Mother and daughter watched for some time in silence. At last Lucia
whispered, "May I go and tell Mrs. Bellairs that I shall remain with
you?"
"Is she here, then? Go, rather, and ask her to come to me for a moment."
Lucia went, and came to Mrs. Bellairs with such strange gladness in her
face that she looked as she had not done for months past.
"Will you go up to mamma?" she said. "My father seems to be asleep, and
she wishes to see you."
And the two went upstairs together without further words. Mrs. Bellairs
feared lest another strange face at the bedside might disturb the dying
man; she lingered, therefore, at a little distance, but she, too, looked
with wonder at the silent figure lying there in a kind of peaceful
state, all unlike the vagrant Indian--the supposed criminal--she had
heard of. Mrs. Costello came to her, and Lucia sat down in her mother's
place.
"I brought you a message from William," Mrs. Bellairs said. "The order
for his release is come. He is free. Is it too late?"
"Come a little nearer and see for yourself. You will not disturb him.
Yes, dear friend, it is too late for any release but one to reach him
now."
Mrs. Bellairs' lip trembled. "Ah, how cruel it seems!" she said. "How
can you forgive us?"
"Forgive _you_? Why?"
"It seems as if we were to blame, because it was my poor Bella's loss
that brought this on him."
"It was Clarkson's wickedness, nothing else. But do not let us talk of
that. Some good has come out of the evil, as you see."
The eyes of both the friends rested on the father and daughter so
strangely brought together. The strong likeness between them was
unmistakable, yet Lucia's beauty had never been more vivid and striking
than now when she watched her dying father, with the light of such
varied emotions flickering on her face.
"Poor child!" Mrs. Costello went on. "This is better than I ever hoped
for her." They went nearer, and Mrs. Bellairs bent down and kissed
Lucia's cheek.
"Make your mother go home with me," she whispered. "This will be more
than she is equal to." Then turning again to her friend she went on, "I
see you are right, and I must go back and tell my husband. You will come
with me?"
"No. I have a presentiment that I shall not be needed here long; while I
am, I must stay."
"But you cannot be sure, and you must not tire yourself out at the
beginning."
"I shall not tire myself. I can rest here perfectly, only I cannot leave
him."
"We met the doctor just now. He said he was coming here again. Will you
come if he advises it?"
Mrs. Costello again shook her head.
"You all think too much of me. You must leave me here, dear Mrs.
Bellairs, and Lucia can stay for an hour or two if she wishes; and tell
Mr. Bellairs how much we thank him, and that nothing can be done now."
Lucia looked wistfully at her mother's pale face.
"Cannot you trust me to watch here for a little while? There seems to be
so very little to do," she said; but Mrs. Costello had made up her mind,
and their friend left them both together.
As she went down, the doctor was coming in. She would not leave the jail
until she had heard his report; so she sat down to wait in Mrs. Elton's
sitting-room.
Doctor Hardy had little expectation of finding any change. He had said
to Mr. Strafford that the next four-and-twenty hours might bring the
final one, but even that would come softly and gradually. He knew also
that he should find Mrs. Costello installed as nurse, and guessed that
she had more than an ordinary interest in her task; but for the first
moment he doubted whether she knew the true state of her patient. This
doubt, however, she soon ended, for she asked, as he had been asked
before.
"Do you think it likely he may become conscious again?"
He shook his head.
She sighed.
"It is better so, no doubt, but I wish so much for five minutes even."
Then she remembered that she was speaking out her thoughts to one who
was not in her secret. She hesitated a moment, but as her eye fell upon
Lucia, she decided to trust this one more. Her voice trembled, however,
as she spoke.
"You have seen already," she said, "that we are not strangers; I think I
ought to tell you the truth. I am his wife; we were married long ago in
England, and separated when Lucia was a baby."
Doctor Hardy bowed. He did not know exactly what to say, and saw no
necessity for confessing that he had, some time ago, surmised pretty
nearly the facts he was now told.
Mrs. Costello went on: "I intended to acknowledge my marriage, but since
it can be of no benefit to my husband, my friends have persuaded me not
to do so. But you can imagine how much I wish----" She faltered and
stopped, looking at the dying man, who was never to know what care and
love surrounded him at last.
"There is certainly a possibility that the stupor may pass off for a
time," the doctor said, "but, my dear madam, for your sake I cannot
wish it. You must be content to know that there is no pain or distress
attending this state, and that it is by far the best for you and for
him."
He went up to the bed and gently touched Christian's hand. It was quite
powerless and chilly, but at the touch he opened his eyes, and seemed
dimly to recognize his visitor. One or two questions were asked, and
answered as if in a dream; then the weary eyes closed again, and all
around seemed forgotten.
