XVIII.
This, indeed, was startling news. Emilius alive, his term ofimprisonment over, or he an escaped convict, seeking an interview withMrs. Carew, the wife of the man whom he regarded as his bitterestenemy! To what was this to lead?--in what way was it to end?
"Did Mr. Carew recognise him?" I asked.
"I cannot tell you," replied Mrs. Carew. "Not a word passed between usrespecting him. _I_ did not dare to speak. It would but have been toreopen old wounds, and after all I may have been mistaken. Not for meto bring back to my husband the memories of a past in which he was socruelly misjudged. Besides, this was the one and only subject uponwhich my husband and I were not in harmony. He most firmly believedand believes in Emilius's guilt; I as firmly believed and believe inhis innocence. The years that have flown have not softened myhusband's judgment nor hardened mine; and until this hour the name ofEmilius has never passed my lips since we settled in Rosemullion. No,it was not for me to utter it in my husband s presence; it was not forme to bring pain to his kind heart. I said nothing, nor did myhusband, nor did he attempt to follow the stranger. In silence wewalked back to the house, and the evening passed as usual. Reginaldcame, and we had music and conversation. On the part of Mildred andyour son converse was cheerful and unconstrained, and I also strove tobe cheerful. I was so far successful as to deceive the children, butmy husband was not so easily blinded. And yet he made no allusion tothe subject which engrossed my thoughts, and weighed like a dark cloudupon my heart. The hour grew late, and I sent Reginald home. Youngpeople in love have always to be reminded. Then my husband and Iretired to rest. Troubled as I was, sleep was long in coming to me,but at length Nature was merciful, and I sank into slumber. I awoke atthe soft chiming of our silver clock, proclaiming the hour of two.Never do I remember being awoke by the chiming of this clock, so lowand sweet is it; and that I should awake now as it struck two may havebeen simply a coincidence. I sat up in bed. I was alone. My husbandwas not in the room; his clothes were gone, and he had doubtless goneout fully dressed. In great fear I rose and dressed, with theintention of following him, but when I tried the door I found it hadbeen locked on the outside. Powerless to do anything but wait, I sat,trembling, till daylight began to peep in at the windows. Then I heardmy husband's footsteps in the passage, which would not have reached myears had not my senses been preternaturally sharpened. He trod softly,and turned the key in the door very gently in order not to disturb me.He entered the room, and I almost fainted as I saw in his hand thebright blade of an ancient dagger which usually lay upon his studytable. His face was turned towards me, his eyes were open, but he didnot see me. He took from his pocket a sheath, in which he placed thedagger, and then he undressed. Before he lay down to that morehealthful sleep in which his mind would be at rest, he listened two orthree times at the locked door, and going to the window, drew theblind a little aside and looked from the window. Then he stretchedhimself in bed, and his eyes closed. Not by the least sign did he showany consciousness of the fact that I was standing, dressed, in theroom, and that we were often face to face. I soon retired to bed, butI slept no more. I lay awake, listening to my husband's breathing,praying for the hour to arrive at which we generally rose for theday--praying for that, praying that the night would not come again,praying for a friend to counsel me. It were vain for me to disguisefrom you that I am in dread of what may happen should my husband andEmilius meet. And there is still something more----"
I waited, but she left the sentence uncompleted. Startled as I was bywhat I had heard, I was even more startled to see this good and gentlewoman suddenly cover her face with her hands, and burst into a passionof tears. I turned from her in commiseration, powerless to relieve orconsole her. Even had I words at command, it was better that her griefshould be allowed to spend itself naturally. When she had recovered, Iasked,
"Has Mr. Carew made any reference to what passed in the night?"
"Not any," she replied.
"Did you?"
"I simply asked him if he had slept well, and he answered 'Yes,' andthat his sleep had been dreamless."
"Will you pardon me for the question whether you believe that to bereally so--whether his answer to your solicitous inquiry was notprompted by his desire not to trouble or distress you?"
"I am certain," said Mrs. Carew, "that my husband said what hebelieves to be true. Dear friend, what am I to do?"
She seized my hand, and clung to it as though to me, and to me alone,could she look for help in her sad position.
"Does Mildred know anything, suspect anything?" I asked.
What was the meaning of the timid, frightened, helpless look in hereyes at the mention of Mildred's name? No mental efforts of mine couldfathom it.
"Nothing," she replied, and then seemed to drift, against her will asit were, into distressful thought. I devoted a few moments toconsideration, and when I spoke again had resolved upon a course ofaction.
"Would you wish me to become your guest for a few days?" I asked.
"Ah, if you would!" she exclaimed.
"I shall be willing if Mr. Carew has no objection. I will see himpresently and ascertain. But first I have a little scheme to carry outwhich I think advisable for all our sakes."
I asked her if I could write a letter in her room, and despatch it atonce to my house, and she opened her desk for me. My letter was to myson Reginald, and the effect of it was to secure his absence fromRosemullion during my stay in Mr. Carew's house. There was really amatter of business which Reginald could attend to, and which renderedit necessary for him to take his immediate departure for London. Whenmy letter was written, I explained its purport to Mrs. Carew, and sheacquiesced in the wisdom of my plan. She herself added a few words tothe letter, to the effect that she regretted not being able to see himbefore he left, and that Mildred was well and sent her love. She gaveme a flower, and asked me to enclose it in the envelope.
"He will think it comes from Mildred," she said, "and it will send himaway happy. It is an innocent deceit."
The letter was despatched, and with a few assuring words to the sweetwoman, I went to her husband's study.