Bergan was much struck with the fact that his aimless walk—aimless, at least, so far as his own intention was concerned—had first led him, in virtue of his meeting with Cathie, to Mrs. Lyte's bedside, and next to the studio of Miss Thane. Accepting both these leadings as parts of the same providential plan, though he could discern but the slightest possible relation between them, he knocked at the studio door.
Come in! was the immediate response, in Miss Thane's clear, cold monotone.
Bergan pushed open the door, which was a little ajar, and found himself in the presence of the artist. She was standing at her easel, palette and brushes in hand; and she waited to give several touches to her work, before turning toward her visitor.
If she felt any surprise at sight of him, her face betrayed none. Yet it seemed to Bergan that some change had come over that face since he beheld it last—a certain suggestion of weariness under its languor, of dissatisfaction under its chill pride—which he accepted as a good augury for the task that he had in hand.
Miss Thane seemed to divine, at once, that his visit had some object other than the pleasure of seeing either herself or her pictures. After a few quiet words of greeting, she rested one hand upon her easel, and stood waiting, calm, proud, and exceeding beautiful, to be informed of its nature.
Bergan was scarcely prepared to make known his errand so abruptly. He had promptly entered the studio, in obedience to his first impulse; but he had counted upon some little time thereafter to arrange his thoughts and feel his way, some flow of conversation to be duly turned to his advantage, or some clue to the deep mystery of Miss Thane's sympathies,—possibly, too, some further light upon the inscrutable design of Providence, in sending him hither.
After all, was not the most straightforward course likely to be the best one?
Miss Thane, said he, gravely, "my own volition has had so little to do with bringing me here, that I scarcely know why I am come. But I believe that it is to try to interest you in a sister artist—a sculptor—who is in sore need of aid that you might give her."
Miss Thane put her hand into her pocket, and drew out her purse; but before she could open it, Bergan stopped her with a deprecating gesture.
Pardon me, said he, "but that sort of aid, I can give myself, if it be necessary."
What am I to do, then? asked Miss Thane, wonderingly.
Whatever one delicate, refined, large-hearted woman can do for another, in the way of cheer, encouragement, sympathy, and consolation.
Miss Thane gave him a long look out of her deep eyes, partly surprised, partly meditative.
What put it into your head to come to me on such an errand? she finally asked, with a singular, half satirical emphasis.
Because when I was wondering to whom I could go, answered Bergan, "I found myself standing before your door. Because you did me the honor, two weeks ago, to ask me a certain question, and I thought that this might be the beginning of a better answer than I was able to give you."
Miss Thane slowly walked to the other end of the room, and fixed her eyes on the deep red gold of the western horizon, whence the sun still shed a soft posthumous influence over the earth.
What does it matter, she murmured to Herself, "if I do surrender somewhat of my freedom? I have had a fair trial of an isolated life—divested of every irksome bond, burden, and duty, shut up to the one friend that I trust, and the one occupation that I love—and what has it done for me? Absolutely nothing; except to make me daily colder in heart, and narrower in mind. Is it not time to try something else?"
She turned back to Bergan, and her face, though it was still weary, was no longer proud.
I am sensible of the honor that you have done me, said she, with unusual gentleness; "I will try to deserve your good opinion. Where am I to find the lady of whom you speak, and in what way can I render her the most essential service?"
Bergan quietly placed a chair for her.
Sit down, said he, "and let me tell you the whole story; at least, as far as I know it myself."
As he talked, the gold faded out of the sky, and the gray twilight shadows crept into the room, turning the pictures on the walls into pale, vague outlines, and giving a wonderful softness to Miss Thane's listening face. Nor did the story end until the pictures had become indistinguishable masses of shadow, and nothing was left of the face but its deep, lustrous eyes. Its owner had not once spoken; and it quite escaped Bergan's notice, in the dimness, that she gave a sudden, violent start when Mrs. Lyte's full name was mentioned.
Thus, you see, he concluded, "it is not only a disappointed, discouraged, anxious heart (soon, alas! to become a mourning one) that I commend to your tender sympathies, but a sorely wounded faith. If you cannot heal the latter, do not, I charge you, help to destroy it."
I will not, answered she, solemnly; "I promise you that I will not. How could I, when I am half inclined to believe that such faith—unfounded, illusory though it be—is a better thing than any reality that we exchange it for."
Bergan slightly lifted his eyebrows. "May I ask," said he, quietly, "to what reality, or realities, you refer?"
You press me hard, answered she, bitterly, after a pause; "none, none that I can think of just now. Everything seems vague, unreal, unsubstantial."
Fall back on faith, returned Bergan, smiling. "If it be not a reality itself, it works realities. It fosters real virtues, and inspires real heroism; by it men live nobly, and die courageously. What reality can do more for them,—indeed, what one does so much?"
He waited for a moment, expecting an answer. Seeing that none came, he bowed, and left her sitting there, gazing out into the silent night.
On the following morning, Astra was in her studio, busily plying her needle, while her mother slept, when there came a light knock on the door. Opening it, she found herself face to face with a lady of such rare and remarkable beauty, that she stood motionless, lost in wonder and admiration.
The stranger bent her head with the stately, yet friendly, grace of one princess to another; and a smile just touched her lips, and then seemed to sink into her eyes, shining farther and farther down in their clear depths, until it vanished from sight.
Will you allow me the pleasure of looking into your studio? asked she, in a voice as perfect as her face; "I have heard so much of its marvels, that I am desirous of seeing them for myself."
Astra mutely made way; her visitor glided into the room, cast a quick, comprehensive glance around, and sat down in front of the statue of Mercury.
Do not let me interrupt you, she said to Astra, "but just go on with whatever you are about, and allow me to study this at my leisure."
Astra hesitated a moment, and then took up the work that she had dropped,—one of Cathie's much-enduring aprons, that she was trying to darn into some semblance of respectability. But she could not help stealing an occasional glance at the clear-cut profile of her guest, until, all her artistic instincts being thoroughly aroused, she was fain to seize upon crayon and cardboard, and make sure of the lovely outline, ere it should vanish, as she expected it would soon do, utterly and forever from her sight.
The guest, meanwhile, studied the Mercury in profound silence. Yet Astra soon felt that an uncommonly deep and delicate discernment was brought to bear on her work, capable of accurately measuring both its excellences and its faults. There was something inspiriting in the very thought,—it was so seldom that her sculpture was favored with a really intelligent glance! Her eyes brightened, her hands recovered their cunning, the crayon sketch grew into lifelikeness without effort, almost without consciousness, save when she stopped to marvel, now and then, at its exceeding beauty and delicacy. Yet it did no more than justice to the original,—scarcely that, indeed;—where did she get that face, and who could she be!
She had left the Mercury now, after a few—a very few words of commendation, yet spoken so cordially and discriminately as to be worth volumes of ordinary praise to Astra; and she was looking gravely into the upturned eyes of the Cherub. Glancing from, it to its creator, she said, with a faint smile;—
I wish you could put that look into my face.
Astra shook her head. "I could not put it anywhere now," she answered, drearily.
The stranger gave her a compassionate glance. "I wonder," said she, musingly, "whether it is better to have had such faith and lost it, or never to have had it at all."
It is better to have lost it, replied Astra quickly, and with a slight shudder. "One can live in the hope of finding it again."
The visitor sighed, and turned to look at the sketches on the wall.
By and by, she slid easily into a discourse about various art-matters; holding Astra spellbound, for awhile, with the fluent richness of her diction, and the extent of her knowledge. Nor was Astra allowed to listen only. A certain graphic portrayal of art-life in Italy having stirred her to the depths, and kindled the old fire and energy of enthusiasm in her eyes, she was skilfully drawn on to talk of herself and her work, her aims, longings, limitations, and needs, as she had never talked before, because she had never before met with so understanding and sympathetic an auditor.
In the midst of one of her animated sentences, a low moan was heard from the inner room. "Excuse me," said Astra hurriedly, amazed to see how completely she had forgotten her cares, fears, and griefs, in the magic of the stranger's presence,—"Excuse me, I must go to my mother."
Mrs. Lyte had waked, as was too often the case, in a spasm of pain. Astra hastened to call Cathie from the kitchen to assist the laboring breath with gentle wafts of air from a fan, while she herself measured some drops of a soothing mixture, and lifted her mother's head on her arm, to enable her to swallow and to breathe more easily. Several anxious moments had passed thus, in silence broken only by the painful respirations of the invalid, when a low, sweet strain of melody stole so gently into the room that Astra could not tell, at first, from whence it came. So soft was it that it melted into the ear without making any apparent demand upon the attention, yet so clear that not one liquid note was lost. The swollen veins of Mrs. Lyte's forehead subsided; her chest ceased its agonized heaving; a peaceful, happy smile broke over her face.
What is it? she asked, wonderingly, when the strain ended,—not abruptly, but gradually growing fainter, until it was impossible to tell just at what point sound became silence.
Astra whispered softly that she had left a strange visitor in the studio, who appeared to be singing unconsciously to herself.
If she would only sing again! murmured Mrs. Lyte, wistfully.
With her usual impulsiveness, Cathie rushed to the studio door. "Mamma wishes you would sing—" she began, and then stopped short, no less surprised and fascinated by the face that met her gaze than her sister had been.
The stranger reflected for a moment, then her voice again pervaded the air, as with the very soul of restful melody. As she sang, the child moved slowly toward her, drawn as irresistibly as the magnet to the loadstone, till she stood close to her side, encircled by her arm, and gazing at her with round, wondering eyes. As the song ceased, she slid her hand half-curiously, half-timidly over her shoulder.
Have you wings? she asked, earnestly. "Did you fly down?"
Before the visitor could reply, except by a swift expression of something like pain that flitted across her face, Astra appeared in the doorway.
Mother wishes to see you, and thank you, she said. "Will you step this way?"
The lady rose, and moved quietly into the inner room. At sight of her face, Mrs. Lyte gave a violent start; the thanks she was about to speak died on her lips; she could only cry out in amazement;—"Who are you?"
The stranger knelt by the bedside, and took both Mrs. Lyte's hands in her soft, cool grasp. "I am the daughter of your runaway sister, Aunt Katie," she answered, "and my name is Godiva Thane."
But she died, and she left no child, said Mrs. Lyte, incredulously.
She died in giving me birth, returned Diva, with convincing positiveness. "I have long suspected that my father did not let you know, he never forgot the opposition to his marriage; besides, he was jealous of his only child's affections. You must needs forgive him,—for he is dead."
Several questions followed, on Mrs. Lyte's part; to which Diva gave long, detailed answers, skilfully contrived to satisfy her aunt's curiosity, tranquillize her emotions, and bring her, in a brief space, to a tolerably peaceful and composed state of mind.
