The time of the Assizes drew near, and Mrs. Costello looked forward to
it with feelings of mixed, but almost wholly painful, anticipation. She
was now in daily expectation of receiving a letter from her cousin,
which should authorize her to send Lucia at once to England, and she had
not yet dared to speak on the subject. She thought, with reluctance, of
sending her child to the neighbourhood of Chester, where her own youth
and unfortunate marriage might still be remembered, or, if almost
forgotten, would be readily called to mind by the singular beauty of the
half-Indian girl; and she doubted how far the only other arrangement
which suggested itself to her, that of placing her daughter at school,
might be practicable. She had, also, to add to her other perplexities, a
lurking conviction that, whenever Lucia did become aware of the plans
that had been made for her, those plans stood no small chance of being
entirely swept away; or, if carried out at all, that they would be
finally shaped and modified according to Lucia's own judgment and
affection for herself, of which two qualities she had for a long time
been having daily stronger proofs. But in whatever way she regarded the
future, it was full of difficulties and darkness; and she had no longer
either strength or courage to face these hopefully. The fainting fits
which had twice alarmed Lucia, and which she spoke of as trifling and
temporary indispositions, she herself knew perfectly well to be only one
of the symptoms of a firmly-rooted and increasing disease. She had taken
pains to satisfy herself of the truth; she knew that she might live for
years; and that, under ordinary circumstances, there was very little
fear of the immediate approach of death; but she knew, also, that every
hour of agitation or excitement hastened its steps; and how could she
hope to avoid either? The very effort to decide whether she ought to
part with her child, or to suffer her to remain and face the impending
revelations, was in itself an excitement in which life wasted fast.
But in this, as in so many human affairs, forethought was useless; and
the course of events, over which so many weary hours of calculation had
been spent, was already tending in a direction wholly unthought of and
unexpected. The first indication of this was the increasing illness of
Christian.
When Mr. Strafford returned to Moose Island, after his second stay at
Cacouna, he had begged Elton, the kind-hearted jailer, to send word to
Mrs. Costello if any decided change took place in the prisoner before
his return; and as she was known to be his friend and correspondent,
this attracted no remark, and was readily promised. A little more than a
fortnight before the expected trial, Elton himself came one day to the
Cottage, and asked for Mrs. Costello. She received him with an alarm
difficult to conceal, and, guessing his errand, asked at once if he had
a worse account of his prisoner to send to Mr. Strafford?
"Well, ma'am," he answered, "I don't know whether to call it a worse
account or not, considering all things; but he is certainly very ill,
poor creature."
"What is it? Anything new, or only an increase of weakness?"
"Just that, ma'am. Always a fever, and every day less strength to stand
against it. The doctor says he can't last long in the way he's going
on."
"And can _nothing_ be done?"
"Well, you see, he can't take food; and more air than he has we can't
give him. It is hard on those that have spent most of their lives out of
doors to be shut up anywhere, and naturally he feels stifled."
"Do you say he takes no food?"
"Next to none. It is not to say that he can't take the regular meals,
but we have tried everything we could think of, and it is all much the
same."
"I should like to see him again. Can I do so?"
"Oh yes, ma'am. There need be no difficulty about that; but he knows
nobody."
Elton got up to leave.
"I will write to Mr. Strafford," Mrs. Costello said, "and meantime I
will come myself to-morrow, if you can admit me then."
"Certainly, ma'am, and I am much obliged to you."
Mrs. Costello sank back into her chair when he was gone, and covered her
face with her hands. Disease and death then would not wait for that
trial, to which she had looked as the inevitable first step towards the
prisoner's release. He was about perhaps to be emancipated in a speedier
way than by man's justice. But if so, would not he be always supposed
guilty? Would not the blot upon her and her child be ineffaceable?
Whether or not, he must not die alone, untended by those who were
nearest to him, and dependent on the charity and kindness of strangers.
She called Lucia, and told her what she had just heard.
"I shall write to Mr. Strafford," she said, "and if there seems no
special reason for doing otherwise, I will wait for his coming before I
make any change; but if he cannot come just now, or if I should find it
needful for--for your father's sake, Lucia, our secret must be told at
once."
At that word "your father" a sudden flush had risen to the cheeks of
both mother and child. They had both been learning lately to _think_ of
the father and husband by his rightful titles, but this was perhaps the
first time he had been so spoken of; each felt it as the first step
towards his full recognition.
Lucia was silent for a moment, and Mrs. Costello asked, "Do you think
that is being too hasty?"
"Oh! _no_, mamma. I think it should be done at once. But you will let me
go with you?"
