Mrs. Costello leaned back in her chair, and Mr. Strafford watched her
from under the shadow of his hand. Since the winter set in she had taken
to wear a soft white shawl, and her caps were of a closer, simpler make
than they used to be--perhaps these changes made her look older. It was
impossible, too, that she should have passed through the trouble of the
last few months without showing its effects to some degree, and yet it
seemed to her old friend that there was more alteration than he could
see occasion for. Her face had a weary, worn-out look, and the hand that
lay listlessly on the arm of her chair was terribly thin. Those fainting
fits, too, of which Lucia had told him, and the one which she had had
that day, were alarming. He knew the steady self-command which she had
been used to exert in the miseries of her married life, and judged that
her long endurance must have weakened her physical powers no little
before she was so far conquered by emotion. He consoled himself,
however, with the idea that her sufferings must be now nearly at an end,
and that she was so young still that she could only need rest and
happiness to recover. He said this to himself, and yet meantime he
watched her uneasily, and did not feel at all so sure of her recovery as
he tried to persuade himself he did.
There had been a long silence; for, after Mrs. Costello had told her
story, there was enough to occupy the thoughts of all, and after a while
each feared to break upon the other's reverie. And as it happened, the
meditations of the two elder people had turned in almost the same
direction, though they were guided by a different knowledge of
circumstances. Mrs. Costello knew that to be true which Mr. Strafford
only vaguely feared; she was thoroughly aware of the precarious hold she
had on life, and how each fresh shock, whether of joy or sorrow,
hastened the end. Her one anxiety was for Lucia, and the safe disposal
of her future. She told herself often that her cares were exaggerated,
but they would stay with her nevertheless, and rather seemed to grow in
intensity with every change that occurred. But to-night, certainly, a
gleam of the hope which she had of late, so carefully shut out, again
crossed her mind. How great a change had come since morning, since last
night, when she wrote that final decisive letter to Maurice! It was
already on its way to England, she knew, for it chanced to be the very
time for the mail starting; and there would be an interval of a week
between its arrival and that of any later intelligence. For a week
Maurice would believe Lucia's father to be a murderer, and if _then_, in
spite of all, he remained faithful to his old love, would he not have an
unanswerable right to claim her--would there be any excuse for denying
his claim since her father was proved to be innocent? The belief that he
would be faithful was, after all, strong in Mrs. Costello's mind; she
who had known Maurice all his life knew perfectly that no
considerations, which had himself in any way for their object, would
have the smallest weight with him against his love, or even against what
he chose to consider his honour.
Her face unconsciously brightened while she thought over all these
things, and suffered herself again to dwell on her old favourite idea
without being in the least doubtful as to Lucia's final consent. Yet
while she thus laid the foundation for new castles in the air, Lucia
herself was busy with thoughts and recollections not too favourable to
her mother's plans.
Percy, not Maurice, filled _her_ mind. She went back, in her fancies, to
the night when he had told her she must go with him to England, and she
had been so happy and so ignorant of all that was to separate them. Then
she thought of the next day, and how she had sent him away, and told him
that it would disgrace him to marry her. Somehow the disgrace which had
weighed so heavily on her then seemed marvellously light now, since she
had known one so much deeper; and in the blessed sense of freedom which
came to her through Clarkson's confession, she was ready to think that
all else was of small consequence. Did not girls marry every day whose
fathers were all that her father had been? Ah, not _all_; there was
always that Indian blood, which, though it might be the blood of kings
and heroes, put its possessor on a level with the lowest of Europeans,
or rather put him apart as something little higher than a brute. She
knew this; but to-night she would not think of it. She would only see
what she liked; and for the first time began to weave impossible fabrics
of hope and happiness. Where was he, her one lover, for she thought of
no other? She had no fear of a rival with him, not even of that Lady
Adeliza, of whom she had heard, and whom she had once feared. Now she
knew that he really had loved _her_, and feared nothing; for even
supposing that he would in time forget her, love had not had time to
change yet. And need it change at all? She and her mother were going
by-and-by to Europe, and there they might meet. Who could tell?
But all these things which have taken so long to say took but a few
minutes to think; and of the three who sat together, neither would have
guessed how long a train of ideas passed through the brains of the
others in the interval of their talk. Mrs. Costello was the first to
rouse herself.
"You do not yet know," she said to Mr. Strafford, "what my plans for
to-morrow are. I meant to ask you to go with me to the jail, and Mr.
Leigh has kindly offered to join us."
"You have quite decided, then, to let everybody know?"
"I _had_ quite decided; and now, even if I still wished to keep the
secret, it is too late."
"Why?"
"I have already told Mr. Leigh and his son; and besides that, Mr.
Bellairs and Mrs. Elton must both have wondered why I should be more
excited by what we heard to-day than anybody else."
"That is true; but, from what you have told me, I had begun to doubt
whether you need acknowledge your relationship. It seems by no means
certain now that to do so would be of much benefit to Christian."
