Chapter III: Part 3

"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."

XVII.

I returned to Rosemullion in a very disturbed frame of mind. The nearer I approached the abode of mystery the stronger grew my doubts of the truth of Mrs. Fortress's statement. All she had related was in such complete accordance with a cunningly carried out scheme, whereby the innocent were made to suffer, and she--the plotter--made comfortable for life, that I accused myself for my egregious folly in giving her story credence, and listening to it patiently. It was, however, impossible to allow the matter to stand as Mrs. Fortress had left it. Some further inquiry must take place, and my doubts cleared up before I would give my consent to the union of my son with Gabriel Carew's daughter. I did not dare to run a risk so great until my mind was fairly at ease. It was a relief to me when I reached my home that Reginald was not there to greet me. I knew what the tenor of his conversation would be, and I wished to avoid it. He had, indeed, but one theme: Mildred; his heart and soul were meshed in his absorbing love for the fair girl to whom there was a likelihood of a most terrible inheritance having been transmitted.

I proceeded without delay to Rosemullion, and the first person who greeted me on the threshold was Mrs. Carew. She expressed her satisfaction at my return, and upon my inquiring for her husband, said that he was in his study, but that before I saw him she wished to have a few private words with me. It was then that I noted signs of trouble in her face. She led me to the apartment which Gabriel Carew had described as a sanctuary of rest, and at her bidding I sat down and awaited the communication she desired to make to me.

She commenced by saying that her husband had such complete confidence in me and she such faith in my wisdom, that, having a weight at her heart which was sorely disturbing her, she had resolved to ask my advice, as a friend upon whom she could rely. I replied that her faith and her husband's confidence were not misplaced, and that it was my earnest wish to assist her if it lay in my power.

"It is not without my husband's permission," she said, "that I am speaking to you now. He knows that I am uneasy about him, and he himself suggested that I should consult you upon your return from Cornwall."

I was startled at learning that she was not ignorant of my visit to Mrs. Fortress; I imagined that the affair was entirely between me and Mr. Carew. I asked her if she was acquainted with the precise object of my visit.

"No," she replied; "only that you have been on a visit to a nurse who was in the service of my husband's family before the death of his parents. I did not seek for further information, and my husband did not volunteer any. Neither is he acquainted with the details of the matter I am about to open to you. I thought it best to keep it from him until I obtained counsel from a near and dear friend."

I inclined my head, and she continued:

"My husband informs me that he has related to you the fullest particulars of his life, and that he has unbosomed himself to you with an unreserved confidence, such as no other person in the world has been able to inspire."

"It is true," I said, "and I hold his confidence sacred, to be used only for our good."

"And for the good of our children," she said.

"Yes," I said, conscious of a strange note in my voice as I repeated the words, "and for the good of our children."

She detected the unusual note, gazed steadily at me for a moment, and proceeded, without commenting upon it.

"Knowing so much, you are familiar with my husband's nightly wanderings in the woods when he resided here with his parents?"

"Yes."

"He was aware of these nocturnal rambles?" she said. "He undertook them consciously?"

"Certainly."

"He was always awake when he left the house and returned to it?"

"Always," I replied, surprised at the question.

"He has given me full permission to put any questions to you with respect to the confidence he has reposed in you. 'If I have kept anything from you,' he said to me this morning, 'it has been done to save you from uneasiness;' and he added with a smile that he had concealed nothing from me for which he had reason to reproach himself. Certain habits, contracted during a lonely youth, had left their impress upon him, and unusual as they were, there was no harm in them. 'Of one thing be sure,' he said; 'I have lived a pure and blameless life.' I did not need his assurance to convince me of that. As Reginald's father, you should be glad to know it."

"I am glad to know it," I said, and again I was aware of the strange note in my voice, "as Reginald's father and your husband's friend."

"I will explain," she said, "why I asked you whether my husband had any reason to believe that occasionally he walked abroad at night when he was not awake. He has done so for some years past at certain times and under certain circumstances. He did so last night."

"Is he not now aware of it?" I inquired.

"No, I have never informed him that he is a sleep-walker. My reason for keeping this knowledge from him is that I am convinced it would have greatly distressed him; but what occurred last night has so disturbed me that I can no longer be silent."

My suspicions of the truth of Mrs. Fortress's statement began to fade. Here was confirmation that the son had inherited one phase, at least, of his mother's disease.

"You remarked," I said, "that Mr. Carew has walked in his sleep for some years past at certain times and in certain circumstances. Were these circumstances of a special nature?"

"Yes--and all of one complexion; when something was known from which he feared danger."

"To himself?"

