I relate in my own words the strange story Mrs. Carew imparted to me.
Although she had erred, her confession was like a rift of sweet light
in the dark clouds which hung over Rosemullion. It brought more than
hope and comfort to my old heart--it brought joy. In a very few
moments you will understand the meaning of my words.
Transport yourself back to the village of Nerac, a year after the
marriage of Lauretta and Gabriel Carew. Business of a particular
nature took Carew from Nerac for a space of three months; he was
absent that time, much against his will, for his wife was near her
confinement. This took place safely two weeks after his departure, and
he was duly informed of the event. All was well at home; Lauretta and
her baby girl were thriving. The days and the weeks passed until two
months went by. Carew, in his letters to his wife, expressed the
profoundest joy at this precious home blessing. Smarting as he was
during that period from the growing coldness of the villagers towards
him, and chafing at the injustice of the world, he placed an
extravagant value upon this baby girl, who would be, he said, a charm
against all evil. He longed for the time when he could hold this
blessing in his loving arms; now his happiness was complete; he asked
for no greater treasure. In the growth and development of the new
young life he would find solace and consolation. His wife was enjoined
to take the most tender care of their child. "You and she are one,"
Carew wrote. "Each is incomplete without the other. I cannot think of
you now apart. Were I to lose one my life would be plunged into
darkness." Then befel an event which brought horror and grief to
Lauretta. It happened that her nurse had fallen sick, and was
compelled to go to her own home; there was no other female servant in
the establishment capable of undertaking a nurse's duties, and
Lauretta therefore took them cheerfully on herself. Two months, as I
have said, had passed after the birth of the baby girl. Carew was
expected home in a fortnight.
In the dead of night, when all in the house were asleep, with the
exception of Lauretta, she, watching by the cradle of her baby, heard
a sound of moaning without. She listened intently; it was her own name
that she heard uttered in accents of deepest pain and suffering. It
was a wild night; heavy rain was falling, the wind was raging; and
through the sounds of the storm came the wailing of her name, with
half-choked sobs and entreaties for help and pity.
It was but an hour before that Lauretta, awaking, had heard proceed
from her baby-girl lying in the cradle by her bedside, some light
sounds of difficult breathing which had alarmed her. She got up and
dressed, and tended her baby, who, after a while, seemed a little
easier; but with the natural anxiety of a young mother Lauretta
remained awake watching her child.
The moans for help outside appeared to be especially addressed to her
and to her alone, and she seemed to recognise the voice. She crept
softly down, and unfastened the door.
"Who is there?" she asked, during a lull in the storm.