"You are right, my child; but the agencies which have worked this miracle are very earthly ones--pain and sorrow, and false accusation."

"Mamma, I think this is better than the old life of terror, and perhaps hatred."

"Far better, far better. Yes, through dark and painful means a better end is coming. But it is hard to think that you must live through all your life under the shadow of a supposed crime. For us who have sinned life is nearly over, our punishment was just, and it will soon be ended.

It is you, my child, whom I have so tried to shield, who must bear the heaviest penalty."

"No, mother, do not think so. When all this is over we shall go away, you and I, and be very happy together again; and the happiness will be more equally balanced than it was in the old days when you had so much care and I none. And then, if ever I am left alone, I shall go and be a Sister of Charity or one of Miss Nightingale's nurses, and be too busy and useful to be unhappy."

Mrs. Costello stooped down and kissed her child's forehead.

"I thought you might have had a brighter fate than that, darling.

Perhaps I thought more of seeing you a happy woman than a good one; but if you are never to have the home I wished for you, you will find, at any rate, that a single woman's life may be full of usefulness and honour."

Ah! that brighter fate! Mrs. Costello thought of Maurice, and sighed for the loss to _two_ lives. Lucia's heart still turned loyally to the one lover who had claimed it, but both knew that the "brighter fate" was no longer a possibility now.

CHAPTER XII.

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?"