I observed a change in him. Something of his inner life was reflected in his face, the expression upon which was stern and moody. It softened a little when he shook me by the hand. I asked him if he was well, and he answered yes, but troubled by a strange presentiment of evil. He remarked that he was on the eve of momentous circumstances in his life which boded ill. I did not encourage him to indulge in this vein, but proceeded to relate as much of my interview with Mrs. Fortress as I deemed it wise and necessary to impart. He listened to me patiently and reflectively, and when I had finished, said:
"You have given me food for reflection. I have in you a confidence so perfect that I place myself unreservedly in your hands. I will be guided completely by your counsels; my confidence in myself is much shaken. What do you advise?"
"This is the study," I said, "which your father used to occupy?"
"It is," he replied; "and no person was allowed to enter it without his permission."
"After his death you searched in it for his private papers?"
"I did, and found very little to satisfy me. I hoped to discover something which would throw light upon the strange habits of our life and home. I was disappointed."
At my request he showed me the method by which the safe was opened, and the ingenuity of the device caused me to wonder that he had found nothing of importance within its walls. I was, however, convinced that there was in the study some clue to the mystery of Carew's boyhood's home--although I could not help admitting to myself that it needed but faith in Mrs. Fortress's statement to arrive at a correct solution. But I required further evidence, and I resolved to search for it.
"As you have placed yourself in my hands," I said, "you will not object to comply with two or three slight requests."
"There is little you can ask," was his response, "that I am not ready to accede to."
"Invite me to remain here as your guest for a few days."
"I do."
"Allow me to occupy this room alone until I retire to bed."
"Willingly."
"And promise me that you will not leave the house without first acquainting me of your intention."
"I promise."
A little while afterwards he left me to myself, saying that if I wished to see him I should find him with his wife. When he revealed to me the secret method by which the safe was worked, he did not close the panel; it remained open for my inspection, and I now made an examination of the interior without finding so much as a scrap of paper. This was as I expected; if Gabriel Carew's father left documents behind him, they must be searched for elsewhere. A careful study of the room led me to the conclusion that the massive writing-table was the most likely depository. The working of the safe was a process much too tedious for a man who wished for easy access to his papers; the writing-table offered the means of this, and I turned my attention to it. I do not wish to be prolix, and I therefore omit a description of the painfully careful examination of every point in this massive piece of furniture. Suffice it that, after at least an hour's search, my endeavours were rewarded. In one of the legs of the table on the inner side, quite undiscoverable without a light, I felt a depression just large enough to receive the ball of my thumb. I pressed hard, and although there was no immediate result, I fancied I detected a slight yielding, such as might occur when pressing upon a firm spring which had been disused for many years. I pressed harder, with all my strength, and I suddenly heard a sharp click. I found that this proceeded from the skirting of oak immediately above the leg I was manipulating. I had carefully examined the skirting all round the table without being able to discover any signs of a drawer. Now, however, one had started forward, and I had no difficulty in pulling it open. My heart beat more quickly as I drew from it a manuscript book and a few loose sheets of foolscap paper. The writing was large and plain; ink of such a quality had been used that the lapse of years had had but a slight effect upon it. In less than a minute I satisfied myself that the handwriting was that of Gabriel Carew's father.
The book first. I read it attentively through. It was a record of the circumstances of the married life of Gabriel Carew's parents, and such of it as bore upon Mrs. Fortress's statement confirmed its truth in every particular. Before I came to the end of this record I heard Gabriel Carew calling to me outside. I hastily concealed the book and papers, and went to the door.
"I would not come upon you unawares," he said, "but it has occurred to me that to leave you even partially in the dark would not be ingenuous, and might frustrate the end we both have in view. Before I was married I wrote what may be regarded as a history of my life up to that period. There are in it no reservations or concealments of any kind whatever. Not alone my outer but my inner life is laid bare therein; it is an absolutely faithful and truthful record. Since I wrote the last words of this personal history I have not glanced at it. I hand it now to you with one stipulation. So long as I am alive you will not reveal what I have written. Should I die before you I leave it to your discretion to deal with it as you please. Another thing. I ought to more frankly explain why I put you in possession of secrets which no man, unless under unusual and extraordinary circumstances, would impart to another. I have been all my life animated by a strong spirit of justice to others as well as to myself. By this inclusion of myself I mean that I should be as ready to condemn myself and to mete out to myself a penalty I may consciously or unconsciously have incurred as I would to any ordinary person. I am also animated by a sincere and devoted love for my wife and child. Were I asked to express the dearest wish of my heart I should answer, the wish for their happiness. But even this must not be purchased at the expense of a possible wrong to another human being. There exists between your son and my daughter an affection which has been allowed to ripen into love. Whether we have been wise time will prove. You have, equally with myself, the welfare of your child at heart. You have doubts; let them be fully resolved. I need say no more than that I am convinced that these feeble words of mine--which to strangers would be inexplicable--will help us to understand each other."
He left me alone once more, not waiting for me to speak, and I felt for him as deep a sentiment of pity and admiration as had ever been excited within me. He had also magnetised me into sharing his belief that momentous circumstances were about to occur in his life which would affect mine and my son's. It could not be otherwise in the light of the love which Reginald bore for Mildred.
I did not resume the perusal of the record made by Carew's father; I held my curiosity in check both as regards that and what was written on the two sheets of foolscap paper. Commencing to read the personal history which Gabriel Carew had composed, I became so fascinated by it that I could not leave it. Mrs. Carew sent to ask me to join them at dinner, but I begged to be excused, and wine and food were brought to me in the study. I remained there undisturbed, engrossed in Gabriel Carew's narrative, and it was late in the night when I reached the end. Then with feelings which it is impossible for me to describe, I turned to the record made by Carew's father, and finished it. No opinions were therein expressed; there was no indulgence in theory or speculation; it was a simple statement of fact. The conclusions arrived at by Carew's father were set down on the sheets of foolscap, which next claimed my attention. They ran as follows:--
"It is my intention, as an act of justice, before I die, to make my son Gabriel acquainted with the mystery of my married life. It is due to him and to myself that he should not pass his life in ignorance of the sad events and circumstances which shadowed his home. The journal which I have written, and in which he will find a record of facts, will put him in possession of the melancholy circumstances of his parents' lives. Without additional words from me he would understand the explanation I have given, but something more is necessary from me to him.