Can I do anything for you before I go? she then asked.
Nothing, dear, unless you will sing to me—a hymn; there are tones in your voice which are more soothing than any anodyne.
Diva put her hand to her brow, and sent her thoughts back—a long, long way, it seemed to her—to a period in her childhood, when she had been under the care of a certain faithful nurse, afterwards discharged by her father for putting foolish, superstitious notions—as he averred—into her head. There she found two or three hymns; keeping tenacious hold of her memory, in virtue of their early grafting therein; which she sang in such soft, even tones, that Mrs. Lyte was first calmed, and then irresistibly lulled to sleep.
The two cousins stole out of the room together. In the studio, Diva put her arms around Astra and kissed her tenderly.
Having found you, my little cousin, my art sister, said she, smiling, "I shall never let you go!"
Miss Thane had all along understood that a meeting with her mother's only and twin sister, either by accident or design, was quite within the scope of possibilities. She had even regarded it as perhaps the brightest prospect which the future afforded her, in case her present experiment in life should fail to give her satisfaction, or her heart should suddenly utter an importunate cry for that cup of cold water of human affection, which is only to be tasted in the society of one's own kin. Amid the gray monotony of her existence, she had often pictured that meeting to herself in a variety of pleasant coloring and dramatic shapes; but never, it is safe to say, in the solemn lights and sober shadows in which it finally took its place among the memorable scenes of her life.
Yet in no other way could it have operated so powerfully to awaken the instinct of kinship within her, to melt her reserve, to draw out her dormant sympathies,—in short, to call forth whatever was deepest, richest, and womanliest in her nature. And certainly, in no other way could it have brought so strong and subtle an influence to bear upon the sombre doubts and chill infidelities of her mind; setting over against her cool, speculative belief in a blind Chance or an inflexible Fate, Mrs. Lyte's calm trust in the goodness of God's providence, against the blighting, chilling, unbeauteous effects of suffering on her own heart, the gracious fruitage of patience, contentment, and love, ripening under its touch in Mrs. Lyte's, against her own dim outlook into an unknown future, her aunt's firm expectation of the eternal weight of glory. The contrast was too striking not to be noticed, its testimony in favor of faith over unbelief too strong to be ignored. Daily, as she watched by her aunt's bedside, questions that she had once settled, or laid aside as incapable of settlement, came up again, to be examined in new and diviner lights. Daily the good work which Bergan had been instrumental in beginning in her heart, went forward,—not like the work of doubt, tearing down what it could not rebuild, and taking away bread to give a stone,—but bringing order out of confusion, proportion out of inequality, solidity out of disintegration.
On the other hand, her advent was no less beneficial, in its way, to her aunt and cousins. Not to speak of the material comforts and luxuries which she managed so delicately to introduce into the sick-room, as to make them seem much like direct gifts of Providence, without any intervening hand, she brought into their forlorn, narrow, monotonous life an element of variety and interest, as well as of personal helpfulness, that was sorely needed. Mrs. Lyte soon grew to depend upon her constant presence and care scarcely less than upon Astra's. She never wearied of searching her beautiful face for fitful touches of resemblance to the darling twin sister, whose runaway marriage and subsequent death had been the great grief of her own earlier years, nor of drawing out such facts in relation to that sister's short married life, and Diva's birth, as the latter had been able to gather from others, and store in her memory. She was deeply interested, too, in Diva's own history,—her motherless childhood, her long sojourn in Europe, her art studies, her reasons for the isolated life that she had been leading of late. Especially did she delight in hearing her sing. Diva might busy herself in whatever part of the house's narrow precinct she pleased, if only her voice floated into the sick-room, and sweetened the air with the notes and words of some favorite "hymn of the ages," or the soft Italian melodies that she had learned in their native land. While the lovely voice kept on, Mrs. Lyte lay lapped in smiling content, or slept in perfect tranquillity, lulled more effectually than by any anodyne.
Nor was Astra any less ready to accept her kinswoman as a timely boon and blessing. It was not only an unspeakable relief to feel a part of her heavy burden of care lifted from her shoulders by hands so willing, so tender, and with so undoubted a right to the privilege; it was also a rare delight to have such thoroughly congenial companionship. As for Cathie, her heart was easily won,—all the more that she never seemed to quite rid herself of her first impression that the new-comer was celestial rather than human, and to be adored accordingly. In short, Diva soon found for herself so fit, definite, and essential a place in all these hearts and lives as to suggest the idea that it must have been prepared expressly, and kept waiting for her—she knew not how long. Nay, more,—she must have been prepared for it; carefully fitted, by many sad and stern circumstances, for this exchange of helpful influences, for her part in that solemn symphony of events which was rolling its profound harmonies through Mrs. Lyte's sick-chamber.
For the invalid did not rally. After one week of apparent pause, her life's lapse went steadily on. Day by day, she weakened and wasted; day by day, the spirit loosened its mortal garments, and made itself ready to put on immortality; day by day, her mind let go something of earthly cares, anxieties, wishes, and fears, and fixed itself more firmly upon the Rock of Ages, and the rest that remaineth. Nothing of life seemed left, by and by, but love; making manifest, by this true "survival of the fittest," its Divine origin and destiny.
One summer afternoon, when the sun was flooding all the earth and sky with the glory of his departure, Bergan knocked at the door of Astra's studio, according to his daily habit, to inquire if he could be of any service. No answer being returned to his knock, he let himself in and went softly to the bedroom door. A scene too beautiful to be called sad, though infinitely solemn, met his view.
Astra was seated on the bed, holding her mother in her arms, to afford her a grateful change of position. Cathie lay curled up at the invalid's feet, with her large eyes fixed on the rapt, hushed face,—the half-closed eyes and slightly parted lips of which suggested a soft sinking into that sweet slumber, which is yet not so much slumber as a happy dream. Diva knelt by the bedside, with her aunt's hand in hers, singing in tones that thrilled him through and through, much as he had learned in these days, of the marvellous beauty and pathos of her voice;—
"When I rise to worlds unknown, And behold Thee on Thy Throne, Rock of Ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in Thee!
"As the last note died away, he stepped forward and lifted the unconscious form from Astra's arms. She looked up at him wonderingly.
The earthly hymn was very sweet, said he gently, "but the song of the redeemed in Paradise is sweeter still."
Still she seemed not to understand. What words were at once tender and solemn enough for the full explanation? None but those of inspiration; at once old and fresh; having poured their balm all along down through the centuries, yet falling on each newly bereaved heart, as if still moist and cool with the dew of their birth. Reverently he quoted:—
'Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord from henceforth: Yea, saith the Spirit, that they may rest from their labors; and their works do follow them.'
Mrs. Lyte was taken to Berganton, and laid in the churchyard by her husband's side, amid much kindred dust. Bergan accompanied the small funeral train to within two or three miles of the village, and then turned back; in obedience to Astra's wish, as expressed to him through Diva Thane. The poor girl remembered in what way her name and his had been connected, and naturally shrank from anything that might seem to give it confirmation. But as the train passed the avenue to Bergan Hall, the Major wheeled into the vacant place behind the carriage of the chief mourners, assisted them out at the gate of the cemetery, and offered Astra his arm.
I am your father's nearest living relative, said he, huskily, "and though I behaved like a brute to your mother at one time, I have been sorry enough for it since, to have a right to follow her to the grave."
Many of Mrs. Lyte's old friends and neighbors gathered round to assist in the last solemn rites, and some of them came afterward to say a few words of sympathy and regret to Astra. She was not surprised that Doctor Remy was not of the number, but she did wonder a little that she saw nothing of Carice. She had observed Mrs. Bergan standing near the foot of the grave, looking strangely old and altered; but she seemed to have disappeared as soon as the service was ended.
Having conducted her back to the carriage, and seated her therein, Major Bergan took a folded paper from her pocket, tore it in pieces, and laid the fragments on her lap.
There it is, said he; "and I wish that my hand had been sawed off before I ever wrote to your mother, to tell her of its existence. The place is yours now, free and unincumbered, to do what you like with. Good bye; and don't bear malice, if you can help it."
He gave her no opportunity to reply, but signalled to the coachman to drive on. Looking back, she saw him standing on the same spot, with uncovered head, watching the carriage until it was out of sight.
She was in nowise disposed to bear malice. She remembered too well how glad she had been, at the time, of an available pretext for leaving Berganton; besides, the Major had certainly made all possible amends for his hasty action.
Moreover, Mrs. Lyte's death-bed had not been without its softening and salutary effect upon her mind, also. Although she had fallen, for a time, into that saddest of all infidelities—a distrust of God's goodness to His children—the last lovely moments of her mother's life, the last grateful, joyous words from her mother's lips, and the still brightness of her mother's dead face, had set her feet—for a little while at least—on those Heights of Contemplation, whence life is seen to be good and valuable, not for what it is, but for what it shapes out; not for the materials that it heaps together, or the tools that it uses, but for the character which it moulds unto perfection, the soul which it slowly chisels into beauty and dignity and strength. So viewed, these last months of adversity became but the fine, finishing touches of the Master's hand, to Mrs. Lyte's already lovely spirit, and Major Bergan but one of the blind, necessary instruments, operating better than he knew or willed.
And come what would, Astra could nevermore forget that broad view of the real work and object of life's events; faith would ever after be easier for those moments of clear sight. She came back from her mother's grave with a bereaved heart, but with a spirit more at rest than it had been for many months; and her face wore the same expression of gentle, sweet resignation, which had been the prevailing characteristic of her mother's for years.
She came back—but not to the dingy little house, nor the desolate rooms, and certainly not to the straitened circumstances. Miss Thane had taken Bergan into her confidence, on the day before, and asked the favor of his superintendence of certain final steps toward the accomplishment of a plan that she had conceived and partly executed. Money and good-will, working together, usually achieve wonders in comparatively short space of time; as the result of their present cooperation, Astra was set down at Miss Thane's door on her return from Berganton, late at night, and ushered into a suite of rooms, opposite Diva's own, handsomely fitted up for the accommodation of herself and Cathie. One was a studio, to which all her own pictures, statues, and other artistic belongings had been carefully transferred, and skilfully arranged to produce an accustomed and home-like effect. Another was a pleasant little parlor, with her books and her work-basket on the centre-table, to lend it a familiar grace; and in the bedroom beyond, her faithful old Chloe was waiting, with joyful tears in her eyes, to welcome and to attend upon her.
