be put altogether on one side to make room for these new anxieties.
In the afternoon of that day Mrs. Costello suddenly roused herself from a fit of thought.
"We must go somewhere," she said. "That is certain, whatever else is. As soon as Maurice comes we ought to be prepared to start. Do go, Lucia, and see if there is any packing you can do—without attracting attention, you know."
"But, mamma," Lucia objected, "Maurice cannot be here to-day, nor even, I believe, to-morrow, at the very soonest, and I will soon do what there is to do."
"There is a great deal. And I can't help you, my poor child. And there ought not to be a moment's unnecessary delay."
Lucia had to yield. She began to pack as if all their arrangements were made, though they had no idea either when, or to what end, their wanderings would recommence, nor were able to give a hint to those about them of their intended departure.
Another restless night passed, and another day began. There was the faintest possibility, they calculated, that Maurice, if he started as soon as he received Lucia's note, might reach them late at night.
It was but the shadow of a chance, for Hunsdon, as they knew, lay at some distance from either post-office or railway station, and the letter might not reach him till this very morning. Yet, since hemightcome, they must do all they could to be ready. The day was very hot. All the windows were open, and the shutters closed; a drowsy heat and stillness filled the rooms. Mrs. Costello walked about perpetually. She had tried to help Lucia, but had been obliged to leave off and content herself with gathering up, here and there, the things that were in daily use, and bringing them to Lucia to put away. They said very little to each other. Mrs. Costello could think of nothing but Bailey, and she did not dare to talk about him from some fanciful fear of being overheard. Lucia thought of her mother's health and of Maurice, and Mrs. Costello had no attention to spare for either.
Suddenly, sounding very loud in the stillness, there came the roll of a carriage over the rough stones of the Place. It stopped; there was a moment's pause, and then a hasty ring at the door-bell. Both mother and daughter paused and listened. There was a quick movement downstairs—a foot which was swifter and lighter than MadameEveraert's on the staircase—and Maurice at the sitting-room door.
Mrs. Costello went forward from the doorway where she had been arrested by the sound of his coming; Lucia, kneeling before a trunk in the adjoining room, saw him standing there, and sprang to her feet; he came in glad, eager, impatient to know what they wanted of him; and before any of them had time to think about it, this meeting, so much desired and dreaded, was over.
"But how could you come so soon?" Mrs. Costello asked. "We did not expect you till to-morrow."
"By the greatest chance. I had been in town for two days. Our station and post-office are at the same place. When they met me at the station, they brought me letters which had just arrived, and yours was among them. So I was able to catch the next train back to London, instead of going home."
"And which way did you come? The boat is not in yet?"
"By Calais. It was quicker. Now tell me what has happened."
Mrs. Costello looked carefully to see that thedoor was shut. Then she told Maurice who and what she feared, and how she could not even leave Bourg-Cailloux without help.
"Yet, I think I ought to leave," she said.
"Of course you ought," Maurice answered. "You must go to England."
"You must go to England," Maurice said decidedly. "It is an easy journey, and you would be quite safe there."
"But I ought not to go to England," Mrs. Costello answered rather uncertainly. "And Bailey might follow us there."
"I doubt that. By what you say, too, if he were in England, we might perhaps set the police to watch him, which would prevent his annoying you. However, the thing to do is to carry you off before he has any idea you are in Europe at all."
Lucia stayed long enough to see that the mere presence of Maurice inspired her mother with fresh courage; then she went back to her packing, leavingthe door ajar that she might hear their voices. She went on with her work in a strange tumult and confusion. Not a word beyond the first greetings had passed between Maurice and herself, but she could not help feeling as if their positions were somehow changed—and not for the worse.
There had been no words; but just for one second Maurice had held her hand and looked at her very earnestly; whereupon she had felt her cheeks grow very hot, and her eyes go down to the ground as if she were making some confession.
After that he released her, and she went about her occupations. She began to wonder now whether she would have to tell him how sorry she was, or whether enough had been said; and to incline to the last opinion.
Meanwhile she went on busily. In about half an hour she heard Maurice go out, and then Mrs. Costello came to her.
"He is gone to make inquiries," she said; "you know there is a boat to-night, but then we may not be able to get berths."
"To-night, mamma, for England?"
Mrs. Costello looked a little displeased at Lucia's surprise, "To be sure," she said; "why, my dearchild, you yourself thought England would be the best place."
"I didthinkso certainly, but I did not know I had said it."
"Well, can we be ready?"
"I can finish packing in an hour, but there is Madame Everaert to arrange with."
"We must wait till Maurice comes back before doing that."
"I suppose we must; mamma, will you please go and lie down? Otherwise you will not be able to go."
Mrs. Costello smiled. She felt able for any exertion to escape from her enemy under Maurice's guidance. However, she did as her daughter wished, and lay quietly waiting for his coming back.
Lucia heard his steps first, notwithstanding. She had her last trunk just ready for locking, and went into the sitting-room to hear the decision, with her hair a little disordered and a bright flush of excitement and fatigue on her cheeks.
"Are we to go?" she said quickly.
"I think you should if you can," he answered her. "But can you be ready?"
"By what time?"
"Nine o'clock."
"Everything is packed. Half an hour is all we really need now."
"Three hours to spare then. Everything is in our favour. It is not a bad boat, and there is room for us on board."
"Have you taken berths then?" Mrs. Costello asked.
"Yes. And I will tell you why I did so without waiting to consult you. I made some inquiries about this fellow Bailey, and found out that it would most likely not suit him to go to England for some time to come."
"You inquired about him? Good heavens, what a risk!"