"Not to-morrow, darling; perhaps afterwards."
"Mamma, I ought to go."
Mrs. Costello in her turn was silent, thinking whether this new
emergency ought not to hasten the execution of her plans for Lucia.
Finally, she decided that it ought; but it was with some trepidation
that she began the subject.
"I see plainly enough," she said, with an effort to smile, "that I ought
to go, and that my strongest duty at present will be at the jail, but I
am not so sure about you."
"But you do not suppose that I shall let you wear yourself out while I
stay at home doing nothing?"
"I wish you to go away for a time."
"Me! Away from you?"
"Would it be so hard?"
"Impossible. I would not leave you for anything."
"Not even to obey me, Lucia?"
"Mamma, _what_ do you mean?"
"I wish you to go for a little while to England, where you have so often
wished to go."
"And in the meantime what are you going to do?"
"At present you see how I shall be occupied. When the trial is over, I
hope to bring your father here and nurse him as long as he requires
nursing."
"And then?"
"Then we will be together somewhere; I do not yet know where."
"And where am I to go in England?"
"My cousin will take care of you for me. Remember, it is only for a
little while."
"Have you been plotting against me long, mother?"
"My child, I have been obliged to think of your future."
"And you thought that I was a baby still--only an encumbrance, to be
sent away from you when you had other troubles to think of?"
"My best comforter, rather."
"Well then, mother, I have my plan, which is better than yours, and more
practicable, too."
"Mine is perfectly practicable; I have thought well of it."
"It is impracticable; because I am not going to England, or indeed to
leave you at all."
"But, Lucia, I have written to my cousin."
"I am very sorry, mamma, but I cannot help it. Indeed, I do not want to
be disobedient, or to vex you, but you must see that if I _did_ go it
would only make us both wretched, and besides, it would not be _right_."
Mrs. Costello sighed.
"How not right?"
"I think, mother, that when people know who we are--I mean when my
father comes here--there will be a great deal of speculation and gossip
about us all, and people will watch us very closely, and that it would
be better if when you bring him home, everything should be as if he had
never been away from us. Do you know what I mean?"
"I suppose I do," Mrs. Costello answered slowly. "You mean that when we
take him back, we should not seem to be ashamed of him?"
Lucia hid her face against her mother's dress.
"Oh! mamma, is it wrong to talk so? He is my father after all, and it
seems so dreadful; but indeed I shall try to behave like a daughter to
him."
Yet even as she spoke, an irrepressible shudder crept over her with the
sudden recollection of the only time she had seen the prodigal.
"My poor child!" and her mother's arm was passed tenderly round her, "it
is just that I wish to spare you."
Lucia looked up steadily.
"But ought I to be spared, mother? It seems to me that my duty is just
as plain as yours. Do not ask me to go away."
"I am half distracted, darling, between trying to think for you and for
him. And perhaps all my thought for him may be useless."
"At least, think only of him for the present."
"If he should die before the trial?"
"If he could only be cleared! Perhaps it would save him yet."
"Yes. It seems to be imprisonment which is killing him; but nothing less
than a miracle could make any change now, and there are no miracles in
our days."
"Ah! mamma, has not a miracle been worked already?"
"How?"
"Only a little while ago remember how we thought and spoke of him--and
now--"
"You are right, my child; but the agencies which have worked this
miracle are very earthly ones--pain and sorrow, and false accusation."
"Mamma, I think this is better than the old life of terror, and perhaps
hatred."
"Far better, far better. Yes, through dark and painful means a better
end is coming. But it is hard to think that you must live through all
your life under the shadow of a supposed crime. For us who have sinned
life is nearly over, our punishment was just, and it will soon be ended.
It is you, my child, whom I have so tried to shield, who must bear the
heaviest penalty."
"No, mother, do not think so. When all this is over we shall go away,
you and I, and be very happy together again; and the happiness will be
more equally balanced than it was in the old days when you had so much
care and I none. And then, if ever I am left alone, I shall go and be a
Sister of Charity or one of Miss Nightingale's nurses, and be too busy
and useful to be unhappy."
Mrs. Costello stooped down and kissed her child's forehead.
"I thought you might have had a brighter fate than that, darling.
Perhaps I thought more of seeing you a happy woman than a good one; but
if you are never to have the home I wished for you, you will find, at
any rate, that a single woman's life may be full of usefulness and
honour."
Ah! that brighter fate! Mrs. Costello thought of Maurice, and sighed for
the loss to _two_ lives. Lucia's heart still turned loyally to the one
lover who had claimed it, but both knew that the "brighter fate" was no
longer a possibility now.