"I wish," Mr. Strafford said, "you could tell me exactly what you were doing the day they brought you here."

"I was sleeping," Christian answered. "I lay under the bush, and went to sleep; and then they came and woke me, and brought me here. I want air!"

he cried, suddenly changing his tone, and springing up, he rushed to the grated window, and seemed to gasp for breath. The small lattice stood open, but the prisoner, devoured by fever, could not be satisfied with such coolness as came in through it. He seized the iron bars with trembling hands and tried to shake them; then finding it useless, went back to his chair, and covering his face, burst into tears.

Mrs. Costello was instantly at his side. In her strange, short married life she had given no caresses to her tyrant; now, upon this miserable wreck, she lavished all the compassionate tenderness of her heart. Mr.

Strafford stood by helpless, yielding to the woman her natural place of comforter. For a moment, as she held his head upon her bosom and laid her cool soft hand upon his burning forehead, Christian seemed to recognize her; he looked up into her face piteously, and once or twice repeated to himself, "Mary, Mary," but memory would not help him further. She soothed him, however, much as if he had been some wretched sick child, and after a time persuaded him to lie down on his bed, where, almost immediately, he fell asleep.

So they left him, and in going out, heard from the jailer that he often slept thus for hours together--rarely eating, and asking only for water and air.

One thing had been effected by their visit. From the moment when the prisoner, powerless henceforward to hurt or terrify her, was supported by his wife's arms, and soothed by her voice, she began to believe, completely and for ever, in his innocence of the crime of which he was accused, and to be ready to fight his battle with all her energy and all her resources. Only the recollection of Lucia prevented her from instantly avowing the relationship so long concealed; and in the first warmth of a generous reaction, she almost regretted that she had not sent her child away, even to England, that she might now be free to devote herself to Christian. On their return to the Cottage they found Lucia watching with feverish anxiety for their coming and their news; but it was not until mother and daughter were shut up together in Mrs.

Costello's room that all could be told. Nor even then; for the wife's heart had been too deeply touched; and not even her child could see into its troubled tender depths. But, nevertheless, Lucia caught from her mother the blessed certainty that, though man's justice might not clear the prisoner of murder, heaven's did; and they rejoiced together over this poor comfort, as if all the rest of their burden were easy to bear.

Afterwards a council was held as to what could be done for Christian's defence. All legal help possible must be obtained, they decided, at any risk; but to the two women this did not seem enough. One of them, at least, would have liked to try any scheme, however difficult or absurd, for fixing the guilt upon the true criminal, and so saving the false one; but so far from that, they must not even suffer their agitation and keen interest to be noticed; the very lawyers must be engaged with caution or bound to secrecy. As long as their secret _could_ be kept, it must. And Mr. Strafford could not remain at Cacouna. He had come promptly to the help of the one unfortunate member of his flock, but the little community on the island always felt his absence grievously, and three or four days was the utmost he could spare at a time. Mrs.

Costello greatly desired to see her husband again, but to do so without Mr. Strafford's presence was a trial from which she shrank, and which he thought there was not sufficient reason for her to undergo. It was decided therefore that he should make arrangements by which, and by the kindness of the jailer, she should be kept constantly informed of his condition of health, both mental and bodily. "If he should be either worse in body or better in mind," she said, "I shall go to him at once; and I have a strong presentiment that he will need me before long."

A separate consultation from which Lucia was excluded, ended in a decision to which she would certainly not have consented, however she might, later, be obliged to yield to it. This was, that if Mrs. Costello should feel herself called upon to avow her marriage for her husband's sake, Lucia should first be sent to England and confided to the care of her mother's cousin, George Wynter, so that she, at least, might be spared the hard task of facing her small familiar world under a new and degraded character. But of this plan Lucia suspected nothing. Her thoughts travelled as often as ever they had done, to that misty _terra incognita_ which Canadians still call "Home," for now Maurice was there, and perhaps (but for that thought she reproved herself) Percy also; but she had now wholly given up her dreams of visiting it, and most surely would not have resumed them with the prospect of leaving her mother in sorrow and alone.

CHAPTER X.

After a time of so much stress and excitement, there followed a pause--a period of waiting, both for the mother and daughter at the Cottage, and for the small world of Cacouna, which had been startled by the crime committed in its very midst. As for the Costellos, when all the little that they could do for the prisoner had been done, they had only to occupy themselves with their old routine, or as much of it as was still possible, and to try to bring their thoughts back to the familiar details of daily life. Household affairs must be attended to; Mr. Leigh must be visited, or coaxed out of his solitude to sit with them; other visits must be paid and received, and reasons must be found to account to their neighbours for the putting off of that journey which had excited so much surprise in anticipation. And so, as days went on, habit gradually came to their assistance, and by-and-by there were hours when they asked themselves whether all the commotion and turmoil of the last few weeks had been anything but a dream.