"You forget, dear Mrs. Costello, that I was meant for a lawyer. Don't be afraid. He has no more thought of you than of the Khan of Tartary."
"If you only knew the comfort it is having you, Maurice; I was quite helpless, quite upset by this last terror."
"But you had been ill, mamma," Lucia interposed. "It was no wonder you were upset."
"That is not kind, Lucia," Maurice said, turning to her with a half smile. "Mrs. Costello wishes tomake me believe she depends on me, and you try to take away the flattering impression."
"Oh! no; I did not mean that. Mamma knows—" but there she got into confusion and stopped.
"Well," Mrs. Costello said, "we had better send for Madame Everaert, and tell her we are going."
Madame came. She was desolated, but had nothing to say against the departure of her lodgers, and, as Lucia had told Maurice, half an hour was enough for the settling of their last affairs at Bourg-Cailloux.
Mrs. Costello did not wish to go on board the boat till near the hour named for sailing; it was well, too, that she should have as much rest as possible before her journey. She kept on her sofa, therefore, where so large a portion of her time lately had been spent; and Lucia, from habit, took her seat by the window.
Then in the quiet twilight arose the question, "Where are we to go when we reach England?"
"Where?" Maurice said, "why, to Hunsdon, of course. My father will be so pleased—and Louisa will come rushing over in ecstasies the moment she hears."
"That might be all very well," Mrs. Costello said, "if we were only coming to England as visitors, but since we are not, I shall wish to find a place were we can settle as quickly as possible. I should certainly like it to be within reach of Hunsdon, if we can manage it."
"Come to Hunsdon first, at any rate, and look out."
"I think not, Maurice. We might stay in London for a week or two."
"Well, if youpreferit. But, at all events, I know perfectly well that one week of London will be as much as either of you can bear. When you have had that, I shall try again to persuade you."
While they talked, Lucia sat looking out. For the last time she saw the Place grow dusky, and then flame out with gas—for the last time she watched the lighting of the beacon, and wondered how far on their way they would be able to see it still.
Eight o'clock struck; then a quarter past, and it was time to go.
The boat lay in the dock. On board, a faint light gleamed out from the cabin-door, but everything on shore was dark. Passengers were arriving eachmoment, and their luggage stood piled up ready to be embarked. Sailors were talking or shouting to each other in English and French; the cargo of fruit and vegetables was still being stowed away, and people were running against other people in the darkness, and trying vainly to discover their own trunks on the deck, or their own berths in the cabin. Into the midst of all this confusion Maurice brought his charges; but as he had been on board in the afternoon, he knew where to take them, and they found their own quarters without difficulty. While he saw to their packages, they made their arrangements for the night.
"I shall lie down at once," Mrs. Costello said. "It is not uncomfortable here, and I think it is always best."
"But it is so early, and on deck the air is so pleasant. Should you mind my leaving you for a little while?"
"Not at all. There is no reason why you should stay down here if you dislike it. Maurice will take care of you."
But Lucia had no intention of waiting for Maurice. She saw her mother comfortably settled, and then stole up alone to the deck. The boat had not yetstarted; it seemed to lie in the very shadow of the quaint old town, and Lucia could trace the outline of the buildings against the starry sky.
She felt a little soft sensation of regret at saying good-bye to this last corner of France. 'And yet,' she thought, 'I have been very unhappy here. I wonder if England will be happier?'
She stood leaning against the bulwarks, looking now at the town, now at the dark glimmer of the water below, and, to tell the truth, beginning to wonder where Maurice was. While she wondered, he came up to her and spoke.
"Lucia, itisyou then? I thought you would not be able to stay below."
"No. It is so hot. Here the night is lovely."
"The deck is tolerably clear now. Come and walk up and down a little—unless you are tired?"
"I am tired, but to walk will rest me."
As she turned he took her hand and put it through his arm. For a minute they were silent.
"Two days ago, Lucia," Maurice said "I thought this was an impossibility."
"What!"
"Our being together—as we are now."
"Did you? But you had promised to come if ever we were in trouble."
"Yes. And I meant to keep my word. But I fancied you would never send for me."
"You see," Lucia said, trying to speak lightly, "that we had no other friend to send for."
"Is that so? Was that the only reason?"
"Maurice!"
"Tell me something, Lucia. Did you mean the last sentence of your note?"
"What was it?"
"You said you were unhappy."
"Oh! yes, I was.Sounhappy—I was thinking of it just now."
"And at present? Are you unhappy still?"
"You know I am not."
"I have been miserable, too, lately. Horribly miserable. I was ready to do I can't tell you what absurdities. Until your note came."
He stopped a moment, but she had nothing to say.
"It is a great comfort to have got so far," he went on, "but I suppose one is never satisfied. Now that I am not quite miserable, I should like to be quite happy."
Lucia could not help laughing, though she did so a little nervously.
"Don't be unreasonable," she said.
"But I am. I must needs put it to the touch again. Lucia, you know what I want to say; can't you forget the past, and come home to Hunsdon and be my wife?"
They stood still side by side, in the starry darkness and neither of them knew very well for a few minutes what they said. Only Maurice understood that the object of his life was gained; and Lucia felt that from henceforth, for ever, she would never be perverse, or passionate, or wilful again, for Maurice had forgiven her, and loved her still.
They never noticed that the boat was delayed beyond its time, and that other passengers chafed at the delay. They stayed on deck in the starlight, and said little to each other, but they both felt that a new life had begun—a life which seemed to be grafted on the old one before their troubles, and to have nothing to do with this last year. When Maurice was about to say good-night at the cabin door, he made the first allusion to what had brought them together.