I did not agree with Reginald's estimate of their beauty. He placed Mildred first, and her mother second. My judgment reversed this order. Mildred was truly a most beautiful girl, but Mrs. Carew's beauty was of a quality which, the moment I set eyes on her, impressed me more deeply than I had ever been in my life by the sight of a woman's face. It is not only that it is physically perfect, but that there is in it a spirituality which took my heart and my mind captive. It is as though the soul of a pure woman is there reflected--of a woman who, if she ruled the world, would banish from it suffering and injustice. She is the incarnation of sweetness and gentleness; and yet I could not avoid observing in her features the traces of a secret sorrow to which the lady of the house had referred. This indication of a grief nobly and patiently borne added to her beauty, and deepened the impression it produced upon me. I am not exaggerating when I say that, standing before her, I felt as if I were in the presence of an angel. Were I a painter, my ambition would be to fix upon canvas a faithful portrait of one so pure and lovely. I should call my picture Peace.
Her daughter differs from her in appearance. Her beauty is of another type--milder, more full of expression and variety; she has opposite moods which, as occasion serves, are brought into play in contradiction of each other. This may render her more captivating to a young man like Reginald, and were I as young as he I might also find a greater attraction in the daughter than in the mother. A sweet and beautiful girl, modest and graceful in all her movements, I was satisfied that Reginald had chosen well, and at the same time I was convinced that all the earnestness of his soul was engaged in the enterprise.
"I am happy," said Mrs. Carew to me, "to know Reginald's father."
"No less happy am I," was my rejoinder, "in making the acquaintance of a lady of whom I have heard so much."
"Reginald has spoken of me?"
"Of you and your daughter--continually, from the first evening on which he had the happiness of meeting you. It was for the purpose of obtaining an introduction to you that I came here to-night, an uninvited guest."
I felt that there must be no concealment in my intercourse with Mrs. Carew. To be honest and outspoken was the surest way of winning her friendship. Reginald and Mildred had wandered away, her hand upon his arm. Mrs. Carew's eyes followed them, tenderly and wistfully.
"We shall be very happy to see you at Rosemullion," she said; and I promised to pay her an early visit.
"Well?" said my hostess, when I left Mrs. Carew's side.
"I cannot but approve," I answered. "I have never met a sweeter lady. If the daughter's nature resembles her mother's, and Reginald is fortunate enough to win her, he will be a happy man."
My hostess smiled and nodded in satisfaction. An inveterate match-maker, she was always delighted at the success of her good-natured schemes.
On the following day I visited Mrs. Carew, and made the acquaintance of her husband, Gabriel Carew. I will not waste time by giving a description of him. What you have already read will have prepared you for his introductionin propria persona. Sufficient to say that I was favourably impressed, and that I had not been in his company five minutes before I discovered that the gentleman I was conversing with was a man of extraordinary erudition and mental compass. I was fortunate enough to win his favour; he showed me over his library--a collection made by himself, and which could only have been gathered by one of superior attainments. That my society was agreeable to her husband was a manifest pleasure to Mrs. Carew, and once during his temporary absence to obtain a book of which we had been conversing she expressed a hope that we should be often together.
"He is too much of a recluse," she said. "I have wished that he should mix in society more than he does--indeed, he sees very little of life--but he has a distaste for it."
I replied that the distaste of a man like Gabriel Carew to share in the frivolities of the age was to be easily understood. She answered wisely, "Surely a little innocent frivolity is not to be condemned. One may become too serious."
"Mr. Carew is a student?" I said.
"From his early youth," she replied, "he has been devoted to book-lore. His young life was lived here in seclusion, and it was not till after the death of his parents that he saw anything of the world."
Mr. Carew returned, and looked at us smilingly. He touched his wife's hand lightly, but slight as was the action, there was affection in it.
"I possess the gift of divination," he said. "You have been speaking of me?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Carew.
"And of my love of solitude," he continued. "But what is bred in the bone--you understand. There are inherited virtues and inherited vices. The question is, at what point does actual responsibility become a burden for which we can be justly called to account, and until that moment, to define its precise relation to committed acts? Is it your opinion that crime can be justified?"
"No," I said.
"Under no circumstances?"
"Under no circumstances."
"Early teaching, early habits, transmitted vices of the blood--are they not factors? A man is an entity--complete possessor of his own body and soul, which may be pure or hideous according to circumstances. But you make him arbitrarily accountable. Do not misunderstand me--I am simply theorising. Nothing of the argument applies to me except my love of solitude, which is harmless, and hurts no man. I have had experiences of the world, and have been misjudged. There was a time when I was angry, when I inwardly rebelled. I do so no longer. I am content. My wife, my child, my home, my lonely habits, make up the sum of a fairly happy life. Are you fond of tea?"
The light question, addressed to me in the midst of serious words, somewhat startled me. I answered, "Yes;" and upon a motion from her husband Mrs. Carew left the room to prepare the tea. Gabriel Carew explained.
"It is not ordered in this room because of a whim of mine. My wife has an apartment which is to me a sanctuary of rest, and there it is that we often sit and read and converse as we drink our tea. She is anxious about me, but there is really no cause for anxiety. She has an idea that solitude is affecting my health; she is mistaken; I was never stronger, never better." He broke off suddenly with the remark, "You are a physician?"
"It will be correct to say I was," I replied. "Many years ago I relinquished practice."
"So I have heard; and I have also learnt that you held a distinguished position. I have in my library your book treating of diseases of the mind, in which you avoid the common ground of demonstrable insanity. You speak there, if I remember aright, of inherited mental disease."
"I have devoted two chapters to the theme."
"And clearly confute," he pursued, "the statement you made just now that under no circumstances can crime be justified."
"I made that statement," I said, a little confused by this just challenge, "from a general standpoint."
"I speak from an individual standpoint," he remarked. "Which of the two is the more human? However, this is diverging somewhat. Can you tell me why, as twilight approaches, a change in my mood works mysteriously within me? I was gay--I become morose. I was cheerful--I am sad."
"Nerves," I said, "affected by external forces. That is the only answer I can at present give, knowing so little of you."
Twilight was upon us as we conversed, and I observed that his face was growing dark. With a strong, healthy, and decided motion he shook off the influence, and held out his hand to me.