"When I married his mother I had no knowledge that there was in her blood an inherited disease. Had I suspected it I should not have married her. It would have been a transgression against the laws of God and man. To bring into the world human beings who are not responsible for their actions, and who are driven to crime by the promptings of a demoniac force born within them and growing stronger with their own growth to strong manhood, is to be the creator of a race of monsters. It matters not how fair and beautiful the outside may be; simply to think of the evil forces sleeping within, urging to sin and crime and cruelty, is sufficient to make a just man shudder. Madness assumes many phases, but not one more dreadful than the phase in which it presented itself in my wife's nature. Her conscious, waking life was a life of gentleness and kindness; her unconscious, sleeping life, but for the restraints I placed upon her, would have been a life of crime. The fault was not hers, but it fell to her lot to bear the burden of her curse. I, at least, by rendering her existence a misery to herself and those around her, kept her free from crime. One she committed before my eyes were opened, but its consequences were not fatal. To this hour she does not know that she attempted the life of a human being, and it is possible, because of my treatment of her, that she thinks of me as a monster of cruelty. It is for me to bear this burden, in addition to others which have come to me unaware. I do not bemoan, but my life might have been bright and honoured had I not married my wife. The one consolation I have is that I have endeavoured to perform my duty. My son Gabriel must perform his, though his heart bleed in its performance. Should the worst befall, all that I can do is to implore his forgiveness for having been the cause of his living. There have been times when I have debated with myself whether it would not be the more merciful course to put him out of the world, but I have never had the courage to execute the sentence which my sense of stern justice dictated. There is, however, one chance in life for him, although I most solemnly adjure him never to marry, never to link his life with that of an innocent being. If his heart is moved to love he must pluck the sentiment out by the roots, must fly from it as from a horror which blenches the cheek to contemplate. Our race must die with him; not one must live after him to perpetuate it. I lay this injunction most solemnly upon him; if he violate it he will be an incredible monster--as I should have been had I married his mother knowing what taint was in her blood. For his guidance I may say that I have consulted the most eminent authorities in Europe, and this is their verdict. Let him pay careful heed to it, for in my judgment it is incontrovertible.
"Reference to my journal will show him that the first visible manifestation of his mother's disease was exhibited about five months before he was born. We were then inhabiting a house in Switzerland, and on the night her fatal inheritance took active shape and form we had been entertaining a party of friends--one of whom was a foul villain--and my wife had been singing many times a Tyrolean air of which she was passionately fond. I copy the music of the air here, praying to God that my son may not be familiar with it."
(Here followed a few bars of music, which I had no doubt formed the air to which Mrs. Fortress had referred in her statement, and mention of which will also be found in the record of his life made by Gabriel Carew.)
"After the almost tragic events of that night my wife was continually singing this air; I have heard her hum it in her sleep. When my son was born she suckled the child--an error I deeply deplore. The physicians I consulted are of one opinion. If my son Gabriel inherits in its worst form his mother's disease, the ghost of this air will haunt him from time to time. It may not be so clear to his senses that he could sing it aloud, but he would indubitably recognise it if he heard it by accident. It is for a test that I copy the music; it is for my son to apply it. Should the air be entirely unfamiliar to him, should it fail to recall any sensations through which he has passed, the inheritance transmitted to him by his mother--if it ever assume practical shape--will exhibit itself in a milder and less ruthless form. The physicians aver that at some time or other, if Gabriel live long, some such manifestation will most surely take place, and that if it occur in its worst phase, the key-note to the occurrence may be found in the affections.
"This is as much as I can at present find strength to set down. I shall take an opportunity to confer with my son upon this gloomy matter, but I have a reluctance to approach the subject personally with him during the lifetime of his mother. It will need an almost superhuman courage on my part to speak of such a matter to my own son, but I must nerve my soul to the task. If he reproach me, if he curse me, I must bear it humbly. Once more I implore his forgiveness."
The papers lay before me, and I was still under the spell of the fatal revelation when the clock struck two. The chiming of the hour awoke me as it were, and my mind became busy with thought of my own concerns. Reginald's doom was pronounced. Never must he and Gabriel Carew's daughter be allowed to wed. Death were preferable.
The house was very still; for hours I had not heard a sound, even the chiming of the clock falling dead upon my ears, so engrossed had I been in the papers I had perused. But now, surely, outside the room I heard a sound of soft footsteps--very, very soft--as of some one creeping cautiously along. I do not know why, when I opened the study door, I should do so quietly and stealthily, in imitation of the caution displayed by the person in the passage; but I did so. The moment, if not propitious, was well timed. As I opened the door Gabriel Carew reached it. He was completely dressed; his eyes were open; upon his face was an expression of watchfulness so earnest, so intent, so thorough, that it was clear to me that his mental powers were on the alert, and were dictating and controlling his movements. In his hand he held a dagger.
His eyes shone upon me, and had he been awake he could not have failed to recognise me, and would surely have spoken. But he made no sign. He paused for scarce an instant, and passed on, brushing my sleeve as he crossed me. Here before me was the fatal proof of the working of his unhappy inheritance.
My first impulse was to follow him, for the dagger in his hand boded danger; and I should have done so had it not been for another occurrence almost as startling.
With a loose morning gown thrown over her, Mrs. Carew glided to my side, and put her hand upon my arm. Her feet were bare, there was a distressful look in her eyes, she was trembling like an aspen. So pallid was her face and her lips were quivering so convulsively, that I feared she was about to faint; but an inward strength sustained her.
"You saw him?" she said.
"Yes," I answered, and then said "Hush! Draw aside."
He was returning. The open door of the study, and the lights within, had produced an impression upon him, and were evidently the cause of his return. He entered the study, and traversed it, examining every corner to convince himself that the person upon whom his mind was intent was not in the room. Satisfied with the result of his search, he left the room slowly and walked onward to the stairs which led to the front door of the house.
"I must follow him--I must follow him," murmured Mrs. Carew.
I restrained her. "You are not in a fit state," I said. "Let me do so in your place."
"Yes," she said, "it will be best, perhaps. You are a man, and have a man's strength. How can I thank you? Go--quickly, quickly!"
"A moment," I said, my head inclined from her; I was listening to the sounds of Carew's movements; "he has not yet reached the lower door. There are bolts to draw aside, locks to unfasten, a chain to set loose. What do you fear?"
"If he and Emilius meet there will be murder done!" She spoke rapidly and feverishly; it was no time for evasion or disguise. "Since Mr. Carew left you in the study," she said, "he has been greatly excited. The gardener brought us news of Emilius. He has been seen prowling about the grounds and examining the doors and windows of the house to discover a means of entering it when we were asleep."
"That is not the conduct of an honest man," I said, shaken by the information in the opinion I had formed of Emilius.
To my astonishment she cried, wringing her hands, "He is justified, he is justified! We have been denied to him, and he has come here with a fixed purpose, which he is bent upon carrying out."
"And you wish me to understand that he is justified in so doing?"
"Yes, I have said it, and it is true. Were you he, you would do as he is doing. Unhappy woman that I am! Do not ask me to explain. There is no time now. Hark! I hear the bolts of the door being drawn aside. Go down quickly, if you are sincere in your wish to serve me. For my sake, for Mildred's, for Reginald's!"
She was exhausted; she had not strength to utter another word. It may be that I was not merciful in addressing her after this evidence of exhaustion and prostration, but I was impelled to speak.
