Book: A Canadian Heroine, Volume 2

M >> Mrs. Harry Coghill >> A Canadian Heroine, Volume 2



A CANADIAN HEROINE.

A Novel.


BY

THE AUTHOR OF "LEAVES FROM THE BACKWOODS."


"Questa chiese Lucia in suo dimando,
E disse: Or ha bisogno il tuo fedele
Di te, e io a te lo raccomando."--_Inferno. Canto II._


"Qu'elles sont belles, nos campagnes;
En Canada qu'on vit content!
Salut o sublimes montagnes,
Bords du superbe St. Laurent!
Habitant de cette contree
Que nature veut embellir,
Tu peux marcher tete levee,
Ton pays doit t'enorgueillir."--_J. Bedard._


IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. I.


LONDON:
TINSLEY BROTHERS, 8, CATHERINE STREET. STRAND.
1873.
[_All rights Reserved._]

PRINTED BY TAYLOR AND CO.,
LITTLE QUEEN STREET, LINCOLN'S INN FIELDS.




A CANADIAN HEROINE.





CHAPTER I.


Mrs. Costello had felt it a kind of reprieve when she heard from Mr.
Strafford that they might delay their journey safely for a month. The
sober middle age which had come upon her before its time, as her life
rolled on out of the anguish and tumult of the past, made home and
quietness the most desirable things on earth to her, and her health and
spirits, neither yet absolutely broken, but both strained almost to the
extent of their endurance, unfitted her for the changes and excitements
of long travel. So she clung to the idea of delay with an unacknowledged
hope that some cause might deliver them from their present terrors, and
yet suffer them to remain at Cacouna.

In the meantime all went on outwardly as usual. The duties and
courtesies of every-day life had to be kept up,--the more carefully
because it was not desirable to attract attention. Besides, Mrs.
Costello felt that an even flow of occupation was the best thing for
Lucia, whom she watched, with the keenest and tenderest solicitude,
passing through the shadow of that darkness which she herself knew so
well. Doctor Morton brought his wife home most opportunely for her
wishes. A variety of such small dissipations as Cacouna could produce,
naturally celebrated the event; and Lucia as principal bridesmaid at the
wedding could not, if she would, have shut herself out from them. She
had, indeed, dreaded the first meeting with Bella, but it passed off
without embarrassment. To all appearance Mrs. Morton had lost either the
sharpness of observation or the readiness of tongue that had formerly
belonged to her, for the change which Lucia felt in herself was allowed
to remain unremarked.

Mrs. Bellairs had long ago got over her displeasure with Lucia. She had
watched her narrowly at the time of Percy's leaving, and became
satisfied that there was some trouble of a sterner kind than regret for
him now weighing heavily upon her heart.

Although Mrs. Bellairs told her sister of the intended journey of Mrs.
Costello and Lucia, the preparations for that journey were being made
with as little stir as possible, and except herself, her husband, and
Mr. Leigh, few persons dreamed of such an improbable event. Bella even
received a hint to speak of it to no one but her husband, for Mrs.
Costello was anxious to avoid gossip, and had taken much thought how to
attain the _juste milieu_ between secrecy and publicity. In the meantime
there was much to be done in prospect of a long, an indefinitely long,
absence, and the needful exertion both of mind and body was good for
Lucia. Under no circumstances, perhaps, could she have sat quietly down
to bewail her misfortunes, or have allowed herself to sink under them,
but, as it was, there was no temptation to indolent indulgence of any
kind. Bitter hours came still--came especially with the silence and
darkness of night, when her thoughts would go back to the sweet days of
the past summer and linger over them, till some word, or look, or
trifling incident coming to her memory more distinctly, would bring with
it the sudden recollection of the barren, dreary present,--of the
irreparable loss.

In all her thoughts of Percy there was comfort. He had loved her
honestly and sincerely, and if his nature was really lower than her own,
she was not likely to guess it. She had acted, in dismissing him, on a
kind of distrust, she would have said, of human nature; more truly, of
him; but even this distrust was so vague and so disguised that it never
shadowed his character in her eyes. So, though she had parted from him,
she took comfort in the thought of his love, and kept it in her heart to
save herself from the overwhelming sense of degradation, which took
possession of her in remembering why she had sent him away from her.

