XXVII.
"Hark!" whispered Mrs. Carew, her story told, and before we had timeto debate upon the wisest course to pursue. "What sound is that?"
It was the sound of footsteps on the stairs. In this sound there wasno attempt at concealment. The footsteps were those of one who desiredhis presence to be known. I divined instantly who it was who, by somemeans unknown to me, obtaining an entrance into the house, was nowapproaching the room in which Mrs. Carew and I were sitting. I couldnot, and did not blame him. In his place I should have acted as he wasacting.
The silver clock chimed the hour of twelve.
"You will see him," I said, rising to my feet and advancing to thedoor.
"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 greatstake 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 bebrave and strong. Never was courage more needed than at this moment.And not only courage, but wisdom. Decide quickly. There is no time tolose."
"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 ofothers 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 removedhis ragged cap and stood bareheaded before her. But there was nocringing in his attitude. It was perfectly respectful--something,indeed, more than that; it was the attitude of a man who once was thissweet lady's equal, and who, despite the judgment of the world, stillknew himself to be her equal, and worthy of the esteem she onceaccorded to him. But as he gazed upon her, and she upon him, insilence for a few moments--a silence which I did not dare tobreak--his stern mood melted. He saw and recognised her, as he hadalways seen and recognised her in the time that was gone, when he wasentitled to hold up his head among men--but never more so in truth andhonour than now--a gentle-mannered lady, in whose face shone thereflex of a sweet and womanly nature. Remembrances of the past rushedupon him and softened him.
"Forgive me," he said humbly.
And then--tears filled my eyes as I saw it, and knew the suffering shewas bravely enduring--she held out her hand to him. He bowed his headover it, as for a moment he held it in his.
"I could not wait any longer," he said, softly. "I have entered like athief into your house--but I have waited so long!"
"It is I who should ask for forgiveness," she said. "Emilius, bemerciful to me and mine!"
"I have no thought of revenge," he said, in a voice as soft as herown. "I am a broken-down man, with one sole hope. But I could notstand before you, the Lauretta I loved with the pure love of abrother, if I did not know myself unstained by crime or any taint ofdishonour."
"I believe you, Emilius," she said.
"You believe me, Lauretta!" he exclaimed, advancing a step towardsher.
"I believe you, Emilius," she repeated.
Had he come with savage intent she could not more surely have disarmedhim.
"It is more than I dared hope for," he said. "How often, Lauretta, inthe 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. Somecrumbs of comfort fell to my lot, some gleam of light shone throughthe darkness. Had it not been so, and had I not been animated byanother hope, I might have gone mad. Good Father Daniel visited meregularly, at permitted intervals, until he died. He had the firmestfaith in my innocence, and he brought me messages which fell likeheavenly balm upon my wounded spirit. Your sainted mother believed inmy innocence, and she bade him tell me so, and that her love for mewas unchanged. And now, you! But your mother's soul shines in youreyes. It could not have been otherwise." He paused a moment or two,reflecting what to say. "On one of Father Daniel's visits he broughtme a letter, securely sealed. It was against the prison rules, butthat did not deter him from doing what he deemed to be right. Ihastily concealed it, noting first, however, with a beating heart,that it was addressed to me in my wife's handwriting. I asked him ifhe knew what it contained, and he answered 'No;' and then, with agrave face, he bade me prepare for solemn news. I felt at once whatwas 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 avillager 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 toher. Father Daniel went, and discovered that the woman was Patricia,my wife. She was very near to death, and she had only strength toentreat him to deliver to me, secretly, a letter she had written. Hepromised to do so, and in a few minutes after he received it from hershe drew her last breath. Before she died he asked her after herbabe--for Patricia was quite alone--but she did not seem to understandhim. Subsequently, however, he learnt from the villager that Patriciahad said her baby was dead. This was the mournful news which FatherDaniel 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 beforetwenty-four hours had passed I found an opportunity to read it.Lauretta, that letter informed me what had become of my child, and itlaid upon me an obligation of secrecy for so long a time as I was inprison. Patricia solemnly adjured me not to breathe to a living soulthat our child lived in your care; but I was to be released from thisobligation when I was a free man. Then I was to act as it seemed to meright to act. Is there any need, Lauretta, for me to enter more fullyinto the particulars of Patricia's letter?"
"There is no need, Emilius."
