A fine, stately, stalwart old woman, between sixty and seventy years
of age, with gray hair, bright eyes, and an air of masculine vigour
about her which could not fail to impress an observer. But what most
strongly impressed me was the quality of power which distinguished
her--the power of a firm will, which, in a lofty grade of life, would
have made her a leader. I introduced myself to her, and informed her
that I had obtained her address from Gabriel Carew, and had journeyed
to Cornwall for the express purpose of seeing her. She evinced no
surprise, and inquired how could she be sure that I came from Mr.
Carew.
"I have a letter from him," I said; and I gave it to her.
She read it quietly, and put it into her pocket.
"Is Mr. Carew well?" she asked.
"He is well," I replied.
"I have heard nothing of him since I left him in Rosemullion," she
said. "He told me then, it was his intention to quit it for ever, and
never again to set foot in it. I said that there was no saying what
might happen in the course of life. He lives now in Rosemullion?"
"Yes."
"Then he has not carried out his intention?"
There was no triumph in her voice, indicating that she had been right
and he wrong. It was a simple statement of fact simply made.
"We often commit ourselves unguardedly," I observed.
She nodded assent.
"As you have heard nothing of Mr. Carew, you are not aware that he is
married?"
She gazed at me thoughtfully, and I fancy I detected a stirring of
interest within her at this intelligence.
"Married!" she echoed calmly. "Lately?"
"No. More than twenty years ago. I do not know the exact year."
"Is his wife living?" she asked.
"Yes. She is with Mr. Carew at Rosemullion. Would you like to see her
portrait?"
"Yes," she replied.
I had brought Mrs. Carew's portrait with me, and other things which I
thought might be likely to help me in my interview with Mrs. Fortress.
I handed her the picture.
"A beautiful lady," she said, handing it back to me.
"Better than beautiful," I said. "An angel of goodness and charity,
beloved by all who have the privilege of knowing her."
"Is she happy?"
"Very happy. She and her husband are united by the firmest links of
love."
"That is good news, and I am glad to hear it. Is Mr. Carew happy?"
Slight as was the pause before I had made up my mind what reply to
give, she took advantage of it.
"Then he is not happy?"
"I should like to speak openly to you," I said. "It is not out of mere
light curiosity that I have sought you."
"It is," she said, "entirely at your discretion how you speak to me.
You are not here at my bidding."
"True," I replied; "and I am entirely at your mercy. You learn from
Mr. Carew's letter that I am on terms of confidential friendship with
him, and that he places no restraint upon you. There is no person
living who is better acquainted than yourself with the particulars of
his young life, with its strange surroundings, its isolation, its lack
of light. Dominated by such dark influences, it would not have been
matter for wonder had Mr. Carew grown into a morose, savage man,
believing only in evil, and capable only of it. The contrary is the
case. He has faith in goodness; he has won the love of a good woman.
His heart is tender, his nature charitable. When, before parting
with you, he asked you to enlighten him as to the mystery which
reigned in his home, there may have been some valid reason for your
refusal--although, even then, as his parents were dead and he was
alone in the world, such refusal was capable of a construction more
hurtful than the truth might have been."