The doctor gave some slight directions and then left; but to Mrs.
Bellairs he said,
"It is nearly over. Mrs. Costello will stay to-night, but probably
before morning you will be able to get her away."
They went out together; but an hour later Mrs. Bellairs came back to
wait, lest in the night the two who watched upstairs might want a friend
at hand. The jailer's wife sent her husband to bed, and making a bright
fire, sat up with her guest as they had previously agreed.
Night wore on, however, and all remained still and undisturbed. About
midnight Christian's doze deepened into a sound sleep, and Lucia too,
sitting in the warmth of the store, slept in spite of herself. For
nearly an hour the room was so still that Mrs. Costello could count
every tick of her watch, and every change in the flickering sound of the
wood fire. _She_ had no inclination to sleep.
For this one hour she felt herself a wife like other wives--a wife and
mother,--watching her husband and her child. It was still a mystery to
her how this could be, but the feeling had its own exquisite sweetness,
how dearly soever that sweetness was bought; and she drank it in
greedily. Now and then she rose softly to assure herself that all was
well, and each time the even breath and calm face spoke of rest that
might have been life-giving, if there had yet been in the worn-out frame
the faintest power of revival.
But between one and two o'clock Christian awoke. He did not move, but
his wife, looking at him, saw his eyes open, and an indescribable
difference in his aspect which made her heart leap, for she knew that
his mind had awakened also, for that one last recognition that she had
so longed for. She said nothing, however, but brought a few spoonfuls of
wine and gave to him. He took them, watching her silently all the while,
but not seeming fully to recognize her until she came and knelt down at
his side, taking his cold hand in hers. Then he smiled, and turning a
little towards her, said "Mary!"
She could not answer, but she bent her head down for a moment upon the
hand she held.
"You have been here before?" he went on. "I remember seeing you. You
have forgiven me, then?"
"Quite. Think of other things now."
"I can't think of anything except that I must be dying, and that I am
glad you are here."
"I have been near you all the while you have been here; I shall not
leave you again."
"No, not again--it will be such a little while, and I cannot hurt you
now. Have you been happy?"
"Sometimes. I had our child."
"Where is she?"
"Here. She was tired and has fallen asleep."
"Don't wake her yet. I know I forget a great deal--everything seems far
off--but just at last I wanted you, and you are here."
Both were silent for a minute. Then he spoke again--
"Mary, why did you marry an Indian?"
"Because I loved him," she said, her voice half choked by sobs.
"It was a pity. You knew nothing. They cheated you into it; but I think,
though he was a brute, he loved you always. In his way, you know, as
much as he could."
His mind seemed to be beginning to wander again, and his voice grew
weaker. She rose, crying quietly, and gave him a little more wine. Then
she touched Lucia and said, "Come, my child."
Lucia was instantly awake. She followed her mother to the bedside.
"Here is our daughter. Can you see her?"
"Not very well. Is she like you?"
"No. She is an Indian girl--strangers say she is beautiful, but to me
she is only my brave, good child."
"I am glad. She will make amends. It is all right now; you will be free
and safe. Good-bye."
He was silent for awhile, lying with closed eyes; and when he spoke
again it was in Ojibway. He seemed to be talking to his own people, and
to fancy himself out in the woods with a hunting party. After a time
this ceased also, and then he began to talk confusedly in the three
languages which were familiar to him, and in broken, incoherent
sentences. His voice, however, grew fainter and fainter. The wine which
they gave him at short intervals seemed to revive him each time for a
moment; but neither of them could doubt that the end was very near.
But as it came nearer still, the delusion that had been strongest lately
came back to the dying man. He again fancied himself a child--the
favourite pupil of the Jesuit fathers. He began to repeat softly,
lessons they had taught him--prayers and scraps of hymns, sometimes
Latin, sometimes French. Once, after a pause, he began to recite, quite
clearly, a Latin Psalm--
"O Domine, libera animam meam: misericors Dominus et justus; et Deus
miseretur.... Convertere, anima mea, in requiem tuam, quia Dominus
benefecit tibi"--
Again there was a silence, for he was deaf to all earthly voices, and
the wife and daughter knelt side by side and listened to those strange
broken sentences, which seemed to come from a mind dead to all outward
influences, yet not wholly unconscious of its own state.
Once he said "Mary;" but though she held his hand still clasped in
hers, his wife could not make her voice heard in answer. Then he talked
again murmuringly of old times; and last of all when the low musical
tones had grown very feeble, but were musical still, Mary heard, "Mon
Dieu, j'espère avec une ferme confiance"--There the words seemed to
fail, until they grew audible again for one last moment--"la vie
éternelle."
So he grew silent for ever in this life.