Astra turned to her cousin, and tried to speak; but the too heavily freighted words were slow in coming forth, and Diva anticipated them by taking both her hands in hers, and saying gently;—
We are sisters, now, Astra: children of twin mothers, and left alone in the world,—I more completely, even, than you; what better thing can we do, at least for the present, than to unite our forces, having one home, and living, loving, and laboring together for the same, or kindred ends? And Cathie shall be our joint charge; that, having two watchful elder sisters, she may never know, even partially, what I know so well, the misery of a motherless childhood. Is it a compact?
Astra bowed her head in acquiescence, and her eyes shone bright through grateful tears. She was relieved beyond measure, to know that she was not to face the world single-handed. The loneliness that she had so dreaded was not to be encountered, the heavy responsibility of her little sister's care and training was to be, in some degree, shared. In Diva's strength and steadfastness of character, which she felt by intuition, and in its sweetness, which she had found out at her mother's bedside, as very few had done before her, there would be all needful protection, aid, and comfort; while, in its subtle quality of a wise and delicate reserve, there was ample assurance of respect for her own individuality, freedom for her own way of thought and work. Finally, thanks to Major Bergan's generous action in respect of the mortgage, she need not fear to be a burden on her cousin. Either by sale or lease, the place could be made to yield her a fixed moderate income, and her own labor would do the rest.
She did not suspect the extent of Diva's resources, nor what pleasant plans for her own and Cathie's happiness and advantage she was turning over in her mind. Of these things Diva would breathe no word, until the sisterhood of which she had spoken had become so real and firm a bond as to preclude any sense of obligation.
Meanwhile, the fact of living no more to herself, of having some one else to think of, to care for, to comfort and cheer, was doing wonderfully effective work in clearing and softening Diva's own character,—in uprooting the weeds which had chiefly testified to the richness of the underlying soil heretofore, and giving the plants of grace leave to branch out and blossom and bear fruit. Daily, as Bergan met her, in his visits to Astra's studio, or his walks, he saw that something was gone from the chill pride and weariness of her old expression, something added of sweetness, softness, and benignity, yet without any loss of that still and stately grace, in which had subsisted so potent a charm. Daily, too, he marvelled at her increasingly magnificent beauty; over which, none the less, still lingered some faint shadow from the past, like the soft haze hanging over an autumn landscape, and constituting its last, consummate grace. He could not help wondering whence that shadow came, and how it was to go, since it always gave him an indefinable impression of being connected with his own destiny.
One day he met her in the street alone, but, as he never presumed in the least upon the half confidential relations into which circumstances had thrown them, he was passing on with a courteous bow, when she stopped him.
Mr. Arling, she said, flushing slightly, but in very clear, musical tones, "I have much to thank you for, but most of all for the promise which you made me at Farview, some weeks ago; and which, I doubt not, you have conscientiously performed. How much that performance has had to do with the important events that have taken place since, I cannot tell; but it is certain that I discern an order, a sequence, a relation of means to an end, during these last weeks, which I have never before been able to discover in the events of my life,—perhaps because my days have never before been so regularly and earnestly recommended to loving Divine guidance. Be that as it may, the time of which you spoke has come; I have learned to pray for myself—and for others. Thank you again, and good evening."
It was one of her peculiarities, resulting probably from some years of residence abroad, that she seldom gave her hand to a gentleman. Now, however, she offered it to Bergan, for the second time, as he remembered; and again, as before, he had a curious presentiment that within that white hand there lay an invisible, but precious gift for him, waiting its appointed time.
The summer ran its course, and came to an end. With the first frost of autumn, Hubert Arling arrived in Savalla, to pay a visit of indefinite extent to his brother. A few days after, Coralie, newly returned from Farview, called at the office, expecting to find her father there, according to appointment; but found only Bergan, as it appeared, writing in his usual place. He rose, bowed, and finally took her offered hand, with what seemed to her an odd mixture of hesitation and embarrassment, while she poured forth greetings, thanks, and questions.
You are looking wonderfully well, she concluded; "one would think you had been rusticating in the mountains, instead of spending a hot and lonely summer in the city. But I suppose that you are lonely no longer; you must be very glad to have your brother with you; my father told me of his arrival."
He looked much amused. "I suspect that I am my brother," said he, smiling. "But I am not my brother whom you take me for. I wish I were,—to have the honor of your acquaintance."
It was Coralie's turn to look embarrassed. "I thought—is it not Mr. Arling?" she stammered.
It is Mr. Arling—Hubert Arling, at your service. Can I do anything for you?
Coralie was so much amazed, that it would have been difficult for her to decide, at the moment, whether he could do anything for her or not. But the entrance of Mr. Youle and Bergan relieved her from the necessity of answering, and gave her opportunity to compare the brothers at her leisure. Unquestionably, they were singularly alike, in personal appearance, manner, and somewhat, even, in mind. Only, when seen together, Bergan was found to be so much older and graver of aspect—far more than was justified by his two years of seniority—that she wondered how she could ever have mistaken one for the other. And, certainly, there was a rare charm about Bergan's gravity, a singular fascination in looking into his deep, thoughtful, all-observant eyes, and conjecturing what disappointment or sorrow lay darkly underneath. Still, Hubert's buoyancy and animation were wonderfully taking, too, in their way; and her youthfulness sprang involuntarily forward to meet his. On the whole, she was glad to know that Mr. Arling had a brother every way so worthy of him.
Before she left, the brothers received and accepted an invitation from Mr. Youle to dine with him. But for Hubert's sake, Bergan would gladly have declined it. Having once introduced his brother into pleasant society, however, he could leave him to make his own way in it,—as he was fully qualified to do.
When the door closed on the father and daughter, Hubert looked at his brother, and smiled meaningly.
Why did you not tell me? he asked.
What should I tell? rejoined Bergan, composedly.
That your future was likely to atone so prettily and pleasantly for your past.
Bergan looked grave. "Not another word of that, Hubert, if you please. The past is not atoned for, in that sense; in another, I hope it may be. Miss Coralie is, to me, simply my kind old partner's very admirable and estimable daughter."
Hubert looked half incredulously into his eyes, but there was no resisting the strong confirmation of their quiet, steady, answering gaze.
But, Bergan, you are a goose! he broke out.
At your service, was the reply, with a bow of mock courtesy.
Pshaw! Then, if I go and trade on your capital, you will never call me to account?
Never.
Hubert held out his hand; Bergan gave it a firm, strong clasp. There was not another word; they understood each other.
In the midst of the desultory chat that followed, there came a knock at the door; and in answer to Bergan's prompt "Come in," his former client, Unwick, entered.
My brother, explained Bergan, as the new comer looked a little hesitatingly at Hubert. "Would you like to see me alone?"
As you please, replied Unwick. "It is your business rather than mine that brings me here; if anything so vague and indefinite can be called business."
Then, proceed. I have no secrets from my brother. Will you take a chair?
Unwick sat down, and cleared his throat.
It is a long story; but I will make it as brief as I can. You know that my cousin Varley is now in prison, under sentence of death for the murder of which I came so near to being convicted myself,—and should have been, but for you. Well, he sent for me a few days ago, to ask my pardon, and to beg me to take charge of a certain child of his. It seems that, two or three years ago, he was inveigled into a marriage with a beautiful but unprincipled girl, belonging to one of the worst families in this vicinity; her parents keep a low tavern, generally known, I believe, as the 'Rat-Hole,' about a mile out of town, on the Berganton road. Do you know it?
Yes, it has been pointed out to me, replied Bergan.
Well, the girl is dead; but there is a child, left in the grandmother's hands, which Varley wants me to get possession of, and bring up in a respectable way. Poor fellow! he has seen what is the result of evil associations, and desires to save his child from a similar fate. Still, he wishes the matter to be arranged quietly, if possible. So, yesterday, I went out to see the grandmother—that explains how I came to be in so vile a place. Well, I was made to wait for a half hour in a dirty little back room; and having nothing else in the world to interest me, my attention was attracted by a conversation on the other side of the thin board partition which divided the room from the next one. Still, I doubt if I should have taken the trouble to try to make it out, if I had not heard your name spoken. Then it occurred to me that I might possibly be able to do you a good turn, in part payment of what you had done for me. So, swallowing my scruples as best I could, I put my ear to one of the cracks, and listened. There were two men on the other side, but they were wise enough not to call names,—I did not get the least clue to whom or what they were. One talked quite low, but in a clear, though rather thin voice, which made it comparatively easy to catch what he was saying. The other talked louder, but pretty thick, as if he were a good deal the worse for liquor; and he mixed up everything that he said with such a queer medley of proverbs—
Proverbs! interrupted Bergan, starting, and beginning to look interested.
Yes,—proverbs in every language under the sun,—Latin, Greek, Spanish, German, and all the rest,—a regular Tower-of-Babel performance. Do you recognize him?
I suspect that I do. Go on.
Well, his companion,—have I given you any clue to him?
None as yet. Perhaps I may get one as your story progresses.
He was persuading this old proverb-spouter to sign some paper,—a will, I think; but it was only after a good deal of arguing, and bribing, and threatening, that he succeeded in doing so. Now comes your part in the matter; the old fellow's great objection seemed to be that he didn't want to injure you.
Me! repeated Bergan, in much astonishment; "what had I to do with it?"
That is exactly what I couldn't find out; but I thought you might be able to tell. You cannot?
Not in the least. What else was there?
Nothing, only the old bundle of proverbs also wanted to know 'what would be to pay,' if they were found out,—would it be felony, or compounding of felony, or what?
Why! exclaimed Bergan, "the will was a forgery, then!"
I cannot say as to that. The man who didn't spout proverbs set the other's scruples at rest, first, by asserting that there was not the least danger of detection; and secondly, by declaring that you would not sustain any injury, because the property was certain to come to him, soon or late, anyhow. Whereupon the drunken Solomon muttered, sotto voce, 'Into the mouth of a bad dog, often falls a good bone,' and appeared to sign his name as required. At least, I heard the scratching of a pen on paper; and, after that, some money was told out on the table, as a first instalment of the bribe agreed upon; and another instalment was to be paid at the same place to-morrow. Do you get any light on the transaction yet?
Bergan looked very grave. He remembered old Rue's assertion that Doctor Remy had wedded Carice simply to get possession of the Hall estates, through his uncle's will in her favor. "Was the first voice that of an educated man?" he asked.
Thoroughly so; an exceedingly distinct, even intonation, and the language was well chosen, too. It would have been a very pleasant voice to the ear, except that it seemed to lack heart, emotion; it was just clear and cold, like ice. Are you beginning to see your way through the affair?
Very dimly, if at all. But I think that I know the parties.
Is there anything to be done about it? Can I help you in any way?
Bergan shook his head. He remembered that Doctor Remy was the husband of Carice. He sat silent, his heart swelling with unselfish pain and pity for the pure, delicate nature thus linked to the dark and vile one; he hoped that the latter had not lost the art of concealing somewhat of its hideousness.