Beyond the Cottage, too, life had returned to its usual even flow. One household, it is true, was desolate; but that one had existed for so short a time that the change in it had scarcely any effect on the general current of daily affairs. Bella went away immediately after the funeral. Mrs. Bellairs had begun to despair of rousing her from her stupor of grief and horror, while she remained in the midst of all that could remind her of her husband; and, therefore, carried her away almost by force to the house of some relations near Toronto. When she came back, it would be to return to her old place in her brother-in-law's house, a pale, silent woman in widow's weeds, the very ghost of the gay bride who had left it so lately.

By Mrs. Morton's absence Lucia was relieved from her most painful task; for, although she now no longer felt herself the daughter of the murderer, there was so much disingenuousness in her position as the most loved and trusted friend of the woman who still regarded her father as the criminal, as to make it in the highest degree irksome to be with her. She now tried to occupy herself as much as possible at home; and while she did so, the calm to which she had forced herself outwardly began to sink into her heart, and she found, almost with surprise, that former habits of thought, and old likes and dislikes, had survived her mental earthquake, and still kept their places when the dust had settled, and the _debris_ were cleared away. One old habit in particular would have returned as strongly as ever, if circumstances had allowed--it was that of consulting and depending on Maurice in a thousand little daily affairs. Since the first two days of his absence there had been until now so constant a rush and strain of events and emotions, that she had not had time to miss him much; on the contrary, indeed, she had had passing sensations of gladness that he was not near at certain crises to pierce with his clear eyes and ready intuition, quite through the veil of composure which she could keep impervious enough to others. But now that the composure began to be more than a mere veil, and that her whole powers were no longer on the full stretch to maintain it; now, too, when everything outwardly went on the same as it had done three months ago, before Mr. Percy came to Cacouna, or the story of Christian had been told; now, she wanted the last and strongest of all old habits to be again practicable, and to see her old companion again at hand. She remained, however, totally unsuspicious of all that had passed between her mother and Maurice. She even fancied, sometimes, that Mrs. Costello did Maurice the injustice of believing him changed by the change of his circumstances, and that her affection for him had in consequence cooled.

"Of course," she said to herself, "if he were here now, and with us as he used to be, we should always have the feeling that by-and-by, when the truth comes to be known, or when we go away, we should have to part with him. But, still, it would be nice to have him. And I do not believe that, _at present_, he is changed towards us. Mr. Leigh thinks he wants to come back to Canada."

So she meditated more and more on the subject, because it was free from all agitating remembrances, and because Mrs. Costello was silent regarding it; and if poor Maurice, chafing with impatience and anxiety while he watched his helpless half-unconscious grandfather, could have had a peep into her mind, he would have consoled himself by seeing that little as she thought of the _kind_ of affection he wanted from her, she was giving him a more and more liberal measure of such as she had.

A little while ago the same glimpse which would have consoled Maurice might have comforted Mrs. Costello; but since she had begun to regard Lucia as separated from him by duty and necessity, she rejoiced to think that he had never held any other place in her child's heart than that to which an old playfellow, teacher, and companion would under any circumstances have a right. Her own altered conviction as to Christian's guilt did not affect her feelings in this respect, for she knew that it was too utterly illogical to have any weight with others; and anticipating that even Maurice would be unable, were he told the whole story, to share in it, she felt that as regarded him, guilt or unproved innocence would be precisely the same thing; and that, however his generosity might conceal the fact, Lucia would always remain in his belief the daughter of a murderer. To suffer her child to marry him under these circumstances was not to be thought of, even if Lucia herself would consent; so, in spite of the half-frantic letters which Maurice found time to despatch by every mail, and in which he used over and over again every argument he could think of to convince her that whatever her difficulties might be, she had no right to refuse what she had once tacitly promised, she resolutely gave up, and put away from her, the hopes she had long entertained, and the plans which had been the comfort of her heart.

It was settled, without anything definite being said on the subject, that they were to remain at the Cottage until the Assizes, or just before; so that Christian, in any need, might have help at hand. When his trial was over, their future course would be decided,--or, rather, Mrs. Costello's would, for it depended on the sentence. If that should be "Not guilty," she would claim the unhappy prisoner at once, and take him to some strange place where she could devote herself to caring for him in that helplessness which renewed all his claims upon her. If it were "Guilty," she would go immediately to the seat of Government and never cease her efforts till she obtained his pardon. She felt no fear whatever of succeeding in this--his wretchedness and imbecility would be unanswerable arguments--no one would refuse to her the miserable remnant of such a life.

