"Hark!" whispered Mrs. Carew, her story told, and before we had time to debate upon the wisest course to pursue. "What sound is that?"
It was the sound of footsteps on the stairs. In this sound there was no attempt at concealment. The footsteps were those of one who desired his presence to be known. I divined instantly who it was who, by some means unknown to me, obtaining an entrance into the house, was now approaching the room in which Mrs. Carew and I were sitting. I could not, and did not blame him. In his place I should have acted as he was acting.
The silver clock chimed the hour of twelve.
"You will see him," I said, rising to my feet and advancing to the door.
"See whom?" asked Mrs. Carew, with her hand at her heart.
"Emilius. It is he and no other man who is coming here. He has a great stake in this house. He is justified."
"My husband?" she gasped.
"Is safe, if you will only be guided by me. It is your duty to be brave and strong. Never was courage more needed than at this moment. And not only courage, but wisdom. Decide quickly. There is no time to lose."
"I will be guided by you," she said faintly.
I threw open the door, and saw Emilius standing in the passage, uncertain which direction to take.
"Enter," I said in a low tone. "Mrs. Carew is here. For the sake of others be gentle, and do not alarm the house."
He entered, and Mrs. Carew and he stood face to face.
The native dignity of the man instantly asserted itself. He removed his ragged cap and stood bareheaded before her. But there was no cringing in his attitude. It was perfectly respectful--something, indeed, more than that; it was the attitude of a man who once was this sweet lady's equal, and who, despite the judgment of the world, still knew himself to be her equal, and worthy of the esteem she once accorded to him. But as he gazed upon her, and she upon him, in silence for a few moments--a silence which I did not dare to break--his stern mood melted. He saw and recognised her, as he had always seen and recognised her in the time that was gone, when he was entitled to hold up his head among men--but never more so in truth and honour than now--a gentle-mannered lady, in whose face shone the reflex of a sweet and womanly nature. Remembrances of the past rushed upon him and softened him.
"Forgive me," he said humbly.
And then--tears filled my eyes as I saw it, and knew the suffering she was bravely enduring--she held out her hand to him. He bowed his head over it, as for a moment he held it in his.
"I could not wait any longer," he said, softly. "I have entered like a thief into your house--but I have waited so long!"
"It is I who should ask for forgiveness," she said. "Emilius, be merciful to me and mine!"
"I have no thought of revenge," he said, in a voice as soft as her own. "I am a broken-down man, with one sole hope. But I could not stand before you, the Lauretta I loved with the pure love of a brother, if I did not know myself unstained by crime or any taint of dishonour."
"I believe you, Emilius," she said.
"You believe me, Lauretta!" he exclaimed, advancing a step towards her.
"I believe you, Emilius," she repeated.
Had he come with savage intent she could not more surely have disarmed him.
"It is more than I dared hope for," he said. "How often, Lauretta, in the gloom of my prison, have I thought of you and your dear parents, of the home of innocence and love in which I was ever a welcome guest, of the once happy village in which I was honoured and respected. Some crumbs of comfort fell to my lot, some gleam of light shone through the darkness. Had it not been so, and had I not been animated by another hope, I might have gone mad. Good Father Daniel visited me regularly, at permitted intervals, until he died. He had the firmest faith in my innocence, and he brought me messages which fell like heavenly balm upon my wounded spirit. Your sainted mother believed in my innocence, and she bade him tell me so, and that her love for me was unchanged. And now, you! But your mother's soul shines in your eyes. It could not have been otherwise." He paused a moment or two, reflecting what to say. "On one of Father Daniel's visits he brought me a letter, securely sealed. It was against the prison rules, but that did not deter him from doing what he deemed to be right. I hastily concealed it, noting first, however, with a beating heart, that it was addressed to me in my wife's handwriting. I asked him if he knew what it contained, and he answered 'No;' and then, with a grave face, he bade me prepare for solemn news. I felt at once what was coming. Can you divine my purpose, Lauretta, in telling you this?"
"I think I can," she replied. "Go on."
"It was while the good priest was on a mission of mercy that a villager came to him and said that in a hut hard by a woman was dying, and, hearing that he was in the neighbourhood, begged him to come to her. Father Daniel went, and discovered that the woman was Patricia, my wife. She was very near to death, and she had only strength to entreat him to deliver to me, secretly, a letter she had written. He promised to do so, and in a few minutes after he received it from her she drew her last breath. Before she died he asked her after her babe--for Patricia was quite alone--but she did not seem to understand him. Subsequently, however, he learnt from the villager that Patricia had said her baby was dead. This was the mournful news which Father Daniel conveyed to me in prison. Despite his attempts at consolation, I felt when he left me that I was truly alone in the world. Brother, wife, child, all dead! I prayed to God to send death to me soon. What had I to live for? But there was my wife's letter, and before twenty-four hours had passed I found an opportunity to read it. Lauretta, that letter informed me what had become of my child, and it laid upon me an obligation of secrecy for so long a time as I was in prison. Patricia solemnly adjured me not to breathe to a living soul that our child lived in your care; but I was to be released from this obligation when I was a free man. Then I was to act as it seemed to me right to act. Is there any need, Lauretta, for me to enter more fully into the particulars of Patricia's letter?"
