The end of the conference was that Mr. Strafford started alone for the
jail, while Mrs. Costello and Mrs. Bellairs went together to Mr. Leigh,
to explain to him the new state of affairs; and after that, drove back
to Cacouna, whither Lucia also was to follow later. Mr. Strafford could
at that time spare but one day for his friends. He was to leave by the
evening's boat; and the Cottage was for the present to be deserted,
except by Margery.
Mr. Strafford was admitted with, if possible, even less hesitation than
usual to Christian's room. Every one understood now that the prisoner
was entirely innocent, and in the revulsion of feeling, every one was
disposed to treat with all tenderness and honour as a martyr the very
man who, if he had never been falsely accused, they would probably have
regarded only with disgust or contempt.
Not that there was room for either feeling _now_. It was as if this
man's history had been written from beginning to end, and then the ink
washed from all the middle pages. What memory he had left, went back to
the days when he had been a pupil of the Jesuit priests, and the traces
of that time remained with him, and were evident to all. But all was
blank from those days to these, when he lay in the wintry sunshine
dying, and scarcely conscious that he was dying in a prison. When a
voice out of that forgotten past spoke to him, his recollection seemed
to revive for a moment, and he answered in English or in Ojibway, as he
was addressed. At other times, if he began to speak at all, it was in
French, the most familiar language of his boyhood, and sometimes scraps
of the old priestly Latin would come to his lips as he lay half dozing,
and dreaming perhaps of his life in the mission-school, and the time
when he was to have been a teacher of his own people. Chiefly, however,
he lay quite silent, and seemed neither to see nor to hear what took
place around him. His face, where the hand of death was already
visible, had more of its original beauty than Mr. Strafford had ever
seen on it before; and as he came near to the bedside, he for the first
time began to comprehend, what had always till now been an enigma to
him, why Mary Wynter had loved and married her husband.
Christian roused himself little when he perceived his visitor, and Mr.
Strafford seized the opportunity of speaking to him on the subject of
his imprisonment, as a step towards the great news he had to tell.
"You will be glad," he said, "when you can go away from here. It will be
very soon now, perhaps."
"No," was the answer. "I do not want to go now. If they could take away
a large piece of that wall," he went on dreamily, "so that I could
breathe and see the sky, that is all I care for now."
"You would like, however, to know that you _can_ go away when you
please?"
Christian looked at him earnestly.
"But it is a prison," he said. "How do you mean, that I can go away?"
"Do you recollect why you were brought here?"
"Yes. They thought I had killed somebody. It was all a mistake. I knew
nothing about it; but everybody thought I did."
"They know now that it _was_ a mistake. The man who really did it, has
told all."
"And now?"
"Now you are proved to be innocent. In a very short time you will be
free."
"Free? I shall be free?"
For a moment the dying man raised himself upright. His eyes flashed and
his face glowed as if that thought of freedom had yet power to bring him
back to life. Then he fell back again, and clasped his thin hands over
his eyes.
"Too late," he muttered, "too late!"
Then he began to talk about things that belonged to that former life
which seemed constantly present to his mind. He talked to himself at
first in a half whisper; then, noticing Mr. Strafford, who still sat by
his bedside, he took him for one of his former masters, and spoke to him
in French.
"Mon père," he said, "pray do not be angry with us. We lost our way, and
that is why we have been so long. The woods are green still, but the
ground is soaked with rain, and it is hard to get through the bushes,
and we are very tired."
A long sigh of weariness followed the words; and the prisoner fell into
one of his frequent dozes.
So the great news had been told, and this was all its effect. Yes,
Christian was right; it was too late. Clarkson's work had been well
done; and his second victim was past all human aid.
Mr. Strafford sat and watched; and while he watched, he thought over all
that he had known of the lives of these two, Christian and his wife, who
now occupied his mind so fully. He was still thinking when the doctor
came to pay his daily visit. The two had not met before, but each knew
the other well by report; and to-day each was anxious to question the
other on the same subject. Mr. Strafford, however, was most anxious, and
began first.
"You know, of course," he said, "what I suppose all Cacouna is talking
of. I want to know whether Clarkson's confession has really come too
late?"
