It was not till at least an hour afterwards that I remembered the
promise I had given to Emilius. Carew still slept, and had not stirred
from the position in which I had found him. Two or three times I made
a gentle effort to remove from beneath his hand the papers I had found
in the secret drawer, but as my design could not be accomplished
without violence, I abandoned it. There was no doubt in my mind that
he had read them, and his tenacious hold upon them denoted that he had
formed some strong resolution with respect to them. With the intention
of fulfilling my promise to Emilius, I softly left the room.
Mrs. Carew, sitting in a room above with Mildred, heard my movements,
and swiftly and noiselessly glided down the stairs. In a low tone I
made her acquainted with what had passed between me and Emilius, and I
perceived that she was not unprepared for Emilius's demand for an
interview. When I repeated to her Emilius's 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," she clasped her hands across her eyes, and
remained so for a little while.
"It is his due," she said, but though she strove to speak calmly she
could not control her trembling voice and quivering lips; "I must see
him."
"When?" I asked.
"I cannot at this moment decide," she replied. "I must have time to
reflect. Meanwhile, there lies our first care."
She pointed to the study in which her husband slept.
"You understand that he is determined to see you before another day
and night have passed?"
"Yes, I understand."
"How is Mildred?"
"Bright and well, with the exception that she is concerned about me.
She suspects nothing."
"It is better so. Trouble comes soon enough."
"Indeed, indeed!" she murmured, with a strangely pathetic note in her
voice--as though she were pitying herself. "If we but knew--if we but
knew! But to do everything for the best--what can one do more? A heavy
punishment is about to fall upon me, and yet I thought I was acting
right. Go to my husband. He may need you when he wakes."
She glided up the stairs to Mildred's room, and I re-entered the
study. Carew still slept, and I remained at my vigil till noon without
observing any change in him. In addition to my position being one of
embarrassment, I found myself labouring under a feeling of exhaustion.
I had had no rest; and had passed a long and anxious day and night.
Insensibly my eyes closed; I struggled against Nature's demand, but it
was too imperative to be successfully resisted, and at length I fell
asleep. So thoroughly worn out was I that it was evening before I
awoke.
Carew, also awake, was gazing at me as I opened my eyes.
"I would not disturb you," he said. "You appeared to be thoroughly
exhausted."
"I am not so young as I was," I observed, with an attempt at
lightness. "Have you been awake long?"
"For some hours," he replied.
I glanced at the table; the papers were still there; his eyes followed
the direction of mine, and he nodded gently.
"Have you remained with me the whole time?" I asked.
"Oh, no. I left the room two or three times. My wife looked in
occasionally to see if you still slept." He motioned with his hand to
a corner of the table, and I saw bread, and meat, and wine there.
"Eat," he said; "you must be hungry."
I was glad of the food, and the wine gave me strength. Carew himself
drank two glasses.
"We are but poor, gross creatures," he said, "dependent upon a crumb
of bread for the life we think so wonderful. Is the scheme which
created it monstrous or beneficent? Is it the work of an angel or a
devil? Have you finished?"
"Yes."
"Something is necessary between you and me, something which must not
remain unspoken. The time for concealments, evasions, self-delusions,
torturing doubts (now cleared up, fatally), is at an end."
"One question first," I said, thinking of Emilius; "has Mrs. Carew
left the house during the time I have slept?"
"No; I forbade her. I have still for some few hours a will of my own."
He touched the papers written by his father. "After I left you here
yesterday, you discovered these?"
"I discovered them before you gave me the record of your life to
read."
"You have read it?"
"Every word."
"Had my father's record been discovered when I was a young man, had he
dealt by me justly instead of mercifully, what evil might have been
averted! I have no intention of wasting time by idle words, by vain
regrets. I have fixed my course. I seek some enlightenment from you.
Tell me all that passed within your knowledge since I spoke to you
last night at the door of this room. Keep nothing from me. Absolute
frankness is due from you to me, and I claim it. Believe me, I am
animated by but one supreme desire--a desire for justice. All lighter
sentiments are dead within me, except pity for the lady who has the
misfortune to be my wife. I loved her with a very pure and complete
love. I dare not wrong her by saying I love her still--and yet, and
yet--You see, I am still human; that is the worst of it. Tell me all."
I did so, concealing nothing, softening nothing. I faithfully,
mercilessly described the events of the night that had passed--his
leaving the house, his wife's entreaties that I should follow him to
prevent the committal of a dreadful deed, my doing so, his movements
in his search through the grounds dagger in hand, the strange
intelligence which, asleep as he was, directed those movements,
fortunately unsuccessful, his return to the house, locking me out, my
discovery and interview with Emilius, and finally my entrance into the
study, where he sat asleep, his hand firmly guarding the papers I had
found in the secret drawer.
He listened quietly and attentively, and did not interrupt me by a
word. It was with a feeling of apprehension that I approached
Emilius's description of his dream, in which had been pictured the
murder of Eric, but no outward sign was visible in Carew to denote
agitation. The only question he asked was with reference to Emilius's
desire for an interview with Mrs. Carew. Could I discover a reason for
it? I answered that I could not, but that there must be some powerful
reason that Emilius, free from prison, should journey to England for
the special purpose of the interview.
"I have no remembrance of leaving the house last night," said Carew,
"and upon other evidence than that which is furnished to me, should
scout the tale as a monstrous invention. But it is not for me to
doubt. I was born into a fatal inheritance, and I must suffer for it."
"How?" I cried. "The past is past; there is no undoing it. If you
think of invoking the law, you may banish the idea; it cannot touch
you."
"From the hour that I read my father's confession," said Carew, "I
became a law unto myself. I will not pain you by asking whether you
believe me guilty or no; you cannot do otherwise than look upon me as
a monster, as I look upon myself. The law cannot touch me, I believe;
and well do I know that not only what has been done cannot be undone,
but that it cannot be atoned for. But the future must be secured. My
father wrote that the one consolation he had was that he endeavoured
to perform his duty. He did not so endeavour. His duty was to
enlighten me, an innocent being while my parents lived, as to the
nature of the inheritance transmitted to me. Then I might have done
what it is incumbent upon me to do now. At least, if I had not the
courage for that, I should not have cast a blight upon the life of a
pure and white-souled lady. You are an authority upon the disease of
insanity, and the different forms in which it presents itself in human
beings; and you must be aware that it would be a difficult task to
find doctors who would declare me to be mad. Setting aside the
sufferings of regret, my mind is as clear and logical as your own or
any man's. My reason--is it crooked, warped? No, it is clear as a
lake, and I can see straight on to the end. In my sleep I am another
being. Granted. But what crime can human evidence bring home to my
door? None. What guilt is mine, others have suffered for, and the law
is satisfied that it did not stumble. Emilius can come forward and
say, 'That monster killed my brother.' They will ask for evidence, and
he will relate a dream. 'You are a madman,' they will declare. You saw
me last night prowling round my house in search of whom? In search of
an enemy who long years ago was my enemy, and who, having endured the
punishment inflicted by the law for a crime which he was proved to
have committed, comes now to England to injure and rob me. So
sensitive am I respecting the safety of my wife and daughter that even
in my sleep I protect them. A subject I for admiration. No hand, no
voice, would be raised in horror against me; I should be lauded,
praised, set up as an example, while Emilius would be regarded with
loathing. Yet he is a martyr, and I am a devil. Who is to punish me?
Are there other men as I am? If so, there should be a law to destroy
them while they are young, before they are ripe for mischief. It would
be a simple safeguard."
As he had sat in silence listening to me, so now I sat in silence
listening to him. There was not a trace of passion in his voice; it
was calm and judicial. Even when he called himself a devil there was
no deviation from this aspect of absolute composure.
"What wrote my father?" he continued. "What wrote he--too late?' I
most solemnly adjure him never to marry, never to link his life with
that of an innocent being. If his heart is moved to love he must pluck
the sentiment out by the roots, must fly from it as from a horror
which blenches the cheek to contemplate. Our race must die with him;
not one must live after him to perpetuate it. I lay this injunction
most solemnly upon him; if he violate it, he will be an incredible
monster.'" In making this quotation he did not refer to the written
pages; word for word, he repeated it by heart. It was a proof how
deeply upon his mind and heart were graven his father's fatal
confession.
"Thus said my father, but he said it not in time. He failed in his
duty, and led me into worse than error. Well do I now understand the
mystery of my early home, of my boyhood's life. Why did he not kill
me? God and man would have applauded the deed."
Had it not been that he paused here, as though he had finished what he
had to say, I doubt whether I should have spoken, so overwhelmed was I
by this merciless self-analysis and self-condemnation. But the silence
enabled me to recover myself, to think of other matters than himself.
"You told me," I said, "that you forbade your wife to leave the house.
Then she has not seen Emilius?"
"No. She will see him to-morrow."
"He says he must see her this day or night. He expects me to acquaint
him with the result of his message to Mrs. Carew."
"Go to him and implore him to leave it till to-morrow. Then there will
be no difficulty. It is but a few hours--and he has waited so many
years. His mission cannot be so urgent."
"He declares it is."
"He is possessed by a just fury. It is his intention, I suppose, to
denounce me to my wife. The one joy in life that remains to him is the
joy of making the woman who loved me shrink from me as from a
pestilence. That joy shall be his--to-morrow; and it then he is not
content, I will submit myself to him as he shall dictate. You can
assure him of my honesty in this."
"You forget," I urged. "He desired me to tell your wife that his
errand was not one of revenge."
"He is justified in using any subterfuge to obtain an interview with
her. If she had reason to believe that he came to injure me she would
not see him. Go to him, and tell him to-morrow. Tell him also that I
have pronounced judgment upon myself."
I had no choice but to comply. He spoke with a force and a decision
there was no gainsaying.