"I think not. To me and Mildred. I recall three occasions, which will supply you with an index to the whole. Once there were reports in the papers of a number of burglaries being committed in the neighbourhood, accompanied by deeds of violence. The burglars--there were three, as was subsequently proved--were at liberty, and the efforts made to discover and arrest them met with no success for several weeks. During that period my husband rose regularly every night from bed, dressed himself, and went out of the house, always returning, dressed as he left the room. On one of these occasions I followed and watched him, and discovered that his aim was to guard us from danger. He remained in the grounds around the house, holding a pistol. His actions were those of an earnest, watchful guardian, and were guided by the most singular caution. Sometimes he would hide behind a tree, or crouch down, concealed from view. When he was satisfied that there was no longer any danger, he returned to the house, stepping very softly, and examining the fastenings of the doors and windows."

"Did he rise in the morning with the appearance of a man who had passed a disturbed night?"

"No; he was always cheerful, and appeared to be quite refreshed by what he believed to be a good night's rest. At length, when the burglars were arrested he left the house no more for many months, until a workman whom he had employed, and whom he had reason to discharge, uttered threats against us. Then he again commenced his nightly watch, which did not cease until he received information that the man had left the country. After that he enjoyed a long period of repose. The third occasion was when there was a report of the escape of a dangerous madman from a lunatic asylum three or four miles from Rosemullion. Until this man was once more in safe custody, my husband never missed a night's watch during his sleep. You will gather from this explanation that he was always actuated by a good motive--to guard and protect those whom he loves."

"That seems clear," I said, "and what you have related is especially interesting to me as a specialist, apart from my sincere friendship for you and yours."

"As a specialist!" she exclaimed. "Of what kind?"

Fortunately I arrested myself in time. The words which immediately suggested themselves to me in reply, remained unspoken. The truth would have been too great a shock to this sweet lady.

"As one deeply interested," I answered, with an assuring smile, "in psychological mysteries. What occurred yesterday to excite Mr. Carew?"

"He and I had been out riding. Upon our return one of our gardeners informed my husband that a man had been seen lurking about the grounds. The story told by the gardener is this: The stranger, a foreigner, although he spoke good English, did not wait to be accosted by the gardener, but himself opened a conversation. He asked if this was Rosemullion. Yes. Did a family of the name of Carew live here? Yes. Was Mrs. Carew alive? Yes. Was Mr. Carew alive? Yes. Did they have any family? Yes, a daughter. What was her name? Miss Mildred. Could he see Mrs. Carew? Mrs. Carew was out driving. When would I return, and was there any possibility of the stranger seeing me alone? The gardener could not say. It was not I, but my husband who put these questions to the gardener. Then Mr. Carew asked sternly what was the bribe that induced the gardener to answer the inquiries of a stranger, and he forced the truth from him. The stranger had given the gardener a foreign coin, which my husband insisted upon seeing. It was a piece of French money. This part of the affair is completed by the admission of the gardener that the stranger was apparently in poverty, as his poor clothes betokened--and yet he had given the gardener money to answer his questions! When the gardener was gone my husband said that the circumstance was very suspicious, and I thought so myself; that the stranger had some bad motive in thus intruding upon private property, and that he would go in search of him. I asked to be allowed to accompany him, and after a slight hesitation he consented, saying if the stranger came with innocent intent and we met him, that he could say what he had to say to me in my husband's presence. We strolled all round the grounds of Rosemullion, but saw no stranger. Then my husband said he would go into the woods, and that I had better leave him; but I, fearing I knew not what, begged to be allowed to remain with him. Together we went into the woods, and for a long while met no person answering the description given by the gardener; but after a while we saw a stranger a few yards in front of us. It happened that I was a little ahead of my husband at that moment, and the stranger, turning and seeing me, thought that I was alone. He was about to hasten towards me when my husband stepped to my side. Without hesitation the stranger abruptly turned from us, and, plunging into the woods, was immediately lost to view."

Something in Mrs. Carew's manner at this point--which I should find it difficult to explain--some premonition that this man she called a stranger was really not so to her--caused me to ask,

"You saw his face?"

"Yes." And at this answer, tremblingly spoken, my premonition became a certainty.

"You recognised it?"

"Unless I am much mistaken--and with all my heart I pray to heaven I may be!--it was a face once familiar to me."

It was not now for me to pursue the subject; it was for her to confide freely in me, if such was her desire. There was a silence of a few moments before she resumed:

"My husband, having hidden nothing from you, has told you all that occurred in my dear native village, Nerac, before we were married?"

"He has told me all, I believe," I said.

"Of my beloved parents--of friends once dear to me--Eric, murdered, and the unhappy Emilius?"

"I am acquainted with all the particulars of that tragic event."

"Sadly changed, worn, haggard, and travel-stained, in the man we met in the forest I recognised Emilius."

XVIII.

This, indeed, was startling news. Emilius alive, his term of imprisonment over, or he an escaped convict, seeking an interview with Mrs. Carew, the wife of the man whom he regarded as his bitterest enemy! To what was this to lead?--in what way was it to end?

"Did Mr. Carew recognise him?" I asked.

