A Canadian Heroine, Volume 2 | Page 3

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