{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_56980/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_56980","id":"gutenberg_56980","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/56980","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Novels","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Christian fiction","Man-woman relationships -- Fiction","United States -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction"],"text":"Produced by Al Haines\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n  HOLDEN WITH THE CORDS\n\n\n  BY W. M. L. JAY\n\n  Author of \"Shiloh,\" etc.\n\n\n\n  \"Sin will pluck on sin.\"\n                    _King Richard III._\n\n\n\n  NEW YORK\n  E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY,\n  713 BROADWAY\n  1874\n\n\n\n\n  Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by\n  E. P. DUTTON & CO.,\n  In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE.\n\nIn sending forth another book belonging to the class known as religious\nnovels, the author is moved to say a word to the critics who received a\nformer one with so pleasant a mixture of praise and deprecation.  As\none of them frankly explained, \"they like a pill none the better for\nbeing sugar-coated.\"  It is not necessary to remind them that there may\nbe younger (and possibly older) people who do.  It is more to the point\nto state that persons to whom religion is a pill--a bitter, nauseous\ncompound, to be bolted in sickness, and kept out of sight in\nhealth--are not the persons for whom the author writes.\n\nThere is another class of objectors.  They talk solemnly of Art and its\ncanons; they make a religion of it, having little other.  One of these\nremarks, that \"a tract in the hands of the Venus di Medici would be an\nimpertinence.\"  I quite agree with him.  But why need he ignore the\nfact that the Venus is also the outcome of a religion?  To the ancient\nsculptor, it was a goddess, not a woman, that grew under his hands; it\nwas Devotion, working together with Genius, that produced the two or\nthree statues which the world agrees to admire.  So the few great poems\nof the world are religious poems.  Why, then, should not the great\nnovel of the world be a religious novel?  Some day, be sure, a genius\nsweeter than Hawthorne's, more genial than Dickens', and subtler than\nThackeray's, will arise to give it to us.  Let me humbly help to\nprepare the way for him!  Meanwhile, be it also understood that the\npersons to whom Art is a sufficing end, instead of a noble means, are\nnot the persons for whom I write.\n\nI do write for the \"gentle reader\" who enjoys religion in novels, as\nelsewhere.  Be thus much said for his liking, even from the art side.\nThere are two classes of novels--the descriptive and the analytical;\none pictures real life, the other passions and motives.  Religion has\nits rightful place in both, because it is an important part of real\nlife, and controls both passions and motives.  Finally (for the subject\nis much too wide for a preface), the modern novel being so potent a\npower,--for evil on the one hand, for social and civil reform on the\nother,--it is fair to suppose that it may do good service for religion.\n\nIn conclusion, I have to make two acknowledgments.  The first to an\nunknown coadjutor, a hand that is doubtless mouldering into dust.  Some\nyears ago, a yellow, time-worn manuscript, purporting to be a veritable\nfamily history, fell into my hands.  I am indebted to it for the main\noutline of my story.  The second is to MISS FREEBORNE,--the only\nsculptor of our day, so far as I know, who has consecrated her genius\nto Christian Art.  From her studio I have quietly abstracted the\nsculpture which lends its white grace to these pages.  I should also\nhave seized upon the slender figure of her St. Agnes, and the bowed\nhead of her Martyr, had they been available to my purpose.\n\nNEW YORK, July, 1874.\n\n\n\n\n  CONTENTS.\n\n  INTRODUCTION\n\n\n  PART FIRST.\n\n  A WAY THAT SEEMETH RIGHT.\n\n  I.--Proverbs and the Interpretation\n  II.--Studying to Answer\n  III.--Pattern of Old Fidelity\n  IV.--A Goodly Heritage\n  V.--Waste Places\n  VI.--The Day of Temptation\n  VII.--A Bitter Draught\n  VIII.--As a Dream when one Awaketh\n  IX.--The Blot Cleaves\n\n\n  PART SECOND.\n\n  THE FRUIT OF THE WAY.\n\n  I.--Through a Mist\n  II.--Strengthened out of Zion\n  III.--Seeing, but Understanding Not\n  IV.--Patient Waiting\n  V.--Under the Oaks\n  VI.--Of Clay\n  VII.--Hidden Riches\n  VIII.--The Wind Changes\n  IX.--The First Links of a Chain\n  X.--Feeling His Way\n  XI.--Sleepless Nights Appointed\n  XII.--A Consultation\n  XIII.--Dinner-Table Talk\n\n\n  PART THIRD.\n\n  THE IN-GATHERING.\n\n  I.--Unfoldings\n  II.--The Foundations Fail\n  III.--Building Anew\n  IV.--A Sermon\n  V.--Partings\n  VI.--With a Double Heart\n  VII.--Overburdened\n  VIII.--A Business Letter\n  IX.--Smoother Than Butter\n  X.--A Wicked Device\n  XI.--A Clue\n  XII.--Too Late\n  XIII.--Escaped\n  XIV.--The Way Stopped\n\n\n  PART FOURTH.\n\n  A NEW FIELD.\n\n  I.--Alive in Famine\n  II.--New Acquaintances\n  III.--Farview\n  IV.--A Word in Due Season\n  V.--Intercepted\n  VI.--An Aimless Stroll\n  VII.--Ordered Steps\n  VIII.--Though He Slay\n  IX.--Mistakes\n  X.--Like a Thief in the Night\n  XI.--After Many Days\n\n\n  PART FIFTH.\n\n  A BETTER HARVEST.\n\n  I.--A Cloud for a Covering\n  II.--Swift Feet\n  III.--Fatality or Temptation\n  IV.--Blind\n  V.--More Mystery\n  VI.--A Clue\n  VII.--The Set Time\n  VIII.--Gift and Giver\n  IX.--Faithful unto Death\n\n\n\n\nHOLDEN WITH THE CORDS.\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTION.\n\nVery beautiful was the long vista of the elm-arched street.  So\nirresistibly did it woo the eye to linger among its gray columns and\ngreen arches, or wander adown its fair, temple-like perspective to the\nhazy vanishing point, that the wayfarer might easily forget to observe\nwhat sort of dwellings were ranged along its sides.  Nor did they seek\nto force themselves upon his notice.  They were all plain, substantial\nstructures, with no obtrusive marks of ostentation or of meanness about\nthem; and they all stood a little back from the street, leaving room\nfor a trim grass-plot, or a thicket of flowering shrubs, between them\nand the passer-by.  They would impress him, collectively, as genuine,\nwell-to-do homes, free alike from the struggles of poverty and the\ntemptations of wealth, without troubling him to recognize them\nindividually, or diverting his gaze from the over-arching elms that\nwere so much better worth his looking at.\n\nSuch, at least, would be the fact, until he came to a certain corner;\nwhere a large square structure of stuccoed brick, coming boldly forward\nto the pavement, and planting its heavy steps thereon, would be sure to\narrest his glance, and, perhaps, faintly stir his curiosity.  It was\ntoo large for a private building, and too unpretending for a public\none,--what was it?  If he had put the inquiry into audible words, he\nwould have been told that it was the Medical College.  And if his\ninterlocutor had chanced to be a white-haired, genial-faced old man,\nlong ago flung aside from the stream of active life, and, consequently,\nwith time on his hands for a little chat with a stranger,--he would,\ndoubtless, have woven into his answer the popular witticism;--\n\n\"Everything here, sir, is arranged just as it should be.  The divinity\nschool is on the road to the poorhouse; the law-school adjoins the\njail; and the medical college--this building before you, sir--is hard\nby the cemetery;--you can see the monuments rising above the hedge\nyonder.\"\n\nBut the young man now coming up the street, through the pleasant play\nof sunshine and shadow beneath the elms, would neither have asked the\nquestion, nor smiled at the answer.  He knew the stuccoed building\nwell, as a three years' occupant thereof must needs do; and he had\nheard and repeated the witticism too many times to leave it the\nfaintest sparkle.  It was doubtful, too, whether he gave a thought to\nthe loveliness of the elm-arched vista that stretched before\nhim,--partly by reason of his familiarity therewith, partly on account\nof a preoccupied mind, and still more, perhaps, because his bright,\nbrisk, energetic temperament was not of the sort which is quickest to\nfeel subtile charm, and recognize the delicate outline, of the spirit\nof beauty.  He came on rapidly, with an elastic step and a cheery\nwhistle, and, as he neared the college, he cast a quick glance at one\nof its upper windows.  What he saw there would have been a pretty\nenough sight to most people,--merely a tiny brown bird hopping to and\nfro on the window-sill, and turning its small head briskly from side to\nside in its search for infinitesimal crumbs,--but it brought a shadow\nto his broad, frank brow.\n\n\"Not yet up,\" he muttered, \"or that wren wouldn't be trotting up and\ndown there so complacently!  To be sure, he may have gone out, but it\nisn't likely.\"\n\nNeither for the look nor the thought did he pause, but strode straight\nup two flights of stairs, his firm tread resounding loudly through the\nempty, uncarpeted halls, and knocked at the door of a front room.\nThere was no response.  He knocked again, with a somewhat impatient\nhand, tried the door and found it locked, waited a moment, beat a third\nemphatic rat-tat-too upon the panel, without eliciting other reply than\na faint and dreary echo from the attic above; and, finally, turned on\nhis heel, and walked down-stairs.  At the head of the second flight, a\nthought seemed to strike him; after a moment of hesitation, he turned\nand knocked at a door close at hand.  Scarcely waiting for the prompt\n\"Come in!\" he opened it, with the question,--\"Have you seen Arling this\nmorning?\"\n\nThe occupant of the room was a broad-shouldered young man, sitting at a\ntable covered with books and papers, and deeply absorbed in study.  He\nonly half turned his head, showing a regular, clear-cut profile, as he\nanswered,--\n\n\"No.  I left him so late last night that I overslept this morning, and\nhave thought of nothing but making up lost time.  And really, Trubie, a\nman might be excused for forgetting his best friend--if he had one--in\nexamination week.  But, is Arling any worse?\"\n\n\"That's what I should like to know, Roath,\" returned Trubie, planting\nhimself a little more firmly on the threshold, but taking no notice of\nthe chair that the other had carelessly pushed toward him.  \"At any\nrate, he's out.\"\n\nRoath started, and turned completely round, giving a view of a\nsquare-featured, somewhat moody, but still handsome, face.  \"Out!\" he\nrepeated, looking both amazed and startled.\n\n\"So it would seem.  The door is locked, and I rapped and rattled loud\nenough to wake the dead.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" said Roath, with a prolonged falling inflection.  And after a\nmoment's consideration, he turned back to his books, as if there were\nno more to be said.\n\nTrubie lingered.  Not, evidently, from any special liking for Roath's\nsociety, but because he was undecided what to do next.  \"I don't\nunderstand it, Roath,\" he said slowly.  \"You know Arling was to have\nkept his room to-day, by way of gaining strength, and guarding against\na relapse.  And we were to have gone over 'Barnes' together this\nmorning, so as to be all primed for Professor Beers to-morrow.  What\n_can_ he have done with himself?\"\n\n\"Perhaps,\" said Roath, absently, with his eyes on his book, \"some of\nthe others may have seen him.\"\n\nTrubie took the hint--if such it was meant to be--and withdrew.  He\nspent the next half hour in knocking at sundry doors, and repeating,\nwith slight variation, the questions and remarks wherewith he had\nfavored Roath.  No one had seen Arling; no one knew anything about him.\nAll seemed surprised to learn that he had gone out; but all were\nlaboriously cramming for the examinations in progress, and the surprise\nmade but a faint and transient ripple on the surface of their troubled\nminds.  Trubie's persistency impressed them much more strongly; they\nwondered that he had leisure to bestow upon any anxiety not connected\nwith those dreaded examinations, any fear save that of failing to\nsecure the right to sign himself, \"Frank Trubie, M.D.\"\n\nNor--to represent him fairly--was the young man himself wholly\ninsensible of his absurdity.  \"Well!\" said he, at last, \"I can't afford\nto spend my morning in this way.  I must go back to my room, and set to\nwork.  When Arling comes in, tell him I've been here.\"  And away he\nwent through the dancing elm-shadows, more quickly than he had come.\n\nTwo hours passed.  Then Roath closed his books, gathered up his papers,\nand took his way to the examination room, amid the groups of assembling\nstudents.  Many eyes followed him, some with admiration, some with\nenvy,--few or none, it was plain to see, with affection.\n\n\"No question but that he'll pass!\" said one.  \"He's all brain,--I'd be\ncontent with half as much.\"\n\n\"And his memory!\" exclaimed another.  \"It appears to be constructed on\nthe principle of a rat-trap; ingress is easy, egress--not provided for!\"\n\n\"No one can keep step with him but Arling,\" remarked a third; \"if _he_\ngets well enough, there will be a close race between them.\"\n\n\"I bet on Arling,\" said a fourth,--a somewhat slender young man, with\nan easy, almost careless air, but a thoughtful face,--Mark Tracey by\nname.\n\n\"Eh! why?\" asked the first speaker.\n\n\"Because, as you said just now, Roath is all brain.  Whereas Arling,\nwhile he does not want for brain, has also a heart and a conscience.\nAnd in medicine, as in everything else, that wonderful trio are too\nstrong for brain alone.\"\n\n\"Moralizing, as usual,\" returned the other with a light laugh.\n\n\"Not at all.  It is plain common-sense.  The history of the world shows\nit.  Perhaps there is no better type of pure intellect than Satan.  And\nMichael the archangel does very well for a representative of love,\nduty, and intellect, combined.  You remember which beat?\"\n\n\"It is not possible, Tracey, that you believe that fable!\"\n\n\"Grant that it is a fable,\" replied Tracey, lifting his eyebrows;--\"it\nnevertheless stands for the concrete wisdom of the ages which preceded\nit.\"\n\nThe last words were spoken on the threshold of the examination room,\nand, of necessity, closed the discussion.\n\nRoath's examination, on this day, did not disappoint the general\nexpectation.  Although somewhat paler than ordinary, he was thoroughly\nself-possessed; his answers were clear and to the point; not once did\nhis memory play him false; scarcely once did he hesitate for a word.\nHe gave evidence not only of close study, but of careful analysis, and\nprofound, sagacious thought.  But he looked worn when it was over, as\nif the mental strain had been severe; and seemed scarcely to hear the\ncomments and congratulations showered upon him.\n\nInto the midst of these burst Trubie, with the old question, \"Have you\nseen anything of Arling?\" and hardly waiting for the general \"No\" which\nanswered it, upstairs he rushed, three steps at a time, to the room of\nhis friend.  The stream of talk had scarcely resumed its flow, ere he\nwas back again, with a hurried step, and a perturbed face.\n\n\"It's odd about Arling,\" he began, abruptly.  \"I can't get any answer,\nand there's nothing stirring in the room.  But I looked into the\nkeyhole, and the key is certainly inside.\"\n\nSome few of the students, startled by his words, and the deep gravity\nof his look, gathered around him to discuss the matter, when a stout,\ngray-haired professor came out from the examination room.\n\n\"Good day, Mr. Trubie,\" said he, as he passed the group.  \"I hope your\npatient is doing well.\"\n\n\"I--I don't know, sir,\" faltered Trubie; \"I have not seen him since\nyesterday, at dusk.  And he is unaccountably missing this morning;--at\nleast, I thought he must be out when I went to his room, at eight\no'clock, and couldn't get in.  But I have just been up again, and--and\nthe door is certainly locked on the inside.\"\n\nBeing already in possession of the main facts of the case,--namely,\nthat Alec Arling, one of the class of medical students now undergoing\nexamination for their degree, had been suffering for some days from\nsevere and increasing intestinal trouble, and had been advised by the\nfaculty to keep his room for a day or two, under the care of his\nfriend, Frank Trubie;--the professor now, by means of a few rapid\nquestions, elicited the additional facts, that Trubie had been suddenly\ncalled away, on the previous evening, by family affliction, to his home\nin a near suburb, and had spent the night there, and that Edmund Roath,\nwho had volunteered to keep a little watch over the sick-room during\nhis absence, had remained with Arling till past midnight, engaged in\ncomparing notes of clinical lectures, and in psychological talk (with\nwhich matters Arling _would_ busy himself, in spite of remonstrance),\nand had then left him, recommending him to go to sleep at once, and had\nheard the door duly locked on his exit.  Roath further stated that, in\nconsequence of this protracted sitting, and previous hard work, he had\nslept late this morning; and, taking it for granted that Trubie,\naccording to promise, was already back at his post, he had seated\nhimself at his books, immediately upon rising.  Very shortly after,\nTrubie had appeared, and informed him that Arling had gone out, whereat\nhe had been considerably surprised,--not that the young man was unable\nto leave his room, but because it was inexpedient to do so.\nNevertheless, he frankly acknowledged that his mind was too much\npreoccupied to give more than a passing thought to the matter,\nespecially as he knew well that any remissness on his part was sure to\nbe amply atoned for by Trubie,--he and Arling being, as everybody knew,\nthe Damon and Pythias of the class.\n\nThe professor was a man of few words, quick conclusions, and prompt\naction.  \"There is but one way of getting at the bottom of the matter,\"\nsaid he, at the end of this rapid statement.  \"Let somebody bring a\ncrowbar, and pry open the door.\"\n\nScarce sooner said than done.  The door yielded easily to the rude\nimplement, in Trubie's impetuous hands, and was followed by a rush of\nthe assembled students toward the opening,--though, even in this moment\nof eager curiosity, the instinct of subordination allowed the professor\nto in first.  He went straight to the bed, where was seen a human form,\nlying on its side, in an easy attitude of slumber.  He bent for a\nmoment above this form, while a sudden silence fell upon the startled\nspectators,--he touched the brow, lifted the hand, and then, turning\nslowly round, said, in deep, serious tones;--\n\n\"He is dead.\"\n\nTrubie let fall the crowbar, darted forward, and caught the hand of his\ndead friend, with a kind of indignant incredulity.  But the icy touch,\nthe marble pallor, the lifeless weight, brought instant conviction.  He\nstood as if stunned.\n\nThe professor had turned from the bed to the table, where a glass, a\nspoon, and four or five phials, stood within easy reach of the dead\nman's hand.  He held the spoon to his nostrils, and then examined the\nphials, holding them up to the light.  In one, labelled \"_Mag. Sol.\nMorph.,_\"  he seemed to find what he sought.\n\n\"Mr. Trubie,\" said he, turning round, with the open phial in his hand,\n\"did your friend ever say anything to you, that indicated a disposition\nto suicide?\"\n\nThe question roused the young man from his stupor, although it was a\nmoment or two ere he seemed to comprehend its purport fully.  \"Never,\nsir!\" he exclaimed, indignantly, a hot flush rising to his brow,--\"Alec\nArling would have scorned to do such a thing!  He was neither a fool\nnor a coward, sir!  Besides, there was no earthly reason why he should\ndo it.\"\n\nThe professor shook his head.  \"He seems to have done it,\nnevertheless,\" said he, thoughtfully.  \"To be sure,\" he added, after a\nmoment, \"it is barely possible that he took it by mistake.\"\n\n\"Most likely, that is the real state of the case,\" remarked Roath, who\nwas standing on the other side of the table, calmly and gravely\nobservant of the scene.\n\nIn temperaments like Trubie's, the transition from grief to anger is\noften curiously direct; the one is the natural outlet of the other; and\nin this instance, the sound of Roath's voice seemed to afford the\nbereaved and horrified young man the object of indignation that he so\nsorely needed.  Springing quickly forward, and clenching his fist, he\nconfronted the speaker with a convulsive rage and excitement in strong\ncontrast with Roath's grave composure.\n\n\"You know better!\" he shouted.  \"It was neither a suicide nor a\nmistake.  You killed him!\"\n\nRoath gave a violent start, and seemed about to speak, but his lips\nonly trembled nervously.  He was evidently confounded, almost\nbewildered, by the suddenness and fierceness of the accusation.\n\nTrubie went on with scarce a moment's pause, and with, still hotter\nindignation, \"You were last in his room--you acknowledge it.  And you\nhated him.\"\n\nRoath had regained his self-command,--which, to do him justice, he had\nbut for an instant lost.  \"If you were not beside yourself with grief,\"\nsaid he, coldly, \"there could be but one answer to such a charge as\nthat.  As it is--\"\n\n\"'As it is,' I repeat it,\" interrupted Trubie, with bitter scorn.  \"I\nrepeat it, and am ready to maintain it, always--anywhere--anyhow!\"\n\nRoath drew himself up.  \"I, too, am ready,\"--he began, haughtily, but\nthe professor interposed.  \"Mr. Roath,\" said he, with dignity, \"I\ncommand you to be silent.  Mr. Trubie,\"--laying his hand on the\nshoulder of the agitated young man, and speaking in a tone of grave\nrebuke,--\"much may be forgiven to the first excitement of sorrow and\nhorror, but this is going too far.  Such an accusation is not to be\nmade lightly.\"\n\n\"Lightly!\" repeated the frantic Trubie;--\"he hated Alec, I tell you!\nHe couldn't forgive him for rivalling him--aye, and beating him,\ntoo--everywhere; in scholarship, in popularity, in\"--he hesitated for\nan instant,--\"in love.\"\n\nRoath's face grew dark; a frown traced a deep, vertical line between\nhis brows; he set his teeth, and made a quick stride forward.  But a\ndozen hands seized him, a dozen others laid hold of Trubie, and both\nwere half forced, half led away to their rooms; while the faculty of\nthe college, hastily called together, gathered around the corpse, to\nexamine more minutely into the cause of death.\n\n\nA coroner's jury was duly summoned.  It examined the body, weighed the\nevidence, and being about equally divided in regard to the question of\nsuicide, finally agreed upon \"Accidental Death by Poison,\" as, upon the\nwhole, the safer and less objectionable verdict.  There seemed to be no\ngood reason to suspect murder, nor any ground whatever for implicating\nRoath, or anybody else, as a perpetrator thereof.\n\nTrubie, to be sure, persisted in his accusation; but it was with a\nvehemence and a dogmatism so unlike his wonted careless good nature, as\nto suggest the idea that his mind had been temporarily thrown off its\nbalance by the shock of his friend's death.  This idea gained color\nfrom the fact that all which he could offer, in support of so grave a\ncharge, was the statement that he had long seen or suspected, in Roath\na secret hatred of Arling, and a willingness to do him covert mischief.\nHe had even mentioned the suspicion to his friend; but Arling--being of\nthe most candid and generous, as well as unsuspecting temper, unable to\nconceive of any but an open, honorable enemy--had refused to entertain\nit for a moment.  Trubie also solemnly affirmed that his passionate\naccusation of Roath, by the side of the newly-discovered corpse, was\nthe involuntary result of an intuition so sudden, so clear, and so\npowerful, that, though little given to look for supernatural agencies\nin human affairs, he could not rid himself of the conviction that it\nwas the direct inspiration of his dead friend.  But it may readily be\nimagined how much weight a statement of this sort was likely to have\nwith men of plain minds and sturdy understanding, searching among the\nexternal phenomena of the event for grounds upon which to base a\nreasonable verdict.\n\nOn the other hand, the theory of accidental poisoning was supported,\nnegatively, by the lack of apparent cause for self-destruction; and\npositively, by the fact that on the dead man's table, side by side with\nthe potent narcotic before mentioned, stood a phial of exactly the same\nsize, and with equally colorless contents.  Of this Arling had been\naccustomed to take two or three spoonfuls, mixed with a few drops of a\nthird preparation of exceeding bitter flavor.  A careless hand might\nhave mistaken the one phial for the other.  The taste of the morphine,\nso swallowed, would be much disguised; while the dose was sufficient,\nunder the circumstances, to produce death.  It will be seen, therefore,\nthat the verdict rendered was the only one upon which a coroner's jury\ncould well have been expected to agree.\n\nThe body was next solemnly laid in a vault, to await the disposal of\nthe parents, who lived in a western state; and the widening circles of\nexcitement, horror, curiosity, and regret, of which it had been the\nunconscious centre, rapidly subsided, or were effaced by the growing\ninterests of the now imminent closing examination.\n\nEven Trubie, though he flatly refused to acquiesce in the coroner's\nverdict, was forced tacitly to accept its results.  He took refuge in a\ncomplete personal proscription of Roath; he neither spoke to him nor\nlooked at him; he treated him precisely as if he did not exist.  To a\nperson of Roath's cold, hard, steely temper, and obtuse sensibilities,\nthis demeanor was, perhaps, the most tolerable of which the\ncircumstances admitted.  It spared him the necessity of being either\nconciliatory or resentful; he was well content to ignore Trubie as\ncompletely as Trubie ignored him.\n\nHe soon found, however, that he had greatly underestimated the moral\nforce of an abhorrence deeply rooted in immitigable distrust.  Though\nlargely given to psychological studies, and profoundly learned, for his\nyears, in the intricacies and tendencies of the human mind, he was\nastonished to find how soon the atmosphere grew heavy around him, how\nquickly Trubie's dogged dislike communicated itself, more or less\nstrongly, to others; while the increased cordiality of a few, though\nkindly intended to offset it, only served to point him out more clearly\nas one set apart, for the time, from life's ordinary course and level,\nby the force of an unenviable, if undeserved, notoriety.  Not that he\never appeared to be conscious of either of these manifestations, or of\ntheir ultimate effect.  Nature had given him a moral and intellectual\nfibre so tough, and he had trained himself to a control so perfect,\nthat the keenest observer could not detect the least variation from his\nusual composed, concentrated, somewhat moody demeanor.  Whatever of\nsuffering, or of sin, lay at the bottom of his heart, not a shadow\nthereof was seen in his face.\n\nIt might well be, however, that he was glad when the examination was\nover, his degree obtained, and himself left free to depart by any one\nof the many paths which life opened before him.\n\nYet he was in no suspicious haste to be gone.  His departure was fixed\nfor an early hour on the following morning.  Meanwhile, at dusk, he\nwent out for his habitual solitary stroll.  Never had he invited\ncompanionship, and was it thrust upon him.  He had no intimate friend.\nThough he had been not only admired, but respected, by many, for his\nintellectual gifts, and for a certain firm, even texture of character,\nand dispassionateness of judgment, that often looked like virtue,\nwhether such in reality or not, he was beloved by none.\n\nWhere he went, what he thought, is not to the purpose of our narrative.\nHis walk was long, however; he did not return until dusk had deepened\ninto clear and starry, but moonless night.  As he came up through the\ngreat, dim elm-arches, with their solemn resemblance to a vast\ncathedral nave, a strange tremor seized him.  A complete sceptic in\nregard to all superstitions and forebodings, he yet felt his nerves\nshaking with an undefined fear; he could not rid himself of the\nimpression that something unprecedented and sinister was at that moment\ntaking place.  Reaching the college, he ascended the steps with a\nstrange mixture of eagerness and reluctance; and immediately became\naware of a subdued but excited murmur of voices in the upper hall.  At\nthe same moment, Mark Tracey came rushing down the stairs, carpet-bag\nin hand.\n\n\"What's up?\" asked Roath, in a voice that trembled in spite of himself.\n\n\"I don't rightly know,\" responded Tracey, hurriedly,--\"I am so late for\nthe train, that I couldn't stop to hear.  Something about a diamond\nthat Trubie has found in Arling's glass--the one from which the poor\nfellow drank his death-draught, I believe.  Good-by!\"  And away he went.\n\nHad he waited but for an instant, he would have been startled and\nspellbound by the deadly whiteness of Roath's face.  Through all the\nglimmering indistinctness of the dimly-lighted hall, his features were\nclearly discernible, by reason of that marble pallor.  For the moment,\nhe seemed to lose sense and consciousness; he would have fallen, except\nfor the friendly support of the wall against which he leaned.\n\nBut it was only for a moment.  The man's hard energy of character, his\niron will, his rigid self-control, though they had gone down before the\nsuddenness and severity of the shock, quickly rose again.  With a\nmighty effort, he rallied his broken forces; back into his face came\nthe look of purpose, the sense of power, the sternness of immitigable\nresolve; and this with so rapid and almost imperceptible a change, that\nit seemed as if the granite man must have stood there from the first,\nand the weak man not at all.  While Tracey's receding footsteps still\nechoed faintly from without, going swiftly in the direction of the\ncity's principal thoroughfare,--while the murmur of voices from above\nwas still at its eager, wondering height,--he had turned, noiselessly\ndescended the steps, and was gliding down through the sombre\nelm-arches, swift and stealthy as a phantom.  The street was shadowy at\nbest, but he chose the darker side; it was wellnigh deserted, at that\nhour, but he soon turned into a still less frequented one, and then\nstruck into a more assured and less noiseless, as well as swifter, pace.\n\nAs he went, he drew a ring from his finger, and glancing hastily round,\nto make sure that he was unobserved, he flung it far into the dusky\nshadow of a garden thicket.  Only the day before, a friend had said to\nhim,--\"Roath, do you know that the stone is gone from your ring?\" and\nhe had answered,--\"Yes; and I am sorry to have lost it, for it was my\nfather's.\"  And he had proceeded to point out the antique setting, and\nto describe the peculiar shape and tint of the gem which it had\ninclosed.  He gnashed his teeth as he recalled the short, but momentous\nconversation.  But for that, he would not have fled.\n\nThe garden into which he had flung the ring adjoined a small cottage;\nand, at one of the open windows, a gray-haired dame sat in a\nhigh-backed chair, listening to the clear, musical voice of an\ninvisible reader.  This fragment of a sentence floated out to him on\nthe dim night air,--\"_He shall be holden with the cords of--_\"\n\nEven at that moment, the words struck him sharply.  Involuntarily he\nslackened his pace, and half-turned to catch the remainder of the\nsentence, but it was inaudible.  The uncertainty before him, the terror\nbehind, were, for the time, almost forgotten in a certain chill\ncuriosity.  \"Holden with the cords--holden with the cords,\" he repeated\nto himself, as he hurried on,--\"I wonder what book she was reading!  I\nshould really like to hear the end of that sentence!\"\n\nStill keeping up his swift pace and vigilant glance, he nevertheless\nsank into a partial abstraction.  Some disconnected sentences, breaking\nat intervals from his lips, served to show the current of his thoughts.\n\n\"Set it down, once for all,\" he muttered, \"that crime--absolute crime,\nof which the law can take hold--is a mistake.--Into the best-laid\nscheme, the one most carefully framed and skilfully executed,\nChance--many would say, Providence (_can_ there be a Providence after\nall?)--drops some trivial, fortuitous circumstance, which disconcerts\nor betrays everything.--The question is, could it have been\nforeseen?--I have worn that ring for sixteen years.--No! no! it is too\nsubtile and too intricate a matter to think about now.  I have more\npressing subjects of reflection.--Only, set it down, for future use,\nthat the essential thing is to keep clear of crime.\"\n\n\"_Holden with the cords!_\" echoed suddenly and pertinaciously through\nhis memory, as if by way of defiant answer to the conclusion that he\nhad reached.  He set his teeth, and dashed more swiftly onward.\n\nEre long, he reached the railway depot.  In a large, underground space,\nhalf-filled with smoke and steam, a train stood on the track, the\nengine fretting and snorting like a steed impatient to be off, and the\nbell ringing out a hasty summons, curiously typifying the sharp call to\nleap on to some favorable train of circumstances, and be borne away to\nfortune or to ruin, which life often gives us, at certain fateful\nmoments of its rapid career.  Roath sprang to the rear platform, and,\non the instant, the train moved.\n\nSwiftly it left the depot behind: decayed fences, rickety outhouses,\nheaps of rubbish and offal, quickly receded into a dingy perspective of\nbackside city life; scattered coal-yards, and freight and\nengine-houses, succeeded; and then, the cool, moist air coming in at\nthe windows, and a swift-gliding panorama of what looked like a\nterrestrial sky and stars, told him that he was being borne rapidly\nalong the causeway that traversed the broad bay,--in the tranquil\nwaters of which the fair night-heavens were faithfully mirrored.\nHastily running his eye over his fifty or sixty fellow-passengers, and\nfinding no familiar face, he settled himself back in his seat with a\nlong-drawn breath of relief.  He remembered that he was on an express\ntrain, with twenty miles between him and the next station; he could\ncount upon a safe half hour, at least, for the working out of the\ndifficult problem before him.  To that problem he at once addressed\nhimself, with the whole force of his intellect and will;--though ever\nand anon, that perplexing fragment of a sentence would float\ndistractingly through his mind, saying itself over and over to the\naccompaniment of the sharp click of the rails,--\"Holden with the\ncords--Holden with the cords!\"\n\n\nFrom that night, for many years, Edmund Roath disappeared as completely\nfrom the sight and search of all who had known him, as if the train\nwherein he sat had suddenly flung itself headlong from that narrow\ncauseway, and those deep, silent, star-mirroring waters, closing above\nhim, had steadfastly refused to give up their dead.  In brief space of\ntime, his very name, as well as the circumstances that had made it\nnotorious, was forgotten by those who had been most diligent in passing\nit from mouth to mouth.  Seldom was it recalled even by the few who had\nknown him best, and had yielded the heartiest admiration to his rare\nintellectual gifts.  Having never taken any real hold of any human\nheart, it was but natural that he should pass behind the first\nintervening cloud, and leave no vacancy.\n\nDid he thereby escape the worst consequences of his sin?\n\n\n\n\nPART FIRST.\n\nA WAY THAT SEEMETH RIGHT.\n\n\n\nI.\n\n\"PROVERBS, AND THE INTERPRETATION.\"\n\nThe road was straight, level, and monotonous.  It seemed to stretch on\nfor miles, walled in, on either hand, by the rank and profuse foliage\nof the South.  Great cotton woods and water-oaks, walnuts, cypresses,\nlarches, and junipers, stood side by side, with their brawny arms\ninterlaced, and their trunks hidden in a dense and varied undergrowth;\nwhile jessamines and wild grapevines climbed up to meet the sunshine at\ntheir tops, and pendent moss hung their boughs with swaying drapery of\ngray-green leaves and filaments.\n\nWhat lay beyond these walls of verdure was only to be guessed at from\noccasional and indistinct glimpses.  Here, a transient view of corn or\nvegetable rows, and a sound of voices, gave token of the vicinity of a\nsmall plantation or market garden.  There, a scarcity of deciduous\ntrees and a predominance of evergreens, a more lush and succulent\ncharacter of undergrowth, and a dark gleam of stagnant water, betrayed\nthe proximity of an extensive morass.  Frequently, the eye lost itself\nin the complicated vistas of thick pine-barrens, stretching far away to\nright and left.  And, ever and anon, a sudden break in the long line of\nverdure, and the sight of a diverging wheel-track, quickly lost amid\noverhanging boughs, served to show in what direction some large rice or\ncotton estate lay hidden in the circumjacent forest.\n\nIt scarcely needs to be added that the road was pleasantly cool and\nshadowy in the late September afternoon.  Even at midday, its track\nwould present but few and scant patches of sunshine, alternating with\ndense masses of shadow or spots of flickering light and shade.  Now,\ntherefore, with the sun hanging red and low in the western horizon,\nscarce a fitful orange gleam fell athwart the path of the only\ntraveller in sight,--a young man, of thoughtful face and stalwart\nfigure, striding on at a firm, even pace, with a portmanteau strapped\nacross his shoulder.  Both the face and the portmanteau seemed to\nindicate that his walk was not for pleasure merely, but tended to some\ndefinite, anticipated goal; while the keen, observant glance with which\nhe noted, not only every object of interest along his route, but the\ncharacter of the soil beneath and the foliage overhead, showed that his\nroad was as unfamiliar as it had been, for the most part, solitary.\nSince he left the outskirts of the city of Savalla behind, more than\ntwo hours ago, he had seen but three human faces.  First, an old negro\nwoman, wrinkled and white-haired, had ducked her decrepit form to him\nin what would have been, but for the stiffness of her joints, a most\ndeferential courtesy.  Later on, a teamster, of the same dependent and\nobsequious race, had doffed to him the ragged remnant of a palm-leaf\nhat, and uttered a civil, \"Good ebenin', Massa.\"  Lastly, a lank,\nlistless, unkempt, sallow-skinned personage, in a white covered wagon,\nsnapping a long-lashed whip at a nondescript team, and belonging to the\ncurious class known as \"crackers,\" had suddenly nodded to him, after a\nprolonged, and, at first, contemptuous stare, as if finally convinced\nof his claim to the civility.\n\nFor some time past, the road had led through a monotonous pine barren,\nand the traveller had fallen into a fit of thought.  Raising his eyes,\nat last, from the path on which they had been fixed in abstraction, he\nsaw that the long vista before him was once more enlivened by a moving\nobject.  His keen, far sight, trained in western wilds, easily made it\nout to be a half-obsolete kind of chaise, moving in the same direction\nas himself, but moving so slowly that he gained on it at every step.\nIn a few moments, he was close behind it, quietly observing its\nsuperannuated style and condition, as well as the skinny little horse\nthat furnished its motive power.  Hearing the sound of his quick, firm\ntread, its occupant lifted his eyes from the tattered volume over which\nhe was poring, and turned to look at him.\n\nHe himself, in a very different way, was well worthy of observation.\nHe was small and spare, probably not more than sixty years of age, but\nlooking much older.  