Mr. Unwick rose. "I will not detain you any longer. I am glad—or sorry, whichever is proper—that my story proves to be of so little importance."
Thank you, nevertheless, for taking the trouble to come and tell it to me. By the way, did you get the child you went after?
Not yet; the grandmother declared that it was not in the house, though I did not believe her. Bad woman as she is, I think she really loves it, and would like to keep it. But I was authorized to offer her a considerable sum of money to get it quietly out of her hands; and she knows that the law gives the father the right to dispose of its future. I am going, to-morrow afternoon, to get a final answer from her, after she has consulted with her husband, who was out when I was there.
Will you let me go with you? I should like to see if I recognize any old acquaintance around the place; and if I do, to give him a friendly warning to take care not to be seen there again. I happen to know that the premises are now under constant surveillance, as a suspected depository of stolen goods, and that the police are meditating a descent upon them in a day or two.
I shall be only too happy to have your company, replied Unwick, courteously.
And I will go along, too, if you don't object, remarked Hubert. "If the place is of the character you mention, the more the safer, as well as merrier, I should say."
Then, I will call for you to-morrow, at three o'clock, said Unwick, "if that suits your convenience."
The "Rat-Hole" wore an appearance of exceeding quietness, in the sunny autumn afternoon. A half tipsy vagabond or two lounged about the stoop, but the greater part of its frequenters were of the owl species, careful not to show their heads in the daytime.
Having signified to the bar-keeper that his business was with the mistress of the house, Unwick was shortly summoned to her presence, leaving the brothers waiting in the bar-room. After a considerable time he reappeared, and beckoned to Bergan.
I have persuaded Mrs. Smilt to allow of a witness to our transaction, said he. And he added, in a low tone, "The pair that I spoke of, are on the other side of the partition again; you can hear their voices, and satisfy yourself whether you know them or not."
Mrs. Smilt was a hard, ill-favored woman, of about fifty; she had a child on her lap, and there were tears in her eyes.
Mr. Unwick wants a witness to our business, she remarked, grimly, to Bergan. "Well, here's the child, and there's the money that he's to pay me for't. It's a fair bargain, and I don't mean to shirk it; though I'd rather keep the child, a good deal, myself. But my husband 'ud rather have the money; and he's captain."
Bergan bowed. He would not speak lest his voice should be heard and recognized in the adjoining apartment. He drew near the partition, but there was only a sound of footsteps on the other side, and the closing of a door; he was too late to get any satisfaction from this quarter. He stood waiting impatiently for Unwick to bring his business to an end, and half inclined to excuse himself, and make his escape, when he heard a pistol-shot, and a brief struggle, ended by a heavy fall, in the direction of the bar-room. He opened the door, and ran thither, closely followed by Unwick and Mrs. Smilt.
A singular scene was presented to his eyes. Prostrate on the floor lay Doctor Remy, with an exceedingly black and discomfited face; while Hubert was standing over him like a young gladiator. On one side, stood Dick Causton pouring forth a volley of utterly incoherent proverbs and entreaties, addressed to his "dear young friend Mr. Bergan;" and, on the other, stood the barkeeper, so bewildered, apparently, by this sudden and unaccountable fracas, as to be undecided which side or what tone to take. At sight of Bergan, Dick reeled backward, and looked completely confounded; Doctor Remy set his teeth hard, and his face grew blacker than ever.
Bergan looked at Hubert. "What does this mean?" he asked.
Upon my soul, I wish I knew! responded Hubert. "This—gentleman"—there was a deeply sarcastic emphasis on the word—"did me the honor to point a pistol at me. I knocked it up, and him down; that is all I know about the matter."
Bergan motioned him to stand aside, and helped Doctor Remy to his feet. "Thank God—if you ever do such a thing"—said he solemnly, "that you have been saved from the commission of another crime. Go, now; and, for your own sake, as well as for the sake of those connected with you, take care to be seen here no more. I assure you that it is a dangerous place for persons without legitimate business and fair credentials."
Doctor Remy had recovered his composure, in part. He drew himself up haughtily. "Keep your advice for those who need it," he rejoined; "I am here simply as a physician, in attendance upon a sick man. What your business may be, is none of mine: good evening." And he strode out of the door.
Hubert stood looking on, the picture of astonishment. "Was there ever such a riddle!" said he. "First, an unknown man attempts my life; and next, you bid him go in peace, or something very like it!"
He took you for me, said Bergan, quietly.
I appreciate the compliment. But are you in the habit of serving for a target?
Hush! It was Doctor Remy.
Hubert looked more amazed than ever, for a moment; then his brow flushed, and his eyes lit up. "Lucky for him that you did not tell me that before," said he. "He should never have gotten out of my hands, except into those of a policeman. Why, Bergan, what are you thinking of, to let him escape us thus?"
I will explain all to you, when we get home, answered Bergan, wearily. "Mrs. Smilt, I beg your pardon for having been the unintentional cause of such a commotion in your house; I think I can assure you that no harm has been done. Mr. Unwick, are you ready to go?"
At the door, Bergan stopped and looked around for Dick Causton; but he had taken advantage of the discussion between the brothers to sneak out. The fact was a suggestive one to Bergan, taken in connection with Unwick's story of the preceding day. Never before, in spite of his bad habits and fallen estate, had Dick Causton been known to flee from before any man's face.
Bergan could not help wasting a little wonder on Doctor Remy's choice of the "Rat-Hole" as a place for transacting business, of whatever character. Yet the explanation was simple. The doctor was there, as he had stated, professionally. One of the habitués of the place had been severely wounded in an encounter with a policeman, some weeks before; and although he had succeeded in escaping unrecognized, the affair had made so much stir that his friends had not deemed it prudent to put him into the hands of any of the city physicians, for treatment. Doctor Remy had therefore been summoned from Berganton, and had not only conducted the case with his usual skill, but, foreseeing a possibility of turning the circumstance to future account, had won the ruffian's warmest gratitude by keeping his secret and declining any fee. Having thus gotten the run of the place, and the good will of its inmates, he had chosen it for the scene of his interviews with Dick Causton, because he had his own excellent reasons for not wishing these interviews to be seen or suspected by anybody in Berganton. And Dick made no objections, inasmuch as various small errands, which he dignified with the title of "business," had taken him to Savalla, for two or three consecutive days; and the "Rat-Hole" was a convenient stopping-place, and, moreover, furnished liquor which had the two-fold merit of being of a better quality than any to be had at the "Gregg Tavern," and of being quaffed at Doctor Remy's expense. Dick was not likely to trouble his head much about the character of any house possessing these strong recommendations.
In regard to the signing of the fraudulent will, he had shown himself a little more scrupulous; his habit of intoxication had not yet accomplished its evil work of obliterating all sense of right, and every consideration of honor. At the first broaching of the subject, he had indignantly refused to listen to it for a moment. Later on—having apparently gotten some new lights on the question in the meantime—he had quietly suffered his objections to give way, one after another, to the doctor's arguments and bribes; to the great satisfaction of the latter, who found his task, on the whole, easier than he had expected.
Yet he might have felt some misgivings, if he had followed Dick out of the house, immediately after the signing of the will, and heard the low, satisfied chuckle with which he tumbled into his superannuated chaise, and started his horse on a jog-trot toward Berganton. The potent draught just swallowed had as yet taken effect only in quickening his sense of the humorous, and putting him on excellent terms with his own self-conceit. His eyes twinkled with amusement, too intense to be denied the occasional vent of a loud burst of laughter, or an appropriate string of proverbs.
Wer dem Spide zusicht, kann's am besten, my dear Doctor Remy, he muttered; "or, in other words, the looker-on sees more of the game than the player. What would you give to know what I know, I wonder! Just wait till the right time comes; then you'll find out that 'He is worst cheated, who cheats himself.'"
A mile further on, his potations beginning to make themselves felt, he suddenly broke out, with a tipsy laugh and leer;—"'Man kan ei drage haardt med brudet Reb,' mine excellent doctor,—you cannot haul hard with a broken rope! Ha! ha!"
And, although his shamefaced flight from Bergan's presence, on the second day, may seem to indicate that he was not quite certain of the uprightness of all his acts and motives, no sooner was he fairly on the road to Berganton than he began to chuckle again.
Bergan, meanwhile, was questioning within himself whether he ought not to make known Unwick's story to Major Bergan. He hesitated only because he foresaw that the information might possibly be set down to his self-interest, rather than his desire to serve his uncle. Nevertheless, it did not take him long to decide that he must do what he knew to be the right thing, regardless of consequences. Nor was it certain that his uncle would misconstrue his motives:—not long since, he had received an intimation from Rue that he was sure to meet with a cordial reception whenever he could make it convenient to visit Berganton; the Major's anger having so completely wasted away under the double attrition of time and favorable report,—not to mention her own steady influence in his behalf,—that he had lately expressed a wish to see him. There was really no good reason, therefore, why he should hesitate to present himself at the Hall, except that the whole neighborhood was certain to bristle with unpleasant recollections. However, he must face them some time, and as well now as ever.
Still, as nightfall was at hand, and he knew of no reason for hurry, he thought it expedient to postpone the visit till the morrow. He would ride over to the Hall, he thought, betimes in the morning. Having made his arrangements accordingly, and committed his office to Hubert's care, he retired early, and soon forgot the fatigues and excitements of the day in a profound sleep.
He had not slept long, however, before he woke from a dream—wherein Doctor Remy figured as an iconoclast, overthrowing and demolishing the ancient gods of Bergan Hall—to the consciousness that some one was knocking loudly at his door.
Who is there? he called.
It's me, Massa Harry, responded a voice, with the unmistakable negro intonation; but, nevertheless, a voice too much disconnected with the present to meet with immediate recognition from his but half-awakened faculties.
Who is 'me'? he demanded again.
You's own boy Brick, Massa Harry, was the reply.
With an instant intuition of evil, Bergan sprang out of bed, and opened the door. "What is the matter?" he asked.
Oh, Massa Harry! ole massa's dyin', replied Brick; "an' gramma Rue, she sent me for you to come right off'; she say,—'Tell him to ride fast, dere's not a minit to lose.' An' I'se brought Vic 'long for you; an' while you's a-dressin', I'll jes' go an' give her a drink, an' rub her down a lilly bit, so she'll be right smart and fresh when you's ready to start."
It was one o'clock in the morning when Bergan saw the great dusky pile of the Hall, and the dark masses of the live oaks, rise before him, in the pale light of the waning moon. He knew that its master lay within. Brick had narrated how Rue had ordered and superintended his removal thither, in one of his moments of comparative quiet and exhaustion;—the old woman being of the opinion that it was not fitting for him to die otherwhere than under the ancestral roof, in the same room where one after another of his forefathers had likewise laid down the burden of the flesh, and begun the new life of the spirit. To this room, Bergan was easily guided by his groans and cries.
