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XV

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 satisfy you. "

"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."

XVI

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 the rôle she 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."