The day after that on which Mr. Strafford paid his first visit to the
jail at Cacouna, was the one fixed for Doctor Morton's funeral. Lucia
knew that other friends would be with Bella, and was thankful to feel
herself at liberty to stay at home--to be with her mother up to the
moment of her going to that interview which Mr. Strafford advised, and
to be on the spot at her return to hear without delay whatever its
result might be.
In the afternoon, while the whole town was occupied with the ceremony
which had so deep and painful an interest for everybody, Mrs. Costello
and her faithful friend started for the jail. They said little to each
other on the way, but as they drew near the end of their walk, Mrs.
Costello began to talk about indifferent subjects by way of trying to
lift for a moment the oppressive weight of thought which seemed almost
to stupefy her. But the effort was to little purpose, and by the time
they reached the door of the prison she was so excessively pale, and
looked so faint and ill, that Mr. Strafford almost repented of his
advice. It was too late now, however, to turn back, and all that could
be done was to say, "Take courage; don't betray yourself by your face."
The hint was enough, to one so accustomed to self-restraint; and when
the jailer met them, she had forced herself to look much as usual.
But though she had sufficient command over herself to do this, and even
to join, as much as was necessary, in the short conversation which took
place before they were admitted to the prisoner's cell, she could not
afterwards remember anything clearly until the moment when she followed
Mr. Strafford through a heavy door, and found herself in the presence of
her husband.
Then she seemed suddenly to wake, and the scene before her to flash at
once and ineffaceably into her mind. It was a clean bare room, with a
bed in one corner, and a chair and table in the middle; the stone
walls, the floor and ceiling, all white, and a bright flood of sunshine
coming in through the unshaded window. Sitting on the only chair, with
his arms spread over the table, and his head resting on them, was the
prisoner. His face was hidden, but the coarse, disordered dress, the
long hair, half grey, half black, lying loose and shaggy over his bony
hands, the dreary broken-down expression of his attitude, made a picture
not to be looked upon without pity. Yet the thing that seemed most
pathetic of all was that utter change in the man which, even at the
first glance, was so plainly evident. This visitor, standing silent and
unnoticed by the door, had come in full of recollections, not even of
him as she had seen him last, but of him as she had married him twenty
years ago. Of _him?_ It seemed almost incredible--yet for the very sake
of the past and for the pitiful alteration now, she felt her heart yearn
towards that desolate figure, and going softly forward she laid her hand
upon his shoulder.
"Christian!" she said in a low and trembling voice.
The prisoner slowly moved, as if waking from a doze. He raised his
head, pushed back his tangled hair and looked at her.
What a face! It needed all her pity to help her to repress a shudder;
but there was no recognition in the dull heavy eyes.
"Christian," she repeated. "See, I am your wife. I am Mary, who left
Moose Island so many years ago."
Still he looked at her in the same dull way, scarcely seeming to see
her.
"Mary," he repeated mechanically. "She went away." Then changing to his
own language, he said with more energy, "She is hidden, but I shall find
her; no fear," and his head sank down again upon his arm.
His wife trembled as she heard the old threat which had pursued her for
so long, but she would not be discouraged. She spoke again in Ojibway,
"She is found. She wants to help and comfort her husband. She is here.
Raise your head and look at her."
He obeyed, and looked steadily at her, but still with the look of one
but half awake.
"No," he said slowly. "All lies. Mary is not like you. She has bright
eyes, and brown hair, soft and smooth like a bird's wing. I beat her,
and she ran away. Go! I want to sleep."
Mr. Strafford came forward.
"Have you forgotten me, too, Christian?" he asked.
Christian turned to him with something like recognition.
"No. You were here yesterday. Tell them to let me go away."
"It is because I want to persuade them to let you go, that I am here
now, and your--this lady, whom you do not remember, also."
"What does a squaw know? Send her away."
A look passed between the two friends, and the wife moved to a little
distance from her husband, where she was out of his sight.
"I wish," Mr. Strafford said, "you could tell me exactly what you were
doing the day they brought you here."