He had that parched and wizened look, oftenest the\nwork of circumstances rather than years, which makes it difficult to\nrealize that the possessor was ever young.  His hair and complexion had\nonce been light; the one was now gray, the other sallow, except for a\nfaint suggestion of red at the tip of an otherwise handsome nose.  His\nbreath exhaled a perceptible odor of strong drink, surrounding him as\nwith an atmosphere of inflammable gas.  His dress was made up of divers\nill-fitting garments that had doubtless accrued to him from cast-off\nwardrobes; not one of them bearing any relation to the other, but all\nbeing in an advanced stage of seediness well suited to the wearer.\nSomething of the same fusing of special incongruities into general\nfitness also characterized his manner; wherein the mean and furtive air\nof the shiftless old vagabond was curiously blended with the pathetic\ndignity of the decayed gentleman.\n\nHe eyed the young foot traveller narrowly for a moment, though with a\nsidelong rather than a straightforward glance; then, bringing his\nwilling horse to a stand by a jerk of the reins, and a sonorous \"Whoa!\"\nhe lifted his hat and gravely accosted him:--\n\n\"_Manus manum lavat_.  Men were meant to help each other.  Have a ride,\nsir?\"\n\nThe stranger hesitated, perhaps trying to reconcile the address and the\nspeaker, perhaps with a natural enough doubt as to the character of the\ncompanionship thus offered.  \"Thank you,\" said he, at last, \"but I\ndoubt if it be worth while.\"\n\n\"'Good and Quickly seldom meet,'\" responded the other, sententiously.\n\"Besides,\" he added, seeing that the traveller was puzzled to\nunderstand the drift of his saw, \"Pegasus--I call him Pegasus because\nhe's _not_ winged--is 'like a singed cat, better than he looks.'\nMoreover, _Compagnon bien parlant vaut en chemin chariot branlant_.\nWhich may be freely translated, 'Good company shortens the road as much\nas a swift horse.'\"\n\n\"Oh!  I meant no disrespect to your equipage, I assure you,\" returned\nthe young man, smiling.  \"Only, I supposed that I must be near my\njourney's end.  Is it far to Berganton?\"\n\n\"That depends.  'The last straw breaks the camel's back.'  It is three\nmiles, more or less.  But I should have said, from your face, that you\nwould want to stop this side of that.\"\n\n\"Do I look so tired?  Indeed I am not.\"\n\n\"Um--no, I should say not.  But faces show something besides\nweariness,--'like father, like son,' you know.  If your looks are to be\ntrusted, there's an old mansion about a quarter of a mile farther on,\nwhose door ought to open to you of its own accord--if it can open at\nall.\"\n\nThe young man smiled and shook his head.  \"I am sorry that my looks\nshould belie me,\" said he, \"but I have no claim upon the said mansion's\nhospitality.\"\n\n\"Umph! 'tis a wise child that knows its own father.  Tush, tush, man!\"\nhe added, hastily, seeing the young man's cheek flush, \"I meant no\nharm; proverbs run from my tongue like water from a Dutch roof.\nBesides, _Nao ha palavra maldita se na\u00f5 fora mal entendida_,--that is\nto say, 'No word is ill-spoken which is not ill-taken.'  But come!\ncome! jump in!  I'll carry you to Berganton, since that's your goal,\nand welcome.  The night is drawing on apace; you'll be glad of my\npilotage before we get there.\"\n\nThe young man glanced down the darkening road, from which the last ray\nof sunlight had vanished, and seemed still to hesitate; but finally\nsprang lightly into the chaise, and the horse jogged on.\n\n\"Proverbs,\" continued the old man, treating his three last sentences as\nmere parentheses, \"have been the study of my life.  I know Lord\nChesterfield bans them as vulgar, but is he wiser than Solomon? or\nbetter authority than Cicero and Scaliger and Erasmus and Bacon and\nBentley?  Bah! the whole gist of his writings might be compressed into\ntwo or three of the maxims that he affects to despise.\n'Fair-and-Softly goes far in a day,' will live when his 'Letters' are\nforgotten.  And a good reason why.  Proverbs are the royal road to\nwisdom.  They're the crystallized experience of the ages.  They\nepitomize the minds and manners of the people that brought them forth.\nWho but a 'smooth, fause' Lowland Scot, for instance, would have said\n'Rot him awa' wi' butter an' eggs?'  Who but a marauding Hielander\nwould have declared, 'It's a bare moor that ane goes o'er and gets na a\ncoo?'  Who but poor priest-ridden, king-ridden Spain would have said,\n_Fraile que pide par Dios, pide por dos_, 'The friar that begs for God,\nbegs for two;'  _Quien la vaca del rey come flaca, gorda la paga_, 'He\nwho eats the king's cow lean, pays for it fat;'--but I ought to beg\nyour pardon, perhaps you know Spanish?\"\n\n\"Not very well,\" good-naturedly replied the young man, taking pity on\nhis companion's inveterate habit of translation, and the delight which\nit plainly afforded him.\n\n\"Well enough, I suppose, to know that it's a mine of wealth to the\nproverb-hunter,\" rejoined the old man graciously.  \"Here, now, is a\ngood one, of a different character,--_Adonde vas, mal?  Adonde mas\nhay_, 'Whither goest thou, misfortune?  To where there is more?'  And\nhere is a pertinent question for people who live well without visible\nresources,--_Los que cabras no tienen, y cabritos venden, de donde les\nvienen?_  'They who keep no goats, and yet sell kids, where do they get\nthem?'  But, after all, for right sharp and serviceable proverbs,\ncommend me to the Danish.  Here is an old collection that I've lately\npicked up, printed at Copenhagen, in 1761;---just let me read you two\nor three.\"\n\nHe opened the dingy volume aforementioned, and proceeded to read,\ntranslate, and comment, with infinite zest.  \"_Ingen kommer i Skaden,\nuden han selv hielper til_, 'No man gets into trouble without his own\nhelp'--(a moral which no one can point better than your humble\nservant); _Naar det regner Voelling, saa har Stodderen ingen Skee_,\n'When it rains porridge, the beggar has no spoon'--(there's no\ncontenting discontented people); _Ingen Ko kaldes broget uden hun haver\nen Flek_, 'A cow is not called dappled unless she has a spot'--(most\ngossip has some small foundation); _Hvo som vil gj\u00f6re et stort Spring,\nskal gaae vel tilbage_, 'He that would leap high must take a long\nrun'--(else we should have bishops and judges without gray hairs); _Det\nkommer igien, sagde Manden, han gav sin So Floesk_, 'It will come back\nagain, said the man, when he gave his sow pork:'--don't you see how the\npatient, shrewd, humorous character of the Danes peeps through them all?\n\n\"Yet, if some proverbs are national, others are cosmopolitan, and fit\nall generations, and all countries.  For instance, there's the Greek\nsaw, Arch\u00e8 \u00eamisu pant\u00f3s,--see how it comes down through every language\nunder the sun, till, at last, it settles into terse English rhyme,\n\n  'Well begun\n  Is half done.'\n\nOr, take that common saying, 'To carry coals to Newcastle,' which seems\nto have originated in the East.  At least, we find it first in the\nPersian of Saadi, 'To carry pepper to Hindostan;' then the Hebrews have\nit, 'To carry oil to the City of Olives;' the Greeks, 'owls to Athens;'\nthe Latins, 'wood to the forest;' the French, 'water to the river;' the\nDutch, 'firs to Norway;' the Danish--Hallo!  Pegasus! what are you\nabout?\"\n\nThe horse, being left to his own guidance while his master was riding\nhis favorite hobby, had taken occasion to shoot off from the main road\ninto an apparently little-used track, cut through a thick pine-barren\nat the left.  He had made several lengths before his driver, taken at a\ndisadvantage, could pull him up.\n\n\"Pegasus is of the opinion that 'the longest way round is the surest\nway home,'\" remarked the old man, apologetically, as he scanned the\nnarrow, tree-lined track, with a view to the possibility of turning\nsafely around.  \"Or,\" he added, with a glance of sly humor at the\ntraveller, \"perhaps he thinks, as I did just now, that Bergan Hall is\nyour natural destination.\"\n\n\"Bergan Hall,\" repeated the young man, in a tone of extreme\nsurprise,--\"is this the way to Bergan Hall?  I thought you came to the\nvillage first, from Savalla.\"\n\n\"So you did, once,\" rejoined the old man, looking surprised, in his\nturn; \"but that must have been before you were born, if your face\ndoesn't belie your age.  The road used to make a long elbow, to get\nround that swamp which you crossed a mile back.  But it was\nstraightened thirty years ago at least,--_Autre temps, autre\nchemin_,--a different time, a different road.  And so you are going to\nBergan Hall?  Well, thanks to luck and Pegasus, you're in the right\nway.\"\n\n\"But I must not take you out of yours,\" responded the young man,\ngood-naturedly.  And he had jumped out of the chaise before its owner\nwas well aware of his intention.\n\n\"_Canis festinans coecos parit catulos_,\" muttered the old man, in a\ntone of chagrin.  \"In other words, 'Look before you leap.'  I'd as soon\nhave gone this way as the other.  My place lies between the Hall and\nthe village, and the choice of roads isn't worth shucks,--at least, in\ncomparison with a pleasant chat.  However, you're out, and I suppose\nit's no use to ask you to get in again, since the Hall is but a few\nrods away.  Keep straight ahead till you come to the old avenue, then\nturn to the left.  Good day, _il n'y a si bons compagnons qui ne se\nseparent_,--the best friends must part.\"\n\n\"Yes--to meet again,\" said the young man, pleasantly.\n\n\"Very true; _les beaux esprits se rencontrent_,\" returned the old man,\nslowly and cautiously backing his crazy vehicle around.  And with\nanother \"Good day,\" and a parting gesture, he quickly disappeared among\nthe fast-falling shadows.\n\nThe young man stood looking after him for a moment, with a smile half\nof amusement, half, of pity, upon his lips.  But his features soon\nsettled into something more than their accustomed gravity, and suddenly\nfacing about, he pursued his way.\n\nEre long the tall, crowded pines of the barren gave place to various\nstubble and fallow grounds, with here and there a late crop waiting to\nbe harvested; and shortly after, the narrow, irregular track that he\nhad been following encountered a broader and more beaten one.\nRecognizing this, with some difficulty, as the \"avenue\" of which his\nlate companion had spoken, he stopped, and gazed up and down with a\nlook of surprise and pain.\n\nIt was bare of trees; but on either side extended a long row of live\noak stumps, the size of which showed what massive trunks and\nfar-reaching branches had once columned and arched it like a temple.\nHere and there, some forgotten bole or bough lay and rotted upon the\nvery spot which it had formerly overhung with a soft canopy of verdure,\nand made beautiful with pleasant play of sunshine and leaf-shadow;\nwhile around it gathered a rank luxuriance of weeds, transmuting its\nslow aristocratic decay into teeming, plebeian life.  In one or two\ncases, as if moved by an almost human sympathy, vines had sprung up\naround the bereaved stumps, and sought to soften their hard outlines\nwith clinging drapery of leaves and tendrils.  They had also done their\nbest to cover up various unsightly gaps in the long lines of ruinous\nfence that divided the avenue from the open fields on either side.  Yet\nthe final effect of these gentle touches was only to deepen the painful\nimpression of the scene.  Where they did not reach, the bareness was so\nmuch more bare, the dilapidation so much uglier!\n\nThe young observer felt this bareness and dilapidation to his heart's\ncore,--felt it all the more keenly because an image of the avenue's\npristine grandeur, derived from the surrounding fragments (or from some\nother source), continually rose before his mind's eye, to heighten its\npresent desolation by contrast.  His brow contracted as he gazed; and\nthe expression of his face changed rapidly from surprise to\ndissatisfaction, from dissatisfaction to perplexity, from perplexity to\ndoubt.  Once, he turned as if half-minded to retrace his steps; but the\nnext moment, he shook off his irresolution with a gesture of disdain,\nand immediately hastened forward.\n\nThe avenue terminated in an open, circular space.  Evidently, it had\nonce been a lawn; but it was now covered with half-obliterated furrows,\nshowing that at some not very remote period, it had been planted with\ncorn.  Around it stood a number of gigantic live-oaks, heavily draped\nwith moss, and brooding dusky shadows under their massive boughs.\nFronting upon it, was a large mansion of dark brick, consisting of an\nupright, two-story main building, with a huge, clustered chimney in the\nmidst, and long, low, rambling wings on either side.\n\nThe whole place had a deserted and melancholy appearance.  The moss on\nthe live-oaks swayed slowly to and fro in the evening breeze, with a\nwonderfully sombre and funereal effect; and the mansion was dark and\nsilent as any ruin.  Not a light shone from the closed windows; not a\nsound came from the deep, shadowy doorway; and the unsteady stone\nsteps, slippery with damp and green with moss, gave the impression of a\nspot where no human foot had left its print for many years.\n\nThe young man halted at a little distance from the dark building, and\nsurveyed it moodily.  \"Can this be Bergan Hall?\" he murmured.  \"Can\nthis gloomy old ruin be the open, cheery, hospitable mansion, full of\nlight and life, that my mother has so often described to me?  It looks\na habitation for ghosts--and for ghosts only!  I wonder if any living\nbeing--\"\n\nBreaking off abruptly, he ascended the moss-grown steps, only to find\nthat the vines which so heavily draped the portico, had woven a thick\nnetwork across the door.  It was plain that it had not been opened for\nmonths, perhaps years.  Nevertheless, not to be easily daunted, he\nfound and lifted the knocker.  It fell with a dull lifeless sound, that\nsmote the young man's heart like a sudden chill.  A dreary\nreverberation came from within, and then died away into silence.  He\nknocked again, and, listening intently, he fancied that he heard the\nsound of stealthy footsteps within, and a slight creaking of the floor.\nBut so dead a silence followed upon these imaginary sounds, that he\nsoon became convinced of his involuntary self-deception.\n\nTurning from the door, he now noticed a little footpath running round\nthe end of one of the long wings.  Committing himself to this timely\nguide, he soon came in sight of the rear of the mansion, which looked\nupon a sort of court; where a few ornamental shrubs still held an\nuncertain tenure against the encroachments of divers sorts of lawless\nand vagrant vegetation.  At a little distance, was a long range of\ndilapidated offices, showing upon what an almost princely scale the\nhousekeeping had once been administered.  But this part of the premises\nwas not less dark, silent, and deserted, than the other.\n\nThe footpath still held on, however, past the court and the offices,\ntoward a bright light at a considerable distance, \"The negro quarter!\"\nmuttered the young man, recognizing the whereabout of one of the most\nsalient features of his mother's well-remembered descriptions.  \"At\nleast, I may learn there what it all means.\"  And, quickening his\nsteps, he soon came upon a busy and picturesque scene.\n\nIn the midst of a large, quadrangular space, flanked on three sides by\ndouble rows of negro-cabins, and on the fourth apparently sloping down\nto a water-course, was a rough sort of threshing-mill, now idle, but\nshowing satisfactory results of its day's labor in a large heap of rice\nby its side.  A crowd of negroes, of both sexes, coarsely and uncouthly\nclad, were busily filling odd, shallow baskets from this heap, which\nthey then poised on their heads, and bore off down the slope to some\nunseen goal.  There were two regular, silent files, the one coming, the\nother going; and the heap of grain steadily and even swiftly\ndiminished.  Near the mill, stood the only white person visible,--a\nlarge, powerfully-framed man, carelessly and even shabbily dressed, yet\nwith the unmistakable air of ownership about him.  At his left hand, a\nhalf-naked, impish looking negro boy was holding a blazing pitch-pine\ntorch, by the light of which he seemed to be jotting down some sort of\nmemoranda in a small book.\n\nThe scene was even more strange and weird than picturesque.  The dark\nfigures of the negroes, filing noiselessly up the shadowed slope,\nsuddenly grew distinct, wild, and fantastic, within the circle of\nenchantment made by the flaring light of the torch, only to become dim\nand spectral again when received back into the dusk.  They might have\npassed for embodiments of those vagaries of the mind, which come from\nno one knows whither, play their fitful parts within the illuminated\ncircle of the imagination, and vanish as they came.  The young man\nwould almost have taken it as a matter of course, had the whole\nspectacle suddenly melted into thin air.\n\nYet, even in that case, he would have expected the masterful personage\naforementioned to have remained, as the one tangible link between the\nphantasms and the earth.  In truth, a single glance at his massive\nfigure, which seemed to have been hewn out of the rock, rather than\nmoulded from any softer material, went far to disenchant the scene.\nHere was a touch of the actual, the substantial, and the dogmatic, not\nto be mistaken; and serving as a clue to the reality of everything else.\n\nToward this personage, after a moment's scrutiny, the young man\nunhesitatingly made his way, with the air of one who has found\nsomething certain amid much that is confused, illusory, and perplexing.\nHe was immediately spied by the negroes, and followed by their curious\ngaze; albeit, they ventured not to intermit their labor for an instant,\nbut contented themselves with slowly and stiffly turning their burdened\nheads toward him as they marched on, and keeping their shining black\neyes fixed on him to the last, in such that the heads of the retreating\nfile seemed to have been set on backwards.  The boy with the torch was\nperhaps the most wondering, open-mouthed gazer of them all.\n\nAs yet, the master of the premises had not been made aware of the\nstranger's approach; but, looking up to reprimand his torch-bearer for\ninattention, he observed the imp's dumbfounded gaze, and turned to see\nwhat had caused it.\n\n\"My uncle, Mr. Bergan, I presume,\" said the young man, taking off his\nhat, and bowing low: \"I am Bergan Arling.\"  And he added, after a\nmoment, seeing that the other did not speak, \"I bring you a letter from\nmy mother.\"\n\n\n\n\nII.\n\nSTUDYING TO ANSWER.\n\nMajor Bergan--to give him the title by which he was known throughout\nthe country round--displayed no alacrity of welcome.  He first scanned\nhis visitor closely from head to foot, and then silently extended his\nhand for the letter which the young man had drawn forth from an inner\npocket.\n\n\"Hold that light here!\" were his first words, in a tone deep as a\nthunder-peal, and addressed not to Bergan Arling, but to the aforesaid\ntorch-bearer.  \"And quit your staring, and mind your business, or\nI'll--\"\n\nThe sentence died away in an inarticulate growl, but the boy was\nplainly at no loss to understand its purport.  With a startled look, he\nfixed his eyes on the torch, and only ventured to withdraw them for an\noccasional, furtive glance at the object of his curiosity.  Meanwhile,\nhis master opened the letter, and read it deliberately from beginning\nto end.  The light of the torch fell full upon his face as he did so,\ngiving Bergan Arling an opportunity to study him, in his turn.\n\nHis face was a striking one; in youth it had doubtless been handsome.\nNow, his brow was too massive, his mouth too stern, his eyes too cold,\nhis beard too gray and heavy, to bear any relation to mere personal\nbeauty.  All soft lights and lines had long gone out of them; what\nremained was hard, bold, and rugged, as a rocky headland in winter.