Chapter IV: Part 4

"There are moments in life when to lie will damn a man's soul and condemn it to eternal perdition! This in my life is such a moment. I call Heaven to witness my innocence! Now and hereafter may I be cursed, now and for ever may the love for which I yearn be torn from me, may I never meet my wife in heaven, if I do not stand before you an innocent man! I was condemned for another's crime. The murderer lives there." He pointed to the house, and continued: "My brother was not the only one who died by his hand. In the happy village of Nerac, whither a relentless fate directed that monster's steps, another man was murdered before my beloved Eric fell. This man's comrade suffered the penalty--while he, the murderer, looked on and smiled. I do not question the goodness and mercy of God; for some unknown reason these atrocities have been allowed, and no thunderbolt has fallen to smite the guilty. Had I been other than I am I should have turned blasphemer, and raised my impious voice against my Creator. As it is, I have suffered and borne my sufferings, not like a beast, but like a man. You hint at some mystery in connection with that monster which I cannot fathom. Time is too precious for me to waste it by groping in the dark. I will wait patiently for enlightenment. Heaven knows I, of all men living, should lend a ready ear to howsoever strange a tale, for I am associated, through my father and his brother, with a mystery which the majority of men would reject as incredible. This extends even to my statement that I have sure evidence of that monster's guilt, although I did not see the deed perpetrated. You may enter into my feelings when I tell you that the first few weeks of my imprisonment were weeks of the most awful torture to me. I wept. I could not sleep, my heart was torn with unspeakable anguish. Night after night in my lonely cell I passed the hours praying to my murdered brother, and calling upon him to give me a sign. My prayer was answered on the anniversary of our birthday. Eric and I, as I assume you know, were twins, as were my father Silvain and his brother Kristel. Between them existed a mysterious bond of sympathy. So was it, in a lesser degree, between Eric and me. On that birthday anniversary, spent in prison, peace for the first time fell upon my soul, and I slept. In my dreams my brother appeared to me; he did not speak to me; but I saw the enactment of his murder. I had left him in the forest to join my wife. He was alone. He paced to and fro in deep anguish. Tears streamed from his eyes; his heart was wracked with woe. In this state he continued for a space of time which I judged to be not less than an hour. Then gradually he became more composed, and he knelt and prayed, with his face buried in his hands. Stealing towards him stealthily, holding a knife, as to-night he held a dagger, I beheld the monster, Gabriel Carew. I saw him plainly; the moon shone upon his face, and though he walked like a man in sleep, his fell intent was visible in his eyes. I tried to scream to warn my brother, but my tongue clove to the roof of my mouth. I could not utter a sound. Nearer and nearer crept the monster--nearer and nearer, noiselessly, noiselessly! Not a leaf cracked beneath his feet; all nature seemed to be suddenly stricken dumb in horror of the deed about to be done. To my agonised senses seconds were minutes, minutes hours, until the monster stood above the kneeling form of my beloved Eric. He raised the knife--the blade was touched with light; for a moment he paused to make his aim surer, the stroke more certain. With cruel, devilish force the knife descended, and was plunged through my Eric's back, straight into his heart. He uttered no cry, but straightway, as the knife was plucked from him, fell forward on his face. My brother was dead! Slowly, stealthily, warily, the murderer stole through the woods, casting no look behind. A darkness rushed upon me, and my dream was at an end. When I awoke I knew that I had witnessed a faithful presentment of the scene, and it would need something more powerful than human arguments to convince me that I was the victim of a delusion. The natural sentiment which from that night forth might be supposed to animate me was that I might live to revenge myself upon the murderer. It was not so with me. I lived, and live, for another purpose, with another end in view. Not for me to shed blood, and to stain my soul with sin and crime. I leave my cause to heaven. Having heard thus much, will you aid me, will you serve me, as you have promised?"

"I will do my best, if my judgment approves."

"The end is just, and I cannot endure long delay. I must see Mrs. Carew--_must!_ There is a matter between us which must be cleared up before another day and night have passed. Tell her that my errand is not one of revenge. Not a word of reproach shall she hear from my lips. I am here to claim what is mine--my inalienable right! She will understand if you represent it to her in my words. Tell her she has nothing to fear from me, and that the faith I have in her will not allow me to believe that she will conspire to rob my life of the one joy it contains for me. Will you do this?"

"I will do what you desire, in the way you desire."

"I thank you," he said, and the courteous grateful motion of his head bespoke the gentleman.

"How shall I find you," I asked, "if I wish to see you to-morrow?"

