Lucia walked with her mother to the gates of the jail, but she could not
obtain permission to go any further. Although the proposal to send her
to England was, in fact, abandoned, there seemed no reason why she
should be brought sooner than was needful into contact with what could
not but be painful; and she was obliged to yield in this matter to her
mother's judgment.
They parted, therefore, at the gates; and Mrs. Costello was admitted
without delay to the cell where Christian was confined. A cell, properly
speaking, it was not; for they had removed him since her former visit,
and he now occupied a good-sized room on the upper floor, which was
nearly as bare and as glaringly white as the other, but more airy. His
low wooden bedstead was drawn near to the window, which, cold as it was,
stood open, while a small box-stove, heated almost red hot, kept the
temperature of the room tolerably high. On the bed, partly dressed, and
wrapped in a blanket, lay the prisoner. He neither moved nor paid any
attention when his visitor came in, and she had time to see all the
change confinement and illness had made in him. And the change was,
indeed, startling. All the flush of intemperance had left his face, and
at this moment his fever had subsided also, and left him only the
natural dark but clear tint of his Indian blood; his hair had been
smoothly combed, and looked less grey than when it hung tangled and
knotted; his extreme weakness gave him an aspect of repose, which
brought back the ghost of his old self--something of the look of that
Christian who had been, to a girl's fancy, so fit a hero of romance.
It was but a likeness, truly, shadowy and dim, but it seemed to bridge
over the interval--the long, long weary years since the hero changed
into the tyrant, and to make far easier that task of comforting and
helping which duty, and not love, had imposed.
She came to his side, and still he did not notice her. His eyes were
fixed on the pale, grey, snowy sky, and he seemed deaf to the slight
sounds of her movements. She sat down and watched him silently. From the
first moment she knew that all, and more than all, Elton had said was
true. She saw death unmistakable, inevitable, and close at hand, and
reproached herself for not having come sooner. But in that strange calm
and stillness, even self-reproach seemed to be curbed and
repressed--even a quickened beating of the heart would have been out of
place. So they remained until fully half an hour had passed, when the
door of the room again opened; this time to admit the doctor.
He was an elderly man, kind, busy, and quick in his words and motions.
He came in briskly, and looked rather surprised at seeing Mrs. Costello.
She only bowed, however, and drew back as he came towards the bedside.
He was followed into the room by the jailer's wife, who had
compassionately tended the prisoner ever since his illness increased.
Christian seemed to wake from his stupor, or dream, at the sound of the
doctor's voice. He answered the questions put to him mechanically but
clearly, and with his old purity of accent and expression. The dialogue,
however, even with Mrs. Elton's comments, was but a short one, and as
soon as it was ended, Mrs. Costello came forward and stopped the doctor
on his way from the room.
"Will you tell me," she said in a low voice, "exactly what you think of
him?"
He looked at her again with some surprise.
"I am interested in the question," she went on, regulating her voice
with a painful effort. "I assure you it is not from mere curiosity I
ask."
"He is very low, very low indeed; but allow me to say, this is not the
place for you."
"I will not do myself any harm," she answered, with a faint smile; "you
shall not have any occasion to scold me."
"How long have you been here?"
"About half an hour. And you may feel my pulse if you like; it is
perfectly steady."
She held out her wrist; the pulse was, in fact, quite regular, rather
more so than usual, and there was nothing to show that the sick room was
"not the place for her."
"Now tell me," she said; "he is dying, is not he?"
"Yes. Best thing that can happen to him, poor wretch."
"You don't think he will live to be tried?"
He shook his head.
"More than doubtful."
"But it is only a fortnight, and there seems to be no acute disease."
"He would have a better chance of living if there were. He is completely
worn out--dying of exhaustion. It is a question if he lasts another
week."
"Tell me, please, exactly what can be done for him."
"Very little indeed. And Mrs. Elton is a good nurse."
The same look of inquiry as before was in the doctor's face while he
gave this answer, and Mrs. Costello felt that some explanation was
necessary.
"I have no doubt she is. But I knew him--knew something of him--many
years ago," she said; "and Mr. Strafford, the clergyman at Moose Island,
you know, confided him to my care."
She spoke hurriedly, but without faltering, and the doctor was
satisfied. He told her briefly all that could be done for his patient,
and then went away, with a last warning not to stay too long.
This short conversation had been carried on rapidly and in very low
tones. Mrs. Elton had left the room, and Christian seemed quite
unconscious of the presence of the speakers. When the doctor was gone,
his wife again came to his bedside, and seeing that he had not yet sunk
back quite into his former lethargic state, she laid her hand gently on
his without speaking.
He did not move, but merely raised his languid eyes to her face.
Something there, however, seemed to fix them, and he lay looking at her
with a steady intent gaze, as if trying to recognise her.
