A Secret Inheritance. Volume 3 of 3

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.

The answer came-"Patricia! Help me! Oh help me, and let no one know!"

It was Emilius's wife.

Lauretta assisted her indoors. The poor girl was in a pitiable plight. Famished, ragged, penniless, with a baby in her arms. Both were wringing wet. The pelting rain had soaked them through and through.

Throbbing with sympathy and compassion Lauretta quickly undressed Patricia's baby, and put it in her own warm bed. They had by this time reached Lauretta's bedroom, in which her own child was lying. Lauretta wished to call the servants, but Patricia sobbed that she would fly the house if any eyes but Lauretta's rested on her. It appeared, according to the poor girl's story, that her father was in pursuit of her, and had vowed to kill her and her baby.

"He will kill me-he will kill me!" moaned Patricia. "No one must know I have been here but you-no one, no one!"

And then she rocked herself hysterically and cried, "What will become of my poor baby-girl-what will become of her? I heard that your husband was not here, and it gave me courage to crawl to you. Not that it matters much. It isn't for myself I care. My father may kill me-I have not long to live-but my baby, my baby! Oh, save my darling, save her for the sake of my innocent Emilius!"

It was then that Lauretta noticed for the first time, signs in Patricia's face which, interpreted by her fear and the poor girl's words, seemed to be signs of approaching death. And still Patricia insisted that she would not remain in the house; no force or entreaties could make her.

"What, then, can I do for you?" asked Lauretta; she had already given Patricia food and money.

"Take care of my child," replied Patricia. "Bring her up as your own. Let her never know her father's disgrace, her mother's shame. It will be an angel's deed! For pity's sake, do not deny me! You are rich, and can afford the charity-and if, in your husband's life there has been guilt, this act of charity will atone for it. See here-look on her innocent face. Having the power, you have not the heart to deny me. Ah, if your angel mother were alive, I should appeal to her, and should not appeal in vain! She loved Emilius, and believed in his innocence-yes, to the last she believed in it. I know it for a certainty. You, too, loved my poor martyred husband, and he loved and honoured you and yours with all the strength of his faithful heart. He is innocent, innocent, I tell you! God forbid that I should accuse any one of being guilty-I am too desperate and despairing, and my child's life, the salvation of her soul, are at stake. When your sainted mother died, did all goodness die out of the world? Ah, no-it is not possible; you live again in her. In you she lives again, and all her mercy and sweet kindness which caused us all, from the highest to the lowest, to worship her, to look upon her as something holy. For her sake, if not for my own, you cannot, cannot deny me this charity, you who have it in your power to grant it!"

All this, and more. To say that Lauretta's heart was touched is inadequate; it overflowed; it yearned to assist the suffering mother, so near to her through her young motherhood, through the old ties with Emilius and Eric. A choking cry from her own baby-girl caused her to rush to the cradle. Within the hour a fatal circumstance occurred. Lauretta's baby drew her last breath.

It has nearly all my days been my belief that everything in human life is to be accounted for by human standards. I am shaken in this belief. In this death of Lauretta's baby I seem to see the finger of fate.

Vain to attempt to describe the agonising grief of the young mother. So overpowering was it that she lost consciousness. She recovered her senses when the storm had passed and the morning's light was shining on her. When she awoke to reality, what did she see?

Her husband had suddenly and unexpectedly returned home. She was in bed, and he was sitting by her side.

"Gabriel, Gabriel!" she cried, and, overcome by the terror of her great loss, she would have lost consciousness again but for an unaccountable joyousness in his manner, which mingled strangely with the sympathy he must have felt for her suffering condition.

"It was, doubtless, the storm," he said soothingly. "It raged so fiercely for an hour and more, that I am told it exceeded in violence anything of a like kind that has been experienced in these parts for the last fifty years. No wonder it has had such an effect upon you. Half the trees in our garden are uprooted. It hastened my steps home, for I know how these convulsions of nature affect you. But as you see, the danger has passed; the sun is shining brightly; but not more brightly in the heavens than it is shining in my heart."

She listened to him in amazement, and raising herself in bed she looked around for Patricia. She saw no sign of the hapless woman. The cradle in which her baby-girl had died was by the side of the bed. Carew bent over it and said in a tone of ecstasy:

"Mildred-Mildred! Our Mildred-our dear ewe lamb! How sweetly and soundly she sleeps! Oh, my darling wife! What care I for the injustice of the world now that this treasure is ours? My sweet-my sweet! You recompense for all. Do you know, Lauretta, as travelling home I neared the beloved spot which contained you and our treasure, my heart almost stood still at the fear that I should not find you both well. And now-how can I be sufficiently grateful? Of no account to me is all that transpires outside the circle which contains you and my dear one in the cradle here? I set great store upon our child, Lauretta. She is to me a guarantee of all that is worth living for in the present and the future. When I arrived home and found you prostrate I was at first overwhelmed, but I soon discovered that you had fainted, and I judged rightly, did I not, dear wife of my heart, that, not being strong, you kept it from me while we were apart, in order not to distress me? But now all is well-all shall be well. See, Lauretta, she opens her eyes, our darling. The question is, can I raise her safely and place her by your side? Yes, it is done, and I am the happiest father in the world!"

