A Canadian Heroine. Mrs. Harry Coghill
uttered a cry of terror; she sprang to Mrs. Costello's side, and tried to raise her, but the inanimate figure slipped from her arms. She called Margery, and together they lifted her mother and laid her on her bed. The first inexpressible fear soon passed away—it was but a deep fainting fit, which began to yield to their remedies. As soon as this became evident, Lucia had time to wonder what could have caused so sudden an illness. She remembered having seen a letter lying on the table beside her mother, and the moment she could safely leave the bedside she went in search of it. It was only an empty envelope, but as she moved away her dress rustled against a paper on the floor, which she picked up and found to be the letter itself. Without any other thought than that her mother must have received a shock which this might explain, she opened the half-folded sheet and hastily read the contents. They were short, and in a hand she knew well—that of a clergyman who was an old and trusted friend of Mrs. Costello. This was his letter:—
"My dear friend,
"I was just about writing to say that I would obey your summons, and steal two or three days next week from my work to visit you, when a piece of information reached me, which has caused me, for your sake, to defer my journey. Perhaps you can guess what it is. You have too often expressed your fears of C.'s return to be surprised at their fulfilment, but I grieve to have to add to your anxieties at this moment by telling you that he is really in this neighbourhood. I have not seen him, but one of my people, Mary Wanita, who remembers you affectionately, brought me the news. You may depend upon my guarding, with the utmost care, my knowledge of your retreat; but I thought it best to prepare you for the possibility of discovery, lest he should present himself unexpectedly to you or to Lucia. If the matter on which you wished to consult me is one that can be entrusted to a letter, write fully, and I will give you the best advice I can; but send your letter to the post-office at Claremont, on the American side, and I will myself call there for it. I shall also post my letters to you there for the present.
"With every good wish for you and for your child, believe me, sincerely yours,
"A. Strafford."
Lucia had looked for a solution of the mystery, but this letter was none. Rather it was a new and bewildering problem. That it was the immediate cause of her mother's illness was evident enough, but why? Who was "C."? Why did she fear his return? What could be the fear strong enough to induce such precautions for secrecy? Her senses seemed utterly confused. But after the first few minutes, she remembered that Mrs. Costello had probably meant to keep her still ignorant of a mystery to which she had, in all the recollections of her life, no single clue—she might therefore be still further agitated by knowing that she had read this letter. "I must put it aside," she thought, "and not tell her until she is well again."
She slipped the letter into her pocket, scribbled her note to Mrs. Scott, and returned to the invalid's room. The faintness had now quite passed away, and Lucia thought, as she entered, that her mother's eyes turned to her with a peculiar look of inquiry. Happily the room was dark, so that the burning colour which rose to her cheeks was not perceptible; for the rest, she contrived to banish all consciousness from her voice, as she said quietly, "I have been writing to Mrs. Scott, to say I cannot leave you to-night."
"I am sorry, dear; you would have enjoyed yourself, and there is no reason to be anxious about me."
"I am very glad I was not gone. Can you go to sleep?"
"Presently. I think I dropped a letter—have you seen it?"
Lucia drew it from her pocket. "It is here, I picked it up."
Mrs. Costello held out her hand for it. She looked at it for a moment, as if hesitating—then slipped it under her pillow.
Both remained silent for some time; Mrs. Costello, exhausted and pale as death, lay trying to gather strength for thought and endurance, longing, yet dreading, to share with her daughter the miserable burden which was pressing out her very life. Lucia, half hidden by the curtain, sat pondering uselessly over the letter she had read; feeling a vague fear and a livelier curiosity. But a heart so ignorant of sadness in itself, and so filled at the moment with all that is least in accord with the prosaic troubles of middle life, could not remain long fixed upon a doubtful and uncomprehended misfortune. Gradually her fancy reverted to brighter images; the sunny life of her short experience, the only life she could believe in with a living faith, had its natural immutability in her thoughts; and she unconsciously turned from the picture which had been forced upon her—of her mother shrinking terrified from a calamity about to involve them both—to the brighter one of her own happiness which that dear mother could not help but share. So strangely apart were the two who were nearest to each other.
Mrs. Costello was the first to rouse herself.
"Light the lamp, dear," she said, "and let us have tea. I suppose I must not get up again."
"No indeed. I will bring my work in here and sit by you."
"Will Maurice be here to-night?"
"He is at the Scotts."
"True, I forgot. We shall be alone, then?"
It was a question; a month ago it would have been an assertion; and Lucia answered, "Yes."
"Then we may arrange ourselves here without fear of interruption," Mrs. Costello said more cheerfully. "Bring a book, instead of your work, and read to me."
She did not then intend to explain Mr. Strafford's letter. Lucia had almost hoped it, but on the other hand she feared, as perhaps her mother did, to renew the afternoon's excitement.
So, after tea, she took the last new book and read. Mrs. Costello lay with her face shaded; she had much to think of—only old debatings with herself to go over again for the thousandth time; but all her doubts, her wishes, her fears quickened into new life by the threatened discovery, of which the letter lying under her pillow had warned her; and the changes which a multitude of recollections brought to her countenance were not for her child, still ignorant of all the past, to see.
The evening passed quickly in this tumult of thoughts. Lucia was interested in her story, and read on until ten o'clock, when Margery came in.
"Mr. Maurice, Miss Lucia. He came in at the back, just to ask how your mamma is. Will you speak to him?"
Lucia went out. Maurice was standing in the dark parlour, and she almost ran against him. He put his hand lightly on her shoulder, as he asked his question.
"She is better, very much better," she answered. "But I was frightened at first."
"Do you think it is only a passing affair? Are you afraid to be alone to-night?"
"Not at all. Oh! Maurice, why do you ask such a question? She was quite well this morning."
"She has not looked well for some time. But I did not mean to alarm you, only to remind you that if you should want anything, I am always close at hand."
He had alarmed her a little for the moment. She thought, "I have been occupied with myself, and she has been ill perhaps for days past." Maurice felt her tremble, and blamed himself for speaking. At that instant they seemed to have returned to their old life. The very attitude in which they stood, in which they had been used to have their most confidential chats, had lately been disused; and to resume it, and with it the old position of adviser and consoler, was compensation for much that he had suffered. He felt that Lucia was looking anxiously up at him—that she had for the moment quite forgotten all except her mother and himself.
"The weather has been so hot," he said, searching for something to hide his thoughts, "it is not wonderful for any one to be weakened by it. No doubt, that was the reason of Mrs. Costello's illness." Lucia remembered the letter and was silent. Then she said, "Have you really thought her looking ill lately?"
"'Ill' is perhaps too strong a word. Besides, she has always said she was well."
"Yes. But I know she has been"—in trouble, she was going to say, but stopped—"suffering."
"Perhaps you may be able to nurse her a little now, since she will be obliged to own herself an invalid."
"I