Mr. Strafford was glad to be left alone with Mrs. Costello. He had been considering seriously what he had heard from the doctor, and what he had himself seen of Christian's state, and had come to a decision which must be carried out at once.

He answered all her questions with this view clearly before him, and explained to her solicitously how very little consequence it now was to Christian whether the hands that ministered to his few remaining wants were those of his own kindred or of pitying strangers. When he thought he had made this quite evident to her, he reminded her that there was no further question of removing either from Christian himself, or from his wife and daughter, the stain of an undeserved ignominy; he was at this very moment regarded by all who knew anything of the circumstances as a victim sacrificed to save Clarkson, and justified by the manifest interference of Providence--placed thus in a better position as regarded public opinion than he could have been by any other train of events.

Thus no idea of compensation need longer be entertained; the generous yearning towards the oppressed must die now that oppression was ended; and the only result of declaring the long-concealed marriage would be to bring upon the two women who had already suffered so much in consequence of it, a fresh torture of wonder and notoriety--in short, there was no longer any sufficient reason for the relationship becoming known, and Mr. Strafford came gradually to the point of suggesting this to Mrs.

Costello.

She heard him with surprise. As he went on telling her all that was meant to prepare her for this idea, she listened and assented without suspecting what was coming, but when she did understand him she said much as she had done before,

"It is too late to make any change now; three or four persons already know."

"But," Mr. Strafford answered, "they are just the persons whom you can trust, and whom, most likely you would have wished to tell, at any rate."

"That is true. You think then that the truth may still be kept secret?"

"I see no reason why it should not. Doctor Hardy suspects it, but medical men know how to keep family secrets, and as for whatever wonder your illness may have excited in either Mrs. Elton or her husband, the doctor himself can easily set that at rest by saying what I am afraid is too true, that you are subject to fainting fits."

"You must give him a hint to do so then, please; and I know that the others whom I have told will keep silence faithfully. But then I am not yet quite convinced that silence ought to be kept."

"You still feel, however, that _not_ to keep it is in some degree to sacrifice Lucia?"

"Yes. But you know that we have long ago weighed that matter. Heaven knows that my heart is in the same scale as my darling's happiness, and just for that very reason I am afraid to alter our decision."

"You are right in saying '_we_.' I helped you to decide once, and I wish to change your decision now; for we yielded then to what we both believed to be the claim of duty, arising out of Christian's imprisonment and danger. Now, however, that he is quite safe, and that his very imprisonment proves to be one of the very best things that could happen to him, the case is reversed; and he is no longer the first person to be thought of."

"You do not wish to prevent me from nursing him?"

"Certainly not. I only think that you can nurse him just as effectually and tenderly without all the world knowing the claim he has upon you."

"You are quite certain that his memory and power of recognition will not return?"

Mr. Strafford repeated what Dr. Hardy had said.

"I must think," Mrs. Costello answered. "Everything has come upon me so quickly and confusingly, that I cannot decide all at once. Give me a little while to consider."

She leaned back wearily, and Mr. Strafford, taking a book, went and sat down at the further end of the room. So they remained till Mrs. Bellairs and Mrs. Morton came in together.

When they did so, Mrs. Costello looked up with a half smile,

"I am something like the old man in the fable," she said, "every new piece of advice I receive alters my plans."

"How?" asked Mrs. Bellairs. "Who has been advising you now?"

"No new adviser, at any rate. My old and tried friend there, who, I believe, gives quite as much thought to my affairs as if they were his own."

Mr. Strafford came forward.

"I have been trying to persuade Mrs. Costello," he said, "that a secret which half-a-dozen people know may yet be a secret."

"Even when half the half-dozen are women? I am sure, Mr. Strafford, we are indebted to you, if I guess truly what you mean."

A look, grave enough, passed between the two, though they spoke lightly.

"I have been thinking over all you say," Mrs. Costello went on, addressing Mr. Strafford, "and I have decided to follow your advice. But if at any moment, even the last, there should seem sufficient reason for changing my opinion, remember that I do not promise not to do so."

Mr. Strafford was fully satisfied with this; he knew, or thought he knew, perfectly, that Christian's condition was such as to ensure no further change of conduct regarding him; and not long after, he and Mrs.

Costello returned together to the prison.

For two or three hours they sat beside the prisoner, and talked at intervals to each other, or to him, with long pauses of thought between.

There was much for both to think of. The necessity of action seemed to be all over, or at least, to be suspended as long as Christian's life should last; and in this time of waiting, whether it were hours or days, all that could be done was to build up plans for the future which, when they were built, any one of the various possible changes of circumstances might at once overthrow.

But so entirely had Mrs. Costello identified herself with her daughter in all her habits and thoughts, that that dwelling on the future, which is the special prerogative of youth, seemed as natural to her as though her own life had all lain before, instead of behind her; and she found herself perpetually occupied with the consideration of what was best to be done for that future which had been so often taken, as it were, out of her guidance.

Sitting by her husband's deathbed, however, the long-estranged wife seemed to live a double life. The recollection of the past--of the short and secret courtship with its illusions, greater and more perilous than love's illusions commonly are--of her first days of married life, when, in spite of her rash disobedience, she was feverishly happy; of the awaking, and total disenchantment, and the wretched years that followed, all came to her in a floating, broken vision, filling her with emotions which had, at last, lost their bitterness. She yielded to them without resistance and without effort, and sank into a long silence, which was broken at last by Mr. Strafford.

"I must leave you," he said. "The boat starts in half an hour, and I want to see Mrs. Bellairs for a moment."

Mrs. Costello roused herself.

"Good-bye, then," she answered. "Dear Mr. Strafford, you know I have long ago given up trying to thank you for all you do for me; you must accept obedience as a proof of gratitude."

"See that you do obey me then," he replied smiling, "by taking care of yourself. Have you any message for Lucia?"

"Do you not think she might come here?"

"Yes, perfectly well. Shall I tell her you expect her?"

"Please."

"And you will return to Mrs. Bellairs with her?"

"We shall see. I do not promise."

"Well, I will not ask too much. Good-bye."

He went to the bedside, took Christian's hand and bade him also good-bye. He was roused for a moment, but his thoughts still returned to the old days.

"Adieu! father," he said; "I think I shall be gone when you come back.

Do you know that I am going on a journey? They will not tell me where, but I shall not forget you all here. Ask the Saints to bring me safe back."

Mr. Strafford knelt by the bed for a moment, and asked a heavenly guide for the poor wanderer on this his last journey, but he seemed to hear nothing and went on murmuring to himself,

"Ave Maria, gratia plena--"

When her friend was gone, and Mrs. Costello came back to her seat, he was still feebly repeating "pro nobis peccatoribus, pro nobis peccatoribus," with a faint trembling voice, as if even to the dulled faculties, through the deepening shadow of death, some faint distorted gleam of the truth had pierced, and the soul was, in truth, less torpid than the brain.

His wife sat by his side, and listened, deeply touched. She perceived that the part of his life with which she was associated, was dead to him; she could only stand aside and watch while the shadows of an earlier time gathered closely round him. But the more she understood this, the more a painful tenderness filled her heart towards him; she almost fancied that she had loved him all these years, and only found it out now that he had forgotten her. She began to grow impatient for Lucia's coming, and to long for the moment when she should be able to say,

"My child, this is your father."