"Leave that to me," was his reply. "I shall be on the watch--and on my guard. Good-night."

"Good-night," I said, and I offered him my hand. He touched it with his, and saying again, "I thank you," left me to myself.

I remained in the grounds until the servants--who were early risers-- unfastened the front door. Then I entered the house, and made my way to the study. As I reached the door Mrs. Carew came out of her room to meet me. She placed her finger to her lips, and whispered,

"My husband is there."

"Your husband!" I exclaimed in consternation, forgetting Emilius, forgetting everything except the papers I had found in the secret drawer, and which I had left loose upon the writing-table.

"Yes," said Mrs. Carew. "When he came in alone he had to pass the study on his way to our room. The door was open, and he went in. I did not dare to disturb him. All is so still within that I think he is asleep. Tell me, dear friend--has anything happened outside?"

"Nothing of the nature you dread," I replied.

"Thank you," she murmured.

I opened the study door and entered, and sitting at the writing-table, with his hand upon the revelation made by his father, was Gabriel Carew, in a profound slumber.

"He has slept thus frequently," whispered Mrs. Carew, who had followed me into the room, "until late in the day."

"Leave us together," I said.

She obeyed me, and I stood by Carew's side and gazed at him and the papers. There was deep suffering on his face, strangely contrasted with an expression of resolution and content. What this portended I had yet to learn.

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."

XXVI.

I relate in my own words the strange story Mrs. Carew imparted to me. Although she had erred, her confession was like a rift of sweet light in the dark clouds which hung over Rosemullion. It brought more than hope and comfort to my old heart--it brought joy. In a very few moments you will understand the meaning of my words.

Transport yourself back to the village of Nerac, a year after the marriage of Lauretta and Gabriel Carew. Business of a particular nature took Carew from Nerac for a space of three months; he was absent that time, much against his will, for his wife was near her confinement. This took place safely two weeks after his departure, and he was duly informed of the event. All was well at home; Lauretta and her baby girl were thriving. The days and the weeks passed until two months went by. Carew, in his letters to his wife, expressed the profoundest joy at this precious home blessing. Smarting as he was during that period from the growing coldness of the villagers towards him, and chafing at the injustice of the world, he placed an extravagant value upon this baby girl, who would be, he said, a charm against all evil. He longed for the time when he could hold this blessing in his loving arms; now his happiness was complete; he asked for no greater treasure. In the growth and development of the new young life he would find solace and consolation. His wife was enjoined to take the most tender care of their child. "You and she are one," Carew wrote. "Each is incomplete without the other. I cannot think of you now apart. Were I to lose one my life would be plunged into darkness." Then befel an event which brought horror and grief to Lauretta. It happened that her nurse had fallen sick, and was compelled to go to her own home; there was no other female servant in the establishment capable of undertaking a nurse's duties, and Lauretta therefore took them cheerfully on herself. Two months, as I have said, had passed after the birth of the baby girl. Carew was expected home in a fortnight.

In the dead of night, when all in the house were asleep, with the exception of Lauretta, she, watching by the cradle of her baby, heard a sound of moaning without. She listened intently; it was her own name that she heard uttered in accents of deepest pain and suffering. It was a wild night; heavy rain was falling, the wind was raging; and through the sounds of the storm came the wailing of her name, with half-choked sobs and entreaties for help and pity.

It was but an hour before that Lauretta, awaking, had heard proceed from her baby-girl lying in the cradle by her bedside, some light sounds of difficult breathing which had alarmed her. She got up and dressed, and tended her baby, who, after a while, seemed a little easier; but with the natural anxiety of a young mother Lauretta remained awake watching her child.

The moans for help outside appeared to be especially addressed to her and to her alone, and she seemed to recognise the voice. She crept softly down, and unfastened the door.

"Who is there?" she asked, during a lull in the storm.

The answer came--"Patricia! Help me! Oh help me, and let no one know!"

It was Emilius's wife.

Lauretta assisted her indoors. The poor girl was in a pitiable plight. Famished, ragged, penniless, with a baby in her arms. Both were wringing wet. The pelting rain had soaked them through and through.

Throbbing with sympathy and compassion Lauretta quickly undressed Patricia's baby, and put it in her own warm bed. They had by this time reached Lauretta's bedroom, in which her own child was lying. Lauretta wished to call the servants, but Patricia sobbed that she would fly the house if any eyes but Lauretta's rested on her. It appeared, according to the poor girl's story, that her father was in pursuit of her, and had vowed to kill her and her baby.

