XV.
A fine, stately, stalwart old woman, between sixty and seventy yearsof age, with gray hair, bright eyes, and an air of masculine vigourabout her which could not fail to impress an observer. But what moststrongly impressed me was the quality of power which distinguishedher--the power of a firm will, which, in a lofty grade of life, wouldhave made her a leader. I introduced myself to her, and informed herthat I had obtained her address from Gabriel Carew, and had journeyedto Cornwall for the express purpose of seeing her. She evinced nosurprise, and inquired how could she be sure that I came from Mr.Carew.
"I have a letter from him," I said; and I gave it to her.
She read it quietly, and put it into her pocket.
"Is Mr. Carew well?" she asked.
"He is well," I replied.
"I have heard nothing of him since I left him in Rosemullion," shesaid. "He told me then, it was his intention to quit it for ever, andnever again to set foot in it. I said that there was no saying whatmight happen in the course of life. He lives now in Rosemullion?"
"Yes."
"Then he has not carried out his intention?"
There was no triumph in her voice, indicating that she had been rightand he wrong. It was a simple statement of fact simply made.
"We often commit ourselves unguardedly," I observed.
She nodded assent.
"As you have heard nothing of Mr. Carew, you are not aware that he ismarried?"
She gazed at me thoughtfully, and I fancy I detected a stirring ofinterest within her at this intelligence.
"Married!" she echoed calmly. "Lately?"
"No. More than twenty years ago. I do not know the exact year."
"Is his wife living?" she asked.
"Yes. She is with Mr. Carew at Rosemullion. Would you like to see herportrait?"
"Yes," she replied.
I had brought Mrs. Carew's portrait with me, and other things which Ithought might be likely to help me in my interview with Mrs. Fortress.I handed her the picture.
"A beautiful lady," she said, handing it back to me.
"Better than beautiful," I said. "An angel of goodness and charity,beloved by all who have the privilege of knowing her."
"Is she happy?"
"Very happy. She and her husband are united by the firmest links oflove."
"That is good news, and I am glad to hear it. Is Mr. Carew happy?"
Slight as was the pause before I had made up my mind what reply togive, she took advantage of it.
"Then he is not happy?"
"I should like to speak openly to you," I said. "It is not out of merelight curiosity that I have sought you."
"It is," she said, "entirely at your discretion how you speak to me.You are not here at my bidding."
"True," I replied; "and I am entirely at your mercy. You learn fromMr. Carew's letter that I am on terms of confidential friendship withhim, and that he places no restraint upon you. There is no personliving who is better acquainted than yourself with the particulars ofhis young life, with its strange surroundings, its isolation, its lackof light. Dominated by such dark influences, it would not have beenmatter for wonder had Mr. Carew grown into a morose, savage man,believing only in evil, and capable only of it. The contrary is thecase. He has faith in goodness; he has won the love of a good woman.His heart is tender, his nature charitable. When, before partingwith you, he asked you to enlighten him as to the mystery whichreigned in his home, there may have been some valid reason for yourrefusal--although, even then, as his parents were dead and he wasalone in the world, such refusal was capable of a construction morehurtful than the truth might have been."
She interrupted me here by saying, "It could not have been."
"But," I urged, "might not the truth, painful though it were, havecontributed to avert evil consequences?"
"To Mr. Carew," she asked, "or to others?"
"To others," I replied.
"I will wait a little," she said composedly, "before I answer thatquestion. You have more to say."
"There can be no valid reason," I continued, "for silence now. Mr.Carew is anxious that you should speak candidly to me. An appeal toyour sense of justice would probably weigh with you."
"It is not unlikely," she said. "May I ask if you belong to anyprofession?"
"I do not follow any at present," I replied; "but for years Ipractised as a physician."
"In a general way, or as a specialist?"
"Chiefly as a specialist. I have written a successful book uponcertain forms of insanity, and I have a copy with me. Perhaps youwould like to read it."
"It would interest me," she said. "If I had been a physician I shouldhave devoted myself to that branch of the profession."
I gave her the book, which she placed aside. "It is not, however,solely in that capacity," I said, "that I am here. That certainindefinite impressions, springing from my professional experiences,have prompted me, I do not deny; but my strongest reasons are privateones. Is it your belief that insanity is hereditary and ineradicable?"
"That is my firm belief," she said.
"It is also mine. Mrs. Fortress, are you a married woman?"
"I married a few months after I left Mr. Carew's service. Within twoyears of my marriage I lost my husband."
"Have you any children?"
"One--a son."
"Who must be now approaching manhood?"
"Yes."
"That is my case. My wife is dead, and I have an only child--ason--who is deeply in love with Gabriel Carew's daughter."