"I shall be down in time to prevent what you dread. You ask me to serve you for the sake of Mildred and Reginald. My son is all in all to me; he is my life, my happiness, and knowing what I now know I see before him nothing but misery. It is this fatherly concern for his sake that urges me to extract a promise from you that you will explain at a more fitting moment the meaning of your words. You will do so?"
She nodded, and I left her and went down the stairs. Carew had opened the door, and was peering out. It was a clear night; there was no moon, but the stars were shining. I was quite close to Carew, but he took no notice of me; he was not conscious of my presence. Had he left the house and closed the front door behind him, he would have been unable to re-enter it unobserved; the door could not be opened from the outside. With singular foresight he stooped and selected a stone, and fixed it at the bottom of the door so that it could not close itself of its own volition. Having thus secured an entrance, he went out into the open.
I followed him at a distance of a few yards, neither adopting special precautions to keep concealed, nor taking steps to obtrude myself on his notice. Had it not been that I was wound up to a pitch of intense excitement I might have risked a rude awakening of him, but I was impressed by a conviction that there was still something for me to learn which, were he awake, might be hidden from me. Therefore, I contented myself with watching his movements. It was a wonder to me that he made no mistakes in the paths he traversed, that he did not stumble or falter. He walked with absolute confidence and precision, avoiding low-hanging branches of trees which would have struck him in the face had he been unaware of their immediate vicinity. Nothing of the kind occurred; there was not the slightest obstruction that he did not intelligently avoid; he did not once have occasion to retrace his steps. And yet he was asleep to all intents and purposes but one--that upon which his mind was fixed. When I saw him two or three times pause, with a slight upraising of the dagger, which he clutched firmly in his hand, I knew what that purpose was--I knew that, had he seen Emilius, he would have leapt upon him and stabbed him to the heart, and that then, unconscious of the crime, he would have returned to his bed with an easy conscience. Strange indeed was the double life of this man--the life of sweetness, kindness, justice in his waking moments, of relentless, cruel purpose while he slept. In alliance with the proceedings of which I was at that time a witness, came to my mind the pronouncement of the skilled authorities whom Carew's father had consulted--that should the fatal inheritance transmitted to him take its worst form, the key-note might be found in the affections. It was demonstrated now. Emilius, his enemy, had found his way to his home; the safety and happiness of his wife and child were threatened; and he, prompted by his love for them, was on the watch to guard them, animated by a stern resolve to remove, by an unconscious crime, his enemy from his path. I thought of the tragic occurrences which had taken place in Nerac while he was courting the pure, the innocent maiden Lauretta, and I was weighed down by the reflection that justice had erred, and that the innocent had suffered for the guilty. It was a terrible thought, and it was strange that it did not inspire me with a horror of the man whose footsteps I was following. I felt for him nothing but compassion.
For quite an hour did Carew remain in the grounds searching for his foe without success. To all outward appearance only Carew and I were present. He saw no stranger, nor did I. On three occasions, however, he paused close to a copse where the undergrowth, more than man high, was thick. On each occasion he stood in a listening attitude, passing his left hand over his brow as though he were doubtful and perplexed, and on each occasion he moved away with lingering steps, not entirely convinced that he was not leaving danger behind him. The bright blade of his dagger shone in the light as he stood on the watch; there was something of the tiger in his bearing. Short would have been the shrift of his enemy had he made his presence known on any one of these occasions. A fierce, sure leap, a thrust, another and another if needed, and all would have been over.
At length the search was ended, at length Carew was satisfied of the safety of his beloved ones. He returned slowly to the house.
Had I been aware of his intention I should have slipped in before him, but I was not conscious of it until he stood by the door, and I a dozen yards in his rear. It was too late then for me to attempt to precede him. He stooped and removed the stone which he had fixed in the door to keep it free, stood upon the threshold for the briefest space, confronting me, and, with a sigh of relief, passed in and closed the door behind him. I heard the key slowly and softly turned, heard the bolts as slowly and softly pushed into their sockets, heard the chain put up. Then silence.
What was I to do? There was, within my knowledge, no other way into the house. To knock and arouse those within would have brought exposure upon me. There was nothing for me to do but to wait for daylight. Disconsolately I walked about the grounds, disturbed by the thought that I had left the study open, and the papers I had read loose upon the writing-table. I found myself by the copse at which Carew had three times paused in doubt, and was startled by the sudden emergence of a man from the undergrowth. By an inspiration I leapt at the truth.
"You are Emilius," I said.
"I am Emilius," was his reply.
Despite his rags and haggard appearance, his manner was defiant. He had been twenty years in prison, but he had not lost his sense of self-respect; degraded association had not stamped out his manliness. He bore about him the signs of great suffering--of unmerited suffering, as I knew while gazing upon him for the first time, but it had not turned him into a savage, as has been the case with other men who have been wrongly judged. Through the rough crust of habits foreign to his nature which a long term of imprisonment had laid upon him, I discerned an underlying dignity and nobility which bespoke him gentleman. I discerned also in him the evidence of a tenacious purpose from which death alone could turn him. That purpose had brought him to Rosemullion, and, connected as I was with Gabriel Carew and his family, it was necessary that I should learn its nature.
"Do you accost me," asked Emilius, "as friend or enemy?"
"As friend," I replied. "I ask you to believe me upon my honour, from gentleman to gentleman."
His face flushed, and he looked searchingly at me to ascertain if I was mocking him.
"When I saw you," said Emilius, "standing apart from that fiend in human form, and saw him watching here by the copse in which I lay concealed, I supposed you were both in league against me."
"I at least am guiltless of enmity towards you," I said. "It is truly my wish to serve you if you will show me the way and I deem it right."
"What I have suffered," he said with a pitiful smile, "has not embittered me against all the world. It would not ill become me to disbelieve the protestations of a stranger, but I prefer the weaker course. I have only two things to fear--irredeemable poverty, from which I could not extricate myself--(I am not far from that pass at the present, but I have still sufficient for two months' dry bread)--and death before I achieve my purpose. May God so deal with you as you deal honestly by me. I have not lost all comprehension of human signs, and there is that in you which denotes a wish to know me and perhaps to win my confidence. Sorely do I need a friend, a helping hand; and like a drowning man I clutch at the first that offers itself. Yet bitter as is my need, I ask you to turn from me at once if your intentions are not honest."
"I will stay and prove myself," I said.
"Why have you remained out in the open," asked Emilius, "while that monster, who for a brief space has put aside his murderous intent, has re-entered his house?"
"It was an accident, and may be providential. At first I deplored it, but now am thankful for it. I am thankful, too, that you made no movement while Mr. Carew was standing on this spot."
