"You have read it?"
"Every word."
"Had my father's record been discovered when I was a young man, had he dealt by me justly instead of mercifully, what evil might have been averted! I have no intention of wasting time by idle words, by vain regrets. I have fixed my course. I seek some enlightenment from you. Tell me all that passed within your knowledge since I spoke to you last night at the door of this room. Keep nothing from me. Absolute frankness is due from you to me, and I claim it. Believe me, I am animated by but one supreme desire--a desire for justice. All lighter sentiments are dead within me, except pity for the lady who has the misfortune to be my wife. I loved her with a very pure and complete love. I dare not wrong her by saying I love her still--and yet, and yet--You see, I am still human; that is the worst of it. Tell me all."
I did so, concealing nothing, softening nothing. I faithfully, mercilessly described the events of the night that had passed--his leaving the house, his wife's entreaties that I should follow him to prevent the committal of a dreadful deed, my doing so, his movements in his search through the grounds dagger in hand, the strange intelligence which, asleep as he was, directed those movements, fortunately unsuccessful, his return to the house, locking me out, my discovery and interview with Emilius, and finally my entrance into the study, where he sat asleep, his hand firmly guarding the papers I had found in the secret drawer.
He listened quietly and attentively, and did not interrupt me by a word. It was with a feeling of apprehension that I approached Emilius's description of his dream, in which had been pictured the murder of Eric, but no outward sign was visible in Carew to denote agitation. The only question he asked was with reference to Emilius's desire for an interview with Mrs. Carew. Could I discover a reason for it? I answered that I could not, but that there must be some powerful reason that Emilius, free from prison, should journey to England for the special purpose of the interview.
"I have no remembrance of leaving the house last night," said Carew, "and upon other evidence than that which is furnished to me, should scout the tale as a monstrous invention. But it is not for me to doubt. I was born into a fatal inheritance, and I must suffer for it."
"How?" I cried. "The past is past; there is no undoing it. If you think of invoking the law, you may banish the idea; it cannot touch you."
"From the hour that I read my father's confession," said Carew, "I became a law unto myself. I will not pain you by asking whether you believe me guilty or no; you cannot do otherwise than look upon me as a monster, as I look upon myself. The law cannot touch me, I believe; and well do I know that not only what has been done cannot be undone, but that it cannot be atoned for. But the future must be secured. My father wrote that the one consolation he had was that he endeavoured to perform his duty. He did not so endeavour. His duty was to enlighten me, an innocent being while my parents lived, as to the nature of the inheritance transmitted to me. Then I might have done what it is incumbent upon me to do now. At least, if I had not the courage for that, I should not have cast a blight upon the life of a pure and white-souled lady. You are an authority upon the disease of insanity, and the different forms in which it presents itself in human beings; and you must be aware that it would be a difficult task to find doctors who would declare me to be mad. Setting aside the sufferings of regret, my mind is as clear and logical as your own or any man's. My reason--is it crooked, warped? No, it is clear as a lake, and I can see straight on to the end. In my sleep I am another being. Granted. But what crime can human evidence bring home to my door? None. What guilt is mine, others have suffered for, and the law is satisfied that it did not stumble. Emilius can come forward and say, 'That monster killed my brother.' They will ask for evidence, and he will relate a dream. 'You are a madman,' they will declare. You saw me last night prowling round my house in search of whom? In search of an enemy who long years ago was my enemy, and who, having endured the punishment inflicted by the law for a crime which he was proved to have committed, comes now to England to injure and rob me. So sensitive am I respecting the safety of my wife and daughter that even in my sleep I protect them. A subject I for admiration. No hand, no voice, would be raised in horror against me; I should be lauded, praised, set up as an example, while Emilius would be regarded with loathing. Yet he is a martyr, and I am a devil. Who is to punish me? Are there other men as I am? If so, there should be a law to destroy them while they are young, before they are ripe for mischief. It would be a simple safeguard."
As he had sat in silence listening to me, so now I sat in silence listening to him. There was not a trace of passion in his voice; it was calm and judicial. Even when he called himself a devil there was no deviation from this aspect of absolute composure.
"What wrote my father?" he continued. "What wrote he--too late?' I most solemnly adjure him never to marry, never to link his life with that of an innocent being. If his heart is moved to love he must pluck the sentiment out by the roots, must fly from it as from a horror which blenches the cheek to contemplate. 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.'" In making this quotation he did not refer to the written pages; word for word, he repeated it by heart. It was a proof how deeply upon his mind and heart were graven his father's fatal confession.