\nThe rude strength which was the marked characteristic of his form,\nrepeated itself emphatically in his face.  Comparing it with the mental\nportrait, carefully touched and retouched by his mother's hand, which\nBergan had carried in his mind since childhood, he felt that the one\nresembled the other only as a tree in autumn, stripped bare of its\nfoliage and its blossoms, resembles the same tree in its gracious\nsummer bloom and verdure.  Little trace of the frank, proud lineaments,\nthe warm, yet generous temper, of that ideal picture, was to be found\nin this harsh, stubborn, sarcastic face; the face of a man long given\nover to the hardening influences of a solitary and a selfish life.  In\nshort, Major Bergan confirmed anew the old truth that no man can live\nlong for himself alone, shutting out all gentler ties and amenities,\nand driving straight at his own practical ends, unmindful of either the\nways, the opinions, or the feelings of others, without reaping his due\nreward in a loss of moral health, and a gradual decay of all his finer\nsensibilities and higher instincts.\n\nThe only point wherein the real man resembled the ideal one, was in a\ncertain ineffaceable pride of birth, showing itself not only in his\nport, but darkening his harsh features with a heavy shade of hauteur.\n\nYet a smile might do much to light up and soften the Major's face; and\nthe smile came when he had finished the letter, and did its work all\nthe more effectually because it was a somewhat sad one.\n\n\"Forty and two years,\" said he, musingly, \"since Eleanor went! Yet I\ncan see her now, with her bright face and her arch ways!  She was the\nsunshine of the old Hall; it has never been the same place since she\nleft it.  And she would hardly know it, if she were to come back now!\nBut times change; and we are fools if we do not change with them.\nWell, my boy!  I'm glad to see you, and that is not what I would say to\nmany,--I'm not much in the way of having visitors.  But Eleanor's son\nis heartily welcome to the old place.\"\n\nHe took his nephew's hand, shook it cordially, and continued to hold it\nin a vice-like grasp, while he once more attentively scanned the young\nman's features.\n\n\"You are a true Bergan,\" he said, at length, \"I'm glad to see that!\nAnd you have her eyes, too.  Ah, what eyes they used to be! as soft and\nbright as any fawn's!  Well! well! it's no use to think of the old\ntimes--they can't come back.  But I am right glad to see you, my boy;\nand I take it very kind of Eleanor to have sent you to me.  Is she much\nchanged?\"\n\n\"I suppose so,\" said Bergan, smiling,--\"that is, since you knew her.\nShe has not changed greatly during my remembrance.  She is a\nyoung-looking woman yet, for her years; her eyes are still bright, and\nher cheeks rosy.  Our western climate and life have agreed with her\nwell.  Yet I cannot fancy her a young lady.\"\n\n\"Ah, but you shall see her as a young lady!  There's a portrait of her\nin the old house, taken not long before she went away, that does\neverything but speak and move.  Indeed, I used to imagine that it did\nboth, when I had it in my quarters out here, as I did for a time.  But\nit gave me the blues so, to look at it, and think how things used to\nbe, and see how they had altered, that I finally sent it back to its\nold place in the portrait gallery.  But how did you get here, at this\nhour?\"\n\n\"I walked from Savalla, leaving my baggage--except this portmanteau--to\ncome on by stage to-morrow.\"\n\n\"Walked!  A nice little tramp of thirteen miles or more!  Why in the\nname of sense didn't you ride?\"\n\n\"I was too late for the stage, and could not readily find a hack.  To\nbe sure, I wasted but little time in looking for one; I do not mind\nwalking, I am used to it.\"\n\n\"That may do very well for the West.  But you'll lose caste, my boy, if\nyou walk here.  You must have a horse.\"\n\n\"When I can afford it,\" replied the young man, lightly shrugging his\nshoulders.  \"Meanwhile, doubtless I shall find my western habit useful,\nif vulgar.  But I am not prepared to admit that it is vulgar.  A young\nEnglish nobleman, who spent some months in our neighborhood, was a\npractised walker; he thought nothing of fifteen or twenty miles, on\noccasion.  And if it was 'caste' for him, why not for me?\"\n\n\"Humph! we Southerners boast a good deal of our English ancestors, but\nwe don't feel called upon to imitate them!\"\n\nWith the softening recollections of his youth, the Major had also laid\naside his unwonted gentleness of manner; and the freezing satire of his\nlast words, though it was doubtful whether he meant it for himself or\nhis nephew, pained the young man's ear.  Instinctively he dropped the\ndiscussion.\n\n\"I forgot to mention,\" said he, \"that I did not walk quite the whole\ndistance.  A queer old character whom I overtook, insisted upon giving\nme a lift to Berganton.\"\n\n\"To Berganton!  What had you to do with Berganton, I should like to\nknow?\"\n\n\"I was not aware that the road had been changed; I supposed that I must\nneeds pass through the village on my way to Bergan Hall.  I intended to\nstay there over night, and come to you early in the morning,--I did not\nthink it right to descend upon you suddenly, late at night.  But\nfinding myself unexpectedly on the road hither, and almost in sight of\nthe Hall, I regarded it as an indication of Providence not to be\nmisunderstood.\"\n\n\"And well you did!\" returned the Major, with rude emphasis, \"well you\ndid!  I should have taken it as a direct insult if my sister's son had\nslept anywhere in this region, but on the old place.  I wish I could\nsay, under the old roof,\" he went on, in a friendlier tone, \"but that\nleaks like a sieve, and I quitted it long ago.  Of course, it might\nhave been mended; but, to tell the truth, the old house was much too\nbig and gloomy and damp and disagreeable to keep bachelor's hall in\ncomfortably, and I was glad to get out of it.  Besides, I'd had all\nsorts of trouble with my overseers, and I decided that the only way to\nhave things managed to my mind was to manage them myself.  In order to\ndo that, it was necessary to be on the spot.  So I fixed up my\noverseer's cottage into a snug little box for myself, where I'm as\ncosey and comfortable as a rat in a rice-heap.  But come in, and see\nfor yourself how it looks.  Jip, you rascal! why don't you take your\nyoung master's portmanteau?\"\n\nThe torch-boy caught the portmanteau, and Bergan followed his uncle\ninto a small cottage at one corner of the quadrangle, so situated as to\ncommand a view both of the mill and the cabins.  The room into which he\nwas ushered was plainly but comfortably furnished.  A fire of\npitch-pine knots blazed on the hearth, reddening the rough walls and\nthe bare floor with its pleasant glow.  A slipshod negress, with a gay\nturban, was busy laying the table for supper.  The effect was, upon the\nwhole, cheery, and ought to have been especially so to a tired and\nhungry traveller; yet Bergan looked around him with a manifest air of\ndisappointment.  His uncle noticed it, and remarked, apologetically,\n\n\"You would prefer to see the Hall, eh?  Well, you shall see it in the\nmorning, and I reckon you'll agree with me that it's anything but a\ncheerful-looking abode.  Though, if I had known that a nephew of mine\nwas coming to keep me company, I don't know but I should have stayed\nthere.\"\n\nThe negress now signified that supper was on the table, the food having\nbeen brought in, ready cooked, from the nearest cabin; and Major Bergan\npointed to a chair opposite his own.\n\n\"Sit down, Harry, and fall to.  Your tramp must have given you a right\nsharp appetite.\"\n\n\"Thank you.  But, uncle, my name is Bergan, not Harry.\"\n\n\"Not Harry!\" repeated the Major, sharply,--\"I should like to know the\nreason why!  Didn't your mother write that she had named you for me?\"\n\n\"Yes, certainly.  But she regarded you as the head of the family, and\nin giving me the family name--\"\n\n\"She named you for the whole breed--my degenerate half-brother and\nall!\" interrupted the Major, bringing his clenched fist down upon the\ntable with a force that threatened to demolish it.  \"I tell you what it\nis, sir, I shall not stand any half-way work!  If you are named after\nme, you've got to go the whole figure.  Harry Bergan Arling you are,\nand Harry Bergan Arling you shall be,--at least as long as you stay in\nthese parts.\"\n\nThe imperious tone of this speech was by no means agreeable to Bergan's\near; it was not without an effort that he replied, pleasantly;--\n\n\"Call me what you like, uncle.  I shall not refuse to answer to any\nname that you are pleased to give me.\"\n\nMajor Bergan was evidently much gratified.  \"That's right, my\nboy!--we'll shake hands upon that!\" he exclaimed, heartily.  \"I'm glad\nto see that Eleanor has raised her son in the good old fashion of\nsubmission to elders.  Bless my soul!  I thought it was entirely\nobsolete.  Young men round here know more at twenty than the fathers\nthat begot them.  As for obedience, they leave that to the negroes.\"\n\nThe meal was abundant and substantial.  It consisted of a single\ncourse, of bacon, vegetables, and corn-bread, very simply, not to say\nrudely, served.  It would seem that the master of the feast cared no\nmore for refinements of table than of manner.  Here, as elsewhere, were\nto be seen the pernicious effects of his solitary mode of life.  He ate\ngreedily; he forgot his duties as host, or they came but tardily to his\nremembrance; he fell into fits of abstraction, and started as from a\ndream at the sound of his nephew's voice.  Yet tokens were not wanting\nthat he had once been well versed in the art of external manners.  At\nintervals, answering involuntarily, as it were, to the touch of\nBergan's fine, natural courtesy, the gentlemanly instincts of earlier\ndays revived, and flung a momentary grace around his words and actions.\nIt was like the sunbeams that occasionally glimmer out over a cloudy\nlandscape, attracting the gaze even more surely than any full blaze of\nsplendor, yet causing a certain impatience, as if they ought either to\nkindle into satisfactory brightness, or be wholly extinguished.  The\nrudeness of his ordinary manner was only thrown into bolder relief by\nthese flashes of a half-extinct good breeding.\n\nTo meet the demands of thirst, a bottle of brandy, and another of\nwater, stood by Major Bergan's plate; which, after filling his own\nglass, he pushed over to his nephew.\n\n\"There, Harry! that is what will put new life into you, after your\njourney.\"\n\n\"Thank you; but I seldom use brandy.\"\n\n\"A little too strong for you, eh?\" returned the Major, indulgently.\n\"Well, there's a stock of wine in the cellar of the Hall,--I reckon\nsome of it must be fifty or sixty years old, it has been there ever\nsince I can remember,--I'll send for a bottle or two of that.\"  And he\nuplifted a stentorian call of \"Jip,\" which brought that\nurchin-of-all-work to the door, in breathless haste.\n\n\"Uncle,\"--began Bergan, but the Major was thundering out minute\ndirections about cellars, and keys, and tiers, and labels, and either\ncould not, or would not, hear.\n\n\"I am sorry that you have given yourself the trouble,\" said Bergan,\nwhen quiet was restored.  \"I do not care for wine.\"\n\nMajor Bergan set down his glass, and looked at his nephew sternly and\ngloomily.  \"Don't tell me that you are a mean-spirited teetotaller,\" he\ngrowled.  \"I can't say how I might take it.  There never was a milksop\nin the family yet.\"\n\n\"No, I am hardly that.  But I am not accustomed to use spirituous\nliquors of any sort.  And I certainly do not need them.  I am in\nperfect health; I hardly know what it is to feel tired.\"\n\n\"I wish I didn't!\" muttered his uncle, a little less savagely.  \"I'm\npretty hearty, for my years, to be sure.  But an ache gets into my\nbones now and then, just to remind me that I am not so young as I was\nonce.  And the best thing to rout it is a good glass of brandy.  Better\ntake one?\"\n\n\"Not if you will be so good as to excuse me,\" replied Bergan, with a\nsmile so frank, and a gesture so courteous, that the Major was\nirresistibly mollified.\n\n\"A guest's wish is a command,\" said he, with one of his rare glimmers\nof courtesy.  \"But here comes the wine!  I really cannot excuse you\nfrom that,--at least, I should be very loath to do so.  I'll even join\nyou in a glass.  Here's to your mother's health and happiness!--you\nwon't refuse to drink that, not on the place where she was raised.\"\n\nIf Bergan was annoyed by his uncle's persistency, he forebore to show\nit.  But, having duly honored the toast, he pushed his glass aside, and\ndeclined every invitation to have it refilled.\n\n\"Well, well,\" said his uncle, at last, in a tone of resignation, \"we\nwon't quarrel about it now.  But I see that your education is\nincomplete, and I shall take it upon myself to finish it.  If I don't\nteach you to drink like a gentleman, in a month, I shall know that you\nare no true Bergan, in spite of your looks.\"\n\nBergan only smiled.\n\n\"Your temperance is the one thing I don't like about you,\" pursued his\nuncle, filling his own glass to the brim.  \"Ah, yes, there's one\nmore;--your mother writes that you have studied law, and mean to\npractise it.\"\n\n\"Yes; I received my license just two months ago.\"\n\n\"Humph! it's well named!  'License,' indeed!  Licensed to lie, cheat,\nsteal,--or, at least, to help others to do so, which amounts to the\nsame thing.  No, no, Harry; it may be well to know law enough to keep\nfrom being imposed upon, but a Bergan can't stoop to practise it.\nLawyers are, without exception, a set of miserable, lying, sneaking\npettifoggers.  You could drop the souls of a dozen into a child's\nthimble, and they'd rattle in the end of it after she had put it on her\nfinger.\"\n\nBergan's cheek flushed a little, but he was more impressed by the comic\nthan the provoking side of his uncle's dogged prejudice, and he only\nanswered, good-humoredly;--\n\n\"I am sorry that you should have had occasion to think so badly of the\nprofession.  I shall feel that it is incumbent upon me to make you\nchange your opinion.\"\n\n\"Never!\" growled Major Bergan, with an oath.  \"You would find it easier\nto lift the Gibraltar rock on the point of a needle.  Unless,\" he\nadded, after a moment, \"you can tell me how to make a suit lie against\nGodfrey Bergan.  I've been trying it for ten years, and I've spent\nmoney enough to buy another plantation as large as this.\"\n\n\"My uncle Godfrey!\" exclaimed Bergan, in much surprise.  \"Why, what has\nhe done?\"\n\n\"You had better not call him your 'uncle Godfrey' in my hearing,\"\nresponded the Major, grimly.  \"In ceasing to be my half-brother, he\nceased to be your uncle.  Done!  What hasn't he done?  First, he got\nhis head filled with cursed abolitionist notions, and freed all his\nslaves.  Next, he offered the greater part of his land for sale at\npublic auction;--just think of it! some of the old lands of Bergan Hall\nput up to be knocked down to the highest bidder!  But I settled _that_\nbusiness, by proclaiming far and wide that whoever bid for them might\nexpect to reckon with me for his impertinence; and as I'm known to be a\nman of my word, no one dared to lift his voice at the sale, and I got\nthem at my own price.  Finally Godfrey capped the climax of his\ndegeneracy by opening a hardware store in Berganton.  Think of that,\nHairy!--a Bergan of Bergan Hall, with a long pedigree of warriors and\nnobles at his back, standing behind a counter, selling hoes and\ntea-kettles to negroes and crackers!\"\n\nBergan was silent.  Though not without some touch of family pride,\nderived from his mother, he had nevertheless been taught to believe all\nupright labor honorable, to hold that life was ennobled from within, by\nits motive and aim, rather than from without, by its place and form.\nHe could not help suspecting, therefore, that his host, deliberately\nleading the narrow life of an overseer of slaves, on his ancestral\nestate, was in reality a more degenerate son of his house than the\nrelative whom he so bitterly contemned.  Yet he foresaw that any\nattempt to defend Godfrey Bergan would but result in bringing down upon\nhimself a torrent of fierce, half-drunken vituperation.  Seasoned\nvessel though he were, the Major's repeated draughts of brandy, very\nlittle diluted, had not been without effect, in flushing his face, and\ninflaming his habitually irritable temper.  His present mood would ill\nbrook contradiction.\n\nFortunately, he neither expected nor waited for an answer.  Hastily\nemptying his glass and filling it again, he went on.\n\n\"Now, Harry, if you can tell me any way by which I can ruin his\nbusiness, turn him out of his house, and make him quit the country,\nI'll own that I've done the law an injustice, and give you a handsome\nfee besides.  Can the thing be done?\"\n\nBergan silently shook his head; he would not trust himself to speak.\n\n\"Just as I told you!\" exclaimed the Major, with great virulence of\nexpression.  \"The law has plenty of quibbles and quirks for the help of\nrogues and scoundrels, but it can't lend a hand to an honest cause, at\na pinch!  I'll none of it, Harry!  I'll none of it!  Get what you know\nof it out of your head as soon as you can.\"\n\nThe Major paused long enough to empty his glass, and then resumed, in a\nmore amiable tone.  \"The best thing you can do, Harry, is to stay here\nwith me; I'll make a rice-planter of you.  It doesn't take a ninny for\nthat, by any means; your talents will not be thrown away.  And if we\nsuit each other,--as I think we shall,--I'll give you Bergan Hall when\nmy title to it expires.  To be sure, I'm strong and hearty yet; but no\none lasts forever.  And as you are named for me, and I like your looks,\nI would rather give it to you than anybody else.  In fact, I've had it\nin my mind, for some time, to write to Eleanor and ask her to do just\nwhat she has done,--send one of her boys to live with me, and be my\nheir.\"\n\n\"You mistake,\" said Bergan, quickly, \"neither my mother nor myself had\nany such idea.  She merely wished me to consult you about commencing my\nprofession in--\"\n\n\"Tut! tut!  Harry,\" interrupted his uncle, \"I meant it, if you and she\ndid not.  And I mean it more than ever now; that is, if you'll yield to\nmy wish about the law.  But if you persist in sticking to that, I give\nyou up, once for all--mind, I give you up!\"\n\n\"I should deserve to be given up,\" replied Bergan, smiling, \"if I were\nlightly to forsake a vocation for which I am fitted both by taste and\neducation, to enter upon one of which I know absolutely nothing.  I may\nreasonably hope to succeed as a lawyer; I fear I should make but a poor\nplanter.  Moreover, it would not suit me to be dependent upon any one.\"\n\n\"Stuff! nonsense!\" exclaimed Major Bergan, bluntly.  \"I defy you to\nmake a poor planter under my tuition,--I claim to understand that\nbusiness.  As for dependence, never you fear but that I shall get aid\nand comfort enough out of you to make our accounts square.  For, after\nall, Harry, it is a dreary kind of a life that I'm leading, without\nchick or child, kith or kin, to speak to, or to care for.  I cannot\nhelp asking myself, sometimes, what is the good of it all, and how Is\nit to end.  But with a fine young fellow like you here, to enter into\nmy plans now, and carry them out after I'm gone,--why, it would be like\na fresh lease of life to me!  We'll rebuild the old house, you shall\ndrop the 'Arling,' and behold the seventh Harry Bergan of Bergan Hall,\non _this_ side the water!  And really, I don't see how you can do\nbetter, Harry.  Here are wealth, position, influence, and a chance to\noblige your old uncle,--ready to your hand.  Stay, my boy, stay!\"\n\nThe Major's bluff voice had sunken to a hoarse tone of sadness, in his\nconfession of loneliness, and finally, to one of entreaty, that touched\nhis nephew's heart.  Nor was the prospect held up before him without\nits own peculiar and powerful attraction.  