Never before had he seen a man in the terrible grasp of delirium tremens; and now, after a brief look, he was glad to turn away his eyes.
Major Bergan was on the bed, but he was only held there by the main strength of two stout negroes. A frightful spasm contorted his face and twisted his limbs. Great drops of perspiration stood on his brow; and from his mouth flowed a mingled stream of oaths, curses, shrieks of horror, threats of defiance, and groans of agony. His bodily anguish was only less than his mental torture. His eyes started from his head at the phantom-creations of his delirious imagination. The furniture was alive, watching him with fiery eyes, and threatening him with envenomed teeth and claws; the shadows took mocking shapes and gibed and jeered at him; and the pictures were demons setting them all on. The very hairs of his head turned to slimy snakes, and the bed-clothes were now damp winding-sheets, and now devouring flames.
Have you had a doctor? asked Bergan of Rue, who had met him at the door.
Yes; Doctor Remy has been here twice; he left not much more than half an hour ago. He said he had a critical case on hand, that must be seen to; and there was nothing to be done here, except what we could do as well as he.
What are you doing?
Giving him soup to keep up his strength, and opium to quiet him. A few minutes ago, too, in a lucid moment, he called for some powders that he has been in the habit of taking, which, he said, always did him more good than anything else. There were only two left; we gave him one, as he was so bent on having it; I thought if it did no good, it couldn't do any harm.
Did Doctor Remy say that he would call again?
He did, but, Master Bergan, a blind woman's ears are quick at catching meanings as well as words, and he did not mean to come very soon,—not, I reckon, till all is over.
Bergan meditated. Though he had long known that his uncle's habits would be likely to bring him, sooner or later, to a drunkard's most miserable end, he could not but think it somewhat suspicious that the seizure should have followed so closely upon the completion of the fraudulent will.
When was my uncle taken? he asked.
Early this evening. He had been drinking a good deal for two or three days past; he said he did not feel well, and he would keep at the brandy bottle, in spite of all that I could say to him. About ten o'clock this morning, Doctor Remy came in to see him, and I suspect, told him something that made him angry,—for I heard him swearing furiously to himself, after the doctor had gone. And then, probably, he fell to drinking worse than ever; but it was not until about four o'clock that I heard him groaning and crying out, and he has kept it up a good part of the time ever since. But now, I think, he seems to be getting a little easier.
Bergan turned to the bed. The spasm was over, and the Major lay exhausted, with his eyes closed. Opening them, they immediately brightened with a look of recognition.
Is that you, Harry? he asked, feebly.
Yes, uncle, replied Bergan, taking his hand; "Rue sent for me, and I came at once. I am sorry to see you so ill."
I think you are, my boy, I think you are, responded Major Bergan; "you look like it, and besides, a Bergan never lies. And I'm sorry, too,—all the more, because I suspect that it's my own fault. If ever you learn to drink—and I don't feel quite so sure that it's necessary as I did once—don't drink too hard, Harry, don't drink too hard! If ever I get over this bout, I swear I'll think twice, hereafter, before I drink once. And if I don't, I'm glad you're here, Harry, boy; it's well for the new master to be on before the old one is off."
I hope that you will live to carry your good resolutions into effect, said Bergan earnestly.
Do you? Well, so do I.
He lay quiet for a moment, busy with his own thoughts. All at once he started up, exclaiming;—
Fire and fury! what's that?
The negroes caught hold of him, expecting a fresh convulsion of the same nature as the preceding ones; but, though his face was frightfully distorted, and his form writhed with pain, there was no accompaniment of phantasmal horrors.
Brandy! he finally gasped, through his set teeth.
Rue motioned to one of the women in waiting to bring some. Bergan put his hand on her arm. "Surely you will not give it to him now," said he, impressively.
The doctor said he must have a little, now and then, she answered.
But before the glass could be put to his lips, he groaned, shuddered from head to foot, and fell back on the pillow, with his eyes rolled up in his head, his hands clenched, and a dark froth issuing from, between his shut teeth. He was dead.
There was a sudden silence—the shadow of God's hand. In it the lately agonized, writhing body lay at peace, the anxious spectators stood awed and motionless. Yet this silence was more voiceful than any sound,—full of solemn questionings and more solemn answers, subtle suggestions, grave warnings, and momentous intimations. Of the value and the valuelessness of life, of the night and the morning of death, of the character and the import of the Hereafter,—on all these topics it discoursed more eloquently than the most silvery of oratorical tongues.
It had also its more commonplace and definite purport to the simple-minded dependents gathered in the gloom of the broad gallery and the black oaken staircase; which was no sooner fully apprehended, than the sound of weeping was heard among them,—though not noisily demonstrative, according to the African wont, for their awe of their late master had been greater than their affection, and was in nowise diminished by the knowledge of the dread change that had come upon him. It was genuine sorrow, nevertheless, for, though he had been a hard master, of late, most of them remembered when he had been kinder; and, at the worst, he had not been without gleams of good humor and leniency, upon which their minds now dwelt willingly and tenderly. Some few gray heads, too, there were among them, who recollected the grace and promise of his youth, and how proud they had been of their gay, handsome, generous, high-spirited master; and these, striving to forget that the promise had not been kept, or to set down its failure to adverse fate rather than wilful shortcoming, crowded the doorway, or stole in pairs to the foot of the bed, and looked through tears at the dead face, and whispered to each other that something of its youth had come back to it;—the soul, as it took its departure, had stamped the features with their original nobility and grace. And then they stole out, to prompt each other's memories with anecdotes of that vanished youth, and to dilate the eyes of their juniors with descriptions of the ancient splendors and hospitalities of the desolate old Hall;—the banquets that had been served in the dusky dining-room, the gay measures that had been trodden in the long parlor, the wedding-trains and the funeral processions that had passed through the great door; and, finally, of the ghosts that still walk the empty rooms, and may be expected to be seen stalking through the long passages to-night, or holding solemn conclave around the deserted tabernacle of the latest comer among them.
Hark! is not that the sound of footsteps, falling airily, yet heavily, too, in some distant chamber? And there, in the upper gallery, is certainly the rustle of the supernaturally stiff silk robe of the first Lady Bergan, who was found dead in her bed, so many years ago! And now creaks the door at the end of the wing, through which old Sir Harry is wont to march majestically forth, sword in hand, to take vengeance on any degenerate scion of the house that he encounters in his path! This last apparition is too much for their nerves. They shrink together, and flee noiselessly to their cabins, hearing the footsteps of the angry knight following them all the way, and leaving the old house untenanted save by the-ghosts, and the few faithful watchers in the death-chamber.
Rue is kneeling by the corpse. She has closed the eyes—sightless as her own;—she has smoothed back the disordered hair; she has pressed the lips together over the set teeth; now she is passing her withered hand gently over the blind features, thinking more of the baby that she nursed, the child that she petted and spoiled, and the youth that she admired and loved, than of the middle-aged man that she had served with her best strength, or the elderly one that she had stood by so faithfully, striving in vain to hold him back from his evil ways. Finally, she touches the cold lips with her own.
I kissed him when he was born, she murmurs, half apologetically, to Bergan, "and there will be no kiss on his dead lips, unless I leave it there."
Bergan looks at her wonderingly. Her face is calm—there are no tears in her eyes; she has the satisfied and relieved expression of one who, after long and patient waiting, beholds the expected rest or gladness close at hand, and is already half content.
One little trust more to be fulfilled, she says softly to herself, "and then my work is done, my long service of the family is over. My God, have I served Thee as well?"
And although, in her deep humility, she shakes her head, and pronounces herself an unprofitable servant, we, who can hear better that voice in the silence, making little of rank, wealth, talent, and culture, and much of faith, patience, and integrity, may be sure that it utters benignantly,—"Well done!"
Rising, at last, Rue turned to Bergan, and made him a low, reverential courtesy.
Master Bergan, she asked, "have you any orders to give?"
Bergan started. There was a quiet significance in her tone and manner that made his heart beat fast, for just one moment,—not with elation, however, so much as with a heavy weight of responsibility; as if the chill corpse, the crumbling Hall, the hundreds of negroes, the far-stretching lands, and all the cares and complexities thereto pertaining, had been suddenly flung on his shoulders. But the feeling passed quickly; he remembered the will in favor of Carice, as well as its fraudulent successor (which, he now bethought himself, it might be impossible to nullify, even if he could bring himself to come in conflict with Carice's husband); and the weight slid easily from his shoulders, though not without leaving some correlative heaviness in his heart.
Still there were orders to be given; and, until a more legitimate authority or a closer relationship should supersede him, he, being on the spot, must answer the immediate need of headship. He despatched messengers, therefore, in various directions,—one to Godfrey Bergan to apprise him that the long, bitter feud was ended, and between him and the corpse of his brother there might be peace; another to Doctor Remy, with a supplementary direction that if he was not to be found, Doctor Gerrish should be summoned also; and a third to the undertaker, to arrange for the sombre funeral paraphernalia. When all was done, he was glad to retire for awhile to his room, leaving Rue, as she desired, alone with her dead. Yes, hers,—no living person had so strong a prescriptive right to that sad and tender vigil; no other love held the sufficient warrant of such long and loyal service.
Bergan remembered, long afterward, just how she looked as he bade her good night; standing, tall, gaunt, and erect, by the high, old-fashioned bedstead, drawing the heavy curtains round the silent dead with one hand, and extending the other toward him with a free and lofty gesture that suggested the unveiling of a new and golden future.
Good night, Master Bergan, said she, "or rather, good morning. For you, the night is past, and the dawn is near. For you the Bergan star shines bright in the morning sky; for you and the old Hall a new reign of peace and prosperity is begun. Neglect not the warnings of the past; rejoice in the promise of the future. God bless you, now and evermore!"
The last words were spoken with a solemnity befitting a long farewell. At the moment, a vague apprehension flitted across Bergan's mind; but, looking back, he saw that she had seated herself quietly by the bed, like one whose only purpose was to watch and wait. Besides, she had spoken freely of the morrow's necessities and duties, and of her own part in them; it was plain that she had no apprehension for herself, and he might dismiss his fears.
In the hall, he was met by the solemn ticking of the tall old clock, which some one had set in motion; probably with a vague idea that a human soul's last minutes of time should be carefully measured, and the moment of its entrance upon eternity definitely marked. He could not help shivering at the sound. His mind involuntarily followed the departed soul in its journeyings beyond the bounds of time, picturing the heights or depths it had already reached, the scenes opened to its awed vision, the momentous truths dawning upon its startled comprehension. These thoughts not only accompanied him to his room, but would not be shut out by the closing door.
Weary as he was, he had no disposition to sleep. He sat down by the table, leaned his head on his hand, and gave himself up to sombre reflections. The gloomy deathbed that he had just witnessed, the emptiness and decay of the old ancestral home, the tangled questions of right and expediency that might present themselves for decision at any moment,—all these weighed heavily on his mind, and depressed his spirits. For one moment he half forgot his rooted trust in an overruling Providence, at once wise and tender, in the contemplation of the chill chain of events that appeared to be tightening around him, the seemingly mysterious fate that had twice compelled his return to this dreary old dwelling,—tomb rather,—to experience some new phase of sin or sorrow, after he had turned his back upon it, as he believed, for many years, if not forever. No wonder the negroes thought it haunted; its heavy, musty atmosphere was much better adapted for ghosts to float about in than to be breathed into living lungs; it might well be crowded with the spirits of his whole ancestry, to make it so stifling!
He went to the window, to see if it were any better there. Scarcely. The moon had vanished behind a cloud; the night was dim; the outside air seemed not less burdened with woe and mystery than that within; he even fancied that he heard light footsteps on the path below. He flung himself again into his chair, and an almost superstitious awe stole over him, a feeling that there was no such thing as emptiness, but only invisibility,—that the air was teeming with mystic shapes, busily tying circumstance to circumstance, cause to effect, motive to result, and life to life, with cords of terrible strength and indestructibility.
Cords:—The word struck lightly on the sensitive chain of association, and there was an instant response from the past;—"Holden with the cords of his sins." No doubt that was the essential truth. Strictly speaking, a separate act or an individual life was an impossibility; each was bound to each by influence or consequence; sin, especially, entailed its results upon a wide circle of inheritors,—the sinner himself, his kindred, friends, neighbors, even his descendants unto remote generations. Doubtless the sins of many old-time Bergans had helped to twist the cords which had held the mansion of their pride to so sad a period of desertion and decay, if not their scion to so woful a death. With how many such cords was he himself holden, and to what, and for how long?
He lifted his eyes with a start. A dim shadow had fallen on the floor; something was intercepting the gray dawn-rays, which feebly lit the room. He looked at the open window; it framed a slight graceful figure, a wan, but lovely face,—both so well remembered, so fondly loved, so mournfully lost! Of course, it was an apparition, a creation of his own excited fancy, called forth to furnish another illustration of the strange ramifications and knottings of those mystical cords, and soon to disappear, and make way for some other sharer of his bonds.
And disappear it did; but with a sudden crash, and a startled cry of "Bergan!"—neither of which had any touch of the supernatural. The unexpected sounds at once his awe; he ran to the window, saw that the rotten flooring of the upper piazza had broken down under some recent weight, leaped the gap, flew down the steps, and found lying underneath a motionless form and a lily-pale face, both half hidden in long, flowing tresses. No apparition this, but a living, breathing Carice,—or what had lately been such;—she looked deathlike enough now.
It may well be questioned whether love ever dies. It disappears from sight, no doubt; it ceases to be felt as motive or end; the very heart from whence it sprang believes that it is no more; perhaps a new—and true—affection occupies its place and does its work. But is this apparent death anything more than a partial decay, analogous to that by which thousands of perennial plants seem annually to perish from the face of the earth, under the frosts of autumn, but the roots of which, nevertheless, carefully preserve their life-principle within, ready to respond with swift springing verdure to the tender kisses and tears of the springtime sun and rain? Is not all death only a sleep?
Bergan had striven conscientiously to destroy his love for Carice, as a thing which, however innocent in its birth, had grown to be a sin. And he had measurably succeeded. His worst heartache was over. Life had ceased to look unattractive; if it did not promise happiness, it offered plenty of work, and a sober well-being. He was beginning to feel the beneficent operation of the law of change, to find that sorrow was not meant to be the life-tenant of any human heart. If he had met Carice under other circumstances, less calculated to throw him off his guard, he would doubtless have approved himself master of the situation; meeting her with calm cousinly courtesy and kindness, and stifling only a momentary pang in his deep heart. But seeing her thus,—pale, motionless, unconscious,—dying, perhaps, if not already dead,—flung back at his feet, for sympathy and succor, by some mysterious turn of the same tide of circumstance which had borne her away,—a lost jewel, restored after many days,—it is scarcely to be wondered at that, for one moment, as he knelt by the inanimate form, he forgot all the sorrowful past in the anxiety of the present, and touched the mute lips with the warm kiss of a love which, though long repressed and slumbering, seemed now to have neither wasted nor died.
He soon recollected himself, however; when, seeing that Carice still breathed, and was probably only stunned by her fall, he at once addressed himself to the consideration of the serious question what was to be done with her. She had fled suddenly, it would seem, led by some wild, uncontrollable impulse; nothing shielded her from chill or from observation but a nightdress and a light shawl; on one foot was a thin slipper, the other was bare and bleeding; and her dishevelled hair fell round her shoulders, some locks of which, he now noticed, were encrimsoned by blood flowing from a deep cut in her head.
He glanced quickly round; the dawn was yet gray, there was no one astir at the Hall, and probably not at Oakstead; unless she had been missed, there was still time to save her from what, he knew, she would feel to be worse than death, when fully restored to consciousness. He lifted her in his arms—it went to his heart, even at that moment, to feel how thin and light she was—and bore her swiftly to the door of her home. There Mr. Bergan and Rosa met him; they had just discovered her absence, but had not given the alarm; they were still too bewildered to know precisely what steps should be taken for her recovery. Bergan carried her to the library, and laid her on the sofa. As he did so, she opened her eyes, turned from him to Mr. Bergan, and cried out, in a voice of mingled entreaty and determination;—
Father, I cannot be Doctor Remy's wife!
Bergan looked at his uncle with a mixture of surprise and apprehension. "She is delirious," said he.
No, thank God! answered Mr. Bergan, with a look of ineffable relief and gladness; "she is herself again—clothed and in her right mind."
The twelvemonth gone by had not passed lightly over Godfrey Bergan. He was not the same man who had refused so peremptorily to listen to Bergan, on that memorable eve of Carice's wedding. Not only had he grown grayer and thinner, slower of gait and heavier of step; not only were his shoulders bent and his head drooping; but his face wore an expression of settled gravity, bordering on melancholy, and his manner was gentle, almost to submissiveness. Since the night when he had staggered into the cabin of the trusty Bruno, bending under the weight of his dripping burden, he had never, in one sense, laid it down. The thought that he had forced his daughter into a marriage so abhorrent to her that she had been fain to escape from it through the awful door of suicide, had never ceased to haunt his mind, and burden his heart and his conscience.
It had not occurred to him that the fall from the bridge was accidental, inasmuch as Rosa had deemed it her duty to keep inviolate the secret of her young mistress's errand abroad on that night; he was therefore unable to conjecture why Carice should have sought the river-side at so inopportune an hour, except with a purpose of self-destruction. Nor did it give him any comfort to reflect that her mind must have been set all ajar, before she would have resorted to so desperate an expedient; that only lifted the terrible responsibility from her shoulders to lay it more crushingly on his own. It was he, who, without giving her time to recover from the shock of Bergan's apparent infidelity, or the fatigue and anxiety occasioned by his own illness, had urged her into a union with a man for whom she persistently asserted that she neither had, nor would ever be likely to have, any warmer feeling than respect for his intellectual attainments, and admiration for his professional skill and devotion. To be sure, he had done it solely with a view to her happiness,—doing evil that good might come, and finding too late that "Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he reap."
First, on that woful night, he had carried Carice to Bruno's cabin, partly because it was nearer to the scene of the disaster, and partly because he feared to encounter some lingering guest or indiscreet servant, if he took her to the cottage. Fortunately, Bruno and his wife were both within; and the latter immediately applied herself to the work of restoration according to her lights; while the former was dispatched, with suitable injunctions to be secret and expeditious, to bring more efficient aid in the person of Doctor Remy.
It soon appeared that—thanks to her father's promptness—Carice had sustained little injury from her immersion in the water; but, though heart and lungs were quickly brought to resume their functions, her senses remained fast locked in stupor. Knitting his brows, for a brief space, over this unexpected complication, Doctor Remy betook himself to a careful examination of the patient's head; and shortly announced that he had discovered a severe contusion of the skull, implying more or less serious injury to the brain.
The stupor would last hours—possibly days. Meanwhile, many appliances and comforts which the cabin could not afford, would be demanded; he therefore advised her immediate removal to the cottage. Mr. Bergan hastened to break the distressing news to her mother, and to make sure that the house and grounds were clear; then Carice was carefully placed on a litter, and borne to her own room.
It was long before she showed any sign of consciousness, longer still before she was free from the supervening fever and delirium, and capable of coherent thought and expression. When that time came, it was found that her memory of the past five months was a blank. Bergan's unaccountable silence, her father's trying illness, Doctor Remy's unacceptable suit, and the ill-starred marriage ceremony—everything which had distressed her mind or wounded her heart, had been completely wiped out of her recollection as by some friendly, pitying hand; and she was carried back, all unconscious of the transit, to the tender joy and blissful content with which she had parted from Bergan. To her thought it was only a few days since he went; yet, with a pleasant inconsequence, she was already beginning to watch for his return. At first, she had seemed a little bewildered by the change of season; it was amidst the flower and foliage of early summer that Bergan had said good-bye; now, the deciduous trees stood bare against the sky, and the flower-beds were shorn of their glory. But her mind was too feeble to reason, and she soon accepted the fact, as she did many another, without trying to account for it. Enough to know that, winter being near, Bergan must be near also.
It may be noted as a curiously ironical turn of that blind Chance, or Fate, in which Doctor Remy believed, that he was compelled, in his professional capacity, to give orders that Carice should be carefully humored, for the present, in this or any other delusion. There was something at stake of far more importance, to him, than his personal feelings as a man or a bridegroom—namely, the ownership of Bergan Hall. In consideration of that, Carice must be spared everything tending to excite or distress her, and indulged in whatever was soothing to her mind, or pleasing to her fancy.
Meanwhile, he addressed himself, with renewed ardor and determination, to the study of brain diseases. His attention had already been engaged by the recently promulged theory of Gall, that each faculty of the mind had its distinct location in the brain; and he was quick to see the fine field thereby opened to pathological investigation. It was in this direction that he hoped, some day, to make his name famous; and it was chiefly as a means to this end that Bergan Hall was valuable in his eyes. He wanted wealth in order to be able to devote himself exclusively to the study of this branch of medical science, and to pursue it, unhampered by considerations of expense, throughout the books and manuscripts, the practitioners and patients, the hospitals and asylums, the morgues and the dissecting-rooms, of the whole world. Till he could do that, he must content himself with the one patient whom circumstance had thrown into his hands.
But here, he was unexpectedly disappointed, in a measure. Whether it were that enough of her recollection revived to associate him dimly with anxiety and distress; or whether, her reason being in abeyance, she was more controlled by her pure and delicate instincts; certain it is, that Carice's fever no sooner left her, than she developed the most unconquerable aversion to him, amounting in time to a degree of terror. At his approach, she either hid her face, and trembled like an aspen leaf, or she fled with cries of fright. And these moments of excitement were followed by such alarming prostration, that Doctor Remy was reluctantly compelled to admit the necessity of keeping out of her sight. His investigations had thenceforth to be conducted through the agency of her parents or of Rosa. Now and then, when she slept,—and her sleep was always singularly profound, the very twin brother of death,—he stole into her room, to acquaint himself with some particular of the location, depth, or progress in healing, of the injury to her head, and to satisfy himself of the state of her general health.
To every one but Doctor Remy, Carice was gentleness itself. She was happiness, too, in a touchingly quiet, dreamy, illogical form. She was content to spend hours at the window, watching for the first glimpse of Bergan, with a smile on her lips, and her eyes bright with eager expectation; and though she sometimes sighed, when the day ended, and he did not come, she was ready to begin the same hopeful watch on the morrow, and never seemed to know how long it had lasted. As she grew stronger, she resumed, in some measure, her old pursuits;—she busied herself with light household tasks; she wrought dainty embroidery with silks and worsteds; she read, chiefly poetry, the music of which seemed to please her ear, without fatiguing her mind; she even noticed the cloud on her father's brow, and made gentle war upon it,—conquering, of course, as long as he was in her sight, and never suspecting how heavily it settled back afterward. But all this time, the veil over the past never lifted, nor was the eager watch for Bergan ever abandoned.
The few intimate friends, or the servants not of the household, who saw her occasionally, noticed nothing unusual about her, except the delicacy and languor consequent upon a severe illness; Mrs. Bergan being always present to turn the conversation away from every dangerous point, and guide it through safe channels. To the rest of the world, it was simply known that Carice had suddenly been stricken down, on her wedding night, by a fever, supposed to be of the same nature as the one which had lately prostrated her father; and that she was not yet sufficiently strong to show herself abroad, or see much company at home. Doctor Remy, meanwhile, came and went, and spent as much time at the cottage as could reasonably be expected of a physician with a large area of practice, and an office three miles away from his nominal home. Not a person, outside of the limited household, supposed that he never saw Carice, except when she was fast asleep, and totally unconscious of his presence.
So the months rolled away, and the year drew near to its close. Doctor Remy had prosecuted his abstruse study, by the dim light of the science of that day, with characteristic energy and acuteness. He had slowly felt his way, from the premise that each faculty of the mind had its appropriate seat in the brain, to the conclusion that every local injury or disease would affect mainly the faculty corresponding to the injured or diseased portion, thereby not only indicating the seat of the impaired faculty, but suggesting the possibility of a local remedy for the local disturbance,—probably a delicate and difficult surgical operation, to remove pus, slivers of bone, or other foreign matter pressing upon, piercing, or otherwise irritating the sensitive cellular tissue of the brain. Now, he only longed for an opportunity to test his conclusions by experiment, and would certainly have attempted to use Carice for this purpose, except that on her slender thread of life hung his only chance of Bergan Hall. It would not do to sacrifice the immense future advantage to the small immediate gain.
Nature, meanwhile, was laboring in her slow, gentle way, to effect the same end contemplated by the doctor's science. With the beginning of November, a change was observable in Carice. Her sweet face lost its look of happy anticipation, and grew weary and anxious. There were tokens that she was beginning to reason again, in a fitful, fragmentary way, and to notice some of the many discrepancies between the facts and the theories of her life; sometimes she put her hand to her head with a piteous expression of doubt and bewilderment. By and by, she became possessed of a spirit of restlessness by day, and of sleeplessness by night; making the care of her—hitherto an easy and a pleasant task—a sufficiently onerous charge. Thus it happened that she had made her escape to the Hall, as heretofore narrated. Her night had been restless, beyond all previous precedent, keeping Rosa constantly on the watch. Toward dawn, she had fallen into a light slumber, during which the weary attendant, sitting quietly by the bedside, had suddenly been overcome by a profound sleep. Waking ere long, and not wishing to disturb her tired maid, Carice stole softly to the window, to look out, as usual, for Bergan's coming, and saw the light shining again from the window of his room in the old Hall. The broken links in the chain of association were stirred, if not reunited,—perhaps a dim reminiscence of her former attempt to reach him woke within her,—she wrapped herself in the first shawl that came to hand, thrust her feet into a pair of slippers, and noiselessly made her way out of the house and down to the river, exactly as she had done a year before. At the gap in the foot-bridge, through which she had fallen, she stopped and put her hand to her brow, in a momentary perplexity. Here, her memory of the former expedition, which had led her thus far on her way, failed her;—what was she to do next?
Lifting her eyes, she again caught sight of the light from the Hall, which had recently been hidden by the trees. Her lips parted in a smile; her hesitation was at an end. Clinging to the hand-rail of the bridge, and sliding her feet carefully along the great beam underneath, she safely passed the gap,—though she lost a slipper in the transit,—and then hurried to the Hall, to meet with the accident lately described.
All of the foregoing history—or at least as much of it as was known to him—Mr. Bergan recounted to his nephew, in a long conversation held in the parlor, after Carice had been soothed by her father's promise that she should be compelled to do nothing but what was right and agreeable in her own eyes, and left to the care of her mother and Rosa. Now, too, the loss of Bergan's letters to his uncle and Carice was discovered; the false or distorted statements in those of Doctor Remy to himself were brought to light and discussed; finally, Mr. Bergan was glad to listen to a succinct recital of Doctor Trubie's reasons for believing Felix Remy to be identical with Edmund Roath.
In the course of the conversation, all reserve between the uncle and nephew insensibly melted away, and the last topic was discussed upon terms of the most cordial confidence and sympathy. Bergan's high reputation in Savalla had not failed to reach his uncle's ears, and sometimes to make him doubt if all his old prejudice was well founded; and now, there was so much dignity and gentleness in his bearing, his words were so full of unselfish consideration for others, he showed himself so ready still, as heretofore, to sacrifice every merely personal feeling to Carice's welfare, that Mr. Bergan's heart, softened and humbled as it had been by adversity, was irresistibly won. He was glad to feel that he had so dispassionate a judgment, so wise a counsellor, and so kind a friend, to lean upon, in this moment of perplexity.
The talk was broken in upon by a message from Mrs. Bergan. Carice, after her manifold questions in regard to the circumstances in which she found herself had been answered or evaded, had sunk into a deep, but apparently natural sleep. Still, her mother could not but be extremely anxious about her; and she suggested that Doctor Remy, or some one else, should be immediately sent for, to provide against the contingency of her waking.
Mr. Bergan looked anxiously at his nephew. "After what you have told me," said he, "I do not feel that I can allow that man to enter Carice's room again, even when she is sleeping. Yet, be he what or whom he may, his professional skill is undeniable, and her life or reason may turn on those waking moments. What is to be done?"
Do you know where he is to be found? asked Bergan.
No. He merely told me that he had a critical case on hand, which would keep him out all night, and perhaps we should not see him before noon to-day. I suppose he can be heard of at his office.
Bergan reflected for a moment. "By this time," said he, "Doctor Gerrish must be on his way to the Hall. From what I have known and heard of him, I believe him to be both a promising physician and an honorable man. Send Bruno to intercept him, on the plea that the dead can wait for his services better than the living. Then tell him, in strict confidence, enough of Carice's condition to make him understand the case; but you need say nothing of Doctor Remy, except that he is not at hand, and you feared to wait. Finally, ask, as a special favor, that he will not mention his visit to Doctor Remy, lest the latter be annoyed. He will think you weak and overscrupulous, but he will promise."
This advice was acted upon. Doctor Gerrish, after listening to Mr. Bergan's statement and examining Carice as she lay asleep, decided that the recent wound, which was in the neighborhood of the former one, had, in some mysterious way, relieved the inflammation, or counteracted the injury, caused by that—in short, had done precisely what Doctor Remy proposed to do by means of an operation. He furthermore believed that Nature was making her final effort at restoration through the deep sleep which held Carice in bonds so gentle and so firm; and he gave strict orders that nothing should be suffered to break it. It would doubtless last some hours, perhaps the whole day; or if she woke, it would be merely to swallow a little nourishment, which should be given her, and then to fall asleep again.
Bergan had waited to hear this decision, and he now requested Doctor Gerrish to ride on to the Hall, where he would join him almost immediately, by the shorter way of the foot-bridge. His uncle detained him longer than he expected, however, for a final consultation about several important matters; and he was conscious that Doctor Gerrish must have been kept waiting for a considerable time, when he finally quitted the house. Hurrying to the foot-bridge, he saw two rough-looking men crossing it from the direction of the Hall. At sight of him, they interchanged a few words, and then came to meet him.
Mr. Arling, I believe, said one, touching his hat. "We have been asking at the Hall for you, and a doctor that we saw there told us that you were coming this way, and asked us to say, if we met you, that he begged you would hurry."
Thank you, said Bergan. "That is what I am doing."
Not so fast, interrupted the other, who was a tall, muscular fellow with a sinister countenance. "You are that Lawyer Arling, I reckon, who got my brother sentenced to state prison last month for burglary."
I did my duty as prosecuting attorney for the State, if that is what you mean, replied Bergan, coolly.
You did, did you? Well, I'm going to do mine, which is to knock you down for it.
With these words, the man raised his powerful fist. Bergan instinctively threw himself into the attitude of defence; but the ruffian's companion, who had edged behind him, caught hold of both his arms; and the unparried blow felled him senseless to the ground.
However cold a man's temperament may be by nature, however complete the subjection of his passions to his reason and his will, he is nearly certain, in the sudden excitement and confusion of detected guilt, to be betrayed into some act instantly condemned by his better judgment. Such had been the case with Doctor Remy, in his encounter with Hubert Arling at the "Rat-Hole." Mistaking Hubert for Bergan, and believing him to be there only to spy out his actions and thwart his designs, it had been his first impulse to draw the pistol, which he habitually carried, according to the custom of the times and locality, and free himself at once and forever from interference that he conceived to be so dangerous. His chagrin at finding that he had mistaken one brother for the other, was only equalled by his surprise at his calm dismissal and friendly warning, at Bergan's hands. It did not take him long to fix upon the hidden motive of this conduct,—to decide, with a bitter smile, that he had been spared for the sake of Carice.