"There is no need, Emilius."
"Except, perhaps, to say that when you were lying senseless before her, and your tender blossom lay dead in its cradle, it was only then that the idea entered Patricia's mind of changing the children's clothes, and leaving her baby with you. It was done, and Patricia stole away with your dead child at her breast, herself to die, as she well knew, before many weeks had passed. I have something to tell you, Lauretta"--and here Emilius's voice was charged with a new note of tenderness. "When Father Daniel next visited me I begged him to discover where the dead babe was buried, and to put a few flowers on the grave. The good priest did more. He paid a village woman to attend to it, and he left a small sum of money to be spent in beautifying the grave of your child. Flowers have grown upon it and around it from that day to this. I visited the grave before I set forth on my journey here, and I knelt and prayed there. I prayed a blessing upon you, Lauretta, and I prayed that I might live to see the hope fulfilled which shone like a star upon me through the long years of my prison life. Lauretta," he cried, stretching forth his trembling hands, "my child--my child"--
"She lives," sobbed Mrs. Carew, "in goodness, health, and beauty--a flower of sweetness!"
He fell upon his knees before her, and kissed her dress, and it was then I heard a sound without which, for a moment, transfixed me with terror. They, overwhelmed by emotion, were deaf to this sound. It was that of a man creeping stealthily from his chamber--and that man Gabriel Carew. Quickly recovering myself, and feeling the necessity for immediate and prompt action, I addressed Emilius and Mrs. Carew.
"Attend to me," I said impressively. "All is well with you. You, Emilius, have gained a daughter, and will embrace her at sunrise. You, dear lady, have not lost a daughter, for Mildred will be to you as she has ever been. I have proved myself your friend. Answer quickly--have I not?"
"Yes," they both replied.
"Do not, therefore, ask me for the reasons for my present action. I demand from you both a sacred promise--that you will not leave this room till I call for you, till I give you permission. It shall be given at the latest by sunrise. I must have this promise--I must!"
My voice, my manner, Mrs. Carew's fears for her husband, and confidence in me, compelled assent.
"We give it," she said.
"We give it," said Emilius.
"I accept it, and bind you to it. What I do is for the good of all--for your future, for Mildred's future--and to avert disaster. Only I can do this. Whatever you hear, you will not open this door without my permission, after I leave it. When I am gone, turn the key, and admit no one unless I desire it. It is understood?"
"Yes," they said, "it is understood."
As I closed the door behind me I heard the key turned in the lock.
The sound of soft footsteps proceeded, as I supposed, from Gabriel Carew, but to my surprise he was not coming towards the room I had just left, but was stealthily ascending the stairs which led to Mildred's room. His eyes were open, and his movements were dictated by intelligent caution, but he was asleep. In his left hand he carried the naked dagger.
I ran up the stairs softly and swiftly, heedless of danger to myself, and walked by his side. He took no notice of me. Standing by the door of Mildred's room he paused, and was about to put his hand to the handle when I seized his wrist.
"What are you about to do?" I whispered, my lips close to his ear. "Speak low, the house must not be disturbed."
To my horror, he replied, in a whisper as low and distinct as my own: "'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.'"
They were the words written by his father which he had already quoted to me earlier in the day.
"Your daughter is not in that room," I said, not raising my voice, grateful that we had as yet attracted no notice. "If you enter, your purpose will be frustrated."
"Who speaks to me?" he asked.
"The spirit of murder," I said. "The Devil who is leading your soul to perdition. Come with me. I will direct you aright."
He shuddered, but he did not hesitate. With my hand still firmly grasping his wrist, he allowed me to lead him from the room. We descended the stairs, slowly, stealthily, until we reached the landing upon which the study was situated. I led him into the room, and with lightning motion locked the door and plucked out the key. Then, uncertain how next to act, I took my hand from his wrist, and retreated a few steps. He, also, was now uncertain of his movements. He stood still a while, then tried the door, and finding it fast, took some halting steps this way and that, and finally fell into the chair in which he had been accustomed to write.
As I gazed upon him I was sensible of a gradual change in his appearance. A pallor crept into his face, a film seemed to come across his eyes. Alarmed, I grasped his shoulder with rough strength, and shook him violently.
"Mr. Carew!" I called.
He trembled in every limb, closed his eyes, and clasped them with his hands--in one of which he still held the dagger. Presently he removed his hands from his face, and looked confusedly at me.
"Are you awake?" I asked.
"Yes," he replied faintly. "Give me a glass of water."
I gave him a full glass, and he drained it. I observed as he did so that it was only by an effort he prevented it from slipping from his hand. Then he spoke again.
"How came I here?" he asked. "Skilful as you are in your profession, you can do nothing for me. How came I here?"
"I conducted you hither," I said, "from the door of Mildred's room. You have a dagger in your hand."
