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XXIII

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.

XXIV

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.

XXV

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."