"I cannot tell you," replied Mrs. Carew. "Not a word passed between us respecting him. _I_ did not dare to speak. It would but have been to reopen old wounds, and after all I may have been mistaken. Not for me to bring back to my husband the memories of a past in which he was so cruelly misjudged. Besides, this was the one and only subject upon which my husband and I were not in harmony. He most firmly believed and believes in Emilius's guilt; I as firmly believed and believe in his innocence. The years that have flown have not softened my husband's judgment nor hardened mine; and until this hour the name of Emilius has never passed my lips since we settled in Rosemullion. No, it was not for me to utter it in my husband s presence; it was not for me to bring pain to his kind heart. I said nothing, nor did my husband, nor did he attempt to follow the stranger. In silence we walked back to the house, and the evening passed as usual. Reginald came, and we had music and conversation. On the part of Mildred and your son converse was cheerful and unconstrained, and I also strove to be cheerful. I was so far successful as to deceive the children, but my husband was not so easily blinded. And yet he made no allusion to the subject which engrossed my thoughts, and weighed like a dark cloud upon my heart. The hour grew late, and I sent Reginald home. Young people in love have always to be reminded. Then my husband and I retired to rest. Troubled as I was, sleep was long in coming to me, but at length Nature was merciful, and I sank into slumber. I awoke at the soft chiming of our silver clock, proclaiming the hour of two. Never do I remember being awoke by the chiming of this clock, so low and sweet is it; and that I should awake now as it struck two may have been simply a coincidence. I sat up in bed. I was alone. My husband was not in the room; his clothes were gone, and he had doubtless gone out fully dressed. In great fear I rose and dressed, with the intention of following him, but when I tried the door I found it had been locked on the outside. Powerless to do anything but wait, I sat, trembling, till daylight began to peep in at the windows. Then I heard my husband's footsteps in the passage, which would not have reached my ears had not my senses been preternaturally sharpened. He trod softly, and turned the key in the door very gently in order not to disturb me. He entered the room, and I almost fainted as I saw in his hand the bright blade of an ancient dagger which usually lay upon his study table. His face was turned towards me, his eyes were open, but he did not see me. He took from his pocket a sheath, in which he placed the dagger, and then he undressed. Before he lay down to that more healthful sleep in which his mind would be at rest, he listened two or three times at the locked door, and going to the window, drew the blind a little aside and looked from the window. Then he stretched himself in bed, and his eyes closed. Not by the least sign did he show any consciousness of the fact that I was standing, dressed, in the room, and that we were often face to face. I soon retired to bed, but I slept no more. I lay awake, listening to my husband's breathing, praying for the hour to arrive at which we generally rose for the day--praying for that, praying that the night would not come again, praying for a friend to counsel me. It were vain for me to disguise from you that I am in dread of what may happen should my husband and Emilius meet. And there is still something more----"

I waited, but she left the sentence uncompleted. Startled as I was by what I had heard, I was even more startled to see this good and gentle woman suddenly cover her face with her hands, and burst into a passion of tears. I turned from her in commiseration, powerless to relieve or console her. Even had I words at command, it was better that her grief should be allowed to spend itself naturally. When she had recovered, I asked,

"Has Mr. Carew made any reference to what passed in the night?"

"Not any," she replied.

"Did you?"

"I simply asked him if he had slept well, and he answered 'Yes,' and that his sleep had been dreamless."

"Will you pardon me for the question whether you believe that to be really so--whether his answer to your solicitous inquiry was not prompted by his desire not to trouble or distress you?"

"I am certain," said Mrs. Carew, "that my husband said what he believes to be true. Dear friend, what am I to do?"

She seized my hand, and clung to it as though to me, and to me alone, could she look for help in her sad position.

"Does Mildred know anything, suspect anything?" I asked.

What was the meaning of the timid, frightened, helpless look in her eyes at the mention of Mildred's name? No mental efforts of mine could fathom it.

"Nothing," she replied, and then seemed to drift, against her will as it were, into distressful thought. I devoted a few moments to consideration, and when I spoke again had resolved upon a course of action.

"Would you wish me to become your guest for a few days?" I asked.

"Ah, if you would!" she exclaimed.

"I shall be willing if Mr. Carew has no objection. I will see him presently and ascertain. But first I have a little scheme to carry out which I think advisable for all our sakes."

I asked her if I could write a letter in her room, and despatch it at once to my house, and she opened her desk for me. My letter was to my son Reginald, and the effect of it was to secure his absence from Rosemullion during my stay in Mr. Carew's house. There was really a matter of business which Reginald could attend to, and which rendered it necessary for him to take his immediate departure for London. When my letter was written, I explained its purport to Mrs. Carew, and she acquiesced in the wisdom of my plan. She herself added a few words to the letter, to the effect that she regretted not being able to see him before he left, and that Mildred was well and sent her love. She gave me a flower, and asked me to enclose it in the envelope.

"He will think it comes from Mildred," she said, "and it will send him away happy. It is an innocent deceit."

The letter was despatched, and with a few assuring words to the sweet woman, I went to her husband's study.

XIX.

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:--

XX.

"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."

XXI.

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.

XXII.

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."