He looked thoughtfully into\nthe fire, debating with himself what and how he should reply.  His\nuncle watched him keenly for a moment, and then said, in his kindest\ntone and manner;--\n\n\"Well, Harry, I won't press you for an answer, now.  Stay here a month\nor two, and look around you; and then, we'll talk the matter over\nagain, and see if we cannot settle upon something that shall be\nmutually satisfactory.  For so long, surely, you can afford to be my\nguest.\"\n\n\n\n\nIII.\n\n\"PATTERN OF OLD FIDELITY.\"\n\nBefore Bergan could answer, there came a low tap at the door.  A negro\nwoman, of unusual height, and singularly venerable and dignified\naspect, stood, courtesying slightly, on the threshold.  She was plainly\nof great age,--her face was deeply furrowed, and her hair, where it\ncould be seen under the dark blue kerchief that covered her head, was\nwhite as snow,--yet her shoulders had not bent under the burden of\nyears, her tall frame, though gaunt, was little palsied by the touch of\nactual infirmity.  Although she carried a cane, it was not so much for\nits support, as for its aid in feeling out her way along her accustomed\npaths; she had been blind for many years.\n\n\"Master Harry,\" said she, clasping her hands over the head of her cane,\nand speaking in slow, somewhat tremulous tones, but with neither the\nslovenly utterance nor the vicious pronunciation of the ordinary\nslave,--\"Master Harry, excuse me if I interrupt you, but I could not\nwait any longer,--I wanted so much to see Miss Eleanor's son!\"\n\n\"It is Maumer Rue,\" said Major Bergan, not only with unwonted kindness\nof tone, but with something akin to respect in his manner;--\"your\nmother must have spoken to you of our old nurse, Harry?\"\n\n\"Indeed she has!\" exclaimed Bergan, earnestly, starting up to take the\nblind woman's hand.  \"Your name has always been a household word with\nus.  The story of your devotion to my mother, in saving her from the\nflames, at the risk of your own life, and with the ultimate loss of\nyour sight, was the one story of which we children never used to tire.\nProbably we felt, in our vague, childish way, that it was the one which\ncame from the profoundest depth in her own heart,--since she could\nnever tell it to us without a little tremor in her voice, and a soft\ndewiness in her eyes,--and that was the secret of its charm for us.\nYou may be sure that she has never forgotten how much she owes you!\"\n\nThe old woman's lips trembled, and large tears gathered in her\nsightless eyes.  \"The Lord bless my dear young lady!\" she ejaculated\nfervently,--\"I knew she would never forget her old maumer.  And it's\nlike her to make much of my little service; but I did nothing but what\nwas my duty--nothing.\"\n\n\"She thinks otherwise,\" replied Bergan, kindly.  \"She regards it as one\nof those rare instances of courage and devotion, for which the whole\nworld is better and brighter.  She bade me give you her kindest love,\nand tell you that you must not despair of meeting her once more, even\non this side the grave.  When the new railroad is finished, as far as\nour place,--which it promises to be in a year or two,--she fully\nintends to revisit her childhood's home, and look once more upon the\nfaces of her childhood's friends.  She furthermore charged me to pay\nyou an early visit, in your own quarters, and tell you everything about\nher western home and life that you might care to hear.\"\n\n\"How kind of Miss Eleanor to think of that!\" responded the blind woman,\ndelightedly.  \"It shows that she's just her own old self, always trying\nto think what everybody would like, and then doing her best to give it\nto them.  Of course, there's a hundred questions that I should like to\nask about her; and if you really don't mind answering them, and will do\nme the honor to step into my little cabin, some day when you're passing\nby, I shall be more obliged to you than I can rightly tell.  But as to\nmy ever seeing Miss Eleanor again,--I beg your pardon, sir; you see\nI've not yet learned to say Mrs. Arling,--though there's nothing on\nearth that would make me so glad as to meet her again, and hear the\nsound of her sweet, cheery voice, yet I'm getting to be too old to dare\nto reckon much upon the future.  But the next best thing to meeting\nher, is to meet her son, here on the old place; and I thank the Lord\nthat He has let me live long enough for that.\"\n\nThe old negress bent her head devoutly for a moment, and then turned to\nMajor Bergan.  \"Does he favor Miss Eleanor much, Master Harry?\" she\nasked.\n\n\"Yes, he is a good deal like her, maumer; he has her eyes exactly.  But\nhe is even more like what I was forty years ago; it really makes me\nfeel young again to look at him.  He's a real Bergan, I can tell you\nthat.\"\n\nMaumer Rue smiled as if well pleased; yet the smile seemed a little\nburdened with sadness, too; and Bergan saw that it was followed by a\nlook of extreme wistfulness.\n\n\"Can I do anything for you?\" he asked, kindly.\n\n\"Nothing, master,--unless--if it is not asking too much,--and if you\nwould not mind the touch of an old woman's fingers, that have to serve\nher instead of eyes, I could get so much clearer an idea of your\nlooks,--\" and she finished the sentence by raising her hand\nsignificantly toward his face.\n\nBergan was much moved.  \"Of course I should not mind,\" said he, drawing\nnear to her;--\"examine me as closely as you like.  It would be strange\nindeed if there were anything unpleasant to me in the touch of hands\nthat have done so much for my mother!\"\n\n\"It's easy to see that you are Miss Eleanor's son, you have just her\nkind, pleasant ways,\" responded the blind woman, gratefully.  \"He is a\nlittle taller than you, Master Harry,\" she continued, turning toward\nthe Major, as she laid her hand on Bergan's head,--\"yes, just a little\ntaller, though not much.\"\n\n\"All the better for that,\" remarked the Major, parenthetically, \"the\nBergans must not degenerate.\"\n\nMaumer Rue went on, without noticing the interruption; passing her\nfingers lightly over Bergan's features, as she spoke.  \"His brow is\nsquare and full, like yours, and he has the same straight nose; but his\neyes are not so deep-set, nor his eyebrows so heavy.  His jaw is like\nyours, too,--the set, square jaw of the Bergans,--but his mouth is more\nlike Miss Eleanor's:--a sweet, pleasant mouth she had, the mouth of the\nHabershams, her mother's family.  Yet it could be firm enough, too,\nwhen there was need; our Miss Eleanor had plenty of character.  And I'm\nright glad to see that you are so much like her; you couldn't resemble\nany one better or handsomer.\"\n\nShe made a slight pause, and then added, in a half-humorous way,--\"I\nreckon she couldn't give you any spice of the 'black Bergan temper,' as\nshe had none of it herself.\"\n\n\"I am afraid she did,\" answered Bergan, laughing, yet coloring, too;\n\"and many a scrape it has gotten me into, before now.  But I hope that\nI am learning to control it a little.\"\n\n\"I don't see why you should,\" broke in the Major, gruffly.  \"The Bergan\ntemper is an heir-loom to be proud of; it identifies the breed.  It has\nrun in the blood from time immemorial.  A Bergan without it--that is, a\nmale, of course a woman counts for nothing--would be no Bergan at all.\"\n\n\"You say true, Master Harry,\" rejoined Rue, composedly; \"it's always\nrun in the blood, and heated it more than was good for it, many a time.\nYet, now and then, there has been a Bergan who has learned how to keep\nit under, and been all the better for doing it.  You surely must\nrecollect what a mild, kind gentleman your father was, young as you\nwere when he died; and I've heard say that there never was a truer\nBergan, or one more respected all the country through.\"\n\nThe Major made a grimace, and muttered something unintelligible, in a\ntone half of acquiescence, half of irritation.\n\nRue turned again to Bergan.  \"You have been very patient with an old\nwoman's talk, and an old woman's infirmity,\" said she, with a kind of\nnatural dignity,--\"I will not trouble you any longer.  Good night, and\nthank you, Master--what name shall I say?\"\n\nBergan hesitated, and looked doubtfully at his uncle.\n\n\"He says his name is Bergan,\" explained the Major, shortly; \"but I have\ngiven him to understand that he is to be known by my own name, Harry,\nwhile he stays here.\"\n\nRue shook her head.  \"There can be but one Master Harry for me,\" she\nsaid quietly,--\"the one that I nursed as a babe and petted as a child,\nthe one that I have lived with so many years, and who has always been\nso kind to me--kinder even than he has been to himself.  So please let\nme call him Master Bergan; but, of course, the rest of the people will\ngive him any name that you say.\"\n\n\"Of course they will,\" returned the Major, haughtily, \"or I'll know the\nreason why.  As for you, maumer, I shall let you do as you please;\nyou've had your own way too long to be balked of it now.  But take care\nthat the others don't hear and imitate you,--or you know what they'll\nget.\".\n\n\"Thank you, Master Harry,\" replied Rue, as gratefully as if the assent\nhad been more graciously given,--\"you are always good to your poor old\nmaumer.  Good night.\"  And she turned to go.\n\nBut on the threshold, she paused, and lifted her sightless face toward\nthe dim night-sky, across which dark clouds were swiftly scudding.\n\n\"Master Harry,\" said she, suddenly, \"do you remember how I told you,\nsix months ago, that the Bergan star was set, and how angry you were?\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, I remember,\" exclaimed the Major, hoarsely and\neagerly,--\"what of it?\"\n\nShe slowly raised her right hand, and pointed skyward, with a strange,\nintent, watchful expression in her uplifted \"See! it is rising!\" said\nshe; \"it comes up through the clouds,--they try to hold it back, but\nthey cannot,--it grows brighter! it rises higher!--ah!\"--drawing her\nbreath hard and gaspingly,--\"it stops--it goes down again!--the clouds\ncover it!--it is--No! it is not gone! it shines faintly behind the\nclouds--it breaks through--slowly, slowly, slowly,--it rises! it rises!\"\n\nYielding, half-unconsciously, to the powerful influence of the blind\nwoman's rapt, ecstatic manner, Bergan had drawn near to her, and now\nsaw, with surprise, a single star shining for a moment through the\nrifts of the clouds.  Glancing at the Major, whom he had before seen to\nbe hanging with breathless interest upon the words of the old negress,\nhe perceived that his eyes were fixed upon it also, with a gaze that\nwas half-awed, half-triumphant.  He knew not what to think.\n\nMaumer Rue still stood in the same commanding attitude, with raised\nhand, and intent, uplooking face.  Suddenly, her arm fell by her side;\nher head drooped on her breast; the majesty that had informed her pose\nand gesture went out like an expiring flame; she shivered, tottered,\nand would have fallen but for the Major's prompt support.  Without a\nword, he guided her safely to the door of her cabin.\n\nComing back, he reseated himself at the table, which had been cleared\nof everything but the bottles and glasses, and hastily poured out and\nswallowed some raw brandy.  Then he remarked, in a half-explanatory and\nhalf-apologetic tone,--\n\n\"She enjoys the reputation of a seer, or prophetess, among the negroes;\nand I really think she has some faith in it herself.  Certainly, she\nseems to have strange visions now and then; and some of her predictions\nhave come true; I confess she puzzles even me.  At all events, she is\nthe best and most faithful old creature that ever lived.  She was born\non the estate, brought up in the Hall with my father and his sisters,\nshared their education, is thoroughly steeped in the family traditions,\nduly infected with the family pride, and entirely devoted to the family\ninterests.  She is the only person that I allow to do pretty much as\nshe pleases; her long and faithful services to my father, Eleanor, and\nmyself, deserve that much, I think.  And really, she is of great use to\nme; I scarcely know what I should do without her.  The negroes all\nbelieve her to be a hundred years old--undoubtedly she is past\nninety--and that, together with her reputation as a prophetess, gives\nher great power over them, and saves me a heap of trouble in managing\nthem.  She has very good judgment, too, in many things; I frequently\ntake her advice, and never yet had occasion to regret doing so.\nIndeed, it was chiefly at her instigation and entreaty that I had made\nup my mind, as I told you, to write to your mother about sending me one\nof her sons.\"\n\nHe paused for a moment, and then asked, in a careless tone, but with a\nquick, keen glance at his nephew, from under his shaggy brows,--\"Did\nyou see that star?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" answered Bergan.  \"It was a curious coincidence.\"\n\n\"Hum--very,\" returned his uncle, evidently not quite satisfied with\nthis view of the matter.  But he said no more.\n\nThe conversation now turned into various other channels.  It touched\nfor a brief space upon the indefatigable quoter of proverbs whom Bergan\nhad overtaken on his way to the Hall; and whom the Major declared to be\nthe only living representative of one of the oldest and most\ninfluential families in the county.  He had been reared in affluence,\nhad been educated in Europe, and had inherited a large fortune and a\nfine estate.  But he had early fallen into bad habits,--not so much\nfrom viciousness of temper and taste, as from weakness of will and\nconsequent inability to resist temptation,--had run a short, rapid\ncareer of folly, extravagance, and dissipation, in which he had\nfrittered away his inheritance, and so had gradually sunken into his\npresent state of semi-vagabondage.  He lived, by sufferance, in a\nlittle cabin, on one corner of the estate which he had formerly owned.\nFrom his wholesale shipwreck of fortune, position, will, energy, and\nhope, he had saved but one thing--his love of proverbs.  It had even\ngrown stronger in proportion as other things wasted and failed,--like a\nplant striking deep root into soil enriched by the decay of many sister\nplants.  He had learned several languages solely for the sake of their\nproverbs; he had even been seen to hesitate and waver long between the\ndiverse, but powerful, attractions of a bottle of ardent spirits and a\ndingy, old collection of saws, when but one came within the compass of\nhis purse; and he was known far and wide by the _sobriquet_ of \"Proverb\nDick.\"  His real name was Richard Causton.\n\nIn listening to this history, Bergan could not but be struck by the\ncuriously discriminating character of the Major's animadversion.  He\nhad little, or nothing, to say in disapproval of the depraved and\nungovernable appetite for strong drink which, it was easy to see, had\nplayed so important part in ruining poor Richard Causton; while he\ncould find no words strong enough to express his bitter contempt for\nthe flabby will, the pitiable irresolution, and the insane\nextravagance, which had joined hands with that appetite for his\ncomplete destruction.  Tender, as a mother to her babe, over the fault\nwhich he knew himself to possess (if he secretly acknowledged it to be\na fault), Major Bergan was merciless to the weaknesses from which he\nwas saved by a hardier will and a more energetic temperament.\n\nBut as the evening wore on, and the brandy slowly worked its way up to\nthe stronghold of his brain, the Major's talk grew discursive, profane,\nand incoherent; until Bergan, shocked and pained, and anxious to escape\nfrom the mortifying spectacle, pleaded fatigue, and begged permission\nto retire.  Jip was accordingly summoned, and he was conducted to a\nlittle, low room under the cottage roof, where his portmanteau had been\nbestowed, and some little provision made for his comfort.\n\nHere Bergan quickly threw himself on the bed, to find, for the first\ntime in his life, that it was one thing to woo the fair maiden Sleep,\nand another to win her.  Recollections of his western home, of his\nmother, of the ancestral traditions on which his childish imagination\nhad fed, of his youthful studies and aspirations, of his recent\njourney, and the disappointment in which it had ended, mingled with\nhalf-conceived plans and half-acknowledged hopes,--a vague, changeable,\nteasing, tireless procession of thoughts and images,--filed slowly\nthrough his mind, compelling his reluctant gaze, and blocking up every\navenue to Slumberland.  And if, for an instant, the vexing march\nstopped, and the importunate images began to waver and blend, sounds of\nstamping feet, of jingling glass, of muttered oaths and sentences, or\ntwo or three half-sung, half-shouted lines of a drunken ditty, coming\nup from below, startled him once more into wakefulness, and told him\nthat his uncle's solitary debauch was not yet ended.  It was already\ngray dawn when, worn out with restlessness, he fell into a brief\nslumber, and dreamed that old Rue, with the Bergan star in her hand,\nwas beckoning him to follow her over a dreary, desolate country, full\nof briers and pitfalls, wherein he was so constantly entangled that, in\nspite of his best endeavors, he could never get any nearer to her.\nTurning suddenly, she flashed the star into his eyes, and:--oh, horror\nof horrors!--he was blind!\n\nStarting up, all in a tremble, he found that the risen sun was shining\nfull in his face, through the uncurtained window.  It was morning.\n\n\n\n\nIV.\n\nA GOODLY HERITAGE.\n\nEarly as was the hour, Bergan found the table already laid for\nbreakfast in the room below, where he was soon joined by the Major.  He\nbrought with him (besides a noticeable odor of brandy), a cordial\nmorning greeting, and a temper which, though by no means urbane, had a\ncertain, flavor of bluff good nature, in pleasing contrast with his\nextreme irritability of the preceding evening.  Encouraged by these and\nsimilar signs of a clearer mental atmosphere, Bergan ventured to\nmention his uncle Godfrey, and to remark that he had been charged with\na letter to him from his mother, which he must take an early\nopportunity to deliver.\n\n\"Eh! what?\" asked the Major, laying down his knife and fork, with the\nlook and tone of a man who doubts the evidence of his own senses.\n\nBergan quietly repeated his words.\n\nThe Major's face grew dark, and his eyebrows met in a heavy frown.  \"I\nshall take it mighty hard of you, if you do,\" said he, sternly and\ngloomily.  \"I tell you, Harry, he is no Bergan at all, and he ought not\nto be treated like one.  Eleanor would never have written to him, nor\ndesired you to visit him, if she had known the true state of\naffairs;--you can safely take that for granted, and act accordingly.\nBesides,\" he went on, after a slight pause, \"it is only fair to warn\nyou that any one who goes from Bergan Hall over to Oakstead (that's\nwhat he calls his place), doesn't come back again,--with my consent.\nThere's no relation, nor commerce, nor sympathy, nor liking, between\nthe two places; and there never can be any while I live,--nor after I\nam dead, either, if I can help it.  So just put that matter out of your\nhead, Harry, and say no more about it.\"\n\nBergan looked down, and the color rose to his brow.  Without seeking to\nknow the merits of the quarrel between his two uncles, he nevertheless\nfelt that the abject submission, the complete surrender of principle\nand will, expected of him by Major Bergan, was simply impossible; and\nhe began to wonder if it were not his wisest course to place himself at\nonce on tenable ground, by saying that, while he should always be glad\nof his uncle's advice, and ready to give all due and respectful\nconsideration to his wishes, yet, in matters involving questions of\nright and duty, the final appeal must needs be to his own conscience.\nSomething of this sort was upon his lips, when the Major spoke again,\nand in a more amiable tone.\n\n\"I am really sorry, for your sake, Harry, that things are just as they\nare,\" said he.  \"Of course, it is not agreeable to you to run thus\nunexpectedly against a family feud;--I really ought to have written\nEleanor about it, but I thought to spare her the knowledge of her\nhalf-brother's disgrace.  Besides, as Godfrey is our nearest neighbor,\nit might be pleasant to be on visiting terms, if he and his were only\nthe right sort of company to keep.\"\n\n\"I think he has children near my own age,\" remarked Bergan.\n\n\"Not now.  His two eldest died a few years ago.\"\n\n\"Ah, yes; I remember hearing of it when I was in college.\"\n\n\"He has but one left--a daughter,\" pursued the Major.  \"A pretty,\nbright little thing she was, too, as a child; I was really quite fond\nof her, and she used to spend half her time here,--that is, in the old\nHall;--and Maumer Rue almost idolized her, because she fancied that she\nwas something like what Eleanor was at her age.  She even used to run\naway and come over here, after the trouble began; but I reckon they\nmust have found it out, and put a stop to it.\"  And the Major ground\nhis teeth at the recollection, as if he owed his brother an especial\ngrudge on this very head.  \"However,\" he went on, \"it is better so; for\nthough I could never have found it in my heart to be unkind to the\nchild,--so fond of me as she was, too!--yet I want nothing to do with\nanybody, or anything, that belongs to Godfrey; and so I am glad, on the\nwhole, that she stopped coming.  Doubtless, she will soon merge the\nname of Bergan into Smith, or Brown, or something equally desirable;\nand as Godfrey has no son, to bear his patronymic and carry on his\nbusiness, we may hope that there will be an end of _them_.\"\n\nThe last words were spoken with ineffable contempt.  Then, suddenly\nrising, as if to dismiss the subject, the Major remarked, with an\nentire change of tone and manner:--\n\n\"But I must not sit here chatting any longer, for I suspect that\nBen--that's my head driver--is waiting for instructions.  Will you come\nwith me, or do you prefer to amuse yourself about home?\"\n\n\"I will go with you, uncle, if you are willing.\"\n\n\"Both willing and glad.  Come on.\"\n\nBergan followed his uncle out into the quadrangle,--here called the\n\"street,\"--and found it to be, for the most part, silent and deserted.\nThe cabins, many of which, on the evening previous, had been brightened\nby a little gleam of firelight within, or vivified by moving figures,\nwere now closed and locked, the occupants being away at work in the\nfields.  They were all neatly whitewashed; and they stood well apart\nfrom each other, leaving room for little gardens between, where\nvegetables, and, occasionally, flowers, were growing.  Here and there,\ntoo, a pig rooted and grunted in a rude sty; or hens and chickens\nfluttered and cackled, in their busy, enlivening fashion, around the\ndoor.\n\nOne of the buildings, of considerable size, and two stories high, where\nseveral women and children, with peculiar haggard, heavy, listless, and\nwithal resigned faces, were lying or sitting around the porch, Bergan\neasily recognized as the infirmary.  Another, seemingly stuffed with\nbabies and young children, under the charge of several half-grown girls\nand one superannuated old woman, he knew to be the day-nursery; for the\nsafe bestowal of the infant population of the quarter, during their\nmothers' absence in the fields.  Here, Maumer Rue seemed to be making a\nvisit of inspection; though invisible herself, the slow tones of her\nvoice, exhorting one of the young nurses to greater watchfulness,\nsounded distinctly from within; and becoming quickly aware of the\napproach of her master and his guest, she came to the door, and made\nthem a stately courtesy, as they passed.\n\nQuite apart from the quarter, yet within sight, stood a cabin of\nespecially rude and forlorn aspect; the open door of which disclosed a\nstrong stake driven into the ground in its centre, and divers rusty\nchains, handcuffs, padlocks, _et cetera_, hanging round its sides.\nThis was the prison.  Human justice being thus provided with a fitting\nabode, Bergan involuntarily looked around in search of a corresponding\ndwelling for Heaven's mercy, in the shape of a little cross-tipped\nchurch or chapel,--but saw none.\n\nMajor Bergan first stopped at the threshing-mill, where Engine (that is\nto say \"Engineer\") Jack, a remarkably intelligent negro,--and an\nexceedingly black one as well,--was waiting to bring to his master's\nnotice certain slight repairs necessary to the machinery.  While the\nneedful discussion was going on, Bergan looked around him, the better\nto understand the topography of the place.\n\nHe observed that Bergan Hall, the roof of which he saw afar off, rising\namong the trees, was situated upon a considerable elevation,--a sort of\nbluff, overlooking a small inlet, or arm of the sea.  To this\ncircumstance, Major Bergan owed his ability to live upon his plantation\nthroughout the year, instead of fleeing therefrom, like most of his\nclass, at the approach of summer.  For, just when the home-scenery\ntakes on its most tender and fascinating grace,--when the rice-fields\nare green as the meadows of paradise,--when the temple-like oak-glades\nare most beautiful with gentle gloom and glinting sunshine,--when every\nthicket has its garland of bloom, and every tree has its clinging,\nflowering vine,--when the sweet-smelling pine-woods are glittering with\nthe gorgeous coloring, and melodious with the multifarious voice, of\nthousands of birds and insects;--Just then, the rice-planter has to\nflee for his life from its final, treacherous charm---the soft-shining\nmist, the deadly malaria, that creeps up at night from the marshes, and\ncovers the land like a sea.  If he lingers for but one ramble in the\nfair, moon-lighted, and moss-festooned avenues, through that silver\nhaze, fever walks by his side under the grand arches, and death waits\nfor him at the end of the alluring vistas.\n\nFrom this terror and this necessity, the owner of Bergan Hall was free.\nHis vast plantation stretched across the border-line which divides the\npestilential rice-swamps from the healthful sea-islands; one extremity\ntouching the river, and the other the ocean.  At one time, its chief\nrevenue was derived from the far-famed sea-island cotton, to the\nproduction of which its sea-board portion was well-adapted, but as that\ncrop declined, and the rice-crop rose, in value, its neglected\nswamp-lands were gradually reclaimed and brought under cultivation; and\nwere now the most valuable portion of the estate.  Too remote from\nBergan Hall to poison it, or its vicinity, with their malaria, they\nwere yet quite near enough for necessary superintendence.\n\nThe negro quarter lay somewhat lower than the Hall.  On its left, the\nground sloped gradually down to a little creek; where lay several\nflat-boats loaded with rice, to show what had been the goal of the\nnegro procession of the previous evening.  Along the opposite bank ran\na dark fringe of pines.\n\nHorses were now brought.  The one assigned to Bergan was a superb\nblooded filly, full of life and fire.  While he stood taking delighted\nnote of her many fine points, she sniffed round him in half-wild,\nhalf-curious fashion,--now starting quickly back, now timidly drawing\nnear,--and ended by frankly putting her nose in his hand, as if in\ntoken of amity.  Nor had he been long on her back, ere he felt, with an\nelectric thrill of pleasure, that perfect sympathy between horse and\nrider, that singular blending of their identity, which is the purest\ndelight of horsemanship, and best explains the fable of the Centaur.\n\n\"How do you like her?\" asked his uncle, at this juncture.\n\n\"Exceedingly,\" replied Bergan, with enthusiastic emphasis.  \"I think\nthat I never rode anything more admirable.\"\n\n\"Henceforth, then, she belongs to you.  And never mind the thanks,--I\nam really glad to hand her over to a fitting master.  She is too much\ngiven to dancing and frolicking for my use,---my sober-paced stallion\nmeets my wants a great deal better;--consequently, Vic--that's her\nname, short for Victoria,--Vic stands in the stable, eating her head\nand kicking her heels off, for the greater part of the time.  She will\nbe much happier in the hands of a master young enough to sympathize\nwith her.\"\n\nBergan could not fail to be delighted with a gift so generous and so\ntimely; bestowed, too, with a delicacy of manner, an appearance of\nasking a favor instead of conferring one, in strong contrast with his\nuncle's wonted bluntness.  Visions of long, solitary rides of\nexploration rose fascinatingly before him.  Nor would he suffer his\npleasure to be alloyed by any insidious doubt lest the gift might some\nday take the form of an unpleasant obligation.\n\nThe road ran along the bank of the creek, passing divers fields under\ncultivation, and divers others long \"turned out,\"--that is, exhausted,\nand left to lapse back into their primitive pine-barrenness.  In the\ncourse of an hour, the two gentlemen came upon a second negro quarter,\nconsiderably larger than the first, but with the same general\ncharacteristics, even to the threshing-mill.  This one, however, ran by\nwater power, instead of steam.\n\nThe horses were here left in charge of a negro, while the gentlemen\nwalked over to the rice fields.  They soon came into view, stretching,\nalmost as far as the eye could reach, along the bank of a broad, turbid\nriver.  Bergan speedily became much interested in their complicated\nsystem of dykes, ditches, canals, and gates; as well as in watching the\ndusky laborers, both men and women, that were busy therein.  Leaving\ndetails for results, however, he could not but be impressed with the\nfact that a vast amount of hard work was annually done, and a rich and\nremunerative crop annually reaped.  Plainly, Major Bergan was an\nenergetic, skilful manager.\n\nOn his part, the Major was greatly pleased with his nephew's\nintelligent interest, and predicted, more than once, that he would make\na rice-planter of him, in due time, who would show his neighbors \"what\nwas what.\"\n\nThe sun was half way down the western slope, when the uncle and nephew\nreturned to the cottage.  Dinner over, the Major civilly expressed his\nregret that he was unexpectedly called to another part of the\nplantation.  Bergan could accompany him; or--not to disappoint him of\nhis promised visit to the old Hall--he could get the keys of Maumer\nRue, and explore it by himself.\n\nBergan eagerly caught at the latter alternative.  Nor, to do him\njustice, was the Major at all displeased thereby.  Without troubling\nhimself to analyze his own emotions, he yet felt an unconquerable\naversion to the task of showing his nephew through the deserted home of\nhis forefathers.  Though little accustomed to care for the opinions or\nthe feelings of others, he foresaw an inevitable mortification in\nlooking with Bergan upon the ruin and desolation for which he knew\nhimself to be so largely responsible; since, if he had not invited the\nravages of time, he had put forth no hand to stay them.  Perhaps this\nfeeling was strong enough, even, to lend to the business that called\nhim away, an imperative aspect which it might otherwise have lacked.\n\nBergan, on his part, was well content to dispense with his uncle's\nguidance.  Not only would his presence be a constraint upon his own\nirrepressible emotions of sadness, regret, and, possibly, indignation;\nbut there would be a rare, subtile charm in wandering alone through\nprecincts at once so familiar and so strange, in finding out for\nhimself (or led only by the shadowy image of his maiden mother), spots\nhallowed by the tender touch of oldtime joys and sorrows, and nooks and\ncorners darkened not more by mould and cobwebs than by the clinging\ndust of immemorial family tradition.\n\nFirst, however, Major Bergan requested his companionship as far as the\nstable.  There they found a bright looking boy, somewhat older than\nJip, who had just finished rubbing down the filly of which Bergan had\nso lately become the master, and now stood regarding the result with\ngreat apparent satisfaction.\n\n\"Well, Brick,\" said the Major, sternly, \"I hope you've done better than\nyou did last time.\"\n\n\"Yes, massa, she done berry fine, I'se sure,--spec' I put a right smart\nhour on her.  Look a dar, now, don' she shine?\"\n\nThe Major examined her carefully, and finding nothing to fault, silent.\nIt was not his way to waste words in commendation.  He merely turned\nfrom the horse to the negro, and asked, pointing to Bergan,--\n\n\"You see that young gentleman?\"\n\n\"Yis, massa; sartin, massa.\"  And Brick made an embarrassed bow,\nuncertain whither this conversation might tend.\n\n\"Well, that's Vic's master, and yours.  It's your business to take care\nof her, and wait on him,--that is, do everything he tells you.\nHereafter, you are to go to him for orders.\"\n\nAnd quickly mounting his own horse, the Major rode off, without waiting\nfor thanks or comments.\n\nBergan stood looking doubtfully at his new acquisition.  Property of\nthis kind gave him a novel sensation; he could not tell, on the\ninstant, whether he liked it or no.  Nevertheless, he recognized the\ninexpediency of discussing the matter with the dusky chattel himself;\nwho, to represent him fairly, seemed in nowise displeased with his\nchange of owners.  He had opened his eyes a trifle wider at his sudden\ntransfer, and uttered a mechanical, \"Yis, massa,\"--that was all.  He\nnow stood, tattered hat in hand, waiting for orders.  Bergan was\nsomewhat disconcerted to find that he had none to give.  Finally, he\nasked,--\n\n\"What is your name?\"\n\n\"Rubric, sah.  But dey mos'ly calls me Brick.\"\n\n\"Ah, yes, I see.  And your family name?\"\n\n\"Hain't got no family, sah.\"\n\n\"Your father's name, I mean.\"\n\n\"Nebber had any fader, sah.  He sold down souf, fore I's born.\"\n\n\"Your second name, then.\"\n\n\"Same's yours, massa, I s'pose.\"\n\n\"Hum--How old are you?\"\n\nBrick scratched his head reflectively.  \"Don' _jes'_ know, massa,\n'zactly.  Spec' bout--bout--fifteen or--twenty, sah; jess 's massa\nlikes.\"\n\nBergan bit his lip.  Never had he met with such a spirit of\naccommodation.\n\n\"Well, Brick,\" he asked, after a moment, \"if you had a half-holiday,\nnow, what would you do with it?\"\n\nBrick's face grew radiant through all its dusk.  \"Go a-fishin', massa,\"\nhe burst out, eagerly; \"I jes' should!\"\n\n\"Well, go fishing, then,--if you think you can be back by supper-time.\"\n\n\"Yis, massa.  Tank you, massa.\"  And Brick was off like an arrow from\nthe string.\n\nBergan immediately sought out old Rue's cabin.  Outwardly, it differed\nlittle from its neighbors; but its interior was not without evidences\nof thoughtful provision for the faithful old nurse's comfort.  Having\nkindly answered all the questions that she chose to ask, in reference\nto \"Miss Eleanor\" and her western life, he made known his errand.  She\ninstantly took a key from her pocket, and was about to put it in his\nhand, when she suddenly drew back, exclaiming:--\n\n\"No, no, that will never do!  I forgot.  That is the key of the back\ndoor.  You see, sir, I sometimes look into the Hall, and that way is\nmost convenient.\"\n\n\"I assure you that it will serve me very well, too,\" replied Bergan.\n\"It does not matter how I make my entrance.\"\n\nRue shook her head.  \"It is not fitting,\" said she, \"that the son and\nheir of the house should first enter at the back, like a servant.\"\n\n\"The son, but not the heir,\" replied Bergan, smiling.\n\nRue turned quickly toward him.  \"Not the heir!\" she exclaimed, as if\ngreatly surprised.  \"And why not?\"\n\nThe question was not easy to answer.  Bergan could not say frankly,\n\"Because such heirship must be bought at too high a price,--even the\nsurrender of my profession, will, conscience, individuality.\"  Nor did\nthe answer present itself to his own mind in this definite form.  He\nwas conscious, at the moment, of nothing but a confused, hazy throng of\ndoubts, fears, possibilities, and wishes.\n\nRue seemed quite satisfied with his silence.  She turned to a bureau\nnear by, and, after a little search, drew forth a large, rusty key,\nwhich she handed him with a kind of solemnity.\n\n\"It has waited long,\" said she, \"for the hand that should rightfully\nput it into the lock, and let light and hope once more into the old\nhouse.  I thank the Lord that I live to see the day.\"\n\nBergan was too much touched to answer.  He walked quickly to the front\nof the deserted mansion, cut the vines from the door, and put the key\nin the lock.  At first, it opposed a stubborn resistance to his\nefforts; then, suddenly, the bolt yielded, the door turned slowly on\nits long-unused hinges, and he stood, with a beating heart, in his\nancestral hall.\n\n\n\n\nV.\n\nWASTE PLACES.\n\nHe was met by a swift gust of wind, so chill and vault-like, and\nhurrying past him with so woful a sigh, that it seemed like the rush of\ninnumerable imprisoned ghosts, eagerly seizing upon the opportunity for\nescape.  Involuntarily letting go the door, it fell to behind him with\na clangor that reverberated loudly, for a moment, through the house,\nand then suddenly ceased, as if smothered in some remote corner by a\nlurking hand.  The silence which followed was dreary and\noppressive,--all the more, because Bergan, coming so suddenly from the\noutward sunshine, was altogether bedimmed by such density of gloom as\nbrooded within, most of the windows being either darkened by blinds, or\nclosed with heavy opaque shutters.  For a single instant, he felt a\nthrill of unreasoning horror.  The impenetrable gloom, the oppressive\nstillness, the damp, dead air (which might have come straight from the\nopen mouth of a tomb), gave him a chill impression that he had\ncommitted sacrilege.\n\nQuickly recovering himself, however, he again flung wide open the door,\nand fastened it back.  By the light thus admitted, he easily found his\nway to a window at the other end of the hall, which he also opened.\nThere was an immediate inward rush, not only of the sunny daylight, but\nof the sweet, warm air of the autumn afternoon, with its inevitable\nsuggestions of tranquil sea, and tender sky, and slow-waving forest;\nquickly penetrating, he felt sure, to the uppermost corner of the\nlong-deserted dwelling, and scattering everywhere some healthful,\npurifying, enlivening influence.\n\nHe could now see that he stood in a wide and lofty entrance-hall,\ndecorated with a profusion of carved woodwork; panels, cornices, and\ncasements, being ornamented with garlands of oaken roses, or quaint\nheads of animals, stiff as petrifactions, and almost ebon-black with\ntime and rubbing.  The furniture consisted of a small table, a cumbrous\ncabinet, and ponderous, high-backed chairs, of the Elizabethan age, or\nperhaps earlier, brought from England, as heir-looms, by the first\nemigrant Bergan.  There was also a tall, spectral clock, which, to\nBergan's intense astonishment, suddenly began to fill the hall with a\nloud, monotonous tick, as if the march of time, long ago arrested in\nthe deserted mansion, was now duly resumed:--doubtless the rusty wheels\nhad been jarred into spasmodic motion by the violent closing of the\ndoor.  By way of decoration, there were a few dingy pictures, in dark,\ncarved frames; and in two of the oaken panels hung complete suits of\narmor,--helmets, cuirasses, gorgets, greaves, and\ngauntlets,--memorials, not only of long-buried Bergans, but of\nlong-vanished days.\n\nHesitating, for a moment, between two half-open doors, Bergan finally\nchose to enter the main parlor, a room full of a dusky, old-time\ngrandeur.  A piano stood between the windows, over the keys of which he\nran his fingers, but found that its music had been imprisoned so long\nas to have grown hoarse and melancholy.  So, doubtless, had that of the\nharp, which showed skeleton-like through its torn baize cover, and was\nflanked by a pile of music-books, the leaves of which were yellow with\nage.  