"I am no coward," said Emilius with pride, "and yet I was afraid. As I have told you, I do not want to die--just yet. He was armed; I am without a weapon. But had it been otherwise I should not have risked a conflict with him; my life is for a little while too precious to me. My liberty, also, which he, a gentleman, against me, a vagrant, might with little difficulty swear away. He has done worse than that without scruple. Therefore, it behoved me to be wary. Were my errand here an errand of revenge I should have a score, a terrible score, to settle with him; but there is something of even greater weight to be accomplished. I have said that I will trust you; in prison my word was relied on, and it may be relied on here. It is not in doubt of you I ask why the fiend who inhabits that house and you came out in concert at such an hour?"
"We did not come out in concert," I replied. "Mr. Carew did not see me; he was not aware of my presence."
Emilius gazed upon me in wonder. "I am to believe this?"
"It is the truth, I swear. I have no object in deceiving you. Yet it would be strange if you did not doubt and wonder. For the present let the matter bide; you have much to learn which may temper your judgment."
"A foul wrong can never be righted," responded Emilius. "The dead cannot be brought to life. If you expect my judgment of that fiend ever to be softened, you expect a miracle. What is the nature of your connection with him? Pardon me for asking questions; I will answer yours freely."
"An angel lives in that house," I said, "and I am bound to her by ties of affection and devotion, inspired by her sweet nature and spotless purity."
"Lauretta!" he murmured. "She loved me once as a sister might love a brother, and I loved her in like manner. She was the incarnation of innocence and goodness."
"And is so still. She whom you once loved as a sister claims now your pity. Find room in your heart for something better than revenge."
"You misjudge me," he said softly; "it is love, not revenge, that brought me here. But you have not completed your explanation."
"I have an only child," I said; "a son, grown to man's estate. Love grew between him and Mrs. Carew's daughter----"
"Stop!" he cried, in a suffocated voice. "I cannot, cannot bear it!"
He leant against a tree for support; his form was convulsed with heavy sobs. His profound grief astonished me; I could find no clue for it. I turned aside until he was master of himself again, and then he resumed the conversation.
"You seem to know the story of my life."
"I am acquainted with it."
"You know that I was tried for the murder of my brother?"
"Yes."
"There are moments in life when to lie will damn a man's soul and condemn it to eternal perdition! This in my life is such a moment. I call Heaven to witness my innocence! Now and hereafter may I be cursed, now and for ever may the love for which I yearn be torn from me, may I never meet my wife in heaven, if I do not stand before you an innocent man! I was condemned for another's crime. The murderer lives there." He pointed to the house, and continued: "My brother was not the only one who died by his hand. In the happy village of Nerac, whither a relentless fate directed that monster's steps, another man was murdered before my beloved Eric fell. This man's comrade suffered the penalty--while he, the murderer, looked on and smiled. I do not question the goodness and mercy of God; for some unknown reason these atrocities have been allowed, and no thunderbolt has fallen to smite the guilty. Had I been other than I am I should have turned blasphemer, and raised my impious voice against my Creator. As it is, I have suffered and borne my sufferings, not like a beast, but like a man. You hint at some mystery in connection with that monster which I cannot fathom. Time is too precious for me to waste it by groping in the dark. I will wait patiently for enlightenment. Heaven knows I, of all men living, should lend a ready ear to howsoever strange a tale, for I am associated, through my father and his brother, with a mystery which the majority of men would reject as incredible. This extends even to my statement that I have sure evidence of that monster's guilt, although I did not see the deed perpetrated. You may enter into my feelings when I tell you that the first few weeks of my imprisonment were weeks of the most awful torture to me. I wept. I could not sleep, my heart was torn with unspeakable anguish. Night after night in my lonely cell I passed the hours praying to my murdered brother, and calling upon him to give me a sign. My prayer was answered on the anniversary of our birthday. Eric and I, as I assume you know, were twins, as were my father Silvain and his brother Kristel. Between them existed a mysterious bond of sympathy. So was it, in a lesser degree, between Eric and me. On that birthday anniversary, spent in prison, peace for the first time fell upon my soul, and I slept. In my dreams my brother appeared to me; he did not speak to me; but I saw the enactment of his murder. I had left him in the forest to join my wife. He was alone. He paced to and fro in deep anguish. Tears streamed from his eyes; his heart was wracked with woe. In this state he continued for a space of time which I judged to be not less than an hour. Then gradually he became more composed, and he knelt and prayed, with his face buried in his hands. Stealing towards him stealthily, holding a knife, as to-night he held a dagger, I beheld the monster, Gabriel Carew. I saw him plainly; the moon shone upon his face, and though he walked like a man in sleep, his fell intent was visible in his eyes. I tried to scream to warn my brother, but my tongue clove to the roof of my mouth. I could not utter a sound. Nearer and nearer crept the monster--nearer and nearer, noiselessly, noiselessly! Not a leaf cracked beneath his feet; all nature seemed to be suddenly stricken dumb in horror of the deed about to be done. To my agonised senses seconds were minutes, minutes hours, until the monster stood above the kneeling form of my beloved Eric. He raised the knife--the blade was touched with light; for a moment he paused to make his aim surer, the stroke more certain. With cruel, devilish force the knife descended, and was plunged through my Eric's back, straight into his heart. He uttered no cry, but straightway, as the knife was plucked from him, fell forward on his face. My brother was dead! Slowly, stealthily, warily, the murderer stole through the woods, casting no look behind. A darkness rushed upon me, and my dream was at an end. When I awoke I knew that I had witnessed a faithful presentment of the scene, and it would need something more powerful than human arguments to convince me that I was the victim of a delusion. The natural sentiment which from that night forth might be supposed to animate me was that I might live to revenge myself upon the murderer. It was not so with me. I lived, and live, for another purpose, with another end in view. Not for me to shed blood, and to stain my soul with sin and crime. I leave my cause to heaven. Having heard thus much, will you aid me, will you serve me, as you have promised?"
"I will do my best, if my judgment approves."
"The end is just, and I cannot endure long delay. I must see Mrs. Carew--must!There is a matter between us which must be cleared up before another day and night have passed. Tell her that my errand is not one of revenge. Not a word of reproach shall she hear from my lips. I am here to claim what is mine--my inalienable right! She will understand if you represent it to her in my words. Tell her she has nothing to fear from me, and that the faith I have in her will not allow me to believe that she will conspire to rob my life of the one joy it contains for me. Will you do this?"
"I will do what you desire, in the way you desire."
"I thank you," he said, and the courteous grateful motion of his head bespoke the gentleman.
"How shall I find you," I asked, "if I wish to see you to-morrow?"
"Leave that to me," was his reply. "I shall be on the watch--and on my guard. Good-night."
"Good-night," I said, and I offered him my hand. He touched it with his, and saying again, "I thank you," left me to myself.
I remained in the grounds until the servants--who were early risers-- unfastened the front door. Then I entered the house, and made my way to the study. As I reached the door Mrs. Carew came out of her room to meet me. She placed her finger to her lips, and whispered,
"My husband is there."
"Your husband!" I exclaimed in consternation, forgetting Emilius, forgetting everything except the papers I had found in the secret drawer, and which I had left loose upon the writing-table.
"Yes," said Mrs. Carew. "When he came in alone he had to pass the study on his way to our room. The door was open, and he went in. I did not dare to disturb him. All is so still within that I think he is asleep. Tell me, dear friend--has anything happened outside?"
"Nothing of the nature you dread," I replied.
"Thank you," she murmured.
I opened the study door and entered, and sitting at the writing-table, with his hand upon the revelation made by his father, was Gabriel Carew, in a profound slumber.
"He has slept thus frequently," whispered Mrs. Carew, who had followed me into the room, "until late in the day."
"Leave us together," I said.
She obeyed me, and I stood by Carew's side and gazed at him and the papers. There was deep suffering on his face, strangely contrasted with an expression of resolution and content. What this portended I had yet to learn.
It was not till at least an hour afterwards that I remembered the promise I had given to Emilius. Carew still slept, and had not stirred from the position in which I had found him. Two or three times I made a gentle effort to remove from beneath his hand the papers I had found in the secret drawer, but as my design could not be accomplished without violence, I abandoned it. There was no doubt in my mind that he had read them, and his tenacious hold upon them denoted that he had formed some strong resolution with respect to them. With the intention of fulfilling my promise to Emilius, I softly left the room.
Mrs. Carew, sitting in a room above with Mildred, heard my movements, and swiftly and noiselessly glided down the stairs. In a low tone I made her acquainted with what had passed between me and Emilius, and I perceived that she was not unprepared for Emilius's demand for an interview. When I repeated to her Emilius's words, "Tell her she has nothing to fear from me, and that the faith I have in her will not allow me to believe that she will conspire to rob my life of the one joy it contains for me," she clasped her hands across her eyes, and remained so for a little while.
"It is his due," she said, but though she strove to speak calmly she could not control her trembling voice and quivering lips; "I must see him."
"When?" I asked.
"I cannot at this moment decide," she replied. "I must have time to reflect. Meanwhile, there lies our first care."
She pointed to the study in which her husband slept.
"You understand that he is determined to see you before another day and night have passed?"
"Yes, I understand."
"How is Mildred?"
"Bright and well, with the exception that she is concerned about me. She suspects nothing."
"It is better so. Trouble comes soon enough."
"Indeed, indeed!" she murmured, with a strangely pathetic note in her voice--as though she were pitying herself. "If we but knew--if we but knew! But to do everything for the best--what can one do more? A heavy punishment is about to fall upon me, and yet I thought I was acting right. Go to my husband. He may need you when he wakes."
She glided up the stairs to Mildred's room, and I re-entered the study. Carew still slept, and I remained at my vigil till noon without observing any change in him. In addition to my position being one of embarrassment, I found myself labouring under a feeling of exhaustion. I had had no rest; and had passed a long and anxious day and night. Insensibly my eyes closed; I struggled against Nature's demand, but it was too imperative to be successfully resisted, and at length I fell asleep. So thoroughly worn out was I that it was evening before I awoke.
Carew, also awake, was gazing at me as I opened my eyes.
"I would not disturb you," he said. "You appeared to be thoroughly exhausted."
"I am not so young as I was," I observed, with an attempt at lightness. "Have you been awake long?"
"For some hours," he replied.
I glanced at the table; the papers were still there; his eyes followed the direction of mine, and he nodded gently.
"Have you remained with me the whole time?" I asked.
"Oh, no. I left the room two or three times. My wife looked in occasionally to see if you still slept." He motioned with his hand to a corner of the table, and I saw bread, and meat, and wine there. "Eat," he said; "you must be hungry."
I was glad of the food, and the wine gave me strength. Carew himself drank two glasses.
"We are but poor, gross creatures," he said, "dependent upon a crumb of bread for the life we think so wonderful. Is the scheme which created it monstrous or beneficent? Is it the work of an angel or a devil? Have you finished?"
"Yes."
"Something is necessary between you and me, something which must not remain unspoken. The time for concealments, evasions, self-delusions, torturing doubts (now cleared up, fatally), is at an end."
"One question first," I said, thinking of Emilius; "has Mrs. Carew left the house during the time I have slept?"
"No; I forbade her. I have still for some few hours a will of my own." He touched the papers written by his father. "After I left you here yesterday, you discovered these?"
"I discovered them before you gave me the record of your life to read."
"You have read it?"
"Every word."
"Had my father's record been discovered when I was a young man, had he dealt by me justly instead of mercifully, what evil might have been averted! I have no intention of wasting time by idle words, by vain regrets. I have fixed my course. I seek some enlightenment from you. Tell me all that passed within your knowledge since I spoke to you last night at the door of this room. Keep nothing from me. Absolute frankness is due from you to me, and I claim it. Believe me, I am animated by but one supreme desire--a desire for justice. All lighter sentiments are dead within me, except pity for the lady who has the misfortune to be my wife. I loved her with a very pure and complete love. I dare not wrong her by saying I love her still--and yet, and yet--You see, I am still human; that is the worst of it. Tell me all."
I did so, concealing nothing, softening nothing. I faithfully, mercilessly described the events of the night that had passed--his leaving the house, his wife's entreaties that I should follow him to prevent the committal of a dreadful deed, my doing so, his movements in his search through the grounds dagger in hand, the strange intelligence which, asleep as he was, directed those movements, fortunately unsuccessful, his return to the house, locking me out, my discovery and interview with Emilius, and finally my entrance into the study, where he sat asleep, his hand firmly guarding the papers I had found in the secret drawer.
He listened quietly and attentively, and did not interrupt me by a word. It was with a feeling of apprehension that I approached Emilius's description of his dream, in which had been pictured the murder of Eric, but no outward sign was visible in Carew to denote agitation. The only question he asked was with reference to Emilius's desire for an interview with Mrs. Carew. Could I discover a reason for it? I answered that I could not, but that there must be some powerful reason that Emilius, free from prison, should journey to England for the special purpose of the interview.
"I have no remembrance of leaving the house last night," said Carew, "and upon other evidence than that which is furnished to me, should scout the tale as a monstrous invention. But it is not for me to doubt. I was born into a fatal inheritance, and I must suffer for it."
"How?" I cried. "The past is past; there is no undoing it. If you think of invoking the law, you may banish the idea; it cannot touch you."
