[XVIII.]
This, indeed, was startling news. Emilius alive, his term of imprisonment over, or he an escaped convict, seeking an interview with Mrs. Carew, the wife of the man whom he regarded as his bitterest enemy! 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 us respecting him. I did not dare to speak. It would but have been to reopen old wounds, and after all I may have been mistaken. Not for me to bring back to my husband the memories of a past in which he was so cruelly misjudged. Besides, this was the one and only subject upon which my husband and I were not in harmony. He most firmly believed and believes in Emilius's guilt; I as firmly believed and believe in his innocence. The years that have flown have not softened my husband's judgment nor hardened mine; and until this hour the name of Emilius 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 for me to bring pain to his kind heart. I said nothing, nor did my husband, nor did he attempt to follow the stranger. In silence we walked back to the house, and the evening passed as usual. Reginald came, and we had music and conversation. On the part of Mildred and your son converse was cheerful and unconstrained, and I also strove to be cheerful. I was so far successful as to deceive the children, but my husband was not so easily blinded. And yet he made no allusion to the subject which engrossed my thoughts, and weighed like a dark cloud upon my heart. The hour grew late, and I sent Reginald home. Young people in love have always to be reminded. Then my husband and I retired 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 at the soft chiming of our silver clock, proclaiming the hour of two. Never do I remember being awoke by the chiming of this clock, so low and sweet is it; and that I should awake now as it struck two may have been simply a coincidence. I sat up in bed. I was alone. My husband was not in the room; his clothes were gone, and he had doubtless gone out fully dressed. In great fear I rose and dressed, with the intention of following him, but when I tried the door I found it had been locked on the outside. Powerless to do anything but wait, I sat, trembling, till daylight began to peep in at the windows. Then I heard my husband's footsteps in the passage, which would not have reached my ears 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 the bright blade of an ancient dagger which usually lay upon his study table. His face was turned towards me, his eyes were open, but he did not see me. He took from his pocket a sheath, in which he placed the dagger, and then he undressed. Before he lay down to that more healthful sleep in which his mind would be at rest, he listened two or three times at the locked door, and going to the window, drew the blind a little aside and looked from the window. Then he stretched himself in bed, and his eyes closed. Not by the least sign did he show any consciousness of the fact that I was standing, dressed, in the room, and that we were often face to face. I soon retired to bed, but I slept no more. I lay awake, listening to my husband's breathing, praying for the hour to arrive at which we generally rose for the day--praying for that, praying that the night would not come again, praying for a friend to counsel me. It were vain for me to disguise from you that I am in dread of what may happen should my husband and Emilius meet. And there is still something more----"
I waited, but she left the sentence uncompleted. Startled as I was by what I had heard, I was even more startled to see this good and gentle woman suddenly cover her face with her hands, and burst into a passion of tears. I turned from her in commiseration, powerless to relieve or console her. Even had I words at command, it was better that her grief should be allowed to spend itself naturally. When she had recovered, I asked,
"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,' and that his sleep had been dreamless."
"Will you pardon me for the question whether you believe that to be really so--whether his answer to your solicitous inquiry was not prompted by his desire not to trouble or distress you?"