Odd, unwieldy chairs, covered with faded silk damask and a rich\ncoat of dust, kept solemn state in the dim corners; ottomans and\nfootstools, elaborately embroidered by forgotten fingers with birds,\nflowers, and other once cheerful devices, stood under the windows, or\nwere scattered around the floor.  On the walls, in frames of tarnished\nmagnificence, hung two or three pictures in worsted, the designs of\nwhich, like the hands that had wrought them, were now faded beyond\nrecognition.  Just in proportion as these things had once helped to\nbrighten the room, they helped to make it more sombre now.  Like the\nimages of vanished joys, they were all the gloomier because once so\nglad.  Looking upon them, Bergan was painfully impressed with the\nlatent identity of gayety and grief.  Only give them time enough, and\nthey merge into the same dull neutral tint!\n\nBergan next glanced into a second parlor, a dusky ante-room, and a\ndining-room, but leaving these places undisturbed in their dim and\ndusty sanctity, as not of pressing interest, he made his way to the\nlibrary, on the other side of the hall.  It was a large and lofty room,\nset round with ancient book-cases, above and between which hung rows of\nportraits, in frames of oak and gilt.  These represented the early\nforefathers and later worthies of the Bergan lineage,--some in knightly\narmor, with mailed hands clasping a gleaming sword-hilt; some in the\nrich array of the Tudor or the Stuart court, with laced and plumed hats\nunder their arms; some in the red coats and top-boots of English\nsquires, with a favorite horse or hound looking out from one corner of\nthe picture; some in the huge horsehair wigs and ermined robes of the\njudge's bench; and others in the cocked hats and knee-breeches of the\nRevolution, or in the modern black coat and pantaloons, seated in\narm-chairs, with their backs to a crimson curtain.  There were also\ndames to match, with towers of lace and curls upon their heads, ruffs,\nfarthingales, and all manner of obsolete finery.\n\nMost of the faces had the austerity of aspect common to old portraits,\nas if time had delighted to bring into clearer view the hard, stern\ntraits of character which the painter had dared but faintly to\ndelineate, and had even then done his best to cover up with pleasant\ncoloring, and a final coat of lustrous varnish.  Nowhere was this\neffect more striking than in the portrait of Sir Harry Bergan, earliest\nemigrant of the name, and father of the American line.  The younger son\nof a noble English house, he had early fallen under the displeasure of\na stern father, by reason of careless and spendthrift habits; and had\nfinally been banished, in disgrace, to a small continental town, upon\nan allowance barely sufficient to keep body and soul together.  Under\nthis severe discipline,--smarting, too, with a rankling sense of\ninjustice in the treatment that he had received,--his character\nunderwent a complete transformation.  His carelessness and\nextravagance, as well as the generosity and frankness of which they had\nbeen the rank, ill-trained outgrowth, fell from him like worn-out\ngarments; he became bitter, morose, and dogged.\n\nAt this crisis, the sudden death of his mother placed him in possession\nof her own large fortune and family estate.  Life once more opened\nbefore him; but no gentle affection called him back to the paternal\nneighborhood.  On the contrary, he emigrated to Georgia, just then\nluminous with the career and the fame of General Oglethorpe; with the\nambitious design of founding a Bergan lineage in the new world, which\nshould equal, if not surpass, that of the old one.  He bought a vast\ntract of land, and vigorously commenced the work of bringing it under\ncultivation; he distinguished himself both as soldier and citizen in\nthe Spanish war and the colonial trials, and was knighted for his\nservices; finally, he imported men and materials, and built Bergan Hall\nas nearly as was possible in the style of his early English home, and\ncalled it by the same name.  The bricks, the tiles, the elaborate oak\ncarvings, the door and window-frames, the furniture and decorations,\nthe copies of ancestral portraits, were all brought from England, and\nput in their places by English artisans.\n\nScarcely was the work finished ere he died, bequeathing to his\ndescendants, not only a vast estate, a splendid home, and an\nillustrious name, but, by a still stronger law of heirship, certain\nmarked traits of character hereditary in himself,--indomitable energy,\ndogged independence, strong family pride, and an occasional lunacy of\nrage, familiarly known as the \"Black Bergan temper,\" to which the race\nhad been subject from time immemorial.  These characteristics were to\nbe traced, more or less distinctly through all the portraits of his\nsuccessors; but in none did they seem to be so perfectly reproduced as\nin his present representative.  In truth, Major Bergan might be\nregarded as the original Sir Harry over again; his harsh features and\nstern expression being shown in the old, time-darkened picture with a\ndegree of prophetical accuracy little short of actual portraiture.\n\nOther pictured faces there were, however, which time, still faithful to\nits work of bringing out the essential truth, had only touched into\nsofter beauty.  Such was the face of Eleanor, wife of Sir Harry; a\nwoman of fair and noble presence, in the rich prime of her life, with a\nwise, strong, beautiful soul, shining out through her deep, soft eyes.\nBefore this picture Bergan lingered long.  Even in babyhood, his mother\nhad resembled it strongly enough to make it seem most fitting that she\nshould receive its name; and the likeness had so strengthened with\nyears, that now, it might easily have passed for her portrait, painted\nfrom life.\n\nSeeing how perfectly these twain of their ancestors were reflected in\nhis mother and uncle, not only in features, but also in character,\nBergan was suddenly seized with a nightmare of doubt and questioning.\nWas a man's good or evil, then, a mere matter of inheritance, an\ninevitable heirloom, handed down to him from a remote ancestry, by a\nmore effectual law of transmission than has ever been established, in\nrespect to more tangible property?  If so,--if the defects and\nweaknesses, the depraved tastes and ungovernable passions, which\ncharacterized the father were inevitably passed on to the son, and the\nson's son,--if the moral disease under which this man groaned, as well\nas the sweet temper which made that woman a household sunbeam, were to\nbe surely traced back to their ancestor of a hundred years ago; what\nbecame of individual worth, individual shame, and individual\naccountability?\n\nBergan shrank from the apparently inevitable conclusion.  He felt, with\nan unutterable horror, its snaky coils tightening around him, squeezing\nthe breath out of every noble aim and aspiration.  He could only escape\nfrom it by an appeal from his reason to his consciousness.\n\n\"If,\" he asked himself, \"I should now take that grim picture from the\nwall, and thrust it into the fire, in revenge for the pain which it has\ngiven me, should I not know, despite all reasoning to the contrary,\nthat I--I alone, and not that bearded Sir Harry, was responsible for\nthe foolish act?  Certainly, I should; for whatever else he may have\nsent down to me, he did not give me either my will or my conscience.\nThese are my own, and never Bergan of them all had them before me!\"\nAnd he drew a long breath of relief.\n\nHis attention was now directed to the portrait of a young girl, at the\nend of the second row, nearest the window.  It had an odd, illusive\nresemblance to some one that he had known,--a singular likeness in\nunlikeness, which puzzled while it attracted him.  All at once,\ncapturing the fleeting, familiar expression, as it were, by a swift\nside-glance, he recognized it as that portrait of his mother in her\nyouth, of which Major Bergan had spoken.  He stood gazing upon it long\nand earnestly, yet with a strange, undefinable feeling of sadness, too.\nFor this bright, young being, with the smooth brow, the arch, dimpled\nface, and the unwakened soul dreaming at the depths of the soft eyes,\nwas, after all, a stranger to him,--a being that he had never known,\nand never could know, any more than if she had been laid years ago\nunder the sod, and her sweet substance gradually transformed into\nviolets and daisies.  He went back to the picture of Lady Eleanor, and\nfelt, with a thrill of gladness, that he had found again the mother\nthat he seemed, for a brief space, to have lost.\n\nHe now turned from the pictures to the book-cases, and found them to\ncontain a heterogeneous collection of ancient and modern volumes,\ncarelessly ranged upon the shelves, without reference either to age or\ntheme.  Latin and English classics stood shoulder to shoulder; law and\npoetry were harmoniously cheek by jowl; divinity and science amiably\nhelped each other to stand upright; history, philosophy, morality, and\ncontroversy, met on the same plane, and sunk their differences under\none uniform coat of dust.  Geography that read like fiction, geology\nthat had no interest except to the antiquarian, and infidelity that had\nnot a peg left to stand upon, were huddled together in one corner, and\n(no doubt to their utter amazement) helped, in these latter days, to\npoint the same moral.\n\nGrowing oppressed, at last, with the sight of so much hopelessly\nshelved thought, so many pages bearing the prints of a long succession\nof fingers now crumbled into dust, Bergan turned back to the hall,\nmounted the staircase, and glanced into two or three of the chambers.\nHe found in all faded carpets, ancient bureaus, high-post bedsteads,\nshadow-haunted hangings, a thick coating of dust, and a heavy,\nbreathless scent which, it seemed to him, death must needs have left\nthere, in his oldtime visits.  Indeed, he could almost have believed\nthat the last occupant of each dusky cavern of a bed had stiffened into\nclay therein, and been left to choke the air, and coat the furniture,\nwith his own mouldering substance.  No lighter dust, he thought, could\nhave made the atmosphere so thick, or caused him to draw his breath so\nheavily.\n\nOpening the last door in the gallery, Bergan was startled to find a\nroom with every appearance of recent occupancy.  Not a speck of dust\ndimmed the carpet or the furniture; the curtains and the bed-drapery\nstirred lightly with the breeze from a half-open window; the soft\npillows seemed waiting for the head that had dreamed upon them last\nnight; a chair, with a shawl thrown carelessly over the back, stood\nwhere it must needs have been left a moment ago; an open workbox showed\na suggestive confusion of spools of silk and bits of ribbon and\nworsted; a vase of flowers adorned the mantel; and a little white glove\nlay on the toilet-table, among brushes and scent-bottles, and was\nreflected in a small, bright mirror.  Bergan hastily drew back, feeling\nintuitively that he had intruded upon a maiden's bed-chamber, keeping\nstill the perfume of her sweet breath and happy thoughts.\n\nYet--the bed-linen, how strangely yellow!--the shawl, how dim and\nfaded!--the flowers, how withered!  He advanced again; he began to\nunderstand that the maiden who had dreamed on that pillow, whose hand\nhad left its dainty mould in that glove, the sweetness of whose virgin\nbreath still lingered in the room with the scent of the withered\nrosebuds, went out from it years ago,--a bride,--to be known\nthenceforth as wife and mother,--his mother!  His eyes grew moist; one\nby one he touched the little possessions left behind with her girlhood,\nstriving thus to come a little closer to the fair, shy image, that\nmoved him with such unutterable tenderness, yet seemed so far beyond\nhis ken.  Reverently, at last, he closed the door, as upon a still,\nwhite, smiling corpse, at once ineffably beautiful and ineffably sad.\n\nBut who had cared for this one room so tenderly, while all the rest of\nthe house had been left to go to ruin?  The answer was plain.  Old Rue,\nwhose love for her young mistress was half a worship, had taken a\nsorrowful pleasure in keeping the room (with such help as she could\neasily command) in the exact state in which it had been left.\n\nBergan was in no mood for further exploration.  He made his way back to\nthe entrance-hall, and sat down in one of the antique chairs.  He was\nnot quite ready for the instant transition into the outward sunshine.\nHis heart was too heavy.  The ancestral home was only an ancestral\ntomb.  Surrounded by memorials of the old state and splendor of Bergan\nHall, he felt all the more keenly its present desolation and decay.\nRemembering the noble Bergan lineage, he was humiliated to the dust by\nthe thought of its present representative.\n\nAnd here, first, his uncle's offer rose before him in the dazzling\ngarments of temptation.  Was it, after all, an ignoble ambition to lift\nthe family name out of the dust, to restore the family home, fill it\nagain with social life and warmth, and make it the centre of purer,\nmore refining, and more elevating influences than ever before?  Was it\nnot better than any mere personal ambition?  Might it not be just the\nplace which he was meant to fill, and which, if he declined to take it,\nwould be left empty?  From questions he went on to answers; and his\nthoughts shaped out a tempting vision of Bergan Hall restored,\nrevivified.  Light steps and rustling garments went up and down the\nbroad staircase,--his mother sat smiling in her old room,--voices of\nchildren echoed through the large, sunshiny parlors,--guests came and\nwent,--he himself sat in the library, crowned with honors as with\nyears, and--\n\nHe was recalled to the present and the actual by a low rumble of\nthunder.  The sunshine had faded from the sky; clouds were rolling up\nfrom the west; he hastened back to the cottage through the first drops\nof the rain.\n\nThe evening passed much like its predecessor.  When, at last, he went\nup to his room, leaving his uncle to the dear companionship of his\nbottle and glass, he found it half-flooded with water from a newly\nsprung leak in the roof.  Hastily declining the Major's hesitating\noffer of a share in his own apartment, he begged permission to quarter\nhimself in the old Hall.\n\nMajor Bergan set down his glass, and looked at him with a mixture of\nwonder and admiration.  \"Certainly, Harry, if you are in earnest about\nit,\" said he.  \"But I must say that you are a brave fellow to choose to\nsleep alone in an old ruin like that,--haunted, too, the negroes say.\nBut are you sure that you can find a room there any less leaky than\nyour present one?\"\n\n\"Quite sure.  I noticed two or three, on the south side, which seemed\nto be in excellent condition.\"\n\n\"Very well; take your choice, and make yourself as comfortable as you\ncan.  Brick is under your orders, of course; and Maumer Rue will send\nyou out one of the women, with what linen is needed.  Good night.\"\n\nThe Major remained standing at the door, till he saw, first, a\nwandering gleam of light through the crevices of the old house, and\nthen the steady beam of a candle, shining from an upper window.\n\n\"A light in Eleanor's room!--I never expected to see that again!\" he\nmurmured, and went back to his bottle, to drink all the deeper for some\nunwontedly sad and remorseful thoughts.\n\nMeanwhile, Bergan had not once dreamed of appropriating that maiden\nsanctuary.  He had merely chosen the room next to it; and the door\nbetween being transiently opened for better ventilation, Major Bergan\nhad seen his light through the designated window.\n\nIt was not an easy task to make his dusty, mouldy room even tolerably\nhabitable, but it was finally achieved; and, dismissing Brick, Bergan\nlaid his head on his pillow, with a real satisfaction in being, at\nlast, domiciled under his ancestral roof.\n\n\n\n\nVI.\n\nTHE DAY OF TEMPTATION.\n\nTwo days of drizzling rain followed, and did their best to make the\nblack roof and mouldy walls of Bergan Hall look more cheerless than\never.  But a counteracting influence was busy within.  An energetic\nyoung spirit was rapidly organizing a home for itself in one corner;\nturning the shadows out of nooks where they had lain so long as almost\nto have established a pre-emption right, and making short work with\ndust, mould, and dead air.  And, in some inexplicable way, the whole\nhouse seemed to catch the pleasant infection, and to be faintly astir\nwith life.  A passer-by of delicate instincts would have seen at once\nthat the long lease of silence and emptiness had expired.  And in\ntruth, it would have been strange if a dwelling, so old--so long\nfamiliar with human affairs and interests, the very timbers of which\nmust have been oozy with the exhalations of a long succession of joys\nand sorrows--had not shown itself ready to sympathize with every\npassing phase of life, and especially to welcome back to its empty old\nbosom a fresh, young, beating heart.\n\nThat it did so, Bergan felt intuitively.  In return, he did what he\ncould to vivify with his single personality its whole wide indoor\nworld.  Having received unlimited discretionary powers from his uncle,\nin regard to choice of rooms and furniture, as well as the most\nunrestrained privilege of exploration, he went from room to room,\nransacking and arranging, here picking up a quaintly carved chair, and\nthere an absurdly contorted little table, and setting wide open doors\nand windows wherever he could find a reasonable excuse for doing so.\nHe even mounted to the garret, a great twilight-hall, stored with the\nlumber of many vanished generations, and dived into nooks of dingiest\nobscurity, with the eager zeal of a discoverer; coming forth covered\nwith dust and cobwebs, and laden with spoils.  File upon file of yellow\npapers, having a possible interest as family annals, a curiously\ngnarled and twisted genealogical tree, a dust-choked flute, several\nSpanish songs in manuscript, a discolored sketch-book, and a quaint old\nsecretary, from the innumerable pigeon-holes of which sprang a whole\ncolony of alarmed mice,--these were among the treasures that he\nunearthed, and transferred to his own room for examination or use.\nEvery hour, the home-feeling grew upon him.  Despite the gray and\ndripping sky, and the disconsolate, water-soaked earth, these days had\ntheir own peculiar illumination and charm.  Oldness and newness\ncombined to produce one rich--albeit, a little heavy--atmosphere of\nenjoyment.\n\nOccasionally, his uncle came to watch his progress, and favor him with\nhalf-serious, half-jocular commentary.  He was both interested and\namused to observe how readily the new inmate fitted himself into his\nsurroundings, and what talent he displayed in organizing various crude\nand chaotic elements into one harmonious whole.  By turns he adapted,\ninvented, or altered, until his room presented an aspect of\npleasantness, as well as an array of conveniences, in striking contrast\nwith the rude accommodations of the cottage, and even with the oldtime\nappliances that had served former occupants.  His uncle wondered and\nadmired even while he shook his head over the un-Bergan-like trait, and\nquestioned if, after all, it were not a sign of degeneracy.  This doubt\nwellnigh culminated in conviction when, on the afternoon of the second\nday, in a lull of the storm, he discovered his nephew calmly seated\nastride the high ridge-pole, with a bundle of shingles and a pocketful\nof nails, stopping the leaks with which the long rain and his visits to\nthe garret had made him acquainted; and accompanying his work with a\nvery sweet and deftly executed whistle.\n\n\"That settles the question, Harry,\" he shouted to the amateur\ncarpenter, a smile and a frown struggling for supremacy on his upturned\nface.  \"There never was a Bergan, from first to last, who could have\ndone that!\"\n\n\"Do not speak so disrespectfully of our common ancestors, uncle!  As if\nthey had not the use of their hands!\"\n\n\"Humph!  It's plain that you have the use of yours, and of your head,\ntoo!  