"From the hour that I read my father's confession," said Carew, "I became a law unto myself. I will not pain you by asking whether you believe me guilty or no; you cannot do otherwise than look upon me as a monster, as I look upon myself. The law cannot touch me, I believe; and well do I know that not only what has been done cannot be undone, but that it cannot be atoned for. But the future must be secured. My father wrote that the one consolation he had was that he endeavoured to perform his duty. He did not so endeavour. His duty was to enlighten me, an innocent being while my parents lived, as to the nature of the inheritance transmitted to me. Then I might have done what it is incumbent upon me to do now. At least, if I had not the courage for that, I should not have cast a blight upon the life of a pure and white-souled lady. You are an authority upon the disease of insanity, and the different forms in which it presents itself in human beings; and you must be aware that it would be a difficult task to find doctors who would declare me to be mad. Setting aside the sufferings of regret, my mind is as clear and logical as your own or any man's. My reason--is it crooked, warped? No, it is clear as a lake, and I can see straight on to the end. In my sleep I am another being. Granted. But what crime can human evidence bring home to my door? None. What guilt is mine, others have suffered for, and the law is satisfied that it did not stumble. Emilius can come forward and say, 'That monster killed my brother.' They will ask for evidence, and he will relate a dream. 'You are a madman,' they will declare. You saw me last night prowling round my house in search of whom? In search of an enemy who long years ago was my enemy, and who, having endured the punishment inflicted by the law for a crime which he was proved to have committed, comes now to England to injure and rob me. So sensitive am I respecting the safety of my wife and daughter that even in my sleep I protect them. A subject I for admiration. No hand, no voice, would be raised in horror against me; I should be lauded, praised, set up as an example, while Emilius would be regarded with loathing. Yet he is a martyr, and I am a devil. Who is to punish me? Are there other men as I am? If so, there should be a law to destroy them while they are young, before they are ripe for mischief. It would be a simple safeguard."
As he had sat in silence listening to me, so now I sat in silence listening to him. There was not a trace of passion in his voice; it was calm and judicial. Even when he called himself a devil there was no deviation from this aspect of absolute composure.
"What wrote my father?" he continued. "What wrote he--too late?' I most solemnly adjure him never to marry, never to link his life with that of an innocent being. If his heart is moved to love he must pluck the sentiment out by the roots, must fly from it as from a horror which blenches the cheek to contemplate. Our race must die with him; not one must live after him to perpetuate it. I lay this injunction most solemnly upon him; if he violate it, he will be an incredible monster.'" In making this quotation he did not refer to the written pages; word for word, he repeated it by heart. It was a proof how deeply upon his mind and heart were graven his father's fatal confession.
"Thus said my father, but he said it not in time. He failed in his duty, and led me into worse than error. Well do I now understand the mystery of my early home, of my boyhood's life. Why did he not kill me? God and man would have applauded the deed."
Had it not been that he paused here, as though he had finished what he had to say, I doubt whether I should have spoken, so overwhelmed was I by this merciless self-analysis and self-condemnation. But the silence enabled me to recover myself, to think of other matters than himself.
"You told me," I said, "that you forbade your wife to leave the house. Then she has not seen Emilius?"
"No. She will see him to-morrow."
"He says he must see her this day or night. He expects me to acquaint him with the result of his message to Mrs. Carew."
"Go to him and implore him to leave it till to-morrow. Then there will be no difficulty. It is but a few hours--and he has waited so many years. His mission cannot be so urgent."
"He declares it is."
"He is possessed by a just fury. It is his intention, I suppose, to denounce me to my wife. The one joy in life that remains to him is the joy of making the woman who loved me shrink from me as from a pestilence. That joy shall be his--to-morrow; and it then he is not content, I will submit myself to him as he shall dictate. You can assure him of my honesty in this."
"You forget," I urged. "He desired me to tell your wife that his errand was not one of revenge."
"He is justified in using any subterfuge to obtain an interview with her. If she had reason to believe that he came to injure me she would not see him. Go to him, and tell him to-morrow. Tell him also that I have pronounced judgment upon myself."
I had no choice but to comply. He spoke with a force and a decision there was no gainsaying.
I have omitted to mention that a letter was delivered to me from my son Reginald. It was written in London, almost immediately upon his arrival there. There were in it about twenty words in relation to the business I had entrusted to him, for the purpose of securing his absence; the remaining three and a half pages were filled with rhapsodies upon Mildred. It was Mildred, Mildred, nothing and nobody but Mildred. She was the light of his life, the hope, the joy of it; nothing else but Mildred was worth living for. Not even I, his old father, who never thought, who never would think, any sacrifice too great to make for his son's happiness. I did not complain, and I do not; it is the way of things, and we old ones must stand aside, and be humbly grateful that we are allowed to witness the happiness which we have done our utmost to bring about. Not that this was the case with Reginald and myself. The duty devolving upon me was to prevent, not to assist in, the accomplishment of his dearest hopes. How would the lad take it? Would he look upon me as his enemy? Would he thrust me aside, and rush wildly to a fate I shuddered even to contemplate? Would not the example before him serve as a warning? I could not say. The more I thought of the matter the more disturbed I became. Certainly, he could not marry Mildred without Carew's consent, and that, I knew, would be withheld. The true story of her husband's life could not be concealed from the knowledge of Mrs. Carew; and knowing it, she would not allow Mildred to wed. If necessary, Mildred herself must be told how impossible it was that she should ever think of marriage, and she would refuse my son. And Reginald's heart would be broken! Of that I was convinced. It would be a blow from which he would never recover.
These were my reflections as I went out into the grounds of Rosemullion to seek Emilius. I had not long or far to seek. Near the copse in which he was concealed the previous night he suddenly presented himself.
"I have been looking and waiting for you all day," he said. "Can you realise the torture I am suffering?"
I did not answer his question, but gave him an account of what I had done, and then I conveyed Gabriel Carew's message to him.
"To wait till to-morrow!" Emilius exclaimed. "He asks, he implores me to wait till then?"
"I have told you," I said. "It seems to me not unreasonable."
"It seems to you--it seems to you!" he repeated, in petulant excitement; and the next moment begged my pardon for speaking so to me, who had proved myself his friend. "But you do not know this fiend--you do not know of what he is capable! You believe what I have told you of the eternal wrong he has inflicted upon me--a wrong for which he can never hope to be forgiven in this world or the next. You believe it, and yet you say he is justified in asking me to wait till he has had time to carry out the secret design he has formed to prevent me from obtaining justice! You believe it, and yet you justify him! O God in Heaven! Is there, has there ever been, justice on earth? And I am to wait, who have waited for twenty years, who have suffered unjustly for twenty years! And I am to stand aside while he completes his work and dashes the cup of happiness from my lips! No! Again and again, no! This night is my limit. Before it passes I will see Mrs. Carew, and she shall right me. You can tell this to the monster yonder who has juggled you so successfully."
I endeavoured to argue, to reason with him, but he would not listen to me. So I left him, his last words being that nothing on earth should move him from his resolve.
The clock struck nine as I re-entered the house. A servant accosted me with a message from Mrs. Carew, requesting me to go to her in the little room in which Carew was in the habit of taking tea with her--the apartment he had described as a sanctuary of rest.
