"It is the truth, I swear. I have no object in deceiving you. Yet it
would be strange if you did not doubt and wonder. For the present let
the matter bide; you have much to learn which may temper your
judgment."
"A foul wrong can never be righted," responded Emilius. "The dead
cannot be brought to life. If you expect my judgment of that fiend
ever to be softened, you expect a miracle. What is the nature of your
connection with him? Pardon me for asking questions; I will answer
yours freely."
"An angel lives in that house," I said, "and I am bound to her by ties
of affection and devotion, inspired by her sweet nature and spotless
purity."
"Lauretta!" he murmured. "She loved me once as a sister might love a
brother, and I loved her in like manner. She was the incarnation of
innocence and goodness."
"And is so still. She whom you once loved as a sister claims now your
pity. Find room in your heart for something better than revenge."
"You misjudge me," he said softly; "it is love, not revenge, that
brought me here. But you have not completed your explanation."
"I have an only child," I said; "a son, grown to man's estate. Love
grew between him and Mrs. Carew's daughter----"
"Stop!" he cried, in a suffocated voice. "I cannot, cannot bear it!"
He leant against a tree for support; his form was convulsed with heavy
sobs. His profound grief astonished me; I could find no clue for it. I
turned aside until he was master of himself again, and then he resumed
the conversation.
"You seem to know the story of my life."
"I am acquainted with it."
"You know that I was tried for the murder of my brother?"
"Yes."
"There are moments in life when to lie will damn a man's soul and
condemn it to eternal perdition! This in my life is such a moment. I
call Heaven to witness my innocence! Now and hereafter may I be
cursed, now and for ever may the love for which I yearn be torn from
me, may I never meet my wife in heaven, if I do not stand before you
an innocent man! I was condemned for another's crime. The murderer
lives there." He pointed to the house, and continued: "My brother was
not the only one who died by his hand. In the happy village of Nerac,
whither a relentless fate directed that monster's steps, another man
was murdered before my beloved Eric fell. This man's comrade suffered
the penalty--while he, the murderer, looked on and smiled. I do not
question the goodness and mercy of God; for some unknown reason these
atrocities have been allowed, and no thunderbolt has fallen to smite
the guilty. Had I been other than I am I should have turned
blasphemer, and raised my impious voice against my Creator. As it is,
I have suffered and borne my sufferings, not like a beast, but like a
man. You hint at some mystery in connection with that monster which I
cannot fathom. Time is too precious for me to waste it by groping in
the dark. I will wait patiently for enlightenment. Heaven knows I, of
all men living, should lend a ready ear to howsoever strange a tale,
for I am associated, through my father and his brother, with a mystery
which the majority of men would reject as incredible. This extends
even to my statement that I have sure evidence of that monster's
guilt, although I did not see the deed perpetrated. You may enter into
my feelings when I tell you that the first few weeks of my
imprisonment were weeks of the most awful torture to me. I wept. I
could not sleep, my heart was torn with unspeakable anguish. Night
after night in my lonely cell I passed the hours praying to my
murdered brother, and calling upon him to give me a sign. My prayer
was answered on the anniversary of our birthday. Eric and I, as I
assume you know, were twins, as were my father Silvain and his brother
Kristel. Between them existed a mysterious bond of sympathy. So was
it, in a lesser degree, between Eric and me. On that birthday
anniversary, spent in prison, peace for the first time fell upon my
soul, and I slept. In my dreams my brother appeared to me; he did not
speak to me; but I saw the enactment of his murder. I had left him in
the forest to join my wife. He was alone. He paced to and fro in deep
anguish. Tears streamed from his eyes; his heart was wracked with woe.
In this state he continued for a space of time which I judged to be
not less than an hour. Then gradually he became more composed, and he
knelt and prayed, with his face buried in his hands. Stealing towards
him stealthily, holding a knife, as to-night he held a dagger, I
beheld the monster, Gabriel Carew. I saw him plainly; the moon shone
upon his face, and though he walked like a man in sleep, his fell
intent was visible in his eyes. I tried to scream to warn my brother,
but my tongue clove to the roof of my mouth. I could not utter a
sound. Nearer and nearer crept the monster--nearer and nearer,
noiselessly, noiselessly! Not a leaf cracked beneath his feet; all
nature seemed to be suddenly stricken dumb in horror of the deed about
to be done. To my agonised senses seconds were minutes, minutes hours,
until the monster stood above the kneeling form of my beloved Eric. He
raised the knife--the blade was touched with light; for a moment he
paused to make his aim surer, the stroke more certain. With cruel,
devilish force the knife descended, and was plunged through my Eric's
back, straight into his heart. He uttered no cry, but straightway, as
the knife was plucked from him, fell forward on his face. My brother
was dead! Slowly, stealthily, warily, the murderer stole through the
woods, casting no look behind. A darkness rushed upon me, and my dream
was at an end. When I awoke I knew that I had witnessed a faithful
presentment of the scene, and it would need something more powerful
than human arguments to convince me that I was the victim of a
delusion. The natural sentiment which from that night forth might be
supposed to animate me was that I might live to revenge myself upon
the murderer. It was not so with me. I lived, and live, for another
purpose, with another end in view. Not for me to shed blood, and to
stain my soul with sin and crime. I leave my cause to heaven. Having
heard thus much, will you aid me, will you serve me, as you have
promised?"
"I will do my best, if my judgment approves."
"The end is just, and I cannot endure long delay. I must see Mrs.
Carew--_must!_ There is a matter between us which must be cleared up
before another day and night have passed. Tell her that my errand is
not one of revenge. Not a word of reproach shall she hear from my
lips. I am here to claim what is mine--my inalienable right! She will
understand if you represent it to her in my words. Tell her she has
nothing to fear from me, and that the faith I have in her will not
allow me to believe that she will conspire to rob my life of the one
joy it contains for me. Will you do this?"
"I will do what you desire, in the way you desire."
"I thank you," he said, and the courteous grateful motion of his head
bespoke the gentleman.
"How shall I find you," I asked, "if I wish to see you to-morrow?"
"Leave that to me," was his reply. "I shall be on the watch--and on my
guard. Good-night."
"Good-night," I said, and I offered him my hand. He touched it with
his, and saying again, "I thank you," left me to myself.
I remained in the grounds until the servants--who were early risers--
unfastened the front door. Then I entered the house, and made my way
to the study. As I reached the door Mrs. Carew came out of her room to
meet me. She placed her finger to her lips, and whispered,
"My husband is there."
"Your husband!" I exclaimed in consternation, forgetting Emilius,
forgetting everything except the papers I had found in the secret
drawer, and which I had left loose upon the writing-table.
"Yes," said Mrs. Carew. "When he came in alone he had to pass the
study on his way to our room. The door was open, and he went in. I did
not dare to disturb him. All is so still within that I think he is
asleep. Tell me, dear friend--has anything happened outside?"
"Nothing of the nature you dread," I replied.
"Thank you," she murmured.
I opened the study door and entered, and sitting at the writing-table,
with his hand upon the revelation made by his father, was Gabriel
Carew, in a profound slumber.
"He has slept thus frequently," whispered Mrs. Carew, who had followed
me into the room, "until late in the day."
"Leave us together," I said.
She obeyed me, and I stood by Carew's side and gazed at him and the
papers. There was deep suffering on his face, strangely contrasted
with an expression of resolution and content. What this portended I
had yet to learn.