Was she dreaming? In the clothes in which her child died rested this child of Patricia's, smiling, blooming, laughing and crowing as Lauretta drew her to her breast. Carew's delight, his gratitude, his worship of the babe he believed to be his own, the superstitious store he set upon her young life, were so unbounded, that Lauretta did not dare to undeceive him. She feared, if she told him the truth, that it would unsettle his reason, and produce between her and him a gulf which could never be bridged over. She accepted the strange combination of circumstances, and held her tongue. Her own dear babe was dead, but this new Mildred, whom she grew to love truly as if she were her own, remained, and grew to what she is, a flower of beauty, goodness, and sweetness. Nothing more did Lauretta hear of Patricia; whether she died or lived was not known to her. It is but a detail-but necessary to complete the story-to state here that Patricia lived but a few months after the occurrence of this strange event. More important is it to state that, in some unexplained way, Emilius learns that his daughter lived, and that the Carews were bringing her up as if she were a child of their own. His term of imprisonment over, he had come now to claim her.

It would be impossible for me to give expression to my feelings of gratitude at this wonderful revelation. The despair into which I had fallen at the contemplation of the wrecking of my dear son Reginald's happiness vanished. A fair future lay still before him, and the most cherished hopes of his heart would be realised. I was sure that Emilius would not mar them. A nature so noble as his, so strong in suffering, so heroic in the highest form of human endurance, could not lend itself to the committal of a petty act of selfishness whereby the child upon whose memory he had lived during his cruel and unjust imprisonment would be rendered miserable and unhappy. To this martyred man I was ready to bow my head, ready to give him my friendship, my sympathy, my heart's best fruits of confidence and esteem. Thinking of him, I was awed that a man could live through the anguish that had been his portion, and still retain the inherent dignity and nobility of a great and noble nature.

XXVII

"Hark!" whispered Mrs. Carew, her story told, and before we had time to debate upon the wisest course to pursue. "What sound is that?"

It was the sound of footsteps on the stairs. In this sound there was no attempt at concealment. The footsteps were those of one who desired his presence to be known. I divined instantly who it was who, by some means unknown to me, obtaining an entrance into the house, was now approaching the room in which Mrs. Carew and I were sitting. I could not, and did not blame him. In his place I should have acted as he was acting.

The silver clock chimed the hour of twelve.

"You will see him," I said, rising to my feet and advancing to the door.

"See whom?" asked Mrs. Carew, with her hand at her heart.

"Emilius. It is he and no other man who is coming here. He has a great stake in this house. He is justified."

"My husband?" she gasped.

"Is safe, if you will only be guided by me. It is your duty to be brave and strong. Never was courage more needed than at this moment. And not only courage, but wisdom. Decide quickly. There is no time to lose."

"I will be guided by you," she said faintly.

I threw open the door, and saw Emilius standing in the passage, uncertain which direction to take.

"Enter," I said in a low tone. "Mrs. Carew is here. For the sake of others be gentle, and do not alarm the house."

He entered, and Mrs. Carew and he stood face to face.

The native dignity of the man instantly asserted itself. He removed his ragged cap and stood bareheaded before her. But there was no cringing in his attitude. It was perfectly respectful-something, indeed, more than that; it was the attitude of a man who once was this sweet lady's equal, and who, despite the judgment of the world, still knew himself to be her equal, and worthy of the esteem she once accorded to him. But as he gazed upon her, and she upon him, in silence for a few moments-a silence which I did not dare to break-his stern mood melted. He saw and recognised her, as he had always seen and recognised her in the time that was gone, when he was entitled to hold up his head among men-but never more so in truth and honour than now-a gentle-mannered lady, in whose face shone the reflex of a sweet and womanly nature. Remembrances of the past rushed upon him and softened him.

"Forgive me," he said humbly.

And then-tears filled my eyes as I saw it, and knew the suffering she was bravely enduring-she held out her hand to him. He bowed his head over it, as for a moment he held it in his.

"I could not wait any longer," he said, softly. "I have entered like a thief into your house-but I have waited so long!"

"It is I who should ask for forgiveness," she said. "Emilius, be merciful to me and mine!"

"I have no thought of revenge," he said, in a voice as soft as her own. "I am a broken-down man, with one sole hope. But I could not stand before you, the Lauretta I loved with the pure love of a brother, if I did not know myself unstained by crime or any taint of dishonour."

"I believe you, Emilius," she said.

"You believe me, Lauretta!" he exclaimed, advancing a step towards her.

"I believe you, Emilius," she repeated.

Had he come with savage intent she could not more surely have disarmed him.