"It would give me the right to be with him constantly. We have made up
our minds, both Lucia and I, as to what we are to do. Don't, please, try
to alter our plans."
"I hesitate," he answered, "only because you have already suffered so
much, and I fear the excitement for you."
"All the excitement possible on that subject is over. You will see that
I shall take what has to come yet quietly enough. And I am certain that
you will not tell me that a wife is excusable if she neglects a dying
husband."
"Assuredly not. You will be glad to have Mr. Leigh with you?"
"For some things, yes. Yesterday I thought that there was no one whose
presence could have been such a comfort to me; for, except himself, our
greatest friends here are, as you know, the nearest connections of Dr.
Morton; so that till this confession, which has done so much for us, I
could not have asked for sympathy or help from them."
"No; but now they would give it readily enough if they knew. What do you
think of going first to Mrs. Bellairs, or asking her to come to you? It
seems to me that, if that were not the most comfortable thing for you,
it would be for Lucia."
Lucia looked eagerly at her mother.
"Yes, mamma," she said; "let me go into Cacouna in the morning, and ask
her to come and see you. Do tell her first, and let her tell Bella."
Mrs. Costello understood how her child caught at the idea of being
relieved from the sense of deceit which had lately weighed upon her
whenever she was in the company of her two friends. The idea, too, of
telling her secret to the kindly ear of a woman rather than to men, was
an improvement on her own purpose. She assented, therefore, thankfully.
"Only," she said, "there is no need for you to go. I will write a note
to Mrs. Bellairs, and I think she will come to us."
But, as it happened, the note, although written, was not sent. On the
following morning, just as breakfast was over at the Cottage, Mrs.
Bellairs' pony and sleigh came to the door, and, after a hasty inquiry
for Mrs. Costello, Mrs. Bellairs herself came in.
"William told me," she said, "that he had seen you yesterday, and that
you were not well; so I thought the best thing I could do was to come
myself, and see how you were to-day."
There were a few minutes of talk, like, and yet unlike, what might have
taken place between the same party at any other time--unlike, for each
was talking of one thing, and thinking of another; even Mrs. Bellairs,
who had, of course, heard from her husband the history of her friend's
extraordinary and unaccountable agitation at the jail, and was full of
wonder and curiosity in consequence.
After a little while Mr. Strafford left the room. Lucia was watching for
an opportunity to follow him, when her mother signed to her to remain,
and at once began to speak of what had happened yesterday.
"That unhappy man's confession," she said, "must have been a relief to
you all, I should think; but you cannot guess what it was to us."
"It was a relief," Mrs. Bellairs answered, "for it will save so much
horrible publicity, and the going over again of all that dreadful story;
but it is shocking to think of that poor Indian, shut up in prison so
long when he was innocent. But William will not rest till he is at
liberty."
"I fear he will never be that. He is dying."
"Oh! I hope not. William told me he was very ill; but when we get him
once free, he must be taken good care of, and surely he will recover."
"I think not. I do not think it possible he can live many days; and no
one has the same interest in the question that I have."
She stopped a moment, and then, drawing Lucia towards her, laid her hand
gently on her shoulder.
"Dear friend," she said, "you have spoken to me often about this child's
beauty; look at her well, and see if it will not tell you what her
father was."
Mrs. Bellairs obeyed. Lucia, under the impulse of excitement, had
suddenly risen, and now stood pressing one hand upon the mantelpiece to
steady herself. Her eyes were full of a wistful inexplicable meaning;
her whole figure with its dark and graceful beauty seemed to express a
mystery, but it was one to which no key appeared.
"Her father?" Mrs. Bellairs repeated. "He was a Spaniard, was not he?"
"I have never said so. People imagined it, and I was glad that they
should, but it is not true."
"Who then? She is dark like a Spaniard or Italian."
"Are there no dark races but those of Europe?"
"_What_ do you mean? Tell me, for Heaven's sake!"
"You have always thought me a widow, yet my husband is still alive. I
left him long ago when he did not need me; now he is ill and in prison,
and I am going back to him. He is Christian, whom you have all thought a
murderer."
"Christian! the Indian? Impossible! Lucia, can this be true?"
"It is true."
"And you knew it all this time?"
"Yes. All the time."
"My poor child, what misery! But I cannot understand. How can this be?"
"Do you not shrink from us! We tell you the truth. We are not what you
have always known us; we are only the wife and daughter of an Indian."
"Don't--don't speak so. What difference can it make to me? Only, how
could you bear all you must have borne? It is wonderful. I can scarcely
believe it yet."
"Do not suppose that Lucia has been deceiving you all these years; _she_
only knew the truth a few months ago."
"But there is no deceit. You had a right to keep such a secret if you
chose." Mrs. Bellairs rose. She stepped to Lucia's side and kissed her
pale cheeks. "You must have had Indian courage," she said, "to be so
brave and steady at your age."
