Nearly the whole story had been told in a sullen, monotonous tone, and when it was finished Clarkson shut his eyes and turned a little away from his auditors, as if to show that he did not mean to be questioned.  They did indeed try to say something to him of his crime, but he would not answer, and presently the doctor, after leaning over him for a moment, motioned Mr. Bayne to be silent.  Death was quickly approaching, and it was useless to trouble the dying man further.  After a little while the man who had gone for Mrs. Clarkson arrived, with the poor woman half stunned by the shock of his news, and the two gentlemen left husband and wife together.

Later Mr. Bayne came back to his post in the more natural and congenial character of a Christian priest; but Clarkson was not a man to whom a deathbed repentance could be possible.  The one human sentiment of his nature—­a half-instinctive love of wife and children—­was the only one that seemed to influence him at the last, and from the moment of his confession he spoke little except of them.  Gradually his consciousness began to fail, and he spoke no more.  Two hours later the doctor and Mr. Bayne quitted the house together.  All was over.  Clarkson’s turbulent life had ended quietly, and all that was left of him was the body, over which a faithful woman wept.

When Mr. Bayne returned to Cacouna he went straight to Mr. Bellairs and told him the truth; not many minutes after, Mr. Bellairs hurried to the jail.  He felt anxious that he himself, the nearest connection of Dr. Morton, should be the first to make what reparation was possible to the innocent man who had already suffered so much.  He did not know how grave Christian’s illness had become, and he thought the hope of speedy liberation would be the best possible medicine to him.  But when he saw Elton and asked for admission to the prisoner, he heard with dismay that the discovery had come too late, and that his plan was impracticable.  Elton did not hesitate in the least about letting him enter the room.

“Half the town might go in and out,” he said, “and he would take no notice of them, but I do not know about telling him of a sudden.  Perhaps, sir, you’d ask Mrs. Costello?”

“Mrs. Costello!  Why?  Is she here?”

“Yes, sir; and she seems to be to know more about him than even my wife who nursed him what she could, ever since he’s been ill.”

“It might be as well to consult her, then; could you ask her to speak to me?”

“Well, sir, if you like to go up into the room; it’s a large one, and you may talk what you please at the further side; he’ll never hear.”

Accordingly they went up.  Mrs. Costello was sitting beside her husband, and had been talking to him.  He had been for a short time quite aroused to interest in what she said, but very little fatigued him, and they were both silent when the door softly opened to admit the unexpected visitor.  Mrs. Costello rose with a strange spasm at her heart.  She foresaw news, but could not guess what, and she trembled as Mr. Bellairs shook hands with her.