"It is more than I dared hope for," he said. "How often, Lauretta, in the gloom of my prison, have I thought of you and your dear parents, of the home of innocence and love in which I was ever a welcome guest, of the once happy village in which I was honoured and respected. Some crumbs of comfort fell to my lot, some gleam of light shone through the darkness. Had it not been so, and had I not been animated by another hope, I might have gone mad. Good Father Daniel visited me regularly, at permitted intervals, until he died. He had the firmest faith in my innocence, and he brought me messages which fell like heavenly balm upon my wounded spirit. Your sainted mother believed in my innocence, and she bade him tell me so, and that her love for me was unchanged. And now, you! But your mother's soul shines in your eyes. It could not have been otherwise." He paused a moment or two, reflecting what to say. "On one of Father Daniel's visits he brought me a letter, securely sealed. It was against the prison rules, but that did not deter him from doing what he deemed to be right. I hastily concealed it, noting first, however, with a beating heart, that it was addressed to me in my wife's handwriting. I asked him if he knew what it contained, and he answered 'No;' and then, with a grave face, he bade me prepare for solemn news. I felt at once what was coming. Can you divine my purpose, Lauretta, in telling you this?"

"I think I can," she replied. "Go on."

"It was while the good priest was on a mission of mercy that a villager came to him and said that in a hut hard by a woman was dying, and, hearing that he was in the neighbourhood, begged him to come to her. Father Daniel went, and discovered that the woman was Patricia, my wife. She was very near to death, and she had only strength to entreat him to deliver to me, secretly, a letter she had written. He promised to do so, and in a few minutes after he received it from her she drew her last breath. Before she died he asked her after her babe-for Patricia was quite alone-but she did not seem to understand him. Subsequently, however, he learnt from the villager that Patricia had said her baby was dead. This was the mournful news which Father Daniel conveyed to me in prison. Despite his attempts at consolation, I felt when he left me that I was truly alone in the world. Brother, wife, child, all dead! I prayed to God to send death to me soon. What had I to live for? But there was my wife's letter, and before twenty-four hours had passed I found an opportunity to read it. Lauretta, that letter informed me what had become of my child, and it laid upon me an obligation of secrecy for so long a time as I was in prison. Patricia solemnly adjured me not to breathe to a living soul that our child lived in your care; but I was to be released from this obligation when I was a free man. Then I was to act as it seemed to me right to act. Is there any need, Lauretta, for me to enter more fully into the particulars of Patricia's letter?"

"There is no need, Emilius."

"Except, perhaps, to say that when you were lying senseless before her, and your tender blossom lay dead in its cradle, it was only then that the idea entered Patricia's mind of changing the children's clothes, and leaving her baby with you. It was done, and Patricia stole away with your dead child at her breast, herself to die, as she well knew, before many weeks had passed. I have something to tell you, Lauretta" – and here Emilius's voice was charged with a new note of tenderness. "When Father Daniel next visited me I begged him to discover where the dead babe was buried, and to put a few flowers on the grave. The good priest did more. He paid a village woman to attend to it, and he left a small sum of money to be spent in beautifying the grave of your child. Flowers have grown upon it and around it from that day to this. I visited the grave before I set forth on my journey here, and I knelt and prayed there. I prayed a blessing upon you, Lauretta, and I prayed that I might live to see the hope fulfilled which shone like a star upon me through the long years of my prison life. Lauretta," he cried, stretching forth his trembling hands, "my child-my child" -

"She lives," sobbed Mrs. Carew, "in goodness, health, and beauty-a flower of sweetness!"

He fell upon his knees before her, and kissed her dress, and it was then I heard a sound without which, for a moment, transfixed me with terror. They, overwhelmed by emotion, were deaf to this sound. It was that of a man creeping stealthily from his chamber-and that man Gabriel Carew. Quickly recovering myself, and feeling the necessity for immediate and prompt action, I addressed Emilius and Mrs. Carew.

"Attend to me," I said impressively. "All is well with you. You, Emilius, have gained a daughter, and will embrace her at sunrise. You, dear lady, have not lost a daughter, for Mildred will be to you as she has ever been. I have proved myself your friend. Answer quickly-have I not?"

"Yes," they both replied.

"Do not, therefore, ask me for the reasons for my present action. I demand from you both a sacred promise-that you will not leave this room till I call for you, till I give you permission. It shall be given at the latest by sunrise. I must have this promise-I must!"

My voice, my manner, Mrs. Carew's fears for her husband, and confidence in me, compelled assent.

"We give it," she said.

"We give it," said Emilius.

"I accept it, and bind you to it. What I do is for the good of all-for your future, for Mildred's future-and to avert disaster. Only I can do this. Whatever you hear, you will not open this door without my permission, after I leave it. When I am gone, turn the key, and admit no one unless I desire it. It is understood?"

"Yes," they said, "it is understood."

As I closed the door behind me I heard the key turned in the lock.

XXVIII

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!"