Yet he had no idea of the extent of Bergan's forbearance toward him on this head. It must be remembered that he never received the slightest intimation of Doctor Trubie's suspicions, or of Bergan's visit to Oakstead, on the night of the wedding. Godfrey Bergan had omitted any mention of either; first, because he had been prevented from doing so by the overwhelming distress and anxiety that had come upon him so suddenly; and afterward, because it had seemed wiser, on the whole, to say nothing. Doctor Remy, therefore, had no suspicion of the mine over which he had been standing, on that night, nor how its explosion had been averted. From his point of view, Bergan's sudden removal to Savalla, in consideration of the prospect there opened to him, was the most natural thing in the world. Nor did he know any reason why himself and his former friend should not meet on the old terms, upon occasion, except that the gain of the one had been the loss of the other, in respect to Carice. Even here, however, he held himself to be ostensibly blameless, inasmuch as womankind was proverbially fickle, and Bergan had no reason to suppose that he was aware of any relation between him and Carice other than the outward one. He deeply regretted, therefore, that in a moment of surprise and confusion, he should have put himself in a false position. It would have been far better to have met Bergan with the careless ease of a conscience void of offence. But, since he had not done so, it was well that Carice was his sufficient safeguard against retaliation.
Yet one word had fallen from Bergan's lips, which had startled him at the moment, and haunted him on his way homeward. The young man had seriously bidden him be thankful that he was saved from "another crime." Was the phrase accidental, or did it imply some knowledge of the affair of the will? In the latter case, was it likely that Bergan would submit to the loss of what he had been encouraged, at one time, to consider his lawful inheritance, without a most rigid scrutiny and investigation of the document by which, while the property was apparently given to Carice, it was done in such a way as to place it absolutely in her husband's control. Would Bergan's forbearance toward her and hers be likely to extend as far as this? Judging by himself, and his experience of men in general, and especially of heirs, he did not hesitate to affirm that it would not. For, though Bergan had seemed to be possessed of some unusually Quixotic notions of honor, independence, and disinterestedness, during the period of their intimate association, he had doubtless seen enough of life since then, to grow more sensible. What, then, had he not to dread from his natural acuteness and legal skill, when both of these, sharpened by interest, should be brought to bear on the false will?
Absorbed in these reflections, he had allowed his horse to choose his own pace, which had gradually slackened, from a gallop to a trot, and then into a walk, until, at last, he was easily overtaken by Dick Causton, in whose eyes there still shone a humorous twinkle.
Those Arlings seem to be pretty much of a piece, said he; "they both give better than they take, when it comes to blows. However, the Italians say, Tutto s'accommoda, eccetto l'osso del collo,—that means, Everything can be mended except the neck-bone. Yours has come safe out of this fray, but there's no telling how long 'twill stay so, if you're so ready with your pistol."
Pshaw! exclaimed Doctor Remy, angrily. "I am in no mood for jesting. Do you suppose that Arling got any clue to our business in that den?"
How should he?—'A man doesn't look behind the door unless he has been there himself.' Besides, Mr. Arling minds his own business,—which I wish I did!—then I shouldn't have run from him like a dog caught stealing. By the way, Doctor, if the Major makes another will, which cuts the throat of this one of ours, I suppose the forgery goes for nothing?
Doctor Remy looked at him darkly. "What do you mean?" he asked. "Is he thinking of making another?"
Not that I know of, replied Dick. "But, 'At the game's end, see who wins.' There is time for him to make a dozen before he dies."
We will see about that! muttered the doctor.
And if he does, persisted Dick, "our will goes for naught, of course,—won't even be looked at, I suppose. They'll 'trust to the label of the bag,' seeing there's no necessity for opening it!"
Doctor Remy stopped short, and eyed his companion suspiciously, "See here, Dick," said he, in a low, determined tone, "you had better not venture to try any double dealing with me. I will have you to know that I can put you in prison, any day; and I will do it, too, even though I have to go along with you, if you falter one step in the course I have marked out for you. Having begun with me in this business, you will find it for your interest, in more senses than one, to help me through with it."
That is to say, muttered Dick, ruefully, "Die met den duivel ingescheept is, moet met hem overvaren,—Having embarked with the Devil, you have got to sail with him."
The sound of that word "prison" was by no means agreeable in his ears. He had all a vagabond's love for open air and sunshine, and liberty to go and come at his own fitful will. He sickened at the bare idea of prison walls between him and the sky, prison bars between him and the fresh, roving air, prison restraints upon his freedom of action.
Doctor Remy saw the impression that he had made, and proceeded:—"Wherefore, if you hear, or have heard, the Major express any intention of making a new will, I need not suggest the propriety of your giving me immediate warning." The form of the sentence was that of an assertion, but the tone was interrogative.
Dictum sapienti sat est, answered Dick, sulkily, denying himself the pleasure of translating, and immediately closing his lips tight, as if he dared not trust himself to say another word.
In this mood, Doctor Remy thought it better not to press him further. He had been made to see that he was in his power, and had even yielded a reluctant assent to his will; this was gain enough for the present. So, having reached the point where the roads diverged, he bade Dick a smiling "Good-day," turned off toward the Hall; which, it occurred to him, it might be worth while to visit, for the chance of securing useful shreds of information, or of substituting the false will for the true one.
Dick Causton looked after him with a moody, discontented brow. "I am like a leek, a gray head, and all the rest green," he groaned to himself. "I thought I had made a mighty sharp bargain, but it turns out that I've only sold myself to the Devil, to fetch and carry at his bidding. I really gave myself credit for more sense; but, Do entra beber, sale saber, When the drink's in, the wit's out."
With the last words, Dick heaved a deep sigh. It was nothing new to find that his darling sin was an inclined plane, down which he continually slid into the grasp of divers other sins, less to his taste; but never before had it done him so unkind a trick as to fling him into the hands of a man quick to see, and unscrupulous to use, the chance of turning him to account. Yet so completely had all courage and energy of will died out of him, and so thoroughly was he scared at the idea of a prison as a possible termination of his career, that he dared propose to himself only a feeble and covert resistance to Doctor Remy's stern domination. There was present safety in outward submission; and as for the future!—he smiled in spite of his discomfiture.
At the Hall, Doctor Remy was a little startled to find Major Bergan in the clutch of so severe an attack of delirium tremens that death was likely to be the speedy result. It did not suit his plans that the Major's decease should follow so quickly upon the completion of the forged will; he wanted a little more time to mark out and make smooth his future course, and obliterate his more recent track. He therefore set to work, with right good will, and science considerably in advance of the times, to strengthen and quiet his patient, and so prolong his life; certain that, whenever the strong hand of medical authority was withdrawn, he would immediately drink himself into a relapse, which could be allowed to prove fatal. His efforts were not without a measure of success; in three hours, he had so far reduced the fever and excitement that he ventured to leave Rue in charge, while he paid a brief visit to another patient, who had sent for him four or five times during the evening. This desertion of his post was fatal to him. In spite of Rue's best endeavors, Major Bergan succeeded in getting possession of the brandy bottle, and draining it to the last drop. When Doctor Remy returned, it was to find him once more a raving maniac, and to learn to his consternation, that Bergan had been sent for. The Major would die, there was no help for that; but something must be done to prevent the arrival of his nephew until after the true will—and all other wills—had been found and destroyed, and the false one put in its place;—even, if possible, until after the funeral was over, the will read, and the property put into his own hands. Once in possession, he had reason to believe that he could not, or would not, be disturbed.
His stay at the Major's bedside was short, and principally spent in profound meditation; which was set down by the lookers-on to the account of his deep solicitude for the patient. His course was soon decided upon. In less than two hours he was back at the Rat-Hole, in deep conversation with the convalescent, who was known as "Big Ben." Its purport may be gathered from the closing remarks.
You hit pretty hard, I suppose, said the doctor.
Looks like it, don't it? returned Big Ben, holding up his great fist for inspection, with a satisfied smile. "Make yourself easy; yonder lawyer won't trouble you with any cross-questions for a month to come, I'll promise you that. He won't know his head from a bread-and-milk poultice to-morrow morning, if he ever does."
Take care! replied the doctor, warningly; "you know I don't want him killed,—only laid up for two or three weeks, and indisposed to meddle with other people's affairs."
Big Ben smiled grimly. "I'll take care not to do more than stun him, on your account, doctor," he answered; "but I don't say what I shall do, on my brother's. A fellow don't always weight his blows exactly to suit the skull they hit; and if I should happen to put an end to him, without meaning it, you wouldn't take it much to heart, would ye?"
Doctor Remy did not move a muscle of his face, but his eyes sparkled, in spite of himself. Ben laughed, and nodded his head.
Don't trouble yerself to answer, said he; "I understand you well enough without."
But, Ben— began the doctor, in a tone of remonstrance.
Enough said, interrupted the ruffian, impatiently. "If it's me you're afeard for, I'll jest let you know that I've got everything fixed to leave these parts, to-morrow morning—I've heard of a better opening for my talents—so I shall be off before this affair leaks out. As for you, who knows that you've got anything to do with it? It's jest our own private squarin' of accounts; that's all. You saved my life; I squelch this lawyer for you. At the same time I settle up with him, for my brother. If I swing for't, I'm not such a scoundrel as to bring you in. Now, I'm off; there's scant time to fix things, and get to the Hall by day-break. It's too late, you think, to stop him on the way?"
Most certainly; he must have started before this.
And his room is on the south-east corner, you say?
Yes, with windows opening on the second piazza.
However,—thanks to Carice,—the room was empty when Big Ben and his companion looked into it. Determined not to be baffled thus, he prowled around the house, until he was detected by Rue's quick ears in the hall, and asked what was his business; when he truthfully replied that he was seeking for Mr. Arling. Hearing this, Doctor Gerrish came forward, stated where Bergan could probably be found, and entrusted Ben with the message, which, as we have seen, was scrupulously delivered. Bergan was then knocked down; and the inanimate body was dragged by the two ruffians to what seemed to be a remote point of the Oakstead grounds, where it would not be likely to be discovered for some hours, perhaps days. There, Ben debated within himself, for a minute, whether he would leave it its small remaining chance of life; but he remembered that Bergan had seen both himself and his comrade face to face, and would be able to identify them, on occasion. He drew his knife, muttered, "Dead men tell no tales," and sheathed it in the young man's breast.
As he stood upright, his ear caught the faint jar of a closing door, followed by the sound of slow footsteps, and a cracked voice humming a song. Apparently, the spot which he had chosen, lonely as it seemed, was not far from some human dwelling. He and his companion exchanged startled glances, plunged into the underbrush, and fled silently and swiftly.