This introduction of Miss Carew threw Mrs. Fortress off her guard;there was a startled flash in her eyes.
"I am sorry to hear," she said, "that Mr. Carew has a daughter. Has heother children?"
"No. Mildred Carew is, like your son and mine, an only child. Ipurposely brought three things with me, in the hope that they wouldhelp me in my purpose. Two you have--my book and the portrait ofGabriel Carew's wife. Here is the portrait of his daughter."
She examined it with the greatest interest, and remarked that she sawno resemblance in it to the father.
"That has struck me," I observed; "neither does she resemble hermother in any marked manner. But that sometimes happens, though it isnot the rule."
"Is there an engagement between your son and Miss Carew?"
"They are courting each other, with a view to marriage."
"With your consent?"
"Yes, but it was given before I became intimate with Mr. Carew."
"And since then you have repented?"
"I have been greatly disturbed."
"Rather," she said slowly, "than my son should marry a daughter of Mr.Carew's, I would see him in his grave."
This declaration profoundly agitated me, so far did it go to confirmme in my suspicions. "I asked you a question a few moments since," Isaid, "and you said you would wait a little before you answered it.Will you answer it now?"
"Your question was, 'Had a painful truth been revealed to Mr. Carewwhen he was a single gentleman, whether it might have averted evilconsequences to others.'"
"You have stated it correctly."
"It might have done," she said. "But it appeared to me that Mr. Carewwas the last man in the world to attract a woman's heart. I often saidto myself, 'He will never marry.'"
"You were mistaken."
"I was; and I say again I am sorry." She took from her pocket theletter I had given her from Mr. Carew, and read it carefully andslowly, in a new light it seemed to me. Even when she had finished theperusal she did not immediately speak, but sat in silent thought awhile.
"I am not a tender-hearted woman," she said, "and not easy to movewhen I pledge myself. Mr. Carew's father behaved well to me, andfulfilled his promise of providing for me if it was in his power to doso after the death of his wife. I, on my part, kept the two promises Imade him when I entered his service. The first was not to leave hisservice during the lifetime of his wife; the second not to divulge,without
powerful cause, the secret of the unhappy inheritance hefeared his wife had transmitted to their son. When I bade farewell toMr. Gabriel Carew in Rosemullion, I saw no such cause for divulgingthe secret, and I declined to satisfy my young master. It may bedifferent now, and I may be tempted to satisfy _you_."
"Out of your sense of justice?" I observed.
"Not entirely. Mr. Carew's letter contains the offer of a reward."
I met her instantly and with eagerness. "I am prepared to pay it."
"It happens that I am in need of a sum of money. An opportunity isopen to my son which will be to his advantage, but I am not richenough to purchase it."
"How much is needed?" I asked.
She named a sum which was modest in comparison with the limit whichGabriel Carew had given me, and I at once consented to pay it to herfor her information. I had money with me, and I counted out the amountshe required, and handed it to her. After ascertaining that it wascorrect, she commenced.
"When I accepted the situation Mr. Carew offered me, I did it with myeyes open. I was at that time employed in a lunatic asylum, and wasdissatisfied with my rate of pay. Mr. Carew offered me higher terms.His wife was a dangerous woman, and needed constant watching. Properlyspeaking, she should have been placed in an asylum, but the thought ofso doing was hateful to her husband, who desired to keep his domesticaffliction from public knowledge. He would have regarded such adisclosure as an indelible disgrace. There are similar secrets in manyfamilies. At the time he married her, he had no suspicion that herblood was tainted, and it was only three months before the birth ofGabriel Carew that he made the discovery. I do not profess to bethoroughly familiar with all the particulars; I am not a prying woman,and was contented with what he told me. When he made the dreadfuldiscovery he and his wife were abroad, and the occasion of it, so faras I could gather, ran in this fashion. Mr. Carew was occupying ahouse in Switzerland--he was rich at the time--and was entertainingguests. Among them was a false friend who was managing his affairs inEngland, where Mr. Carew lived for the greater part of every year.Ultimately this friend robbed him of his fortune, which Mr. Carewnever recovered, coming, however, into another later on, which enabledhim to purchase the estate of Rosemullion. One evening there was alarge party in Mr. Carew's house, in which his friend was stopping.Mrs. Carew was passionately fond of music, and there was a Tyroleanair for which she had an infatuation. She sang and played it again andagain, and became much excited. It is not out of place to say that shewas a very beautiful woman. The evening passed on, and the guests haddeparted. All but one--her husband's false friend, who was stopping inthe house. Either his duties as a polite host or some other businesscalled her husband away, and Mrs. Carew and this friend were leftalone. He asked her to play and sing again, and she did so for him;and then he made love to her. She repulsed him indignantly, but he