Lucia heard, and shared in arranging all these plans. She was still ignorant that they were not intended to include herself, and Mrs.

Costello shrank from embittering the last months of their companionship by the anticipations of parting. Thus they continued to live in the tranquil semblance of their former happiness, while winter settled in round them, and the time which must inevitably break up the calm drew nearer and nearer.

Mrs. Bellairs and her sister came back from their visit. Bella was still silent and pale--still had the look of a person whom some sudden shock has benumbed,--but she no longer shut herself up; and as much as their deep mourning would allow, the household returned to their former hospitable, cheerful ways. Mrs. Bellairs again came frequently to the Cottage. She saw now, after her absence, a far greater change than she had before realized, in both mother and daughter; and thinking that variety and cheerful society were the best remedies, if not for both, certainly for Lucia, she did all she could to drag the poor girl out, and to force her into the company of those she most longed, but did not dare, to avoid. There was one comfort; wherever Bella was, no allusion to the murder could be made; but wherever she was not, Lucia constantly heard such sayings as these:--

"Yes, it has been mentioned in the _Times_ even, such a peculiarly horrid thing, you know, poor man." "Just like a savage. Oh! it's all very well to talk of Indians being civilized, but I am quite convinced they never are, really. And then, you see, the real nature breaks out when they are provoked."

Some more reasonable person would suggest, "But they say that at Moose Island Mr. Strafford has done wonders;" and he answered,

"Ah! 'they say.' It is so easy to _say_ anything. Why, this very man, or brute, comes from Moose Island!"

"Does he? But, of course, there must be some bad. Let us ask Miss Costello. She knows Mr. Strafford."

And Lucia would have to command her face and her voice, and say, "I only know by report. I believe Mr. Strafford's people are all more or less civilized."

Sometimes she would hear this crime used as an argument in favour of driving the Indians further back, and depriving them of their best lands, for the benefit of that white race which had generously left them here and there a mile or two of their native soil; sometimes as a proof that to care for or instruct them, was waste of time and money; sometimes only as a text whereon to hang a dozen silly speeches, which stung none the less for their silliness; and it was but a poor compensation for all she thus suffered when some one would speak out heartily and with knowledge, in defence of her father's people.

She said not a word to her mother of these small but bitter annoyances; only found herself longing sometimes for the time when, at whatever cost, her secret might be known, and she be free. In the meantime, however, Mrs. Bellairs guessed nothing of the result of her kindness; for Lucia, feeling how short a time might separate her for ever from this dear friend, was more affectionate than usual in her manner, and had sometimes a wistful look in her beautiful eyes, which might mean sorrow, either past or future, but had no shadow of irritation.

Mr. Strafford came up to Cacouna twice during Christian's imprisonment.

The first time he found no particular change. A low fever still seemed to hang about the prisoner, and his passionate longing for the free air to be his strongest feeling. There was no improvement mentally. His brain, once cultivated and active, far beyond the standard of his race, seemed quite dead; it was impossible to make him understand either the past or future, his crime (if he were guilty), or his probable punishment. In spite of the feeling against him, there were charitable men in Cacouna who would gladly have done what they could to befriend him, but literally nothing could be done. Mr. Strafford left him, without anything new to tell the anxious women at the Cottage.

But the second time there was an evident alteration in the physical condition of the prisoner. He scarcely ever moved from his bed; and when he was with difficulty persuaded to do so, he tottered like a very old and feeble man. Even to breathe the air which he still perpetually asked for, he would hardly walk to the window; and there were such signs of exhaustion and utter weakness, that it seemed very doubtful whether, before the time of the Assizes, he would not be beyond the reach of human justice. Mr. Strafford went back to the Cottage with a new page in her sorrowful life to tell to Mrs. Costello. To say that she heard with great grief of the probable nearness of that widowhood which, for years past, would have been a welcome release, would be to say an absurdity; but, nevertheless, it is true that a deep and tender feeling of pity, which was, indeed, akin to love, seemed to sweep over and obliterate all the bitterness which belonged to her thoughts of her husband. She wished at once to avow their relationship; and it was only Mr. Strafford's decided opinion that to do so would be hurtful to Lucia and useless to Christian, which withheld her. Clearly the one thing which he, unused to any restraint, needed and longed for, was liberty; and even that, if it were attainable, he seemed already too weak to enjoy. His ideas and powers of recollection were growing still weaker with every week of imprisonment, but nothing could be done--nothing but wait, with dreary patience, for the time of the trial.

CHAPTER XI.

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.