"I was sleeping," Christian answered. "I lay under the bush, and went to
sleep; and then they came and woke me, and brought me here. I want air!"
he cried, suddenly changing his tone, and springing up, he rushed to the
grated window, and seemed to gasp for breath. The small lattice stood
open, but the prisoner, devoured by fever, could not be satisfied with
such coolness as came in through it. He seized the iron bars with
trembling hands and tried to shake them; then finding it useless, went
back to his chair, and covering his face, burst into tears.
Mrs. Costello was instantly at his side. In her strange, short married
life she had given no caresses to her tyrant; now, upon this miserable
wreck, she lavished all the compassionate tenderness of her heart. Mr.
Strafford stood by helpless, yielding to the woman her natural place of
comforter. For a moment, as she held his head upon her bosom and laid
her cool soft hand upon his burning forehead, Christian seemed to
recognize her; he looked up into her face piteously, and once or twice
repeated to himself, "Mary, Mary," but memory would not help him
further. She soothed him, however, much as if he had been some wretched
sick child, and after a time persuaded him to lie down on his bed,
where, almost immediately, he fell asleep.
So they left him, and in going out, heard from the jailer that he often
slept thus for hours together--rarely eating, and asking only for water
and air.
One thing had been effected by their visit. From the moment when the
prisoner, powerless henceforward to hurt or terrify her, was supported
by his wife's arms, and soothed by her voice, she began to believe,
completely and for ever, in his innocence of the crime of which he was
accused, and to be ready to fight his battle with all her energy and all
her resources. Only the recollection of Lucia prevented her from
instantly avowing the relationship so long concealed; and in the first
warmth of a generous reaction, she almost regretted that she had not
sent her child away, even to England, that she might now be free to
devote herself to Christian. On their return to the Cottage they found
Lucia watching with feverish anxiety for their coming and their news;
but it was not until mother and daughter were shut up together in Mrs.
Costello's room that all could be told. Nor even then; for the wife's
heart had been too deeply touched; and not even her child could see into
its troubled tender depths. But, nevertheless, Lucia caught from her
mother the blessed certainty that, though man's justice might not clear
the prisoner of murder, heaven's did; and they rejoiced together over
this poor comfort, as if all the rest of their burden were easy to bear.
Afterwards a council was held as to what could be done for Christian's
defence. All legal help possible must be obtained, they decided, at any
risk; but to the two women this did not seem enough. One of them, at
least, would have liked to try any scheme, however difficult or absurd,
for fixing the guilt upon the true criminal, and so saving the false
one; but so far from that, they must not even suffer their agitation and
keen interest to be noticed; the very lawyers must be engaged with
caution or bound to secrecy. As long as their secret _could_ be kept, it
must. And Mr. Strafford could not remain at Cacouna. He had come
promptly to the help of the one unfortunate member of his flock, but the
little community on the island always felt his absence grievously, and
three or four days was the utmost he could spare at a time. Mrs.
Costello greatly desired to see her husband again, but to do so without
Mr. Strafford's presence was a trial from which she shrank, and which he
thought there was not sufficient reason for her to undergo. It was
decided therefore that he should make arrangements by which, and by the
kindness of the jailer, she should be kept constantly informed of his
condition of health, both mental and bodily. "If he should be either
worse in body or better in mind," she said, "I shall go to him at once;
and I have a strong presentiment that he will need me before long."
A separate consultation from which Lucia was excluded, ended in a
decision to which she would certainly not have consented, however she
might, later, be obliged to yield to it. This was, that if Mrs. Costello
should feel herself called upon to avow her marriage for her husband's
sake, Lucia should first be sent to England and confided to the care of
her mother's cousin, George Wynter, so that she, at least, might be
spared the hard task of facing her small familiar world under a new and
degraded character. But of this plan Lucia suspected nothing. Her
thoughts travelled as often as ever they had done, to that misty _terra
incognita_ which Canadians still call "Home," for now Maurice was there,
and perhaps (but for that thought she reproved herself) Percy also; but
she had now wholly given up her dreams of visiting it, and most surely
would not have resumed them with the prospect of leaving her mother in
sorrow and alone.