"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."