It was this feeling which, in spite of her courage and her pride, had
brought to her face that look of real trouble of which Mrs. Bellairs had
spoken. It was a look of which she was herself entirely unconscious,
more like the effect of years of care, than like that of a sudden
sorrow. With this change of expression on her face, and sobered, but
cheerful and capable as ever in her ways and doings, Lucia made her
preparations for leaving the place which was so dear and familiar to
her.

Mrs. Costello's spirits had risen since their plans were settled. The
burden which was new to Lucia had been her companion for years, and,
except when the actual terror of falling once again into her husband's
hands was upon her, she had come to bear it with resignation and
patience. She had, of late years, endured far more on her child's
account than on her own; and to find that Lucia met her share of
suffering with such steady courage, and still had the same tender and
clinging love for herself, was an inexpressible relief. She had faith in
the words she had said on the night when the story of her life had been
told, she believed that a better happiness might yet come to that
beloved child than the one she had lost. So she lived in greater peace
than she had done for years before.

But her greatest anxiety at this moment regarded Mr. Leigh and Maurice.
She had waited for news of Maurice's arrival in England and reception by
his grandfather, before writing to him, as she had promised to do. For
she wished him to be able to decide, on receiving her letter, what was
the best plan for Mr. Leigh's comfort, in case he should himself be
detained in Norfolk. The accounts which the first mail brought showed
plainly that this would be the case. Mr. Beresford had immediately taken
a fancy to his grandson, and would scarcely spare him out of his sight.
Mrs. Costello, therefore, wrote to Maurice, telling him that the time
she had half anticipated had really arrived, and that she and Lucia were
about to leave Canada. At the same time she had a long conversation with
Mr. Leigh, describing to him more of her circumstances and plans than
she wished any other person to know, and expressing the regret she felt
at leaving him in his solitude. A question, indeed, arose whether it
would not be better for him to leave his large solitary house, and
remove into the town, but this was soon decided in the negative. He
would remain where he was for the present. Maurice might yet return to
Canada; if not, possibly next year he might himself go to England. One
circumstance made Mrs. Costello and Lucia more inclined to favour this
plan--the old man's health had certainly improved. Whether it was the
link to his earlier and happier life, which had been furnished by the
late relenting of his wife's father, or from some other cause, he seemed
to have laid aside much of his infirmity, and to have returned from his
premature old age to something like vigour.

A fortnight yet remained before the cottage was to be deserted, when
Doctor Morton and his wife returned home. The gossip of the
neighbourhood which, as was inevitable, had been for a little while busy
with Mr. Percy and Lucia, was turned into another channel by their
coming, and people again occupied themselves with the bride. Lucia was
obliged to visit her friend, and to join the parties given on the
occasion, and so day after day slipped by, and the surface of affairs
seemed so unchanged that, but for one or two absent faces, it would have
been difficult to believe in all that had happened lately.

But, of course, it did at last become known that Mrs. Costello was going
away. She and Lucia both spoke of it lightly, as an ordinary occurrence
enough; but it was so unlike their usual habits, that each person who
heard the news instantly set himself or herself to guess a reason, and,
connecting it with the loss of Lucia's gay spirits, most persons came
naturally to one conclusion.

It did not matter whether they said, "Poor Lucia!" with the
half-contemptuous pity people give to what they call "a disappointment,"
or "What else could she expect?" "I told you so!" or any other of the
speeches in which we express our delight in a neighbour's
misfortunes--every way of alluding to the subject was equally
irritating to Mrs. Bellairs, who heard of it constantly, and tried in
vain to stop the tongues of her acquaintance. She could not do it; and
what she feared most, soon happened. Lucia came, in some way, to be
aware of what was going on, and this last pain, though so much lighter
than those she had already borne, seemed to break down all her pride at
once. In her own room that night she sat, hour after hour, in forlorn
wretchedness--her own familiar friends, the companions of her whole
life, were making her misery the subject of their careless gossip. They
knew nothing of the real wound which she had suffered, but they were
quite ready to inflict another; and the feeling of loneliness and
desertion which filled her heart at the thought was more bitter than all
that had gone before. She remembered Maurice, and wondered drearily
whether he too would have misjudged her; but for the moment even her
faith in him was shaken, and she turned from her thoughts of him without
comfort.