"Except, perhaps, to say that when you were lying senseless beforeher, and your tender blossom lay dead in its cradle, it was only thenthat the idea entered Patricia's mind of changing the children'sclothes, and leaving her baby with you. It was done, and Patriciastole away with your dead child at her breast, herself to die, as shewell knew, before many weeks had passed. I have something to tell you,Lauretta"--and here Emilius's voice was charged with a new note oftenderness. "When Father Daniel next visited me I begged him todiscover where the dead babe was buried, and to put a few flowers onthe grave. The good priest did more. He paid a village woman to attendto it, and he left a small sum of money to be spent in beautifying thegrave of your child. Flowers have grown upon it and around it fromthat day to this. I visited the grave before I set forth on my journeyhere, and I knelt and prayed there. I prayed a blessing upon you,Lauretta, and I prayed that I might live to see the hope fulfilledwhich shone like a star upon me through the long years of my prisonlife. Lauretta," he cried, stretching forth his trembling hands, "mychild--my child"--
"She lives," sobbed Mrs. Carew, "in goodness, health, and beauty--aflower of sweetness!"
He fell upon his knees before her, and kissed her dress, and it wasthen I heard a sound without which, for a moment, transfixed me withterror. They, overwhelmed by emotion, were deaf to this sound. It wasthat of a man creeping stealthily from his chamber--and that manGabriel Carew. Quickly recovering myself, and feeling the necessityfor 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 shehas ever been. I have proved myself your friend. Answer quickly--haveI not?"
"Yes," they both replied.
"Do not, therefore, ask me for the reasons for my present action. Idemand from you both a sacred promise--that you will not leave thisroom till I call for you, till I give you permi
ssion. It shall begiven at the latest by sunrise. I must have this promise--I must!"
My voice, my manner, Mrs. Carew's fears for her husband, andconfidence in me, compelled assent.
"We give it," she said.
"We give it," said Emilius.
"I accept it, and bind you to it. What I do is for the good ofall--for your future, for Mildred's future--and to avert disaster.Only I can do this. Whatever you hear, you will not open this doorwithout my permission, after I leave it. When I am gone, turn the key,and admit no one unless I desire it. It is understood?"
"Yes," they said, "it is understood."
As I closed the door behind me I heard the key turned in the lock.
XXVIII.
The sound of soft footsteps proceeded, as I supposed, from GabrielCarew, but to my surprise he was not coming towards the room I hadjust left, but was stealthily ascending the stairs which led toMildred's room. His eyes were open, and his movements were dictated byintelligent caution, but he was asleep. In his left hand he carriedthe naked dagger.
I ran up the stairs softly and swiftly, heedless of danger to myself,and walked by his side. He took no notice of me. Standing by the doorof Mildred's room he paused, and was about to put his hand to thehandle when I seized his wrist.
"What are you about to do?" I whispered, my lips close to his ear."Speak low, the house must not be disturbed."
To my horror, he replied, in a whisper as low and distinct as my own:"'Our race must die with him; not one must live after him toperpetuate it. I lay this injunction most solemnly upon him; if heviolate it he will be an incredible monster.'"
They were the words written by his father which he had already quotedto me earlier in the day.
"Your daughter is not in that room," I said, not raising my voice,grateful that we had as yet attracted no notice. "If you enter, yourpurpose will be frustrated."
"Who speaks to me?" he asked.
"The spirit of murder," I said. "The Devil who is leading your soul toperdition. Come with me. I will direct you aright."
He shuddered, but he did not hesitate. With my hand still firmlygrasping his wrist, he allowed me to lead him from the room. Wedescended the stairs, slowly, stealthily, until we reached the landingupon which the study was situated. I led him into the room, and withlightning motion locked the door and plucked out the key. Then,uncertain how next to act, I took my hand from his wrist, andretreated a few steps. He, also, was now uncertain of his movements.He stood still a while, then tried the door, and finding it fast, tooksome halting steps this way and that, and finally fell into the chairin which he had been accustomed to write.
As I gazed upon him I was sensible of a gradual change in hisappearance. A pallor crept into his face, a film seemed to come acrosshis eyes. Alarmed, I grasped his shoulder with rough strength, andshook him violently.
"Mr. Carew!" I called.
He trembled in every limb, closed his eyes, and clasped them with hishands--in one of which he still held the dagger. Presently he removedhis hands from his face, and looked confusedly at me.
"Are you awake?" I asked.
"Yes," he replied faintly. "Give me a glass of water."
I gave him a full glass, and he drained it. I observed as he did sothat it was only by an effort he prevented it from slipping from hishand. Then he spoke again.
"How came I here?" he asked. "Skilful as you are in your profession,you can do nothing for me. How came I here?"
"I conducted you hither," I said, "from the door of Mildred's room.You have a dagger in your hand."
Until this moment he seemed to be unconscious that he held the weapon,and now he started and allowed it to drop to the ground.
"Give thanks to God," I said solemnly, "that I stepped forward in timeto save the life of an innocent child."
"Great God!" he murmured. "It is fit that I should die!"
The silver chimes of the clock proclaimed the hour of two. He smiledpiteously and gratefully, and said, "It is almost time."