Mrs. Carew was alone.
"My husband is asleep," she said, "and asked me to see that he was not disturbed. He told me that you had gone out to see Emilius, who was to come here to-morrow morning. Have you seen him?"
"Yes, but he declares he will not wait. He insists upon seeing you to-night."
"Poor Emilius! It is but a few hours longer. He must have patience till tomorrow. Deeply as I pity him, I am grateful for the delay, for it gives me time to make a confession to you. I do not know whether it should have been made before--but now it is imperative. I have been praying for strength. My husband prayed with me. In the days of our courtship, when he and the good priest of Nerac were friends, Mr. Carew was in the habit of accompanying me and my dear parents to church; but for many years he has not entered a place of worship. I do not ask you to betray his confidence, but was he not more composed when you left him?"
"It seemed to me that he had made up his mind to a certain course--he did not explain it to me, nor did I ask him to do so--which might be the means of atoning for the errors of the past. I am not at liberty to say more; what passed between us I regard as in sacred confidence."
"I am glad he has you to rely on," said Mrs. Carew. "He came to me voluntarily an hour ago, and the conversation we had has done me good. He was wonderfully gentle and humble--but indeed, Mr. Carew was never arrogant--and I gathered the impression that he had in some way discovered that he was in the habit of walking abroad during the night and causing me distress of mind. He spoke kindly, too, of poor Emilius, and said he hoped to be forgiven for any wrong he had done that unhappy man in the past. The air is very sweet to-night, is it not?"
"I have been in some anxiety myself," I said haltingly, scarcely knowing how to reply to the question, which appeared to me a strange one at that moment, "and have scarcely noticed; but there is a soft air blowing, and the night is fine."
"You are anxious about Reginald," she said, "and Mildred?"
"Yes," I said, surprised that she should approach the subject.
She pressed my hand. "Mr. Carew, when he was here with me, said the air was peculiarly sweet, and I gather the impression from him. It is always so with one we love. I questioned myself whether I should impart to him what I am about to impart to you, but he appeared to be so much in need of rest that I decided not to agitate him. I trust he will forgive me when I make my confession to him to-morrow. To-night you will counsel, you will advise me?"
"Command me entirely," I said.
"I thank you. I have wished Mildred good-night also, and we shall be quite undisturbed. She has received a letter from your Reginald, and is replying to it. A loving task to a young girl in her position." I winced, and determined that the night should not pass without my acquainting Mrs. Carew with my views respecting the impossibility of a marriage between Mildred and Reginald. A knock at the door here caused Mrs. Carew to call "Come in."
A servant entered with keys, which he handed to his mistress.
"All the doors are securely fastened?" she asked.
"Yes, madam," replied the servant.
"Come to me," she said, "in the morning for the keys."
When we were alone Mrs. Carew said that before she commenced she wished to see that her husband was sleeping well, and I accompanied her to his room. He was lying on his right side, breathing calmly and peacefully. There was a certain intentness in the expression of his features, as though even in his sleep his mind was bent upon some fixed resolve, but otherwise I was surprised, after what he had gone through, that he should be so quiet and composed. I had never before realised how powerful was the face I was now gazing on; the firm lips, the large nose, the broad forehead, were indications of intellectual power. No sign of weakness was apparent, none of indecision or wavering. He was a man capable of a great career.
"My dear father used to say," said Mrs. Carew, "that Mr. Carew's mind was the most comprehensive he had ever met with."
She stooped and kissed him lightly on the forehead, without disturbing him. We trod gently out of the room.
"He will have a good night," she said. "I must go up to Mildred's room." The light was shining through the crevices of the door.
"Not asleep, Mildred?" said Mrs. Carew softly.
"No, mamma. I shall be, soon."
"Don't remain up too long, my dear."
"No, mamma."
"Good night, Mildred."
"Good night, dear mamma. Mamma?"
"Yes, child!"
"I have just given Reginald your love."
"That is right, my dear."
"And I have told him not to remain away too long."
"That is right, my dear."
"Good night, dearest mamma."
"Good night, my dearest."
"Alas for Reginald!" I thought, as we descended the stairs. "Alas for the hopes of that young girl!"
In her own apartment Mrs. Carew informed me that it was by her husband's wish the lower doors were securely fastened, and the keys given to her. "In order," she said, "that it might not be in his power to leave the house in his sleep. He did not say so, but that was his thought."
I relate in my own words the strange story Mrs. Carew imparted to me. Although she had erred, her confession was like a rift of sweet light in the dark clouds which hung over Rosemullion. It brought more than hope and comfort to my old heart--it brought joy. In a very few moments you will understand the meaning of my words.
Transport yourself back to the village of Nerac, a year after the marriage of Lauretta and Gabriel Carew. Business of a particular nature took Carew from Nerac for a space of three months; he was absent that time, much against his will, for his wife was near her confinement. This took place safely two weeks after his departure, and he was duly informed of the event. All was well at home; Lauretta and her baby girl were thriving. The days and the weeks passed until two months went by. Carew, in his letters to his wife, expressed the profoundest joy at this precious home blessing. Smarting as he was during that period from the growing coldness of the villagers towards him, and chafing at the injustice of the world, he placed an extravagant value upon this baby girl, who would be, he said, a charm against all evil. He longed for the time when he could hold this blessing in his loving arms; now his happiness was complete; he asked for no greater treasure. In the growth and development of the new young life he would find solace and consolation. His wife was enjoined to take the most tender care of their child. "You and she are one," Carew wrote. "Each is incomplete without the other. I cannot think of you now apart. Were I to lose one my life would be plunged into darkness." Then befel an event which brought horror and grief to Lauretta. It happened that her nurse had fallen sick, and was compelled to go to her own home; there was no other female servant in the establishment capable of undertaking a nurse's duties, and Lauretta therefore took them cheerfully on herself. Two months, as I have said, had passed after the birth of the baby girl. Carew was expected home in a fortnight.
In the dead of night, when all in the house were asleep, with the exception of Lauretta, she, watching by the cradle of her baby, heard a sound of moaning without. She listened intently; it was her own name that she heard uttered in accents of deepest pain and suffering. It was a wild night; heavy rain was falling, the wind was raging; and through the sounds of the storm came the wailing of her name, with half-choked sobs and entreaties for help and pity.
It was but an hour before that Lauretta, awaking, had heard proceed from her baby-girl lying in the cradle by her bedside, some light sounds of difficult breathing which had alarmed her. She got up and dressed, and tended her baby, who, after a while, seemed a little easier; but with the natural anxiety of a young mother Lauretta remained awake watching her child.
The moans for help outside appeared to be especially addressed to her and to her alone, and she seemed to recognise the voice. She crept softly down, and unfastened the door.
"Who is there?" she asked, during a lull in the storm.
The answer came--"Patricia! Help me! Oh help me, and let no one know!"