"Too late for what, my dear sir? For this poor fellow's justification?"
"Not exactly that, but for his liberation."
The doctor shook his head.
"I have my doubts," he said. "The only thing to be hoped is, that when
he hears that he is really at liberty, it may give him a little
rousing--just stimulate him sufficiently to allow of his being moved
into freer air."
"If that is the only hope, it has failed already," Mr. Strafford
answered, and told what had taken place.
"Then," said the doctor, "I give him up. I am afraid his life is just a
matter of days, perhaps of hours; but let me go and talk to him a
little, and then I will tell you my opinion."
He went to the bedside, and began talking in his brisk, cheerful way, to
his patient, who was now awake. It was evident, however, that the effort
to understand and remember was weaker even than it had been yesterday,
and that this was the effect of increased physical prostration. There
was no longer any fever to supply temporary strength; but life was dying
out quietly, but hopelessly.
Mr. Strafford still waited, with some anxiety, for the decisive
sentence. He had made up his mind that other questions beside and beyond
that of Christian's own fate might be made to depend upon it; and it
cannot be said truly that he felt much sorrow at the idea of its being
unfavourable. It was clear and decided enough, at any rate.
"He may live for two or three days. To attempt to move him would be only
to hasten his death."
"You are certain that there is no hope?"
"Not a shadow."
"Do you think it likely his mind will grow any clearer towards the
last?"
"I do not think it; in fact, it is extremely improbable. You see, his
wandering is simply the result of weakness; as the weakness increases,
the mental faculties will probably cease gradually to act at all. One
can't, of course, say positively when; if he becomes quite unconscious
to-night, death will probably follow in the course of the next
twenty-four hours."
"Poor fellow! There is little, then, that can be done for him?"
"Next to nothing. He wants a nurse to give him some little nourishment
when he wakes up, and that is pretty nearly all."
"I shall bring him the best possible nurse," Mr. Strafford said. "Mrs.
Costello wishes to come and remain here."
The doctor looked at him curiously.
"Mrs. Costello is my patient also," he said; "I am half inclined to
forbid her coming."
"She is your patient, doctor! How is that? I thought she was looking
ill, though she denies it."
"She is not ill; but as you are an old friend and adviser, I don't mind
telling you that her health is in a critical state, and that I have
forbidden her all excitement and fatigue." 'Much use,' he added to
himself, in a parenthesis.
Mr. Strafford looked troubled.
"She must come here, nevertheless," he said. "Even if it were possible
to keep her away, it would do no good. She would excite herself still
more."
"Mr. Strafford," said the doctor, "If I thought that Mrs. Costello was
coming here out of mere charity, I should tell her that charity begins
at home, and that she had more reason to think of herself and her
daughter than of any prisoner in the world. However, I _don't_ think it;
and, therefore, all I have to say is, if you have any regard for her or
for Miss Costello, don't let her do more than is absolutely necessary.
Good morning."
And the busy little man hurried off, and left Mr. Strafford with a new
uneasiness in his mind.
Mrs. Elton, who came in and out at intervals to see if Christian wanted
anything, made her appearance immediately after, and he took the
opportunity of leaving. He hurried straight to Mrs. Bellairs' house,
where he found the two friends but just arrived. Mrs. Costello was
preparing to start for the jail, but he contrived to give a hint to Mrs.
Bellairs, and they together persuaded her to take an hour's rest before
doing so.
Mrs. Costello had begged Mrs. Bellairs to tell Bella the secret which
she herself had just heard; and to do so without loss of time; but she
did not wish to be present, or to go through another agitating scene
that day. The two sisters, therefore, left her to rest, and to consult
with Mr. Strafford, while Bella, already excited and disturbed by the
revelations of the preceding day, heard this new and still more
surprising intelligence. It did not, certainly, take many minutes to
tell; but there was so much beyond the mere facts; so many recollections
of words or looks that had been passed by unnoticed at the time; so
much wonder at the courage with which both mother and daughter had faced
the cruel difficulties of their position, that it was nearly an hour
before the conversation ended, and they came back to their guests.