She lay down, however, at Lucia’s entreaty, and by-and-by began to tell her what had passed.

In the first place Mr. Leigh had been utterly astonished.  Through all the years of their acquaintance the secret had been so well kept that he had never had the smallest suspicion of it.  Like all the rest of her neighbours he had supposed Mrs. Costello a widow, whose married life had been too unhappy for her to care to speak of it.  The idea that this dead husband was a Spaniard had arisen in the first place from Lucia’s dark complexion and black hair and eyes, as well as from the name her mother had assumed; it had been, in fact, simply a fancy of the Cacouna people, and no part of Mrs. Costello’s original plan of concealment.  It had come, however, to be as firmly believed as if it had been ever so strongly asserted, and had no doubt helped to save much questioning and many remarks.

All these ideas, firmly rooted in Mr. Leigh’s mind, had taken some little time to weed out; but when he heard and understood the truth, it never occurred to him to question for a moment the wisdom or propriety of her flight from her husband or of the means she had taken to remain safe from him.  He thought the part of a friend was to sympathize and help, not to criticize, and after a few minutes’ consideration as to how help could best be offered, he asked whether she intended that very day to claim her rightful post as Christian’s nurse.

“I did intend to do so,” she answered, “but for two or three reasons I think I had perhaps better wait until to-morrow.  Mr. Strafford may possibly be here then.”

“You will be glad to have him with you,” Mr. Leigh answered, “but it seems to me that an old neighbour who has seen you every day for years, might not be out of place there too.  Will you let me go with you to the jail?”

“Dear Mr. Leigh! you cannot.  You have not been out of the house for weeks.”

“All laziness.  Though indeed I could not pretend to walk so far.  But we can have Lane’s covered sleigh, and go without any trouble.”

Mrs. Costello still protested; but in her heart she was perfectly well aware that Mr. Leigh’s presence would be a support to her in the first painful moments when she must acknowledge herself the wife of a supposed murderer—­and more than that, of an Indian, who had become in the imagination of Cacouna, the type and ideal of a savage criminal.  So, finally, it was arranged that she should be accompanied to the prison on the following day by her two faithful friends (supposing Mr. Strafford to have then arrived), and that in the meantime she should merely pay her husband a visit without betraying any deeper interest in him than she had shown already.

Mr. Leigh asked whether he should tell Maurice what he had himself just heard, and in reply Mrs. Costello gave him the note she had written, and asked him to enclose it for her.

“I thought it was better and kinder to write to him myself,” she said.  “It will be a shock to Maurice to know the real position of his old playfellow.”