A general survey of the few months that followed will suffice. There are many small details which it would be pleasant to dwell upon, but these may be safely left to the imagination. They consist for the most part of the episodes which marked the progress of the love affair between Mildred and Reginald--who, without any distinct declaration from us, conducted themselves toward each other as an engaged couple. We elder people tacitly held back from entering into an express engagement, Mrs. Carew waiting, as it were, upon my movements and those of her husband. I am in a position to explain the reasons of my own backwardness in this important matter. Gabriel Carew's reasons must, for the present, be left to explain themselves. I need scarcely say that Reginald and Mildred were perfectly happy, being satisfied that they possessed our sanction to their love. No fault was theirs in this respect. If blame was due anywhere, we, their parents, were the persons upon whom it justly fell.

The hope of a binding friendship between myself and Mr. and Mrs. Carew was more than fulfilled. Not only did we become firm friends, but the closest confidential relations were established between us. So much so that I became acquainted with the history of the inner and outer lives of Gabriel Carew and his sweet wife. There was little to learn of Mrs. Carew's life which I had not already imagined; it was a record of innocence and sweetness. But what I learnt of Gabriel Carew afforded me food for grave reflection. So intimate were our relations, so perfect was the confidence he reposed in me, that he concealed nothing from me. His frankness won my admiration and greatly disturbed me. The recital of his youthful life, of his midnight wanderings, of his solitary musings, and afterwards of the death of his parents, of his entrance into Nerac, of his intimacy with the family of Doctor Louis, and of the tragic events that occurred in the peaceful village, made up the sum of the strangest record which had ever been imparted to me. I confess to being much affected by the fate of Eric and Emilius, and I asked Carew whether he had heard anything of Emilius of late years. His reply was that he had heard nothing, and that the unhappy man was probably dead.

"You have no doubt that he was guilty?" I asked.

"Not the slightest doubt," said Carew.

I was not so sure; the story had excited within me a singular sympathy for Emilius.

Now, in what I am about to say with respect to Gabriel Carew, I had, at that time, I admit, the slightest of grounds; and the powerful effect a certain suspicion had upon me was all the more singular because of the absence of reliable evidence. The study I had made for many years of the different forms in which insanity presents itself was very captivating to me, and in the course of my researches I unearthed some weird particulars, of which, were I a writer of fiction, I could make effective use. Gabriel Carew was an affectionate husband and father, a faithful mate to his wife, a wise counsellor to his daughter. He had not a vice which I could discover. He was neither a spendthrift nor a libertine. He drank in moderation, and he never gambled; indeed, he detested all games of chance. His views of men and manners were singularly correct, and denoted a well-balanced brain. It was only where his affections were concerned that he could be called in any way extravagant; but this would be accounted rather a virtue than a vice. His recreations were intellectual, and he sought pleasure and happiness only in his home and in association with books and his wife and child. What judgment would you, from a distance, pass upon such a man? What but that of entire approval? But I was in daily contact with him, and signs were visible to me which greatly disturbed me. To speak plainly, I doubted Gabriel Carew's perfect sanity!

This was a matter of most serious moment. If Carew were not sane, his disease, so far as I could judge, was of a harmless form. The proof of this lay in his affection for those of his blood, and--which, in evidence is, in my opinion, quite as strong--in his tenderness to animals and birds. But I have to a certainty established not only that insanity is hereditary, but that what is harmless in the parent may become destructive in the child. Mildred was Carew's daughter, and to all appearance as free from any touch of insanity as the most healthful of human beings. But the germ must be in her, to be transmitted to her children--to Reginald's children if he married her.

This consideration impelled me to secret action in the way of inquiry. It would have been, useless to appeal to Reginald, and to set before him the probable consequences of such an union. My counsel would have fallen upon idle ears. My duty, however, was clear. It was for me to protect him.

Instead of listening uninterruptedly to the confidences imparted to me by Carew, I prompted, probed and asked questions, and thus learnt much which might otherwise not have come to my knowledge. Considering the motive by which I was impelled, the investigation I was pursuing was of an exceedingly delicate nature, but to my surprise, Carew met--nay, anticipated--me with a most surprising frankness. He made no attempt to avoid the subject, and the interest he evinced in it seemed to exceed my own. He spoke much of himself--not in direct connection with hereditary insanity, but as though there was that in his life before the death of his parents which it would be a relief to him to clear up. He gave me a circumstantial account of all the incidents of those early years, taking pains to recall the most trifling detail bearing upon his youth.

"It is a strange pleasure to me," he said, "to be able to unbosom myself so freely. My wife is acquainted with much I have imparted to you. There was never any need to distress her by a relation of the morbid fancies which afflicted me when I was a boy, and which, perhaps, were the foundation of the profound melancholy which, after sunset, has lately crept upon me. Perhaps I am paying the penalty of old age."

I combated this view, pointing out that he was in the prime of life, with perhaps its most useful years before him. Throughout these discussions and confidences the names of Mildred and Reginald were not mentioned--I purposely avoided reference to them, but Carew did not appear to have any thought of them while we conversed. The one person who seemed to me able to furnish information from which I could weave a rational theory was Mrs. Fortress, the nurse who for a number of years attended Gabriel Carew's mother. I asked him if any correspondence had passed between them since she left Rosemullion, and he answered, "No," and that he had not seen or heard of her from that time. I then asked him if he had any idea where she was to be found, supposing her to be still living.

"In the last interview I had with her," he replied, "she gave me an address in Cornwall." He paused here, and I saw that he was weighing some matter in his mind. "I can find this address for you," he said presently, "if you desire it. Have you any curiosity to see her?"

"Yes," I said boldly, "if you have no objection."

Again he paused in thought. "I have no objection," he said. "She may reveal to you what she declined to reveal to me, and it may assist you in your inquiry."

I looked at him, startled by his last words. They were the first he had uttered which denoted that he suspected my motive in wooing and encouraging these conversations. The expression on his face was gentle and sad, and I thought it best to make no comment on his remark. The next day he gave me an address in Cornwall at which Mrs. Fortress had told him she was certain to be found during her lifetime. He gave me also a short note to her, in which he stated that I was his most intimate friend and adviser, and that he would be glad if she would communicate to me any information respecting his parents it was in her power to impart--intimating, at the same time, that I was prepared to pay handsomely for it. At Carew's request, I read this note in his presence, and at its conclusion he empowered me to pay for the information if I could not otherwise obtain it, naming as a limit a sum which I considered extravagantly liberal. I had already made preparations for a temporary absence from home, and before the end of the week I was in Cornwall, and face to face with Mrs. Fortress.