It was Emilius's wife.
Lauretta assisted her indoors. The poor girl was in a pitiable plight. Famished, ragged, penniless, with a baby in her arms. Both were wringing wet. The pelting rain had soaked them through and through.
Throbbing with sympathy and compassion Lauretta quickly undressed Patricia's baby, and put it in her own warm bed. They had by this time reached Lauretta's bedroom, in which her own child was lying. Lauretta wished to call the servants, but Patricia sobbed that she would fly the house if any eyes but Lauretta's rested on her. It appeared, according to the poor girl's story, that her father was in pursuit of her, and had vowed to kill her and her baby.
"He will kill me--he will kill me!" moaned Patricia. "No one must know I have been here but you--no one, no one!"
And then she rocked herself hysterically and cried, "What will become of my poor baby-girl--what will become of her? I heard that your husband was not here, and it gave me courage to crawl to you. Not that it matters much. It isn't for myself I care. My father may kill me--I have not long to live--but my baby, my baby! Oh, save my darling, save her for the sake of my innocent Emilius!"
It was then that Lauretta noticed for the first time, signs in Patricia's face which, interpreted by her fear and the poor girl's words, seemed to be signs of approaching death. And still Patricia insisted that she would not remain in the house; no force or entreaties could make her.
"What, then, can I do for you?" asked Lauretta; she had already given Patricia food and money.
"Take care of my child," replied Patricia. "Bring her up as your own. Let her never know her father's disgrace, her mother's shame. It will be an angel's deed! For pity's sake, do not deny me! You are rich, and can afford the charity--and if, in your husband's life there has been guilt, this act of charity will atone for it. See here--look on her innocent face. Having the power, you have not the heart to deny me. Ah, if your angel mother were alive, I should appeal to her, and should not appeal in vain! She loved Emilius, and believed in his innocence--yes, to the last she believed in it. I know it for a certainty. You, too, loved my poor martyred husband, and he loved and honoured you and yours with all the strength of his faithful heart. He is innocent, innocent, I tell you! God forbid that I should accuse any one of being guilty--I am too desperate and despairing, and my child's life, the salvation of her soul, are at stake. When your sainted mother died, did all goodness die out of the world? Ah, no--it is not possible; you live again in her. In you she lives again, and all her mercy and sweet kindness which caused us all, from the highest to the lowest, to worship her, to look upon her as something holy. For her sake, if not for my own, you cannot, cannot deny me this charity, you who have it in your power to grant it!"
All this, and more. To say that Lauretta's heart was touched is inadequate; it overflowed; it yearned to assist the suffering mother, so near to her through her young motherhood, through the old ties with Emilius and Eric. A choking cry from her own baby-girl caused her to rush to the cradle. Within the hour a fatal circumstance occurred. Lauretta's baby drew her last breath.
It has nearly all my days been my belief that everything in human life is to be accounted for by human standards. I am shaken in this belief. In this death of Lauretta's baby I seem to see the finger of fate.
Vain to attempt to describe the agonising grief of the young mother. So overpowering was it that she lost consciousness. She recovered her senses when the storm had passed and the morning's light was shining on her. When she awoke to reality, what did she see?
Her husband had suddenly and unexpectedly returned home. She was in bed, and he was sitting by her side.
"Gabriel, Gabriel!" she cried, and, overcome by the terror of her great loss, she would have lost consciousness again but for an unaccountable joyousness in his manner, which mingled strangely with the sympathy he must have felt for her suffering condition.
"It was, doubtless, the storm," he said soothingly. "It raged so fiercely for an hour and more, that I am told it exceeded in violence anything of a like kind that has been experienced in these parts for the last fifty years. No wonder it has had such an effect upon you. Half the trees in our garden are uprooted. It hastened my steps home, for I know how these convulsions of nature affect you. But as you see, the danger has passed; the sun is shining brightly; but not more brightly in the heavens than it is shining in my heart."
She listened to him in amazement, and raising herself in bed she looked around for Patricia. She saw no sign of the hapless woman. The cradle in which her baby-girl had died was by the side of the bed. Carew bent over it and said in a tone of ecstasy:
"Mildred--Mildred! Our Mildred--our dear ewe lamb! How sweetly and soundly she sleeps! Oh, my darling wife! What care I for the injustice of the world now that this treasure is ours? My sweet--my sweet! You recompense for all. Do you know, Lauretta, as travelling home I neared the beloved spot which contained you and our treasure, my heart almost stood still at the fear that I should not find you both well. And now--how can I be sufficiently grateful? Of no account to me is all that transpires outside the circle which contains you and my dear one in the cradle here? I set great store upon our child, Lauretta. She is to me a guarantee of all that is worth living for in the present and the future. When I arrived home and found you prostrate I was at first overwhelmed, but I soon discovered that you had fainted, and I judged rightly, did I not, dear wife of my heart, that, not being strong, you kept it from me while we were apart, in order not to distress me? But now all is well--all shall be well. See, Lauretta, she opens her eyes, our darling. The question is, can I raise her safely and place her by your side? Yes, it is done, and I am the happiest father in the world!"
Was she dreaming? In the clothes in which her child died rested this child of Patricia's, smiling, blooming, laughing and crowing as Lauretta drew her to her breast. Carew's delight, his gratitude, his worship of the babe he believed to be his own, the superstitious store he set upon her young life, were so unbounded, that Lauretta did not dare to undeceive him. She feared, if she told him the truth, that it would unsettle his reason, and produce between her and him a gulf which could never be bridged over. She accepted the strange combination of circumstances, and held her tongue. Her own dear babe was dead, but this new Mildred, whom she grew to love truly as if she were her own, remained, and grew to what she is, a flower of beauty, goodness, and sweetness. Nothing more did Lauretta hear of Patricia; whether she died or lived was not known to her. It is but a detail--but necessary to complete the story--to state here that Patricia lived but a few months after the occurrence of this strange event. More important is it to state that, in some unexplained way, Emilius learns that his daughter lived, and that the Carews were bringing her up as if she were a child of their own. His term of imprisonment over, he had come now to claim her.
It would be impossible for me to give expression to my feelings of gratitude at this wonderful revelation. The despair into which I had fallen at the contemplation of the wrecking of my dear son Reginald's happiness vanished. A fair future lay still before him, and the most cherished hopes of his heart would be realised. I was sure that Emilius would not mar them. A nature so noble as his, so strong in suffering, so heroic in the highest form of human endurance, could not lend itself to the committal of a petty act of selfishness whereby the child upon whose memory he had lived during his cruel and unjust imprisonment would be rendered miserable and unhappy. To this martyred man I was ready to bow my head, ready to give him my friendship, my sympathy, my heart's best fruits of confidence and esteem. Thinking of him, I was awed that a man could live through the anguish that had been his portion, and still retain the inherent dignity and nobility of a great and noble nature.