"Christian," she said very softly, with a trembling voice, "do you
remember me?"
"I remember," he answered in a half whisper, "not you, but something
like you."
"I am changed since then," she went on; "we are both changed, but we
shall be together again now."
He was still watching her, and there seemed to be a clearer
consciousness in his gaze.
"Are you Mary?" he asked after a moment.
"I am Mary, your wife," she answered.
"There was something else," he went on, slowly groping as it were for
broken memories of the past. "There was another."
"Our child?" she asked, "Do you remember her?"
"Yes; is she here?"
"No. Would you like to see her?"
"No matter. I lost you. Where have you been?"
"Near here. Forget that; now I shall not leave you again for long."
"I am tired; I think I shall sleep."
And the light began to fade out of his eyes, and the same kind of dull
insensibility, not sleep, crept over him again.
She left him at last in much the same state as she found him; and after
a long talk with Mrs. Elton, who was at first a little inclined to be
jealous of interference, but came round completely after a while, she
left the jail and started for home.
It was a dreary walk, through the snowy roads and under the
leaden-coloured sky. She had to pass through a part of the town which
lay close to the river, where the principal shops and warehouses stood.
Passing one of the shops, or as they were generally called, "stores,"
she remembered some purchases she wanted to make, and went in. While she
was occupied with her business, some loud voices at the further end of
the store attracted her attention, and she was aware of a group of men
sitting upon barrels and boxes, and keeping up a noisy conversation,
mixed with frequent bursts of laughter.
The store was not one of the best class even for Cacouna, but Mrs.
Costello had gone into it because it had a kind of "specialité," for the
articles she required. It was most frequented by rough backwoodsmen and
farmers, and to that class the noisy party seemed to belong. Some little
time was necessary to find from a back shop one of the things Mrs.
Costello asked for, and while she waited she could not help but hear
what these men were saying. A good many oaths garnished their speeches,
which, deprived of them, were much as follows:
"You did not go into mourning, anyhow?"
"Not I. Saved me a deal of trouble, _he_ did."
"You'll be turned out all the same, yet, I guess."
"They have not turned me out yet. And if Bellairs tries that trick
again, I'll send my old woman and the baby to Mrs. Morton. That'll fix
it."
There was a roar of laughter. Then,
"They are sure to hang him, I suppose?"
"First hanging ever's been at Cacouna if they do."
"I guess you'll be going to see him hung, eh, Clarkson?"
"I reckon so; but it's time I was off."
One of the speakers, a thickset, heavy-browed man, came down the store,
stared rudely at Mrs. Costello as he passed, and going out, got into a
waggon that stood outside, and drove away.
At the same moment the shopman came back and wondered at his customer's
trembling hand as he showed her what he had brought. She scarcely
understood what he said. She had turned cold as ice, and was saying over
and over to herself, "The murderer, the murderer." She hurried to finish
her business and get out into the open air, for in the store she felt
stifled. She had never before seen, to her knowledge, this Clarkson,
whom she accused in her heart; and now his evil countenance, his harsh
voice and brutal laugh had thrown her into a sudden terror and tumult.
As she walked quickly along, she remembered a story she had heard of
him, when and how she scarcely knew, but the story itself came back to
her mind with singular distinctness.
A poor boy, an orphan, had been engaged by Clarkson as a servant. Much
of the hard rough work about the kind of bush farm established by the
squatter, fell to his share; he was not ill fed, for Mrs. Clarkson saw
to that, but his promised wages never were paid. The lad complained to
his few acquaintance that nearly the whole sum due to him for two years'
service was still in his master's hands, and though he dared not let
Clarkson know that he had complained, he took courage, by their advice,
to threaten him with the law. One day soon after this, Clarkson and his
servant were both engaged loading a kind of raft, or flat boat, with
various produce for market. A dispute arose between them, the boy fell
or was pushed overboard, and though the creek was quite shallow, and he
was known to be able to swim, he was never seen from that time.
This was the story which had been whispered about until Mrs. Costello
heard it, and which now returned to her mind with horrible force. A
murderer, a double, a treble murderer--(for was not Christian dying from
the consequences of _his_ guilt?); she felt at that moment no
resignation, but a fierce desire to push aside all the cruel, complete,
_false_ evidence, and force justice to recognize the true criminal.
"Coward that I am!" she cried in her heart. "But I will at least do what
I can. To-morrow I will let the truth about myself be known, and try
whether that cannot be made to help me to the other truth. To-morrow,
to-morrow!"
She reached home exhausted, yet sustained by a new energy, and told
Lucia her story and her determination. To her, young and impatient of
the constant repression and concealment, this resolve was a welcome
relief; and they talked of it, and of the future together until they
half persuaded themselves that to restore to Christian his wife and
daughter would be but the beginning of a change which should restore him
both life and liberty.