This, indeed, was startling news. Emilius alive, his term of
imprisonment over, or he an escaped convict, seeking an interview with
Mrs. Carew, the wife of the man whom he regarded as his bitterest
enemy! To what was this to lead?--in what way was it to end?
"Did Mr. Carew recognise him?" I asked.
"I cannot tell you," replied Mrs. Carew. "Not a word passed between us
respecting him. _I_ did not dare to speak. It would but have been to
reopen old wounds, and after all I may have been mistaken. Not for me
to bring back to my husband the memories of a past in which he was so
cruelly misjudged. Besides, this was the one and only subject upon
which my husband and I were not in harmony. He most firmly believed
and believes in Emilius's guilt; I as firmly believed and believe in
his innocence. The years that have flown have not softened my
husband's judgment nor hardened mine; and until this hour the name of
Emilius has never passed my lips since we settled in Rosemullion. No,
it was not for me to utter it in my husband s presence; it was not for
me to bring pain to his kind heart. I said nothing, nor did my
husband, nor did he attempt to follow the stranger. In silence we
walked back to the house, and the evening passed as usual. Reginald
came, and we had music and conversation. On the part of Mildred and
your son converse was cheerful and unconstrained, and I also strove to
be cheerful. I was so far successful as to deceive the children, but
my husband was not so easily blinded. And yet he made no allusion to
the subject which engrossed my thoughts, and weighed like a dark cloud
upon my heart. The hour grew late, and I sent Reginald home. Young
people in love have always to be reminded. Then my husband and I
retired to rest. Troubled as I was, sleep was long in coming to me,
but at length Nature was merciful, and I sank into slumber. I awoke at
the soft chiming of our silver clock, proclaiming the hour of two.
Never do I remember being awoke by the chiming of this clock, so low
and sweet is it; and that I should awake now as it struck two may have
been simply a coincidence. I sat up in bed. I was alone. My husband
was not in the room; his clothes were gone, and he had doubtless gone
out fully dressed. In great fear I rose and dressed, with the
intention of following him, but when I tried the door I found it had
been locked on the outside. Powerless to do anything but wait, I sat,
trembling, till daylight began to peep in at the windows. Then I heard
my husband's footsteps in the passage, which would not have reached my
ears had not my senses been preternaturally sharpened. He trod softly,
and turned the key in the door very gently in order not to disturb me.
He entered the room, and I almost fainted as I saw in his hand the
bright blade of an ancient dagger which usually lay upon his study
table. His face was turned towards me, his eyes were open, but he did
not see me. He took from his pocket a sheath, in which he placed the
dagger, and then he undressed. Before he lay down to that more
healthful sleep in which his mind would be at rest, he listened two or
three times at the locked door, and going to the window, drew the
blind a little aside and looked from the window. Then he stretched
himself in bed, and his eyes closed. Not by the least sign did he show
any consciousness of the fact that I was standing, dressed, in the
room, and that we were often face to face. I soon retired to bed, but
I slept no more. I lay awake, listening to my husband's breathing,
praying for the hour to arrive at which we generally rose for the
day--praying for that, praying that the night would not come again,
praying for a friend to counsel me. It were vain for me to disguise
from you that I am in dread of what may happen should my husband and
Emilius meet. And there is still something more----"
I waited, but she left the sentence uncompleted. Startled as I was by
what I had heard, I was even more startled to see this good and gentle
woman suddenly cover her face with her hands, and burst into a passion
of tears. I turned from her in commiseration, powerless to relieve or
console her. Even had I words at command, it was better that her grief
should be allowed to spend itself naturally. When she had recovered, I
asked,
"Has Mr. Carew made any reference to what passed in the night?"
"Not any," she replied.
"Did you?"
"I simply asked him if he had slept well, and he answered 'Yes,' and
that his sleep had been dreamless."
"Will you pardon me for the question whether you believe that to be
really so--whether his answer to your solicitous inquiry was not
prompted by his desire not to trouble or distress you?"
"I am certain," said Mrs. Carew, "that my husband said what he
believes to be true. Dear friend, what am I to do?"
She seized my hand, and clung to it as though to me, and to me alone,
could she look for help in her sad position.
"Does Mildred know anything, suspect anything?" I asked.
What was the meaning of the timid, frightened, helpless look in her
eyes at the mention of Mildred's name? No mental efforts of mine could
fathom it.
"Nothing," she replied, and then seemed to drift, against her will as
it were, into distressful thought. I devoted a few moments to
consideration, and when I spoke again had resolved upon a course of
action.
"Would you wish me to become your guest for a few days?" I asked.
"Ah, if you would!" she exclaimed.
"I shall be willing if Mr. Carew has no objection. I will see him
presently and ascertain. But first I have a little scheme to carry out
which I think advisable for all our sakes."
I asked her if I could write a letter in her room, and despatch it at
once to my house, and she opened her desk for me. My letter was to my
son Reginald, and the effect of it was to secure his absence from
Rosemullion during my stay in Mr. Carew's house. There was really a
matter of business which Reginald could attend to, and which rendered
it necessary for him to take his immediate departure for London. When
my letter was written, I explained its purport to Mrs. Carew, and she
acquiesced in the wisdom of my plan. She herself added a few words to
the letter, to the effect that she regretted not being able to see him
before he left, and that Mildred was well and sent her love. She gave
me a flower, and asked me to enclose it in the envelope.
"He will think it comes from Mildred," she said, "and it will send him
away happy. It is an innocent deceit."
The letter was despatched, and with a few assuring words to the sweet
woman, I went to her husband's study.