"Know more of me," he said. "I have been informed of the mutual liking which has sprung up between my daughter Mildred and your son. We will speak of this seriously at a future time. Meanwhile, let your son visit us; my home is open to him and you. I have a horror of secrecies. We will shape our course in the light. Shall we strive to be friends?"
Apart from my inclination to be upon friendly terms with him--in the first instance born of my anxiety for Reginald's happiness--there was in Gabriel Carew's manner an irresistible charm, and I now desired his friendship for my own sake as well as for Reginald's. I met his advances cordially, and we spent a pleasant hour with Mrs. Carew and Mildred in the room which Carew had likened to a sanctuary. Its influence upon him was an influence for good. The gloom which had gathered on his face with the approach of night faded away, and was replaced by a cheerfulness which found vent in his speech. I was more than ever surprised at the vast stores of knowledge which he had acquired. There was not a subject started of which he was not master, and upon which he was not able to throw a new light, and when we parted it was with mutual expressions of esteem, and with a mutual wish that the intimacy thus auspiciously commenced should be allowed to ripen into a close and genuine friendship. What particularly struck me was the almost worshipping love Carew entertained for his wife. We were standing in the garden, when, with a tender, personal application of a theme we had broached, Carew said:
"You know the old legend of every human being being accompanied through life by two angels, one good and one bad each striving to obtain mastery over him. My good angel is a visible one, and it is ever by my side."
He placed his hand upon his wife's shoulder, and she raised her eyes to his. They gazed upon each other like lovers, and at that moment there was not upon either face a trace of gloom or sorrow.
"True love exists between those two," I thought, as I wended my way home. "The shadows that hover round them are but idle fancies. I rejoice that a daughter of these noble people has won my son's heart."
A general survey of the few months that followed will suffice. There are many small details which it would be pleasant to dwell upon, but these may be safely left to the imagination. They consist for the most part of the episodes which marked the progress of the love affair between Mildred and Reginald--who, without any distinct declaration from us, conducted themselves toward each other as an engaged couple. We elder people tacitly held back from entering into an express engagement, Mrs. Carew waiting, as it were, upon my movements and those of her husband. I am in a position to explain the reasons of my own backwardness in this important matter. Gabriel Carew's reasons must, for the present, be left to explain themselves. I need scarcely say that Reginald and Mildred were perfectly happy, being satisfied that they possessed our sanction to their love. No fault was theirs in this respect. If blame was due anywhere, we, their parents, were the persons upon whom it justly fell.
The hope of a binding friendship between myself and Mr. and Mrs. Carew was more than fulfilled. Not only did we become firm friends, but the closest confidential relations were established between us. So much so that I became acquainted with the history of the inner and outer lives of Gabriel Carew and his sweet wife. There was little to learn of Mrs. Carew's life which I had not already imagined; it was a record of innocence and sweetness. But what I learnt of Gabriel Carew afforded me food for grave reflection. So intimate were our relations, so perfect was the confidence he reposed in me, that he concealed nothing from me. His frankness won my admiration and greatly disturbed me. The recital of his youthful life, of his midnight wanderings, of his solitary musings, and afterwards of the death of his parents, of his entrance into Nerac, of his intimacy with the family of Doctor Louis, and of the tragic events that occurred in the peaceful village, made up the sum of the strangest record which had ever been imparted to me. I confess to being much affected by the fate of Eric and Emilius, and I asked Carew whether he had heard anything of Emilius of late years. His reply was that he had heard nothing, and that the unhappy man was probably dead.
"You have no doubt that he was guilty?" I asked.
"Not the slightest doubt," said Carew.
I was not so sure; the story had excited within me a singular sympathy for Emilius.
Now, in what I am about to say with respect to Gabriel Carew, I had, at that time, I admit, the slightest of grounds; and the powerful effect a certain suspicion had upon me was all the more singular because of the absence of reliable evidence. The study I had made for many years of the different forms in which insanity presents itself was very captivating to me, and in the course of my researches I unearthed some weird particulars, of which, were I a writer of fiction, I could make effective use. Gabriel Carew was an affectionate husband and father, a faithful mate to his wife, a wise counsellor to his daughter. He had not a vice which I could discover. He was neither a spendthrift nor a libertine. He drank in moderation, and he never gambled; indeed, he detested all games of chance. His views of men and manners were singularly correct, and denoted a well-balanced brain. It was only where his affections were concerned that he could be called in any way extravagant; but this would be accounted rather a virtue than a vice. His recreations were intellectual, and he sought pleasure and happiness only in his home and in association with books and his wife and child. What judgment would you, from a distance, pass upon such a man? What but that of entire approval? But I was in daily contact with him, and signs were visible to me which greatly disturbed me. To speak plainly, I doubted Gabriel Carew's perfect sanity!
This was a matter of most serious moment. If Carew were not sane, his disease, so far as I could judge, was of a harmless form. The proof of this lay in his affection for those of his blood, and--which, in evidence is, in my opinion, quite as strong--in his tenderness to animals and birds. But I have to a certainty established not only that insanity is hereditary, but that what is harmless in the parent may become destructive in the child. Mildred was Carew's daughter, and to all appearance as free from any touch of insanity as the most healthful of human beings. But the germ must be in her, to be transmitted to her children--to Reginald's children if he married her.
This consideration impelled me to secret action in the way of inquiry. It would have been, useless to appeal to Reginald, and to set before him the probable consequences of such an union. My counsel would have fallen upon idle ears. My duty, however, was clear. It was for me to protect him.
Instead of listening uninterruptedly to the confidences imparted to me by Carew, I prompted, probed and asked questions, and thus learnt much which might otherwise not have come to my knowledge. Considering the motive by which I was impelled, the investigation I was pursuing was of an exceedingly delicate nature, but to my surprise, Carew met--nay, anticipated--me with a most surprising frankness. He made no attempt to avoid the subject, and the interest he evinced in it seemed to exceed my own. He spoke much of himself--not in direct connection with hereditary insanity, but as though there was that in his life before the death of his parents which it would be a relief to him to clear up. He gave me a circumstantial account of all the incidents of those early years, taking pains to recall the most trifling detail bearing upon his youth.