"There is a hidden meaning in your words," I said. "What have youdone?"
"Doctor, you are wrong. There is no hidden meaning in my words. All isclear and plain. What should I do to myself? What should be done tosuch a man as I? You are not deceiving me. You found me, you say, atthe door of my daughter's room, with the dagger in my hand?"
"It is true."
"Then my purpose was murder. What further confirmation is needed ofthe truth of my father's revelation? Be thankful, doctor, that yourson Reginald has escaped from my daughter, my miserable, unhappychild. Ah, me! Whose fate is the heaviest, hers or mine, or theinnocent flower I married?"
"I can give you some comfort," I said. "In one respect I can set yourheart at ease."
"Impossible, impossible!" he cried.
"Not so. I have that to relate which though at first it may cause youpain, cannot fail, upon reflection, to make you grateful. If I were totell you that you have not transmitted to an innocent girl the fatalinheritance which has weighed like a curse upon your life, how wouldit be with you?"
"It would be heaven--it would be light! Unconscious sinner as I am, itmight mean forgiveness!"
"I have been closeted with your wife, from whose lips I have heardwhat you should hear. You will listen to me?"
"Will you be long?" he asked, with a strange smile.
"I will be as brief as possible--and receive it from me, as I receivedit from your wife, that every word I utter is true."
I told him the story of Mildred, who until now he had believed to behis daughter. Perceiving that he was ill, I shortened it as much aspossible. Once or twice I paused in my recital, and asked him if hewas in pain.
"In pain!" he cried. "When you are bringing heaven to me! Theagitation you observe in me proceeds from joy. Do not linger. Finishquickly, quickly!"
At the chiming of the half-hour my story was done. There was a happylight in Carew's eyes. White as his face had grown, peace had stoleninto it.
"Oh, God, I thank Thee!" he murmured, raising his arms; and then hesuddenly fell forward on his face.
"I raised his head, and assisted him into a recumbent position.
"Tell me, for heaven's sake, what you have done?" I cried.
"You shall know all," he gasped, with pauses between his words."First, though ... about Emilius . . . you went to seek him, did younot? . . . He was to be here to-morrow ..."
"He is here now," I said, "in this house. It was to recover hisdaughter that he came to England."
"Do not leave me.... When I went to bed to-night ... and kissed myangel wife ... for the last time ... I thought never to wake again....It is painless.... In my old wanderings I came across a man we talkedof death ... how easy ... I kept it by me ... through all theseyears.... It will defy you, doctor ... no trace remains ... thesubtlest poison, the easiest death.... It has served me well. Goquickly, and bring Emilius.... Not my angel wife.... There is nopain.... Thank God, my life is ended! Go ... Emilius!"
I flew from the room, and returned with Emilius. Gabriel Carew layback in his chair, motionless. The terror of death was not in hisface. But he was dead!
* * * * *
It was popularly supposed that he died from heart disease. There werein him no indications of having died from other than natural causes.What I knew I kept to myself. Not alone what I gathered from his ownlips as to the manner of his death, but of the last incident of hisdream-life, and of my providentially saving him from the commission ofan awful crime.
* * * * *
A great number of mourners stood about his grave. Until that time, itwas not known how wide and large had been his charities. Even his wifehad been in ignorance of countless deeds of goodness which he had donein secret. There were men and women there whom he had snatched frompoverty and despair, and who now brought flowers to drop into the lastresting place of their benefactor. Children, too, were lifted up tolook into the grave of the maste
r of Rosemullion.
Emilius stood bareheaded by my side.
"God forgive him!" said Emilius.
* * * * *
The disclosure of Mildred's real parentage made no difference in therelations between her and Mrs. Carew. It was mother and daughter withthem, as it had always been, and even some additional and subtle tieof new tenderness was added to the feelings of love for each otherwhich will animate their hearts till the last hours of their lives.
No one in the county, with the exception of ourselves, is acquaintedwith the story of Emilius. A dignified, gentle-mannered gentleman, hequickly won the esteem of all who came in contact with him. Thereoften reigns in his face a strange expression of sadness, and hesometimes speaks to me of Eric; but there is joy in his life, and heis grateful for it.
The marriage of Mildred and Reginald was postponed for a decent time,and then these young people were made happy, and sent upon theirhoneymoon, accompanied by blessings and tears and heartfelt wishes forgood.
As I prepare to end my task I see in my mind's eye the form of onewho, in every act of her life, in every gentle word that falls fromher lips, has sanctified for me the name of Woman. Not only in idea,but in deed. "God bless Mrs. Carew!" is said by many out of herhearing, and if to live a good pure life will earn God's blessing, shehas earned it, and it is hers.
THE END.
Richard Clay And Sons London And Bungay.
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends