I have omitted to mention that a letter was delivered to me from my
son Reginald. It was written in London, almost immediately upon his
arrival there. There were in it about twenty words in relation to the
business I had entrusted to him, for the purpose of securing his
absence; the remaining three and a half pages were filled with
rhapsodies upon Mildred. It was Mildred, Mildred, nothing and nobody
but Mildred. She was the light of his life, the hope, the joy of it;
nothing else but Mildred was worth living for. Not even I, his old
father, who never thought, who never would think, any sacrifice too
great to make for his son's happiness. I did not complain, and I do
not; it is the way of things, and we old ones must stand aside, and be
humbly grateful that we are allowed to witness the happiness which we
have done our utmost to bring about. Not that this was the case with
Reginald and myself. The duty devolving upon me was to prevent, not to
assist in, the accomplishment of his dearest hopes. How would the lad
take it? Would he look upon me as his enemy? Would he thrust me aside,
and rush wildly to a fate I shuddered even to contemplate? Would not
the example before him serve as a warning? I could not say. The more I
thought of the matter the more disturbed I became. Certainly, he could
not marry Mildred without Carew's consent, and that, I knew, would be
withheld. The true story of her husband's life could not be concealed
from the knowledge of Mrs. Carew; and knowing it, she would not allow
Mildred to wed. If necessary, Mildred herself must be told how
impossible it was that she should ever think of marriage, and she
would refuse my son. And Reginald's heart would be broken! Of that I
was convinced. It would be a blow from which he would never recover.
These were my reflections as I went out into the grounds of
Rosemullion to seek Emilius. I had not long or far to seek. Near the
copse in which he was concealed the previous night he suddenly
presented himself.
"I have been looking and waiting for you all day," he said. "Can you
realise the torture I am suffering?"
I did not answer his question, but gave him an account of what I had
done, and then I conveyed Gabriel Carew's message to him.
"To wait till to-morrow!" Emilius exclaimed. "He asks, he implores me
to wait till then?"
"I have told you," I said. "It seems to me not unreasonable."
"It seems to you--it seems to you!" he repeated, in petulant
excitement; and the next moment begged my pardon for speaking so to
me, who had proved myself his friend. "But you do not know this
fiend--you do not know of what he is capable! You believe what I have
told you of the eternal wrong he has inflicted upon me--a wrong for
which he can never hope to be forgiven in this world or the next. You
believe it, and yet you say he is justified in asking me to wait till
he has had time to carry out the secret design he has formed to
prevent me from obtaining justice! You believe it, and yet you justify
him! O God in Heaven! Is there, has there ever been, justice on earth?
And I am to wait, who have waited for twenty years, who have suffered
unjustly for twenty years! And I am to stand aside while he completes
his work and dashes the cup of happiness from my lips! No! Again and
again, no! This night is my limit. Before it passes I will see Mrs.
Carew, and she shall right me. You can tell this to the monster yonder
who has juggled you so successfully."
I endeavoured to argue, to reason with him, but he would not listen to
me. So I left him, his last words being that nothing on earth should
move him from his resolve.