"But," I urged, "might not the truth, painful though it were, have
contributed to avert evil consequences?"
"To Mr. Carew," she asked, "or to others?"
"To others," I replied.
"I will wait a little," she said composedly, "before I answer that
question. You have more to say."
"There can be no valid reason," I continued, "for silence now. Mr.
Carew is anxious that you should speak candidly to me. An appeal to
your sense of justice would probably weigh with you."
"It is not unlikely," she said. "May I ask if you belong to any
profession?"
"I do not follow any at present," I replied; "but for years I
practised as a physician."
"In a general way, or as a specialist?"
"Chiefly as a specialist. I have written a successful book upon
certain forms of insanity, and I have a copy with me. Perhaps you
would like to read it."
"It would interest me," she said. "If I had been a physician I should
have devoted myself to that branch of the profession."
I gave her the book, which she placed aside. "It is not, however,
solely in that capacity," I said, "that I am here. That certain
indefinite impressions, springing from my professional experiences,
have prompted me, I do not deny; but my strongest reasons are private
ones. Is it your belief that insanity is hereditary and ineradicable?"
"That is my firm belief," she said.
"It is also mine. Mrs. Fortress, are you a married woman?"
"I married a few months after I left Mr. Carew's service. Within two
years of my marriage I lost my husband."
"Have you any children?"
"One--a son."
"Who must be now approaching manhood?"
"Yes."
"That is my case. My wife is dead, and I have an only child--a
son--who is deeply in love with Gabriel Carew's daughter."
This introduction of Miss Carew threw Mrs. Fortress off her guard;
there was a startled flash in her eyes.
"I am sorry to hear," she said, "that Mr. Carew has a daughter. Has he
other children?"
"No. Mildred Carew is, like your son and mine, an only child. I
purposely brought three things with me, in the hope that they would
help me in my purpose. Two you have--my book and the portrait of
Gabriel Carew's wife. Here is the portrait of his daughter."
She examined it with the greatest interest, and remarked that she saw
no resemblance in it to the father.
"That has struck me," I observed; "neither does she resemble her
mother in any marked manner. But that sometimes happens, though it is
not the rule."
"Is there an engagement between your son and Miss Carew?"
"They are courting each other, with a view to marriage."
"With your consent?"
"Yes, but it was given before I became intimate with Mr. Carew."
"And since then you have repented?"
"I have been greatly disturbed."
"Rather," she said slowly, "than my son should marry a daughter of Mr.
Carew's, I would see him in his grave."
This declaration profoundly agitated me, so far did it go to confirm
me in my suspicions. "I asked you a question a few moments since," I
said, "and you said you would wait a little before you answered it.
Will you answer it now?"
"Your question was, 'Had a painful truth been revealed to Mr. Carew
when he was a single gentleman, whether it might have averted evil
consequences to others.'"
"You have stated it correctly."
"It might have done," she said. "But it appeared to me that Mr. Carew
was the last man in the world to attract a woman's heart. I often said
to myself, 'He will never marry.'"
"You were mistaken."
"I was; and I say again I am sorry." She took from her pocket the
letter I had given her from Mr. Carew, and read it carefully and
slowly, in a new light it seemed to me. Even when she had finished the
perusal she did not immediately speak, but sat in silent thought a
while.
"I am not a tender-hearted woman," she said, "and not easy to move
when I pledge myself. Mr. Carew's father behaved well to me, and
fulfilled his promise of providing for me if it was in his power to do
so after the death of his wife. I, on my part, kept the two promises I
made him when I entered his service. The first was not to leave his
service during the lifetime of his wife; the second not to divulge,
without powerful cause, the secret of the unhappy inheritance he
feared his wife had transmitted to their son. When I bade farewell to
Mr. Gabriel Carew in Rosemullion, I saw no such cause for divulging
the secret, and I declined to satisfy my young master. It may be
different now, and I may be tempted to satisfy _you_."
"Out of your sense of justice?" I observed.
"Not entirely. Mr. Carew's letter contains the offer of a reward."