"It is a strange pleasure to me," he said, "to be able to unbosom myself so freely. My wife is acquainted with much I have imparted to you. There was never any need to distress her by a relation of the morbid fancies which afflicted me when I was a boy, and which, perhaps, were the foundation of the profound melancholy which, after sunset, has lately crept upon me. Perhaps I am paying the penalty of old age."
I combated this view, pointing out that he was in the prime of life, with perhaps its most useful years before him. Throughout these discussions and confidences the names of Mildred and Reginald were not mentioned--I purposely avoided reference to them, but Carew did not appear to have any thought of them while we conversed. The one person who seemed to me able to furnish information from which I could weave a rational theory was Mrs. Fortress, the nurse who for a number of years attended Gabriel Carew's mother. I asked him if any correspondence had passed between them since she left Rosemullion, and he answered, "No," and that he had not seen or heard of her from that time. I then asked him if he had any idea where she was to be found, supposing her to be still living.
"In the last interview I had with her," he replied, "she gave me an address in Cornwall." He paused here, and I saw that he was weighing some matter in his mind. "I can find this address for you," he said presently, "if you desire it. Have you any curiosity to see her?"
"Yes," I said boldly, "if you have no objection."
Again he paused in thought. "I have no objection," he said. "She may reveal to you what she declined to reveal to me, and it may assist you in your inquiry."
I looked at him, startled by his last words. They were the first he had uttered which denoted that he suspected my motive in wooing and encouraging these conversations. The expression on his face was gentle and sad, and I thought it best to make no comment on his remark. The next day he gave me an address in Cornwall at which Mrs. Fortress had told him she was certain to be found during her lifetime. He gave me also a short note to her, in which he stated that I was his most intimate friend and adviser, and that he would be glad if she would communicate to me any information respecting his parents it was in her power to impart--intimating, at the same time, that I was prepared to pay handsomely for it. At Carew's request, I read this note in his presence, and at its conclusion he empowered me to pay for the information if I could not otherwise obtain it, naming as a limit a sum which I considered extravagantly liberal. I had already made preparations for a temporary absence from home, and before the end of the week I was in Cornwall, and face to face with Mrs. Fortress.
A fine, stately, stalwart old woman, between sixty and seventy years of age, with gray hair, bright eyes, and an air of masculine vigour about her which could not fail to impress an observer. But what most strongly impressed me was the quality of power which distinguished her--the power of a firm will, which, in a lofty grade of life, would have made her a leader. I introduced myself to her, and informed her that I had obtained her address from Gabriel Carew, and had journeyed to Cornwall for the express purpose of seeing her. She evinced no surprise, and inquired how could she be sure that I came from Mr. Carew.
"I have a letter from him," I said; and I gave it to her.
She read it quietly, and put it into her pocket.
"Is Mr. Carew well?" she asked.
"He is well," I replied.
"I have heard nothing of him since I left him in Rosemullion," she said. "He told me then, it was his intention to quit it for ever, and never again to set foot in it. I said that there was no saying what might happen in the course of life. He lives now in Rosemullion?"
"Yes."
"Then he has not carried out his intention?"
There was no triumph in her voice, indicating that she had been right and he wrong. It was a simple statement of fact simply made.
"We often commit ourselves unguardedly," I observed.
She nodded assent.
"As you have heard nothing of Mr. Carew, you are not aware that he is married?"
She gazed at me thoughtfully, and I fancy I detected a stirring of interest within her at this intelligence.
"Married!" she echoed calmly. "Lately?"
"No. More than twenty years ago. I do not know the exact year."
"Is his wife living?" she asked.
"Yes. She is with Mr. Carew at Rosemullion. Would you like to see her portrait?"
"Yes," she replied.
I had brought Mrs. Carew's portrait with me, and other things which I thought might be likely to help me in my interview with Mrs. Fortress. I handed her the picture.
"A beautiful lady," she said, handing it back to me.
"Better than beautiful," I said. "An angel of goodness and charity, beloved by all who have the privilege of knowing her."
"Is she happy?"
"Very happy. She and her husband are united by the firmest links of love."
"That is good news, and I am glad to hear it. Is Mr. Carew happy?"
Slight as was the pause before I had made up my mind what reply to give, she took advantage of it.
"Then he is not happy?"
"I should like to speak openly to you," I said. "It is not out of mere light curiosity that I have sought you."
"It is," she said, "entirely at your discretion how you speak to me. You are not here at my bidding."
"True," I replied; "and I am entirely at your mercy. You learn from Mr. Carew's letter that I am on terms of confidential friendship with him, and that he places no restraint upon you. There is no person living who is better acquainted than yourself with the particulars of his young life, with its strange surroundings, its isolation, its lack of light. Dominated by such dark influences, it would not have been matter for wonder had Mr. Carew grown into a morose, savage man, believing only in evil, and capable only of it. The contrary is the case. He has faith in goodness; he has won the love of a good woman. His heart is tender, his nature charitable. When, before parting with you, he asked you to enlighten him as to the mystery which reigned in his home, there may have been some valid reason for your refusal--although, even then, as his parents were dead and he was alone in the world, such refusal was capable of a construction more hurtful than the truth might have been."
She interrupted me here by saying, "It could not have been."
"But," I urged, "might not the truth, painful though it were, have contributed to avert evil consequences?"
"To Mr. Carew," she asked, "or to others?"
"To others," I replied.
"I will wait a little," she said composedly, "before I answer that question. You have more to say."
"There can be no valid reason," I continued, "for silence now. Mr. Carew is anxious that you should speak candidly to me. An appeal to your sense of justice would probably weigh with you."
"It is not unlikely," she said. "May I ask if you belong to any profession?"
"I do not follow any at present," I replied; "but for years I practised as a physician."
"In a general way, or as a specialist?"
"Chiefly as a specialist. I have written a successful book upon certain forms of insanity, and I have a copy with me. Perhaps you would like to read it."
"It would interest me," she said. "If I had been a physician I should have devoted myself to that branch of the profession."
I gave her the book, which she placed aside. "It is not, however, solely in that capacity," I said, "that I am here. That certain indefinite impressions, springing from my professional experiences, have prompted me, I do not deny; but my strongest reasons are private ones. Is it your belief that insanity is hereditary and ineradicable?"
"That is my firm belief," she said.
"It is also mine. Mrs. Fortress, are you a married woman?"
"I married a few months after I left Mr. Carew's service. Within two years of my marriage I lost my husband."
"Have you any children?"
"One--a son."
"Who must be now approaching manhood?"
"Yes."
"That is my case. My wife is dead, and I have an only child--a son--who is deeply in love with Gabriel Carew's daughter."
This introduction of Miss Carew threw Mrs. Fortress off her guard; there was a startled flash in her eyes.
"I am sorry to hear," she said, "that Mr. Carew has a daughter. Has he other children?"
"No. Mildred Carew is, like your son and mine, an only child. I purposely brought three things with me, in the hope that they would help me in my purpose. Two you have--my book and the portrait of Gabriel Carew's wife. Here is the portrait of his daughter."
She examined it with the greatest interest, and remarked that she saw no resemblance in it to the father.
"That has struck me," I observed; "neither does she resemble her mother in any marked manner. But that sometimes happens, though it is not the rule."
"Is there an engagement between your son and Miss Carew?"
"They are courting each other, with a view to marriage."
"With your consent?"
"Yes, but it was given before I became intimate with Mr. Carew."
"And since then you have repented?"
"I have been greatly disturbed."
"Rather," she said slowly, "than my son should marry a daughter of Mr. Carew's, I would see him in his grave."
This declaration profoundly agitated me, so far did it go to confirm me in my suspicions. "I asked you a question a few moments since," I said, "and you said you would wait a little before you answered it. Will you answer it now?"
"Your question was, 'Had a painful truth been revealed to Mr. Carew when he was a single gentleman, whether it might have averted evil consequences to others.'"
"You have stated it correctly."
"It might have done," she said. "But it appeared to me that Mr. Carew was the last man in the world to attract a woman's heart. I often said to myself, 'He will never marry.'"
"You were mistaken."
"I was; and I say again I am sorry." She took from her pocket the letter I had given her from Mr. Carew, and read it carefully and slowly, in a new light it seemed to me. Even when she had finished the perusal she did not immediately speak, but sat in silent thought a while.
"I am not a tender-hearted woman," she said, "and not easy to move when I pledge myself. Mr. Carew's father behaved well to me, and fulfilled his promise of providing for me if it was in his power to do so after the death of his wife. I, on my part, kept the two promises I made him when I entered his service. The first was not to leave his service during the lifetime of his wife; the second not to divulge, without powerful cause, the secret of the unhappy inheritance he feared his wife had transmitted to their son. When I bade farewell to Mr. Gabriel Carew in Rosemullion, I saw no such cause for divulging the secret, and I declined to satisfy my young master. It may be different now, and I may be tempted to satisfyyou. "
"Out of your sense of justice?" I observed.
"Not entirely. Mr. Carew's letter contains the offer of a reward."
I met her instantly and with eagerness. "I am prepared to pay it."
"It happens that I am in need of a sum of money. An opportunity is open to my son which will be to his advantage, but I am not rich enough to purchase it."
"How much is needed?" I asked.
She named a sum which was modest in comparison with the limit which Gabriel Carew had given me, and I at once consented to pay it to her for her information. I had money with me, and I counted out the amount she required, and handed it to her. After ascertaining that it was correct, she commenced.
"When I accepted the situation Mr. Carew offered me, I did it with my eyes open. I was at that time employed in a lunatic asylum, and was dissatisfied with my rate of pay. Mr. Carew offered me higher terms. His wife was a dangerous woman, and needed constant watching. Properly speaking, she should have been placed in an asylum, but the thought of so doing was hateful to her husband, who desired to keep his domestic affliction from public knowledge. He would have regarded such a disclosure as an indelible disgrace. There are similar secrets in many families. At the time he married her, he had no suspicion that her blood was tainted, and it was only three months before the birth of Gabriel Carew that he made the discovery. I do not profess to be thoroughly familiar with all the particulars; I am not a prying woman, and was contented with what he told me. When he made the dreadful discovery he and his wife were abroad, and the occasion of it, so far as I could gather, ran in this fashion. Mr. Carew was occupying a house in Switzerland--he was rich at the time--and was entertaining guests. Among them was a false friend who was managing his affairs in England, where Mr. Carew lived for the greater part of every year. Ultimately this friend robbed him of his fortune, which Mr. Carew never recovered, coming, however, into another later on, which enabled him to purchase the estate of Rosemullion. One evening there was a large party in Mr. Carew's house, in which his friend was stopping. Mrs. Carew was passionately fond of music, and there was a Tyrolean air for which she had an infatuation. She sang and played it again and again, and became much excited. It is not out of place to say that she was a very beautiful woman. The evening passed on, and the guests had departed. All but one--her husband's false friend, who was stopping in the house. Either his duties as a polite host or some other business called her husband away, and Mrs. Carew and this friend were left alone. He asked her to play and sing again, and she did so for him; and then he made love to her. She repulsed him indignantly, but he was not to be easily daunted, and a climax arrived when he grossly insulted her. This roused her to fury, and she caught an ornamental dagger---but a weapon capable of mischief--from the table, and would have plunged it into his heart had he not caught her wrist and disarmed her. He flung the dagger away, and then coolly told her that her husband had implicit confidence in him, and that he would invent a story that would ruin her. He told her, too, that he had her husband in his power, that she and he were at his mercy, and that he could beggar them at any moment. There occurred then a singular change in her; her excitement left her, and she became as cool as he. Deceived by this, he renewed his suit, but she held him back, and she said one word to him: 'Wait!' To wait meant to hope, and he said he would be content if she would play and sing to him again. She did so--the same Tyrolean air she had sang so many times on this evening. Her husband came in, and the scene ended. In describing it I am drawing from what Mr. Carew told me afterwards in England. But the incident was not to end there. Mr. Carew and his wife retired, and he, awakening in the middle of the night, missed her from his side. He started up, and saw that her clothes were gone. At the moment of the discovery he heard a cry, and he ran from the room. He saw his wife approaching him; she was fully dressed, and she held in her hand the ornamental dagger, which was stained with blood. There was a smile on her lips, but although he stood straight in front of her, with a candle in his hand, she did not appear to see him. She passed by without a word or look of recognition. He followed her to their bedroom, and there she laid the dagger aside, undressed, and went to bed. She had been all the time fast asleep. When she was abed he looked at the blood-stains on the dagger; there was no wound upon her; from whom came the blood? From whence the cry? The direction from which his wife had come was that of the room occupied by his friend. He went there, and found his guest just reviving from a state of insensibility caused by a stab in his breast while he was asleep. Mr. Carew could form but one conclusion, and his sole aim now was that the matter should be kept quiet. In this he succeeded, having invented a story which his friend professed to believe, and into which Mrs. Carew's name was not introduced. It suited Mr. Carew's friend not to dispute the invented story; his wound was not very serious, and he subsequently repaid the injury by beggaring the man who had reposed entire confidence in him, and whose wife he had attempted to lead to her ruin. Mr. Carew could not immediately question his wife, for the next morning she was dangerously ill. The ordinary doctors who were called in did not appear to understand the case, and eventually Mr. Carew consulted a foreign specialist of renown, who informed him that there was insanity in his wife's blood, and that it would most likely assume a phase in which there would be danger to those about her. This alarmed Mr. Carew, not for his own sake, but for his wife's. There was a law in that part of the country, which, put in force, would have removed Mrs. Carew from his care, and he made haste for England, where he would feel safe. Thus far in his wife's illness no dangerous symptoms were visible, and he flattered himself into the belief that the foreign doctor was wrong in the opinion he had given. The most marked characteristic of the disease manifested itself in a harmless fashion, being simply a sentimental passion for the Tyrolean air Mrs. Carew had sung so many times on the night when the hidden seed of insanity began to grow. Under these conditions Gabriel Carew was born. She insisted upon nursing the child, which, had I been in their service at the time, I should not have allowed. When Gabriel was two years of age, the dangerous symptoms of which the foreign doctor had warned Mr. Carew began to manifest themselves, and I was engaged as nurse. Mr. Carew had lost his fortune then, but he was not entirely without means, the largest portion of which was spent upon his wife. He paid me liberally, his one desire in life being to keep the skeleton of his home concealed, not only from the world, but from the knowledge of his son. He thought that, growing up in ignorance of his mother's condition, Gabriel might escape the contagion. I thought differently, but we had no discussions on the subject. He had engaged me to perform a certain duty, and I performed it--there it ended. I had nothing to do with consequences. After Mr. Carew took possession of Rosemullion his wife became worse; there were weeks together when no person but I could approach her with safety. I had perfect control over her. She was obedient, through fear, to my lightest word. It was certainly merciful that the sad secret, having been so long concealed from Gabriel, should remain so. If mischief were done, it was not now to be averted. This is the explanation of Gabriel Carew's lonely boyhood life, and it will possibly help to explain any strange peculiarities you may have observed in him. I do not consider I have violated the second promise I gave to his father--that I would not divulge without powerful cause the secret of Gabriel Carew's unhappy inheritance. There seems to me here to be cause sufficient for secrecy not to be any longer observed. My tongue being now unsealed, I am ready to reply to any questions you may ask."
Mrs. Fortress's statement made everything clear to me, and also marked out for me a clear path of duty. Knowing what I now knew, it would have been an act of monstrous wickedness to allow Reginald to marry Mildred. Never could I hope to be forgiven did I not prevent the union. Better that my son should live a life of unhappiness through all his days than enter into a contract which would doom the unborn to madness--perhaps to crime. It was not only an offence against man, it was an offence against God. The task before me was difficult, I knew; but I must face it bravely and without flinching. Hearts would be broken in the struggle--well, better that than the awful consequences which would follow such a marriage. My own heart bled as I contemplated what must occur during the next few weeks.
Thus did I excitedly reason with myself in the first heat of the revelation. When I became cooler I saw more clearly the difficulties in my way. What evidence had I to produce? That of an old woman who had given me certain information--which tallied with my own suspicions--for a large sum of money. A cunning woman, to supply me with what she saw I wished. Cunning from the first. Paid liberally--nay, extravagantly--always, according to her own confession. Her one single motive in the matter from first to last--money. Was it likely, being in service so temptingly remunerative, that she should not adopt every cunning means to retain it? There was not only the immediate pay, but the prospect of a reward which would make her comfortable for life. She had so manœuvred that she gained this reward. During the lifetime of Gabriel Carew's mother Mrs. Fortress held supreme power over her. Her son was only allowed to see her a few minutes at a time at intervals of weeks. Even her husband, at the bidding of this clever woman, was denied admittance to his wife's chamber. What difficulty was there, in those days and weeks of seclusion, to so oppress, irritate, and torture the poor patient as to compel her to put on the semblance of madness--to drive her into it indeed? Such cases were not unknown. Even now, from time to time, the public heart is stirred by a sudden revelation of such atrocities.
These were cogent arguments which I raised against myself. With myself in my son's place I should confidently advance them, and should laugh to scorn the weak opposition which would bar my way to happiness. I sighed as I thought. The obstacles in my way were every moment growing more formidable.
These were not the only arguments against myself which occurred to me. There was Mrs. Fortress's conduct when she left Rosemullion after the death of her mistress. Gabriel Carew had made a pitiful appeal to her. How had she met him? By assuming a mysterious air, indicating that she had the key to a secret in which he was vitally interested, but that she did not intend to give it to him. Why had she done this? Who could doubt the answer to such a question? It was necessary to therôleshe had adopted. Any other course would have led to an exposure of her vile scheme. There was the legacy which Mr. Carew left her in his will. Were the real truth known she might be deprived of it. Therefore, the assumption of mystery in her last interview with Gabriel Carew. A cunning woman indeed.
Against evidence so flimsy there was a heavy weight of testimony. Was not Gabriel Carew a loving husband and father? No person could dispute it. He loved his wife and child, and they loved him. Was he ever known to commit a cruel act! Never. Was not his purse ever open to the call of charity? Innumerable instances that such was so could be adduced. Could even light acts of rudeness and incivility be laid at his door? What was the worst that could be said of him? That he was not fond of society, that he was a recluse. Could not this be said of hundreds of estimable men, and was it ever put forth as a distinct offence? If he did not himself go into society, did he prevent his wife and child from doing so? On the contrary. He encouraged them to seek amusement which he, a grave man and a student, possibly deemed frivolous. Fond of books, seeking his greatest pleasures in them, was not this distinctly in his favour, and did it not prove him to be of a superior nature to the common herd? The heaviest charge was that which, in conversation with me, he had brought against himself--that on the approach of night his spirits became gloomy. Slight grounds indeed for so serious an accusation as insanity. Madmen were proverbially cunning. Gabriel Carew was the soul of frankness, himself opening up discussions which would tell against him were he not mentally and physically sound and healthy. I began to despair.
These reflections did not all pass through my mind in the silence which followed the conclusion of Mrs. Fortress's statement. They are the summing-up of my thoughts at that time and during my homeward journey. Meanwhile, Mrs. Fortress was waiting patiently for me to put any questions which might occur to me.
"Beyond yourself, Mrs. Fortress," I said, "and your master and mistress, was there no person cognisant with Mrs. Carew's condition?"
"None, sir, with the exception of the foreign doctor."
"Can you tell me his name?"
"I do not know it, but a doctor of his learning would not have been a young man when Mr. Carew consulted him, and it is hardly likely he would be now living."
"True," I said.
"Besides," she added, "his experience of Mrs. Carew could have been but slight. Almost immediately after he gave Mr. Carew his opinion of my mistress, they left for England, as I have told you."
"Yes," I remarked, "and he may, after all, have been mistaken."
She shrank a little, I fancied, but she said firmly, "He may have been, I was not."
"I am not doubting you, Mrs. Fortress," I said.
She interposed here by saying, "It is immaterial whether you are or not. The facts are as I have stated them."
"I understand, of course, that you have spoken honestly, but is it not possible you may have judged wrongly?"
"I cannot admit it, sir," she replied with calm dignity. "It is not possible."
Certainly she maintained her ground. I continued my inquiry.
"Before Mr. Carew came into his second fortune he lived humbly in London?"
"Yes; in poor lodgings."
"Did the house contain other lodgers?"
"Yes."
"And did not any of them suspect or discover the mystery so close to them?"
"In my belief not another person in the house had any suspicion."
"You lived for many years in Rosemullion?"
"Yes."
"Did not Mrs. Carew have a medical adviser?"
"A doctor called and saw her from time to time."
"Was he not aware of her condition?"
"He was not. His visits were a mere matter of form, and he frequently called at the house without seeing my mistress."
"By whose directions was she denied to him?"
"By mine. It was part of my duty to preserve my master's secret."
"I am sure you did your duty, Mrs. Fortress."
Her lip curled. She did not thank me.
"Did this doctor ever see Mrs. Carew alone?"
"Never. I took care always to be present, and I always prepared my mistress for his visits, warning her to be careful."
"Did she never rebel?"
"With respect to the doctor, never. I had my difficult days with her, but that was my business, and mine alone."
"He must have been a careful and conscientious man," I said somewhat sarcastically.
She capped me by replying, "His accounts were regularly paid. Perhaps that was sufficient for him."
"Perhaps," I said, and I could not avoid a smile, though I was really indignant. "Can you tell me anything more to guide me? Do you think it was Mr. Carew's intention to keep his son in complete ignorance of this misfortune, even after the death of your mistress?"
"I am not positive. My master died during a visit to Wales, while my mistress was still living. It is probable, had he survived his wife, that he would have spoken to his son on the subject. I cannot say for certain, but, from certain words he once used I believe he left some record behind him."
This suggestion aroused me.
"Some written record?" I asked.
"Yes."
"Where would he have deposited it?"
"In Rosemullion my master had his private room, into which no one was allowed to enter. There are large safes built in the walls of that room. If the record I believe my master made is found anywhere, it will be in that room. I have nothing more to say, sir. I have told you all I know. Whether you believe me or not does not concern me. When you see Mr. Gabriel, sir, give him my humble duty."
I returned to Rosemullion in a very disturbed frame of mind. The nearer I approached the abode of mystery the stronger grew my doubts of the truth of Mrs. Fortress's statement. All she had related was in such complete accordance with a cunningly carried out scheme, whereby the innocent were made to suffer, and she--the plotter--made comfortable for life, that I accused myself for my egregious folly in giving her story credence, and listening to it patiently. It was, however, impossible to allow the matter to stand as Mrs. Fortress had left it. Some further inquiry must take place, and my doubts cleared up before I would give my consent to the union of my son with Gabriel Carew's daughter. I did not dare to run a risk so great until my mind was fairly at ease. It was a relief to me when I reached my home that Reginald was not there to greet me. I knew what the tenor of his conversation would be, and I wished to avoid it. He had, indeed, but one theme: Mildred; his heart and soul were meshed in his absorbing love for the fair girl to whom there was a likelihood of a most terrible inheritance having been transmitted.
I proceeded without delay to Rosemullion, and the first person who greeted me on the threshold was Mrs. Carew. She expressed her satisfaction at my return, and upon my inquiring for her husband, said that he was in his study, but that before I saw him she wished to have a few private words with me. It was then that I noted signs of trouble in her face. She led me to the apartment which Gabriel Carew had described as a sanctuary of rest, and at her bidding I sat down and awaited the communication she desired to make to me.
She commenced by saying that her husband had such complete confidence in me and she such faith in my wisdom, that, having a weight at her heart which was sorely disturbing her, she had resolved to ask my advice, as a friend upon whom she could rely. I replied that her faith and her husband's confidence were not misplaced, and that it was my earnest wish to assist her if it lay in my power.
"It is not without my husband's permission," she said, "that I am speaking to you now. He knows that I am uneasy about him, and he himself suggested that I should consult you upon your return from Cornwall."
I was startled at learning that she was not ignorant of my visit to Mrs. Fortress; I imagined that the affair was entirely between me and Mr. Carew. I asked her if she was acquainted with the precise object of my visit.
"No," she replied; "only that you have been on a visit to a nurse who was in the service of my husband's family before the death of his parents. I did not seek for further information, and my husband did not volunteer any. Neither is he acquainted with the details of the matter I am about to open to you. I thought it best to keep it from him until I obtained counsel from a near and dear friend."
I inclined my head, and she continued:
"My husband informs me that he has related to you the fullest particulars of his life, and that he has unbosomed himself to you with an unreserved confidence, such as no other person in the world has been able to inspire."
"It is true," I said, "and I hold his confidence sacred, to be used only for our good."
"And for the good of our children," she said.
"Yes," I said, conscious of a strange note in my voice as I repeated the words, "and for the good of our children."
She detected the unusual note, gazed steadily at me for a moment, and proceeded, without commenting upon it.
"Knowing so much, you are familiar with my husband's nightly wanderings in the woods when he resided here with his parents?"
"Yes."
"He was aware of these nocturnal rambles?" she said. "He undertook them consciously?"
"Certainly."
"He was always awake when he left the house and returned to it?"
"Always," I replied, surprised at the question.
"He has given me full permission to put any questions to you with respect to the confidence he has reposed in you. 'If I have kept anything from you,' he said to me this morning, 'it has been done to save you from uneasiness;' and he added with a smile that he had concealed nothing from me for which he had reason to reproach himself. Certain habits, contracted during a lonely youth, had left their impress upon him, and unusual as they were, there was no harm in them. 'Of one thing be sure,' he said; 'I have lived a pure and blameless life.' I did not need his assurance to convince me of that. As Reginald's father, you should be glad to know it."
"I am glad to know it," I said, and again I was aware of the strange note in my voice, "as Reginald's father and your husband's friend."
"I will explain," she said, "why I asked you whether my husband had any reason to believe that occasionally he walked abroad at night when he was not awake. He has done so for some years past at certain times and under certain circumstances. He did so last night."
"Is he not now aware of it?" I inquired.
"No, I have never informed him that he is a sleep-walker. My reason for keeping this knowledge from him is that I am convinced it would have greatly distressed him; but what occurred last night has so disturbed me that I can no longer be silent."
My suspicions of the truth of Mrs. Fortress's statement began to fade. Here was confirmation that the son had inherited one phase, at least, of his mother's disease.
"You remarked," I said, "that Mr. Carew has walked in his sleep for some years past at certain times and in certain circumstances. Were these circumstances of a special nature?"
"Yes--and all of one complexion; when something was known from which he feared danger."
"To himself?"
"I think not. To me and Mildred. I recall three occasions, which will supply you with an index to the whole. Once there were reports in the papers of a number of burglaries being committed in the neighbourhood, accompanied by deeds of violence. The burglars--there were three, as was subsequently proved--were at liberty, and the efforts made to discover and arrest them met with no success for several weeks. During that period my husband rose regularly every night from bed, dressed himself, and went out of the house, always returning, dressed as he left the room. On one of these occasions I followed and watched him, and discovered that his aim was to guard us from danger. He remained in the grounds around the house, holding a pistol. His actions were those of an earnest, watchful guardian, and were guided by the most singular caution. Sometimes he would hide behind a tree, or crouch down, concealed from view. When he was satisfied that there was no longer any danger, he returned to the house, stepping very softly, and examining the fastenings of the doors and windows."
"Did he rise in the morning with the appearance of a man who had passed a disturbed night?"
"No; he was always cheerful, and appeared to be quite refreshed by what he believed to be a good night's rest. At length, when the burglars were arrested he left the house no more for many months, until a workman whom he had employed, and whom he had reason to discharge, uttered threats against us. Then he again commenced his nightly watch, which did not cease until he received information that the man had left the country. After that he enjoyed a long period of repose. The third occasion was when there was a report of the escape of a dangerous madman from a lunatic asylum three or four miles from Rosemullion. Until this man was once more in safe custody, my husband never missed a night's watch during his sleep. You will gather from this explanation that he was always actuated by a good motive--to guard and protect those whom he loves."
"That seems clear," I said, "and what you have related is especially interesting to me as a specialist, apart from my sincere friendship for you and yours."
"As a specialist!" she exclaimed. "Of what kind?"
Fortunately I arrested myself in time. The words which immediately suggested themselves to me in reply, remained unspoken. The truth would have been too great a shock to this sweet lady.
"As one deeply interested," I answered, with an assuring smile, "in psychological mysteries. What occurred yesterday to excite Mr. Carew?"
"He and I had been out riding. Upon our return one of our gardeners informed my husband that a man had been seen lurking about the grounds. The story told by the gardener is this: The stranger, a foreigner, although he spoke good English, did not wait to be accosted by the gardener, but himself opened a conversation. He asked if this was Rosemullion. Yes. Did a family of the name of Carew live here? Yes. Was Mrs. Carew alive? Yes. Was Mr. Carew alive? Yes. Did they have any family? Yes, a daughter. What was her name? Miss Mildred. Could he see Mrs. Carew? Mrs. Carew was out driving. When would I return, and was there any possibility of the stranger seeing me alone? The gardener could not say. It was not I, but my husband who put these questions to the gardener. Then Mr. Carew asked sternly what was the bribe that induced the gardener to answer the inquiries of a stranger, and he forced the truth from him. The stranger had given the gardener a foreign coin, which my husband insisted upon seeing. It was a piece of French money. This part of the affair is completed by the admission of the gardener that the stranger was apparently in poverty, as his poor clothes betokened--and yet he had given the gardener money to answer his questions! When the gardener was gone my husband said that the circumstance was very suspicious, and I thought so myself; that the stranger had some bad motive in thus intruding upon private property, and that he would go in search of him. I asked to be allowed to accompany him, and after a slight hesitation he consented, saying if the stranger came with innocent intent and we met him, that he could say what he had to say to me in my husband's presence. We strolled all round the grounds of Rosemullion, but saw no stranger. Then my husband said he would go into the woods, and that I had better leave him; but I, fearing I knew not what, begged to be allowed to remain with him. Together we went into the woods, and for a long while met no person answering the description given by the gardener; but after a while we saw a stranger a few yards in front of us. It happened that I was a little ahead of my husband at that moment, and the stranger, turning and seeing me, thought that I was alone. He was about to hasten towards me when my husband stepped to my side. Without hesitation the stranger abruptly turned from us, and, plunging into the woods, was immediately lost to view."
Something in Mrs. Carew's manner at this point--which I should find it difficult to explain--some premonition that this man she called a stranger was really not so to her--caused me to ask,
"You saw his face?"
"Yes." And at this answer, tremblingly spoken, my premonition became a certainty.
"You recognised it?"
"Unless I am much mistaken--and with all my heart I pray to heaven I may be!--it was a face once familiar to me."
It was not now for me to pursue the subject; it was for her to confide freely in me, if such was her desire. There was a silence of a few moments before she resumed:
"My husband, having hidden nothing from you, has told you all that occurred in my dear native village, Nerac, before we were married?"
"He has told me all, I believe," I said.
"Of my beloved parents--of friends once dear to me--Eric, murdered, and the unhappy Emilius?"
"I am acquainted with all the particulars of that tragic event."
"Sadly changed, worn, haggard, and travel-stained, in the man we met in the forest I recognised Emilius."
This, indeed, was startling news. Emilius alive, his term of imprisonment over, or he an escaped convict, seeking an interview with Mrs. Carew, the wife of the man whom he regarded as his bitterest enemy! To what was this to lead?--in what way was it to end?
"Did Mr. Carew recognise him?" I asked.
"I cannot tell you," replied Mrs. Carew. "Not a word passed between us respecting him.Idid not dare to speak. It would but have been to reopen old wounds, and after all I may have been mistaken. Not for me to bring back to my husband the memories of a past in which he was so cruelly misjudged. Besides, this was the one and only subject upon which my husband and I were not in harmony. He most firmly believed and believes in Emilius's guilt; I as firmly believed and believe in his innocence. The years that have flown have not softened my husband's judgment nor hardened mine; and until this hour the name of Emilius has never passed my lips since we settled in Rosemullion. No, it was not for me to utter it in my husband s presence; it was not for me to bring pain to his kind heart. I said nothing, nor did my husband, nor did he attempt to follow the stranger. In silence we walked back to the house, and the evening passed as usual. Reginald came, and we had music and conversation. On the part of Mildred and your son converse was cheerful and unconstrained, and I also strove to be cheerful. I was so far successful as to deceive the children, but my husband was not so easily blinded. And yet he made no allusion to the subject which engrossed my thoughts, and weighed like a dark cloud upon my heart. The hour grew late, and I sent Reginald home. Young people in love have always to be reminded. Then my husband and I retired to rest. Troubled as I was, sleep was long in coming to me, but at length Nature was merciful, and I sank into slumber. I awoke at the soft chiming of our silver clock, proclaiming the hour of two. Never do I remember being awoke by the chiming of this clock, so low and sweet is it; and that I should awake now as it struck two may have been simply a coincidence. I sat up in bed. I was alone. My husband was not in the room; his clothes were gone, and he had doubtless gone out fully dressed. In great fear I rose and dressed, with the intention of following him, but when I tried the door I found it had been locked on the outside. Powerless to do anything but wait, I sat, trembling, till daylight began to peep in at the windows. Then I heard my husband's footsteps in the passage, which would not have reached my ears had not my senses been preternaturally sharpened. He trod softly, and turned the key in the door very gently in order not to disturb me. He entered the room, and I almost fainted as I saw in his hand the bright blade of an ancient dagger which usually lay upon his study table. His face was turned towards me, his eyes were open, but he did not see me. He took from his pocket a sheath, in which he placed the dagger, and then he undressed. Before he lay down to that more healthful sleep in which his mind would be at rest, he listened two or three times at the locked door, and going to the window, drew the blind a little aside and looked from the window. Then he stretched himself in bed, and his eyes closed. Not by the least sign did he show any consciousness of the fact that I was standing, dressed, in the room, and that we were often face to face. I soon retired to bed, but I slept no more. I lay awake, listening to my husband's breathing, praying for the hour to arrive at which we generally rose for the day--praying for that, praying that the night would not come again, praying for a friend to counsel me. It were vain for me to disguise from you that I am in dread of what may happen should my husband and Emilius meet. And there is still something more----"
I waited, but she left the sentence uncompleted. Startled as I was by what I had heard, I was even more startled to see this good and gentle woman suddenly cover her face with her hands, and burst into a passion of tears. I turned from her in commiseration, powerless to relieve or console her. Even had I words at command, it was better that her grief should be allowed to spend itself naturally. When she had recovered, I asked,
"Has Mr. Carew made any reference to what passed in the night?"
"Not any," she replied.
"Did you?"
"I simply asked him if he had slept well, and he answered 'Yes,' and that his sleep had been dreamless."
"Will you pardon me for the question whether you believe that to be really so--whether his answer to your solicitous inquiry was not prompted by his desire not to trouble or distress you?"
"I am certain," said Mrs. Carew, "that my husband said what he believes to be true. Dear friend, what am I to do?"
She seized my hand, and clung to it as though to me, and to me alone, could she look for help in her sad position.
"Does Mildred know anything, suspect anything?" I asked.
What was the meaning of the timid, frightened, helpless look in her eyes at the mention of Mildred's name? No mental efforts of mine could fathom it.
"Nothing," she replied, and then seemed to drift, against her will as it were, into distressful thought. I devoted a few moments to consideration, and when I spoke again had resolved upon a course of action.
"Would you wish me to become your guest for a few days?" I asked.
"Ah, if you would!" she exclaimed.
"I shall be willing if Mr. Carew has no objection. I will see him presently and ascertain. But first I have a little scheme to carry out which I think advisable for all our sakes."
I asked her if I could write a letter in her room, and despatch it at once to my house, and she opened her desk for me. My letter was to my son Reginald, and the effect of it was to secure his absence from Rosemullion during my stay in Mr. Carew's house. There was really a matter of business which Reginald could attend to, and which rendered it necessary for him to take his immediate departure for London. When my letter was written, I explained its purport to Mrs. Carew, and she acquiesced in the wisdom of my plan. She herself added a few words to the letter, to the effect that she regretted not being able to see him before he left, and that Mildred was well and sent her love. She gave me a flower, and asked me to enclose it in the envelope.
"He will think it comes from Mildred," she said, "and it will send him away happy. It is an innocent deceit."
The letter was despatched, and with a few assuring words to the sweet woman, I went to her husband's study.