But this mood was too unnatural to last long. Before morning her courage
had returned, and her strong impulse and desire was to show how little
she felt the very sting which was really torturing her. She stood long
before her glass that morning. The face which had grown hateful to
herself was still beautiful to others. She studied it in every line. She
wanted to see what there could be in it to give people the idea of
love-sickness. She wanted to force back into it the old light and
gaiety. Impossible! With a shudder she covered it with her hands. Never
again could she be a child. She had passed through the storm, and must
bear its traces henceforward. But, at least, it had been the thunderbolt
of heaven, and not the hand of man, which had wounded her. Her very
sorrow was sacred. She lifted up her head again, and saw that there was
a calm upon her face, which was better than pride. Instinctively she
knew that none but idiots could look at her with contempt, or the pity
which is so near it; and she went out into her little world again, sad
at heart, but steadfast and at peace. So the days passed on, and grew
into weeks, and the time for their leaving Cacouna came very near. It
had been delayed more than a week beyond the month on which Mrs.
Costello had first counted for security; but on the very eve of their
departure she had overcome her anxiety, and was secretly glad to make
the most of every little excuse for lingering yet another and another
day at the cottage.

It was now Monday evening, and on Wednesday they were to start. A letter
from Maurice had arrived that morning--the first which he had written
after receiving news from home, and it contained an enclosure to Mrs.
Costello, which Lucia wondered her mother did not show her. But she
would have wondered more, perhaps, if she had known why, in spite of the
easily-read wistfulness in her glance, that note was so carefully
withheld from her. It alluded, in fact, too plainly to the conversation
in which, for the first time, Maurice had, just before going away,
spoken to Mrs. Costello of herself and his affection for her. He said
now, "My father has sent me an account of Miss Latour's wedding, which
he said he made Lucia describe to him for my benefit. But I have a
curiosity to hear more about it, or rather about her. To tell the truth,
I am longing for a letter from you, not only to bring me news of my
father, but to satisfy me that all my hopes are not being built upon an
impossibility. Is Percy still at Cacouna? Don't laugh at me. My
occupations here leave me plenty of time to think of you all, and I
depend upon you not to let me be left quite in the dark on the subject
to which I cannot help giving most of my thoughts."

Mrs. Costello smiled to herself as she read; but she put off Lucia's
questioning with a very unfaithful summary of the contents of the note.
It was certainly strange how much vague comfort she took in the
knowledge of Maurice's love for her child. It might have seemed that the
same causes which had parted Lucia from Percy, and which she had said
would part her from the whole world, would be just as powerful here; but
the mother had at the bottom of her heart a kind of child-like
confidence that somehow, some time, all must come right, and in the
meantime she loved Maurice heartily, and wished for this happy
consummation almost as much for his sake as for her daughter's.




CHAPTER II.


There was a good deal of difference in the aspect of the country above
and below Cacouna. Below it the river bank was high; and cultivated and
fertile lands stretched back for a mile or two, till they were bordered
and shut in by the forest. Above, the bank was low. Just beyond the town
lay the swamp, which brought ague to the Parsonage and its neighbours.
On the further side of this was the steam sawmill, and a few shanties
occupied by workmen; and higher still, a road (called the Lake Shore
Road, because, after a few miles, it joined and ran along the side of
the lake) wound its way over a sandy plain, studded with clumps and
knots of scattered trees or brushwood. Rough, stubbly grass covered a
good deal of the sand, but here and there the wind had swept it up into
great piles round some obstacle that broke the level, and on these
sand-hills wild vines grew luxuriantly, covering them in many places
with thick and graceful foliage, and small purple clusters of grapes.
There were pools, too, in some places, where water-lilies had managed to
plant themselves, and where colonies of mud-turtles lived undisturbed;
and there were shady places by the sides of the pools, where the brown
pitcher-plant held its cups of clear water, and the ghost-flower
glimmered spectrally among the dead leaves of last year. But the plain
generally was hot and sunny in summer, and very dreary in winter; for
the larger trees which grew upon it were oaks, and when they were bare
of foliage, and the sand-hills and the pools had a deep covering of
snow, the wind swept icily cold over its wide space. In September the
oaks were still in leaf, and the grass green, and, though they were but
stunted in size and coarse in texture, both were pleasant to look at.
The sunshine was no longer hot, but it was serenely bright, and there
was as lovely a blue overhead as if the equinox were months away.