wasnot to be easily daunted, and a climax arrived when he grosslyinsulted her. This roused her to fury, and she caught an ornamentaldagger---but a weapon capable of mischief--from the table, and wouldhave plunged it into his heart had he not caught her wrist anddisarmed her. He flung the dagger away, and then coolly told her thather husband had implicit confidence in him, and that he would invent astory that would ruin her. He told her, too, that he had her husbandin his power, that she and he were at his mercy, and that he couldbeggar them at any moment. There occurred then a singular change inher; her excitement left her, and she became as cool as he. Deceivedby this, he renewed his suit, but she held him back, and she said oneword to him: 'Wait!' To wait meant to hope, and he said he would becontent if she would play and sing to him again. She did so--the sameTyrolean air she had sang so many times on this evening. Her husbandcame in, and the scene ended. In describing it I am drawing from whatMr. Carew told me afterwards in England. But the incident was not toend there. Mr. Carew and his wife retired, and he, awakening in themiddle of the night, missed her from his side. He started up, and sawthat her clothes were gone. At the moment of the discovery he heard acry, and he ran from the room. He saw his wife approaching him; shewas fully dressed, and she held in her hand the ornamental dagger,which was stained with blood. There was a smile on her lips, butalthough he stood straight in front of her, with a candle in his hand,she did not appear to see him. She passed by without a word or look ofrecognition. He followed her to their bedroom, and there she laid thedagger aside, undressed, and went to bed. She had been all the timefast asleep. When she was abed he looked at the blood-stains on thedagger; there was no wound upon her; from whom came the blood? Fromwhence the cry? The direction from which his wife had come was that ofthe room occupied by his friend. He went there, and found his guestjust reviving from a state of insensibility caused by a stab in hisbreast while he was asleep. Mr. Carew could form but one conclusion,and his sole aim now was that the matter should be kept quiet. In thishe succeeded, having invented a story which his friend professed tobelieve, and into which Mrs. Carew's name was not introduced. Itsuited Mr. Carew's friend not to dispute the invented story; his woundwas not very serious, and he subsequently repaid the injury bybeggaring the man who had reposed entire confidence in him, and whosewife he had attempted to lead to her ruin. Mr. Carew could notimmediately question his wife, for the next morning she wasdangerously ill. The ordinary doctors who were called in did notappear to understand the case, and eventually Mr. Carew consulted aforeign specialist of renown, who informed him that there was insanityin his wife's blood, and that it would most likely assume a phase inwhich there would be danger to those about her. This alarmed Mr.Carew, not for his own sake, but for his wife's. There was a law inthat part of the country, which, put in force, would have removed Mrs.Carew from his care, and he made haste for England, where he wouldfeel safe. Thus far in his wife's illness no dangerous symptoms werevisible, and he flattered himself into the belief that the foreigndoctor was wrong in the opinion he had given. The most markedcharacteristic of the disease manifested itself in a harmless fashion,being simply a sentimental passion for the Tyrolean air Mrs. Carew hadsung so many times on the night when the hidden seed of insanity beganto grow. Under these conditions Gabriel Carew was born. She insistedupon nursing the child, which, had I been in their service at thetime, I should not have allowed. When Gabriel was two years of age,the dangerous symptoms of which the foreign doctor had warned Mr.Carew began to manifest themselves, and I was engaged as nurse. Mr.Carew had lost his fortune then, but he was not entirely withoutmeans, the largest portion of which was spent upon his wife. He paidme liberally, his one desire in life being to keep the skeleton of hishome concealed, not only from the world, but from the knowledge of hisson. He thought that, growing up in ignorance of his mother'scondition, Gabriel might escape the contagion. I thought differently,but we had no discussions on the subject. He had engaged me to performa certain duty, and I performed it--there it ended. I had nothing todo with consequences. After Mr. Carew took possession of Rosemullionhis wife became worse; there were weeks together when no person but Icould approach her with safety. I had perfect control over her. Shewas obedient, through fear, to my lightest word. It was certainlymerciful that the sad secret, having been so long concealed fromGabriel, should remain so. If mischief were done, it was not now to beaverted. This is the explanation of Gabriel Carew's lonely boyhoodlife, and it will possibly help to explain any strange peculiaritiesyou may have observed in him. I do not consider I have violated thesecond promise I gave to his father--that I would not divulge withoutpowerful cause the secret of Gabriel Carew's unhappy inheritance.There seems to me here to be cause sufficient for secrecy not to beany longer observed. My tongue being now unsealed, I am ready to replyto any questions you may ask."
A Secret Inheritance (Volume 3 of 3) Page 9