Lucia returned the kiss with an earnestness that expressed a whole world
of grateful affection. Then she slipped out of the room, and left the
two friends together.
They both sat down again; this time side by side, and Mrs. Costello told
in few words as much of her story as was needful. She dwelt, however, so
lightly on the sufferings of her life at Moose Island that any one, who
had known or loved her less than Mrs. Bellairs did, might have thought
she had fled with too little reason from the ties she was now so anxious
to resume. She spoke very shortly, too, of the fears she had had during
the past summer of some discovery, and mentioned having told Lucia her
true history, without any allusion to the particular time when it was
told. Mrs. Bellairs recollected the meeting with the squaw at the farm,
and inquired whether Lucia then knew of her Indian descent.
"No," Mrs. Costello said, "that was one of the things which alarmed me.
I did not tell her till some time after that; not, indeed, until after
Bella's marriage."
"Poor child! and then for this terrible trouble to come! No wonder you
are both changed."
"Do you think _her_ changed?" Mrs. Costello asked in alarm. "She has
been so brave."
"She has grown to look much older and as if she thought too much; that
is all. And _that_ is no wonder."
Mrs. Costello was silent for a moment. She knew that Lucia had had
another burden, especially her own, to bear, and it seemed to her that
Mrs. Bellairs must know or guess something of it too. If she did, it
would be as well for her to know the exact truth. She made up her mind
at once.
"I found that it was necessary to tell her," she said, "just before Mr.
Percy went away."
Mrs. Bellairs looked at her inquiringly.
"I was afraid," she answered, "that he was likely to cause you some
uneasiness."
"He did more than that," Mrs. Costello said. "He gave Lucia her first
hard thoughts of her mother. But after all I may be doing him injustice.
Did you know that he really wanted to carry her away with him?"
"He _did_! And she refused him?"
"She refused him, when she knew her own position, and the impossibility
of her marrying him."
"Dear Mrs. Costello, what complications! I begin to understand now all
that has puzzled me."
"You had some suspicion of the truth?"
"Of part of it. I don't like Edward Percy, and I was afraid he was
gaining an influence with Lucia which would make her unhappy. I even
thought at one time that he was really in earnest, but from some news we
received a few days ago I set that down as a mistake."
"News of him? What was it?"
"That he is engaged to a lady whom his father wished him to marry; and
that they are to be married almost immediately."
"I am very glad," Mrs. Costello said, "and there is nothing to be
surprised about. He was tempted for the moment by a pretty face, but he
was not a man to waste time in thinking about a girl who had refused
him."
She said this; but she thought in her heart, 'He is not like Maurice. If
Lucia had refused him so, he would have known that she loved him still;
and while she did so, he would have had no thoughts for any other.' She
asked, however,
"Did you hear from _him_ that this was true?"
"No. But it was from an old college friend of my husband's who is now in
England."
"I do not see any use in telling Lucia. She dismissed him herself, and
is, I hope, fast forgetting him in all these other affairs that have
come upon us."
"Surely she cannot have cared enough for him to feel the separation as
she would have done if he had really been worth loving," Mrs. Bellairs
added; and then they left the subject, quite forgetting that reason and
love seldom go hand-in-hand, and that Lucia was still devoutly believing
in two falsities: first, that Percy was capable of a steady and faithful
affection, and secondly, that he must still have something of that
affection for her. Even at this very moment she was comforting her heart
with this belief; and the discovery that her mother's dearest friends
showed no inclination to desert them in their new character, filled her
with a kind of blind sweet confidence in that one whom, as she now
thought, she had treated so ungenerously, and who did not yet know their
secret.
In the parlour, meanwhile, many things were discussed. Mrs. Bellairs
assured her friend that the necessary arrangements for Christian's
release had already been commenced, and that Mr. Bellairs would see that
there was not a moment's delay which could be avoided. On the other
hand, however, there was strong in Mrs. Costello's mind the doubt
whether her husband would live to be removed. The utmost she now hoped
for, with any certainty, was to have liberty to be with him constantly
till the end. Finally, she told Mrs. Bellairs of her intention of going
to the jail that day and announcing her claim to the first place by the
prisoner's sick bed. Mrs. Bellairs thought a little over this plan, then
she said,
"It is impossible that in this weather you can be constantly going
backwards and forwards between here and the jail. At our house you would
be scarcely three minutes' drive away, and there is always the sleigh
and Bob. You and Lucia must come and stay with us."
And to this plan after much opposition and argument they were all
obliged to give in; Mr. Strafford and Lucia were called into council,
but Mrs. Bellairs was resolved.
"You shall see nobody," she said. "You shall be exactly as much at
liberty as if you were at home, and it will spare you both time and
strength for your nursing. It will do Bella good, too; and if we can be
of any use or comfort to you, it will seem a kind of reparation."