"He will kill me--he will kill me!" moaned Patricia. "No one must know I have been here but you--no one, no one!"

And then she rocked herself hysterically and cried, "What will become of my poor baby-girl--what will become of her? I heard that your husband was not here, and it gave me courage to crawl to you. Not that it matters much. It isn't for myself I care. My father may kill me--I have not long to live--but my baby, my baby! Oh, save my darling, save her for the sake of my innocent Emilius!"

It was then that Lauretta noticed for the first time, signs in Patricia's face which, interpreted by her fear and the poor girl's words, seemed to be signs of approaching death. And still Patricia insisted that she would not remain in the house; no force or entreaties could make her.

"What, then, can I do for you?" asked Lauretta; she had already given Patricia food and money.

"Take care of my child," replied Patricia. "Bring her up as your own. Let her never know her father's disgrace, her mother's shame. It will be an angel's deed! For pity's sake, do not deny me! You are rich, and can afford the charity--and if, in your husband's life there has been guilt, this act of charity will atone for it. See here--look on her innocent face. Having the power, you have not the heart to deny me. Ah, if your angel mother were alive, I should appeal to her, and should not appeal in vain! She loved Emilius, and believed in his innocence--yes, to the last she believed in it. I know it for a certainty. You, too, loved my poor martyred husband, and he loved and honoured you and yours with all the strength of his faithful heart. He is innocent, innocent, I tell you! God forbid that I should accuse any one of being guilty--I am too desperate and despairing, and my child's life, the salvation of her soul, are at stake. When your sainted mother died, did all goodness die out of the world? Ah, no--it is not possible; you live again in her. In you she lives again, and all her mercy and sweet kindness which caused us all, from the highest to the lowest, to worship her, to look upon her as something holy. For her sake, if not for my own, you cannot, cannot deny me this charity, you who have it in your power to grant it!"

All this, and more. To say that Lauretta's heart was touched is inadequate; it overflowed; it yearned to assist the suffering mother, so near to her through her young motherhood, through the old ties with Emilius and Eric. A choking cry from her own baby-girl caused her to rush to the cradle. Within the hour a fatal circumstance occurred. Lauretta's baby drew her last breath.

It has nearly all my days been my belief that everything in human life is to be accounted for by human standards. I am shaken in this belief. In this death of Lauretta's baby I seem to see the finger of fate.

Vain to attempt to describe the agonising grief of the young mother. So overpowering was it that she lost consciousness. She recovered her senses when the storm had passed and the morning's light was shining on her. When she awoke to reality, what did she see?

Her husband had suddenly and unexpectedly returned home. She was in bed, and he was sitting by her side.

"Gabriel, Gabriel!" she cried, and, overcome by the terror of her great loss, she would have lost consciousness again but for an unaccountable joyousness in his manner, which mingled strangely with the sympathy he must have felt for her suffering condition.

"It was, doubtless, the storm," he said soothingly. "It raged so fiercely for an hour and more, that I am told it exceeded in violence anything of a like kind that has been experienced in these parts for the last fifty years. No wonder it has had such an effect upon you. Half the trees in our garden are uprooted. It hastened my steps home, for I know how these convulsions of nature affect you. But as you see, the danger has passed; the sun is shining brightly; but not more brightly in the heavens than it is shining in my heart."

She listened to him in amazement, and raising herself in bed she looked around for Patricia. She saw no sign of the hapless woman. The cradle in which her baby-girl had died was by the side of the bed. Carew bent over it and said in a tone of ecstasy:

"Mildred--Mildred! Our Mildred--our dear ewe lamb! How sweetly and soundly she sleeps! Oh, my darling wife! What care I for the injustice of the world now that this treasure is ours? My sweet--my sweet! You recompense for all. Do you know, Lauretta, as travelling home I neared the beloved spot which contained you and our treasure, my heart almost stood still at the fear that I should not find you both well. And now--how can I be sufficiently grateful? Of no account to me is all that transpires outside the circle which contains you and my dear one in the cradle here? I set great store upon our child, Lauretta. She is to me a guarantee of all that is worth living for in the present and the future. When I arrived home and found you prostrate I was at first overwhelmed, but I soon discovered that you had fainted, and I judged rightly, did I not, dear wife of my heart, that, not being strong, you kept it from me while we were apart, in order not to distress me? But now all is well--all shall be well. See, Lauretta, she opens her eyes, our darling. The question is, can I raise her safely and place her by your side? Yes, it is done, and I am the happiest father in the world!"

Was she dreaming? In the clothes in which her child died rested this child of Patricia's, smiling, blooming, laughing and crowing as Lauretta drew her to her breast. Carew's delight, his gratitude, his worship of the babe he believed to be his own, the superstitious store he set upon her young life, were so unbounded, that Lauretta did not dare to undeceive him. She feared, if she told him the truth, that it would unsettle his reason, and produce between her and him a gulf which could never be bridged over. She accepted the strange combination of circumstances, and held her tongue. Her own dear babe was dead, but this new Mildred, whom she grew to love truly as if she were her own, remained, and grew to what she is, a flower of beauty, goodness, and sweetness. Nothing more did Lauretta hear of Patricia; whether she died or lived was not known to her. It is but a detail--but necessary to complete the story--to state here that Patricia lived but a few months after the occurrence of this strange event. More important is it to state that, in some unexplained way, Emilius learns that his daughter lived, and that the Carews were bringing her up as if she were a child of their own. His term of imprisonment over, he had come now to claim her.

It would be impossible for me to give expression to my feelings of gratitude at this wonderful revelation. The despair into which I had fallen at the contemplation of the wrecking of my dear son Reginald's happiness vanished. A fair future lay still before him, and the most cherished hopes of his heart would be realised. I was sure that Emilius would not mar them. A nature so noble as his, so strong in suffering, so heroic in the highest form of human endurance, could not lend itself to the committal of a petty act of selfishness whereby the child upon whose memory he had lived during his cruel and unjust imprisonment would be rendered miserable and unhappy. To this martyred man I was ready to bow my head, ready to give him my friendship, my sympathy, my heart's best fruits of confidence and esteem. Thinking of him, I was awed that a man could live through the anguish that had been his portion, and still retain the inherent dignity and nobility of a great and noble nature.

XXVII.

"Hark!" whispered Mrs. Carew, her story told, and before we had time to debate upon the wisest course to pursue. "What sound is that?"

It was the sound of footsteps on the stairs. In this sound there was no attempt at concealment. The footsteps were those of one who desired his presence to be known. I divined instantly who it was who, by some means unknown to me, obtaining an entrance into the house, was now approaching the room in which Mrs. Carew and I were sitting. I could not, and did not blame him. In his place I should have acted as he was acting.

The silver clock chimed the hour of twelve.

"You will see him," I said, rising to my feet and advancing to the door.

"See whom?" asked Mrs. Carew, with her hand at her heart.

"Emilius. It is he and no other man who is coming here. He has a great stake in this house. He is justified."

"My husband?" she gasped.

"Is safe, if you will only be guided by me. It is your duty to be brave and strong. Never was courage more needed than at this moment. And not only courage, but wisdom. Decide quickly. There is no time to lose."

"I will be guided by you," she said faintly.

I threw open the door, and saw Emilius standing in the passage, uncertain which direction to take.

"Enter," I said in a low tone. "Mrs. Carew is here. For the sake of others be gentle, and do not alarm the house."

He entered, and Mrs. Carew and he stood face to face.

The native dignity of the man instantly asserted itself. He removed his ragged cap and stood bareheaded before her. But there was no cringing in his attitude. It was perfectly respectful--something, indeed, more than that; it was the attitude of a man who once was this sweet lady's equal, and who, despite the judgment of the world, still knew himself to be her equal, and worthy of the esteem she once accorded to him. But as he gazed upon her, and she upon him, in silence for a few moments--a silence which I did not dare to break--his stern mood melted. He saw and recognised her, as he had always seen and recognised her in the time that was gone, when he was entitled to hold up his head among men--but never more so in truth and honour than now--a gentle-mannered lady, in whose face shone the reflex of a sweet and womanly nature. Remembrances of the past rushed upon him and softened him.

"Forgive me," he said humbly.

And then--tears filled my eyes as I saw it, and knew the suffering she was bravely enduring--she held out her hand to him. He bowed his head over it, as for a moment he held it in his.

"I could not wait any longer," he said, softly. "I have entered like a thief into your house--but I have waited so long!"

"It is I who should ask for forgiveness," she said. "Emilius, be merciful to me and mine!"

"I have no thought of revenge," he said, in a voice as soft as her own. "I am a broken-down man, with one sole hope. But I could not stand before you, the Lauretta I loved with the pure love of a brother, if I did not know myself unstained by crime or any taint of dishonour."

"I believe you, Emilius," she said.

"You believe me, Lauretta!" he exclaimed, advancing a step towards her.

"I believe you, Emilius," she repeated.

Had he come with savage intent she could not more surely have disarmed him.

"It is more than I dared hope for," he said. "How often, Lauretta, in the gloom of my prison, have I thought of you and your dear parents, of the home of innocence and love in which I was ever a welcome guest, of the once happy village in which I was honoured and respected. Some crumbs of comfort fell to my lot, some gleam of light shone through the darkness. Had it not been so, and had I not been animated by another hope, I might have gone mad. Good Father Daniel visited me regularly, at permitted intervals, until he died. He had the firmest faith in my innocence, and he brought me messages which fell like heavenly balm upon my wounded spirit. Your sainted mother believed in my innocence, and she bade him tell me so, and that her love for me was unchanged. And now, you! But your mother's soul shines in your eyes. It could not have been otherwise." He paused a moment or two, reflecting what to say. "On one of Father Daniel's visits he brought me a letter, securely sealed. It was against the prison rules, but that did not deter him from doing what he deemed to be right. I hastily concealed it, noting first, however, with a beating heart, that it was addressed to me in my wife's handwriting. I asked him if he knew what it contained, and he answered 'No;' and then, with a grave face, he bade me prepare for solemn news. I felt at once what was coming. Can you divine my purpose, Lauretta, in telling you this?"

"I think I can," she replied. "Go on."

"It was while the good priest was on a mission of mercy that a villager came to him and said that in a hut hard by a woman was dying, and, hearing that he was in the neighbourhood, begged him to come to her. Father Daniel went, and discovered that the woman was Patricia, my wife. She was very near to death, and she had only strength to entreat him to deliver to me, secretly, a letter she had written. He promised to do so, and in a few minutes after he received it from her she drew her last breath. Before she died he asked her after her babe--for Patricia was quite alone--but she did not seem to understand him. Subsequently, however, he learnt from the villager that Patricia had said her baby was dead. This was the mournful news which Father Daniel conveyed to me in prison. Despite his attempts at consolation, I felt when he left me that I was truly alone in the world. Brother, wife, child, all dead! I prayed to God to send death to me soon. What had I to live for? But there was my wife's letter, and before twenty-four hours had passed I found an opportunity to read it. Lauretta, that letter informed me what had become of my child, and it laid upon me an obligation of secrecy for so long a time as I was in prison. Patricia solemnly adjured me not to breathe to a living soul that our child lived in your care; but I was to be released from this obligation when I was a free man. Then I was to act as it seemed to me right to act. Is there any need, Lauretta, for me to enter more fully into the particulars of Patricia's letter?"

"There is no need, Emilius."

"Except, perhaps, to say that when you were lying senseless before her, and your tender blossom lay dead in its cradle, it was only then that the idea entered Patricia's mind of changing the children's clothes, and leaving her baby with you. It was done, and Patricia stole away with your dead child at her breast, herself to die, as she well knew, before many weeks had passed. I have something to tell you, Lauretta"--and here Emilius's voice was charged with a new note of tenderness. "When Father Daniel next visited me I begged him to discover where the dead babe was buried, and to put a few flowers on the grave. The good priest did more. He paid a village woman to attend to it, and he left a small sum of money to be spent in beautifying the grave of your child. Flowers have grown upon it and around it from that day to this. I visited the grave before I set forth on my journey here, and I knelt and prayed there. I prayed a blessing upon you, Lauretta, and I prayed that I might live to see the hope fulfilled which shone like a star upon me through the long years of my prison life. Lauretta," he cried, stretching forth his trembling hands, "my child--my child"--

"She lives," sobbed Mrs. Carew, "in goodness, health, and beauty--a flower of sweetness!"

He fell upon his knees before her, and kissed her dress, and it was then I heard a sound without which, for a moment, transfixed me with terror. They, overwhelmed by emotion, were deaf to this sound. It was that of a man creeping stealthily from his chamber--and that man Gabriel Carew. Quickly recovering myself, and feeling the necessity for immediate and prompt action, I addressed Emilius and Mrs. Carew.

"Attend to me," I said impressively. "All is well with you. You, Emilius, have gained a daughter, and will embrace her at sunrise. You, dear lady, have not lost a daughter, for Mildred will be to you as she has ever been. I have proved myself your friend. Answer quickly--have I not?"

"Yes," they both replied.

"Do not, therefore, ask me for the reasons for my present action. I demand from you both a sacred promise--that you will not leave this room till I call for you, till I give you permission. It shall be given at the latest by sunrise. I must have this promise--I must!"

My voice, my manner, Mrs. Carew's fears for her husband, and confidence in me, compelled assent.

"We give it," she said.

"We give it," said Emilius.