Until this moment he seemed to be unconscious that he held the weapon, and now he started and allowed it to drop to the ground.
"Give thanks to God," I said solemnly, "that I stepped forward in time to save the life of an innocent child."
"Great God!" he murmured. "It is fit that I should die!"
The silver chimes of the clock proclaimed the hour of two. He smiled piteously and gratefully, and said, "It is almost time."
"There is a hidden meaning in your words," I said. "What have you done?"
"Doctor, you are wrong. There is no hidden meaning in my words. All is clear and plain. What should I do to myself? What should be done to such a man as I? You are not deceiving me. You found me, you say, at the door of my daughter's room, with the dagger in my hand?"
"It is true."
"Then my purpose was murder. What further confirmation is needed of the truth of my father's revelation? Be thankful, doctor, that your son Reginald has escaped from my daughter, my miserable, unhappy child. Ah, me! Whose fate is the heaviest, hers or mine, or the innocent flower I married?"
"I can give you some comfort," I said. "In one respect I can set your heart at ease."
"Impossible, impossible!" he cried.
"Not so. I have that to relate which though at first it may cause you pain, cannot fail, upon reflection, to make you grateful. If I were to tell you that you have not transmitted to an innocent girl the fatal inheritance which has weighed like a curse upon your life, how would it be with you?"
"It would be heaven--it would be light! Unconscious sinner as I am, it might mean forgiveness!"
"I have been closeted with your wife, from whose lips I have heard what you should hear. You will listen to me?"
"Will you be long?" he asked, with a strange smile.
"I will be as brief as possible--and receive it from me, as I received it from your wife, that every word I utter is true."
I told him the story of Mildred, who until now he had believed to be his daughter. Perceiving that he was ill, I shortened it as much as possible. Once or twice I paused in my recital, and asked him if he was in pain.
"In pain!" he cried. "When you are bringing heaven to me! The agitation you observe in me proceeds from joy. Do not linger. Finish quickly, quickly!"
At the chiming of the half-hour my story was done. There was a happy light in Carew's eyes. White as his face had grown, peace had stolen into it.
"Oh, God, I thank Thee!" he murmured, raising his arms; and then he suddenly fell forward on his face.
"I raised his head, and assisted him into a recumbent position.
"Tell me, for heaven's sake, what you have done?" I cried.
"You shall know all," he gasped, with pauses between his words. "First, though ... about Emilius . . . you went to seek him, did you not? . . . He was to be here to-morrow ..."
"He is here now," I said, "in this house. It was to recover his daughter that he came to England."
"Do not leave me.... When I went to bed to-night ... and kissed my angel wife ... for the last time ... I thought never to wake again.... It is painless.... In my old wanderings I came across a man we talked of death ... how easy ... I kept it by me ... through all these years.... It will defy you, doctor ... no trace remains ... the subtlest poison, the easiest death.... It has served me well. Go quickly, and bring Emilius.... Not my angel wife.... There is no pain.... Thank God, my life is ended! Go ... Emilius!"
I flew from the room, and returned with Emilius. Gabriel Carew lay back in his chair, motionless. The terror of death was not in his face. But he was dead!
* * * * *
It was popularly supposed that he died from heart disease. There were in him no indications of having died from other than natural causes. What I knew I kept to myself. Not alone what I gathered from his own lips as to the manner of his death, but of the last incident of his dream-life, and of my providentially saving him from the commission of an awful crime.
* * * * *
A great number of mourners stood about his grave. Until that time, it was not known how wide and large had been his charities. Even his wife had been in ignorance of countless deeds of goodness which he had done in secret. There were men and women there whom he had snatched from poverty and despair, and who now brought flowers to drop into the last resting place of their benefactor. Children, too, were lifted up to look into the grave of the master of Rosemullion.
Emilius stood bareheaded by my side.
"God forgive him!" said Emilius.
* * * * *
The disclosure of Mildred's real parentage made no difference in the relations between her and Mrs. Carew. It was mother and daughter with them, as it had always been, and even some additional and subtle tie of new tenderness was added to the feelings of love for each other which will animate their hearts till the last hours of their lives.
No one in the county, with the exception of ourselves, is acquainted with the story of Emilius. A dignified, gentle-mannered gentleman, he quickly won the esteem of all who came in contact with him. There often reigns in his face a strange expression of sadness, and he sometimes speaks to me of Eric; but there is joy in his life, and he is grateful for it.
The marriage of Mildred and Reginald was postponed for a decent time, and then these young people were made happy, and sent upon their honeymoon, accompanied by blessings and tears and heartfelt wishes for good.
As I prepare to end my task I see in my mind's eye the form of one who, in every act of her life, in every gentle word that falls from her lips, has sanctified for me the name of Woman. Not only in idea, but in deed. "God bless Mrs. Carew!" is said by many out of her hearing, and if to live a good pure life will earn God's blessing, she has earned it, and it is hers.
THE END.Richard Clay And SonsLondon And Bungay.