The sound of soft footsteps proceeded, as I supposed, from Gabriel
Carew, but to my surprise he was not coming towards the room I had
just left, but was stealthily ascending the stairs which led to
Mildred's room. His eyes were open, and his movements were dictated by
intelligent caution, but he was asleep. In his left hand he carried
the naked dagger.
I ran up the stairs softly and swiftly, heedless of danger to myself,
and walked by his side. He took no notice of me. Standing by the door
of Mildred's room he paused, and was about to put his hand to the
handle when I seized his wrist.
"What are you about to do?" I whispered, my lips close to his ear.
"Speak low, the house must not be disturbed."
To my horror, he replied, in a whisper as low and distinct as my own:
"'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.'"
They were the words written by his father which he had already quoted
to me earlier in the day.
"Your daughter is not in that room," I said, not raising my voice,
grateful that we had as yet attracted no notice. "If you enter, your
purpose will be frustrated."
"Who speaks to me?" he asked.
"The spirit of murder," I said. "The Devil who is leading your soul to
perdition. Come with me. I will direct you aright."
He shuddered, but he did not hesitate. With my hand still firmly
grasping his wrist, he allowed me to lead him from the room. We
descended the stairs, slowly, stealthily, until we reached the landing
upon which the study was situated. I led him into the room, and with
lightning motion locked the door and plucked out the key. Then,
uncertain how next to act, I took my hand from his wrist, and
retreated a few steps. He, also, was now uncertain of his movements.
He stood still a while, then tried the door, and finding it fast, took
some halting steps this way and that, and finally fell into the chair
in which he had been accustomed to write.
As I gazed upon him I was sensible of a gradual change in his
appearance. A pallor crept into his face, a film seemed to come across
his eyes. Alarmed, I grasped his shoulder with rough strength, and
shook him violently.
"Mr. Carew!" I called.
He trembled in every limb, closed his eyes, and clasped them with his
hands--in one of which he still held the dagger. Presently he removed
his hands from his face, and looked confusedly at me.
"Are you awake?" I asked.
"Yes," he replied faintly. "Give me a glass of water."
I gave him a full glass, and he drained it. I observed as he did so
that it was only by an effort he prevented it from slipping from his
hand. Then he spoke again.
"How came I here?" he asked. "Skilful as you are in your profession,
you can do nothing for me. How came I here?"
"I conducted you hither," I said, "from the door of Mildred's room.
You have a dagger in your hand."
Until this moment he seemed to be unconscious that he held the weapon,
and now he started and allowed it to drop to the ground.
"Give thanks to God," I said solemnly, "that I stepped forward in time
to save the life of an innocent child."
"Great God!" he murmured. "It is fit that I should die!"
The silver chimes of the clock proclaimed the hour of two. He smiled
piteously and gratefully, and said, "It is almost time."
"There is a hidden meaning in your words," I said. "What have you
done?"
"Doctor, you are wrong. There is no hidden meaning in my words. All is
clear and plain. What should I do to myself? What should be done to
such a man as I? You are not deceiving me. You found me, you say, at
the door of my daughter's room, with the dagger in my hand?"
"It is true."
"Then my purpose was murder. What further confirmation is needed of
the truth of my father's revelation? Be thankful, doctor, that your
son Reginald has escaped from my daughter, my miserable, unhappy
child. Ah, me! Whose fate is the heaviest, hers or mine, or the
innocent flower I married?"
"I can give you some comfort," I said. "In one respect I can set your
heart at ease."
"Impossible, impossible!" he cried.
"Not so. I have that to relate which though at first it may cause you
pain, cannot fail, upon reflection, to make you grateful. If I were to
tell you that you have not transmitted to an innocent girl the fatal
inheritance which has weighed like a curse upon your life, how would
it be with you?"
"It would be heaven--it would be light! Unconscious sinner as I am, it
might mean forgiveness!"
"I have been closeted with your wife, from whose lips I have heard
what you should hear. You will listen to me?"
"Will you be long?" he asked, with a strange smile.
"I will be as brief as possible--and receive it from me, as I received
it from your wife, that every word I utter is true."
I told him the story of Mildred, who until now he had believed to be
his daughter. Perceiving that he was ill, I shortened it as much as
possible. Once or twice I paused in my recital, and asked him if he
was in pain.
"In pain!" he cried. "When you are bringing heaven to me! The
agitation you observe in me proceeds from joy. Do not linger. Finish
quickly, quickly!"
At the chiming of the half-hour my story was done. There was a happy
light in Carew's eyes. White as his face had grown, peace had stolen
into it.
"Oh, God, I thank Thee!" he murmured, raising his arms; and then he
suddenly fell forward on his face.
"I raised his head, and assisted him into a recumbent position.
"Tell me, for heaven's sake, what you have done?" I cried.
"You shall know all," he gasped, with pauses between his words.
"First, though ... about Emilius . . . you went to seek him, did you
not? . . . He was to be here to-morrow ..."
"He is here now," I said, "in this house. It was to recover his
daughter that he came to England."
"Do not leave me.... When I went to bed to-night ... and kissed my
angel wife ... for the last time ... I thought never to wake again....
It is painless.... In my old wanderings I came across a man we talked
of death ... how easy ... I kept it by me ... through all these
years.... It will defy you, doctor ... no trace remains ... the
subtlest poison, the easiest death.... It has served me well. Go
quickly, and bring Emilius.... Not my angel wife.... There is no
pain.... Thank God, my life is ended! Go ... Emilius!"
I flew from the room, and returned with Emilius. Gabriel Carew lay
back in his chair, motionless. The terror of death was not in his
face. But he was dead!
* * * * *
It was popularly supposed that he died from heart disease. There were
in him no indications of having died from other than natural causes.
What I knew I kept to myself. Not alone what I gathered from his own
lips as to the manner of his death, but of the last incident of his
dream-life, and of my providentially saving him from the commission of
an awful crime.
* * * * *
A great number of mourners stood about his grave. Until that time, it
was not known how wide and large had been his charities. Even his wife
had been in ignorance of countless deeds of goodness which he had done
in secret. There were men and women there whom he had snatched from
poverty and despair, and who now brought flowers to drop into the last
resting place of their benefactor. Children, too, were lifted up to
look into the grave of the master of Rosemullion.
Emilius stood bareheaded by my side.
"God forgive him!" said Emilius.
* * * * *
The disclosure of Mildred's real parentage made no difference in the
relations between her and Mrs. Carew. It was mother and daughter with
them, as it had always been, and even some additional and subtle tie
of new tenderness was added to the feelings of love for each other
which will animate their hearts till the last hours of their lives.
No one in the county, with the exception of ourselves, is acquainted
with the story of Emilius. A dignified, gentle-mannered gentleman, he
quickly won the esteem of all who came in contact with him. There
often reigns in his face a strange expression of sadness, and he
sometimes speaks to me of Eric; but there is joy in his life, and he
is grateful for it.
The marriage of Mildred and Reginald was postponed for a decent time,
and then these young people were made happy, and sent upon their
honeymoon, accompanied by blessings and tears and heartfelt wishes for
good.
As I prepare to end my task I see in my mind's eye the form of one
who, in every act of her life, in every gentle word that falls from
her lips, has sanctified for me the name of Woman. Not only in idea,
but in deed. "God bless Mrs. Carew!" is said by many out of her
hearing, and if to live a good pure life will earn God's blessing, she
has earned it, and it is hers.