A light waggon came winding in and out with the turnings of the
road--now crossing a wooden bridge, now passing through the shadows of a
dozen or more oaks which grew close together. Sometimes, when the ground
was clear, the waggon went straight through one of these groups.
Sometimes it turned aside, to avoid the thick brushwood underneath. The
"waggon," which was neither more nor less than a large tray placed upon
four wheels, and having a seat for two people, was occupied by two young
men, Harry Scott and George Anderson. They were coming down from their
homes, two farms which lay close together some little distance up the
lake, and were going first to the sawmill and then to the town. But they
were in no particular hurry, and the afternoon was pleasant, so they let
their horse take his own time, and came jogging over the sand at a most
leisurely pace.

They had passed that very piece of land which had given Dr. Morton so
much trouble lately; it was natural enough, therefore, that their chat
should turn to speculations as to his success in ejecting Clarkson from
his house, and the Indians from their fisheries.

"More trouble than it's worth," said George Anderson; "there is not a
tree on the land that will pay for cutting down."

"Very likely not; but the land may not be bad; and it is a capital
situation. I only wish it were mine," answered Harry, who had his own
reasons for wishing to be a little more independent in circumstances.

"Tell you what," said George, making a knot on the end of his whip-lash,
"my belief is, that it is quite as much for pleasure as profit that the
Doctor is so busy about his land."

"Pleasure?"

"Yes. Do not you see any pleasure in it? By Jove, I asked him something
about Clarkson the other day; and if you'd seen his face, you'd believe
he enjoyed the fight."

"Well, that's not unlikely. He's a great brute, that Clarkson. I should
not mind pitching into him myself."

"I should, though," said George laughing; "the chances of his pitching
into me in return would be too strong."

Harry shrugged his shoulders. "He has a queer character certainly; but
of the two, I think I should be more afraid of disturbing the Indians,
especially if I had to ride about the country at all hours. It would not
be very difficult to waylay the Doctor; and I dare say some of them are
savage enough to do it, if they had a serious grudge against him."

"I don't believe they have pluck enough to do anything of the kind. Look
what miserable fellows those are that Dawson has at the mill now. They
look as if all the spirit had been starved out of them."

So they went on talking until they caught glimpses of the mill before
them, whenever their way lay over the open ground; and then George
Anderson touched the horse with his whip, and they began to get over the
remaining distance more quickly. They were trotting briskly round the
side of a low thicket of brambles, when suddenly a horse, which was
grazing on the further side, raised its head and looked at them. There
was nothing remarkable in that, certainly, for horses were not
unfrequently turned out there; but what was remarkable, was that this
one had a bridle on. George involuntarily tightened his reins; and the
next moment the animal, which seemed to have been disturbed by their
coming, trotted slowly across the road in front of them. It was bridled
and saddled, and the saddle was a little on one side, as if it had been
dragged round. Harry sprang from the waggon. He followed the horse, and
in a minute or two caught and led it back to where George, who had also
dismounted, was now tying his to a tree.

They both recognized the runaway. Harry said one word as he led it up,
"Doctor Morton!" and with a horror-struck face pointed to a dark wet
stain partly on the saddle, partly on the horse's neck.

George darted round the thicket, and in a moment a cry called Harry to
the same place. A bridle path, more direct than the road, ran close
beside the thorn bushes, and there, half hidden in branches and leaves,
lay something--something that had once been human and living. Dark pools
of blood lay about it, and there were horrible gashes and wounds as if
the murderer had been unable to satisfy his rage, and had taken a
frantic pleasure in mutilating his victim.

The two young men stood and looked at each other and at the ghastly heap
before them. Silently with white faces they questioned each other what
to do? To touch what lay there seemed almost impossible, and any thought
of succour was hopeless; but something must be done. They both drew away
from the spot before they spoke. Then Harry said in a low voice, "There
are plenty of men at the mill; you might fetch some of them."

George went towards the waggon without a word; but just as he was going
to get in he turned round,

"No, Harry, you must go. Somebody must take the news on to Cacouna, and
that can't be me."

"Very well."

Harry was in the waggon instantly, and away. His first errand was
quickly done. In a very few minutes George could see, from the place
where he kept watch, that the men began to hurry out of the mill, and
come towards him in a confused throng. Some, however, stayed to bring a
kind of dray with them, and then, when these also had started, he could
see Harry Scott moving slowly off in the waggon towards the town.

The dray came lumbering over the sand, and the men gathered round the
dreadful heap under the brambles which must be lifted up and laid upon
it, yet which no one seemed ready to be the first to touch. But, at
last, it was done; the distorted limbs were smoothed and the wounds
partially covered; and some semblance of humanity came back to the dead
form as it was carried slowly away towards home. When this had been
done, there was time for another thought--the murderer?

Perhaps every one present had already in his heart convicted one person,
but even in the excitement of horror some one had sense enough to say,
"There ought to be a search made--there may be some trace."

Nor was it difficult to find a trace. At a very little distance from the
spot itself there appeared marks upon the grass as if footsteps, heavy,
and wet with dark-coloured moisture, had trodden there. They followed
the tracks, and came to a place where many low bushes growing close
together formed a kind of thicket. Almost buried in this, the figure of
a man lying upon the ground filled them for a moment with a new
consternation--but this was no lifeless body. They dragged it out--a
squalid, miserable object, with bleared eyes and red disfigured face, a
drunken, half-imbecile Indian.

He was so overcome, indeed, with the heavy sleep of intoxication that
even when they made him stand up, he seemed neither to see anything nor
to hear the questions of the men who knew him and called him by his
name. But there were answers to their questions in another shape than
that of words. The hatchet that lay beside him and the stains of blood
still wet upon his ragged clothing were conclusive evidence.

They led him away, after the little procession which had gone on with
the dray and its load, but he neither resisted, nor indeed spoke at all.
He seemed not to understand what was going on; and the men about him
were for the moment too full of horror, and of that awe which belongs to
the sight of death, to be much disposed to question him.

So they took murderer and victim both to the sawmill, and there waited,
dreading to carry their ghastly load into the town till such warning as
was possible had been given.

Meantime Harry Scott, with his mind full of his mission, drove towards
Cacouna. He saw nothing of the people he passed, or who passed him; he
saw only the sight he had just left, except when there rushed into his
recollection for a moment the wedding-day scarcely six weeks ago, and
the certainty of happiness which then seemed to wait both bride and
bridegroom. And now? "Poor Bella!" broke from his lips, and he shuddered
as he fancied, not Bella, but his cousin Magdalen crushed down in her
youth by such a blow as this. But the momentary, fanciful connection of
the two girls, did but make him the more tender of the young widow.
"Widow!" he said the word half aloud, it seemed so unnatural, so
incredible. But while he thought, he was drawing very near his
destination; for he had at once decided that the proper thing to do was
to find Mr. Bellairs, and leave him to carry the news as he might think
best to his sister-in-law. At the door of the lawyer's office,
therefore, the reluctant messenger stopped, and went in with his face
still full of the strange excitement and trouble of his mission.

A few words can tell the happiest or the saddest news life ever brings
us; all that Harry knew could be told in two sentences, and, half
announced as they were by his looks, Mr. Bellairs instantly understood
the message, and why it was brought to him. He took his hat, and before
Harry was quite sure whether he had made him understand what had really
happened, he was halfway to his own house.

An hour later, the dray, now more carefully arranged and covered,
brought its load to the door of the house which had been so lately
prepared for the bride's coming home. For convenience' sake they carried
the body into a lower room, and laid it there until its burial, while
Bella sat in her chamber above, silent and tearless, not understanding
yet what had befallen her, but through her stunned and dreary stupor
listening from habit for the footsteps which should have returned at
that hour--the footsteps which death had already silenced for ever.




CHAPTER III.


It is easy to imagine how, in so small a community as Cacouna, the news
of a frightful crime committed in their very midst, would spread from
mouth to mouth. How groups of listeners would gather in the streets,
round every man who had anything of the story to tell. How the country
people who had been in town when the murdered man was brought home,
hurried along the solitary roads with a kind of terror upon them, and
carried the news out to the villages and farms around. As to the
murderer, there was a strange confusion in the minds of many of the
townspeople. Doctor Morton's feud with Clarkson had been so well known
that, if there had been any signs of premeditation or design about the
crime, suspicion would have turned naturally upon him. But there was no
such appearance, nor the smallest reason to suppose that Clarkson had
been within half a mile of the spot that day. On the contrary, no
reasonable doubt could exist that the real murderer was the Indian who
had been found among the bushes. The men who knew him spoke of him as
passionate, brutal, more than half-savage--there was perfect fitness
between his appearance and character, and the barbarous manner of his
crime. And yet while everybody spoke of him as undoubtedly guilty,
almost everybody had a thought of Clarkson haunting his mind, and an
uneasy desire to find out the truth, entirely incompatible with the
clearness of the circumstantial evidence.

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