How in the world did you reach that dizzy altitude?\"\n\nBergan laughed.  \"'Where there's a will there's a way.'  What should\nyou say to the chimney?\"\n\n\"Nonsense!  How _did_ you get up there?\"\n\n\"I really cannot answer that question as it stands.  There is a mistake\nin the terms.\"\n\n\"You rascal! what do you mean?'\"\n\n\"I did not 'get up;' I came down.\"  And Bergan glanced at a great\noak-bough, swinging full ten feet above his head.\n\nThe Major uttered a cry of admiration.  \"You are a Bergan, and no\nmistake!\" he cried, emphasizing the statement with an oath.  \"You've\ngot the real, old, brave Bergan stuff in you, Harry, and I'm proud of\nyou, in spite of your tinkering.  But that bough is now out of your\nreach; you cannot come down by that route.\"\n\n\"A new one will be more interesting.  And the chimney has a most\ncapacious throat; the builders must have contemplated the passage of\nother things than smoke.\"\n\n\"Harry! you'll break your neck!  Don't you dare to come down till I\nsend you a ladder!  At the same time, I'll order the carpenter to\nfinish up that job, if it must be done.\"\n\n\"He will be too late, uncle; I am just laying the last shingle.\"\n\n\"Speak lower, you scamp! lest the old portraits under your feet should\nhear you and blush.\"\n\n\"Their thanks would be much more to the point--especially Sir Harry's,\"\ncoolly replied Bergan.  \"Two hours ago, the water from this very leak\nwas pouring in a stream down his long ancestral nose; you would have\nsaid the picture had an influenza.\"\n\nThe Major emitted a sound between a laugh and a growl, and vanished.\n\nPoor Brick was even more scandalized by his young master's plebeian\nreadiness with his hands.  The very ease with which Bergan performed\nhis self-imposed, and, for the most part, unaccustomed tasks, misled\nthe dusky spectator.  To be sure, Brick was a little comforted to\nobserve that those agile hands knew the trick of the ivory piano-keys\nfull well, and could evolve soulful melody from the flute, that they\nwere not ignorant of the mysteries of sketching, and betrayed a\nscholarly familiarity with books and papers, pen and ink; yet he\ndoubted if even these gracious accomplishments could wash from them the\nstain of that dreadful manual labor in which they were erewhile\nengaged,--the only redeeming feature of which was that it was not done\nfor bread.\n\nNevertheless, Brick loved his young master with all his heart.  He had\nsuccumbed at once to the rare charm of Bergan's manner,--so grave and\nthoughtful for his years, yet so richly illuminated, at times, with\nsoft gleams of humor, and always so genuinely kind.  He followed him\nlike his shadow; he could scarcely be happy out of his presence; and\nnotwithstanding his own inward struggles with doubt and mortification,\nhe continually held him up to the admiration of the quarter in the\nstrongest language of encomium that he could command, as a \"bery\nhigh-tone gemman, and jes' de bes' massa dat ebber stepped foot on de\nold place.\"\n\nThe appearance of this \"high-toned gentleman\" on the roof, in the\nhumble _r\u00f4le_ of carpenter, was, therefore, a rude shock to Brick's\nfiner sensibilities.  He watched him from the ground below, groaning\nsimultaneously over probable fractures to his limbs, and certain damage\nto his reputation.  It gave him some consolation to find that the Major\nwas inclined to treat the matter in a jocular rather than a serious\nlight; and he was profoundly impressed with his hearty admiration of\nthe gymnastic feat with which the questionable performance had opened.\nThat, at least, his own dusky friends of the quarter could understand\nand approve.\n\nBrick was still further reassured by Maumer Rue, to whom he stood in\nthe relation of grandson.  On being consulted, she had replied,\nloftily,--\n\n\"A Bergan can do what he pleases, child.  He is not obliged to walk by\nrule and measure, like people whose pedigree stops with their\ngrandfathers.  If a king chooses to make a box, a barrel, or a piece of\nfurniture, for his own use, it is not a meanness, but an eccentricity.\"\nAnd the long word not only floored Brick's last remaining doubt, but\nfurnished him with the means of silencing other critics.  In view of\ncarpentry and tinkering, dignified with the sonorous title of\n\"exkingtricities,\" nothing was left to the quarter but to roll its eyes\nand shut its mouth in mute amazement.\n\nOn the morning of the third day, the sky pushed aside its gray veil of\nclouds, and smiled once more upon the wet and melancholy earth.\nThereupon the latter quickly dried up some of its tears, and made what\nshift for joy it could with the remainder.  Every pool reflected a bit\nof the sky's wide smile, or the pleasant stir of overhanging foliage.\nThe grand old evergreen oaks around Bergan Hall shook from their\nfar-reaching boughs broken sunlight and dancing shadows, fresh breeze\nand shining raindrops, in nearly equal measure.  The whisper of the\npine-woods became a song rather than a sigh;--or, if it were a sigh, it\nwas of that pleasant kind which struggles up unconsciously from a heart\na little overfull of pleasure.  Even the long streamers of gray moss\ndecked themselves with prismatic jewels, and forgot to be mournful.\n\n\"If you do not mind a little mud,\" said the Major, at the dinner-table,\n\"we will order our horses, and ride over to Berganton this afternoon.\nYou must be tired of being cooped up in the house, by this time, in\nspite of your ready knack at finding occupation and amusement where\nmost people would gape their heads off with ennui.  Besides, it is high\ntime that you should see something of the neighborhood, outside our own\nplantation,--as well as the village which your ancestors founded.  To\nbe sure, there is precious little to see,--Berganton is not what it was\nonce,--but I shall be glad to show you that little, and also, to\nintroduce you to some of my old acquaintances.\"\n\nAs the two gentlemen were riding through the mutilated avenue, Bergan\ncould not help asking if the trees which had formerly arched and shaded\nit had been felled on account of decay.\n\n\"No,\" replied the Major, a little gruffly, as if he suspected a latent\nrebuke in the question; \"but they spoiled twenty or thirty acres of the\nbest corn-land on the plantation, and were very valuable for timber,\nbesides.  And, about that time, I was bent on lifting a certain old\nmortgage off from the place, and getting generally forehanded with the\nworld, at any sacrifice, short of selling land.  However,\" he\ncontinued, his face clearing again, \"if you will stay here, Harry, you\nshall replant the avenue, just as soon as you like, if that is your\npleasure.  The trees will not grow large enough to do much damage, in\nmy time;--besides, I can afford the land now,--and almost anything else\nthat you may happen to fancy.  I have not saved and slaved all these\nyears for nothing;--you may be certain of that.  And, as I've said\nbefore, I don't believe in half-way work.  If you stay here, it will be\nas my adopted son; and I mean to show myself an indulgent father.\"\n\nA kindlier smile than was often seen on the Major's rugged features,\nlit up his face as he concluded.  Then, suddenly turning to Bergan, and\nholding out his hand, he asked, in the husky tone of emotion, and with\na look of entreaty,--\n\n\"Shall we shake hands upon it?\"\n\nBergan was taken by surprise.  In grateful recognition of his uncle's\nmanifest kindness of intention, as well as of his unwonted softness of\nmanner, he impulsively clasped the outstretched hand.  At once he\nbecame aware that, in so doing, he had appeared to yield an unqualified\nassent to his uncle's wishes.  Hurriedly casting about for inoffensive\nphraseology wherein to disavow any such intent, it was singularly hard\nto find.  To increase the difficulty, Major Bergan was pouring forth\nhis gratification that the matter was finally settled, in terms of\nunusual warmth and animation.  It was evident, not only that the plan\nlay nearer to his heart than had hitherto appeared, but that he himself\nhad taken stronger hold of his uncle's affections than he had imagined.\n\nIn fact, Bergan had come to the Major just at the auspicious moment\nwhen, having measurably accomplished the object which had absorbed all\nhis thoughts and energies for many years, he was looking around him for\nsomething to fill its place in his life, and beginning vaguely to\ndiscern that his heart was empty, and his future aimless.  The old\nfamily home was not the only thing that he had left to go drearily to\nruin, while pursuing his own selfish ends in his own unscrupulous way.\n\nBeholding, at this moment, a frank, brave, handsome youth by his side,\nfull of talent and of promise, and singularly attractive in manner,--in\nwhose veins, too, ran some of the same blood that filled his own, and\nwhose features were moulded after the best ancestral type,--his dormant\naffections quickly awakened to fasten themselves pertinaciously around\nthe timely object.  His thoughts began industriously to shape out for\nhimself a new future, which should embrace, as a setting its\nappropriate jewel, a brilliant and prosperous career for this young\nhope of his house.  The unsuspected strength of these feelings now made\nitself clearly visible, both in the hearty grasp which he gave his\nnephew's hand, and in a sudden affectionateness of eyes, mouth, voice,\ngesture, and every indescribable manifestation, that Bergan had never\nseen in him before.  Naturally enough, the young man shrank from the\nutterance of words certain to drive back on itself this outgush of the\ninestimable tenderness of a stern nature, to bring back the old\nsharpness and severity to eyes that now lay so soft and deep under\ntheir shaggy brows.\n\nMoreover, he felt that his own resolution was wavering.  Bergan Hall\nhad grown strangely dear to him during his solitary occupation of its\nsilent, but suggestive precincts.  He might have been proof against\nevery temptation that it could have offered in its grandeur and its\nprosperity; but in its loneliness and decay there was a pathetic appeal\nto much that was best and noblest in his nature.  To this influence, a\nstronger one, even, was now added.  Seeing the strength of his uncle's\nnew-born affection, and its softening effect upon his face and manner,\nBergan began to question within himself whether a still better and\nnobler work than the restoration of the ancestral home, might not here\ncall for his hand--even the restoration of a human life.  Those woful\nhabits of intoxication and profanity, far worse than the dry-rot that\ngnawed at the timbers of the old Hall; that roughness and sordidness\nwhich had gathered over the once promising character, far sadder to\nbehold than the mould and the dust that dimmed the ancestral\ngrandeur;--were there not moral instruments available for the cure of\nthe one, as there were artisan's tools able to remove all traces of the\nother.\n\nTo young minds there is always a strong fascination in the prospect of\nexerting a good influence upon others.  Older heads--seeing how little\nis often effected by the best and most persistent endeavors, and sadly\ncognizant of the fact that influences are received as well as exerted\n(a long deterioration in one's self being sometimes the price of a\nlittle, brief improvement in another)--are not so ready to take upon\nthemselves the responsibility of acting upon any human soul, nor so\nsanguine of success.  But Bergan had none of this late wisdom,--if\nwisdom it be.  Through his quiet character there ran the golden vein of\na noble enthusiasm.  He believed that it was his part and duty to make\nthe world better for having lived therein.  Still susceptible to\ninfluences himself, he had no conception of the iron bands, the\nindestructible tendencies, of evil habits indulged for years.  He stood\nready, at any time, and anywhere, to throw himself into the long\nconflict between Right and Wrong, and doubted not that the issue of the\nfray would turn upon his single sword.\n\nHalf-buried in thought, half-listening to his uncle's talk, he rode\nmechanically onward.  On one side of his path, flowed the smooth,\nshining waters of the creek; on the other ran the Bergan estate, with\nits odd aspect of mingled thrift and neglect.  He had often wondered at\nthe singular blending, in his uncle's character, of the sturdy English\nenergy inherited from that indefatigable Briton, Sir Harry, with the\nindifference and impromptitude induced by the climate.  It was\nespecially curious to note how these diverse qualities displayed\nthemselves in different directions.  With human beings, his laborers\nand dependents, and even with his animals, he was prompt, energetic,\nand exacting, accepting no excuses, and showing no indulgence; with\ninanimate things, he was often careless, negligent, and unobservant.\nOn this portion of the estate, which seemed but little cultivated,\nfences were down or dilapidated, gates swung unwillingly on their\nhinges, and outbuildings seemed ready to fall with their own weight.\n\nSoon, too, these things were made more noticeable by contrast, as a\nlong line of neatly-kept grounds and well ordered fences came into\nview.  Shortly after, a pleasant cottage, amply provided with broad,\ncool, vine-draped piazzas, appeared on the right; standing a little\napart from the road, in the midst of a group of live-oak trees scarcely\nless grand and venerable than those which flung their heavy shadow over\nBergan Hall.  At sight of it, the Major's face grew dark again;\nespecially as Bergan, pleased with its neat and cheerful aspect, turned\nto give it a second look.\n\n\"Yes,\" he burst forth bitterly, with a fearful oath, \"that is where my\nbrother, the hardware merchant, lives!  I tell you what, Harry, the\nvery first thing that you are to do, as soon as you get a chance (if I\ndon't live to do it myself), is to buy out his heirs, and raze that\nimpertinent shanty to the ground.  Just recollect that, will you? if I\nshould happen to forget to put it into my will.\"\n\nBergan forebore to reply.  He was learning that it was his wisest\ncourse--at least, so he thought--to take no notice of his uncle's\nbitter wrath and prejudice, since he could not sympathize with them.\nIf his growing wish to possess Bergan Hall lay at the bottom of this\nsilence, he was as yet unconscious of it.\n\nHis uncle,--accepting his forbearance as a sign of acquiescence to his\nwishes,--now, for the first time, really exerted himself for his\nentertainment.  He talked with vivacity, humor, intelligence, and much\nof the tone and manner of his earlier days.  His better self revived,\nfor a time; and Bergan recognized something of the refined, cultured,\naccomplished gentleman, of his mother's descriptions, whose lightsome\nflow of spirits, gay sparkle of wit, and frank, cordial address, had\nmade him the life and soul of the circle wherein he moved.  It was\nmournful to see him under this pleasant transformation, and think of\nhim in his usual aspect.  Bergan could not but wonder how he had ever\nfallen to that lower level.  He had not seen the easy descent from\ngayety to dissipation of his younger days; nor could he understand how\nnaturally, with years, drinking in frivolous companionship had been\nexchanged for drinking alone, lavishness for parsimony, the gay,\naimless life of a man of the world for the steady, energetic pursuit of\none selfish, isolated, exclusive object.\n\nThey now reached the village.  As they rode through its principal\nstreet, which was wide and handsomely shaded, the Major pointed to one\nand another of the houses along its sides, and quietly named men and\nwomen that had occupied them in years agone; either forgetting, or\nunaware, that most of them were now tenanting that one earthly house,\nof whose narrow accommodations every mortal must needs have some\nexperience,--namely, the grave.\n\nBergan, meanwhile, felt himself quite at home among names so often\nheard from his mother's lips; and momentarily expected that his uncle\nwould stop at some one of these friendly dwellings, for the renewal of\nhis own acquaintance, and the introduction of his nephew.  But to his\nextreme surprise, the Major rode straight through the village, and\ndismounted, before a tavern, at its extreme end.\n\n\n\n\nVII.\n\nA BITTER DRAUGHT.\n\nIt needed but a glance to show Bergan that the tavern was of the lower\nsort.  It was dingy and dilapidated without, and from its open windows\nwere wafted sounds of hoarse voices, shouts of laughter, the jingling\nof glasses, and a strong odor of tobacco, betokening a corresponding\namount of moral dinginess and dilapidation within.  Bergan turned to\nhis uncle with a disgust that he hardly attempted to conceal,--the\nnatural disgust of a healthy body and mind for things coarse, foul,\nnoisy, and vulgar,--and inquired;--\n\n\"Do you intend to stop here long?\"\n\n\"Quite long enough for you to get off and stretch yourself,\" replied\nthe Major, carelessly.  \"This is an old halting-place of mine, and\nlooks as natural as possible, though it is a year or more since I have\nset eyes on it.  No doubt I shall find some old acquaintances here.\nCome! don't sit there gaping at the outside, like a man trying to guess\nat the purport of a letter from the looks of the envelope, when the\ninside would tell him what he wants to know, in a jiffy; get off your\nhorse, and come in.\"\n\nBergan obeyed, but with a manifest reluctance that brought a cloud to\nthe Major's brow.  Muttering something between his teeth, which had the\ntone and bitterness of a curse, but was unintelligible, the latter led\nthe way to the bar-room.\n\nSeveral varieties of the genus loafer, both of the genteel and vulgar\nspecies, were leaning over the counter, or seated in tilted-up chairs,\npuffing out tobacco smoke, and discussing matters of local interest.\nThe appearance of the Major was greeted with enthusiasm,--all the more,\nthat his first words, after a \"How d'y\" of very general application,\nwere an order to the landlord to make a stiff bowl of punch, on a scale\ncommensurate with the numbers of the party.\n\n\"This is my nephew, gentlemen,\" he went on, addressing the delighted\naudience,--\"Harry Bergan Arling, as he now calls himself, or Harry\nBergan, of Bergan Hall, as he is to be, in good time,--a real chip of\nthe old family block, as you can see at a glance.  I expect that you\nwill all do me the honor of drinking his health in a bowl of the best\npunch that Gregg can concoct.  Hurry up, Gregg! you know how I like\nit,--not too strongly flavored with our two days' drizzle;--was there\never a nastier spell of weather?\"\n\n\"Never knew the sky so leaky in all my life,\" responded a languid\nloafer of the genteeler sort, too lazy to furnish his sentences with\nnominatives.  \"Begun to think, with Father Miller, 'twas getting worn\nout.\"\n\n\"It will last our time, I reckon,\" returned the Major.  \"And 'after us\nthe deluge,' of course.  I would not mind taking a swim in it myself,\nif it were of punch such as Gregg, there, is mixing.  It looks like the\nreal thing!  Now, gentlemen, step forward and take your glasses.\nHere's to the health of my nephew,--Harry Bergan,--and may he unite in\nhis single person all the virtues of all the Harrys of the line, from\nSir Harry down;--yes, and all the vices, too, they are good Bergan\nstock, every one of them!\"\n\nA toast so perfectly in harmony with the corrupt atmosphere of the\nbar-room could but be received and drunk with acclamation.  Bergan,\nperforce, lifted his glass to his lips, but the fiery draught, prepared\nwith a single eye to the requirements of his uncle's sophisticated\npalate, was so little suited to his own purer taste, that he set it\ndown with its contents very little diminished.  Observing this, Major\nBergan's face grew dark.\n\n\"That will never do, Harry,\" he growled, aside.  \"Don't disgrace me\nhere, whatever you may do at home!  I insist upon your emptying your\nglass like a man, and doing your part towards making things pleasant.\nNow, then, gentlemen,\" he continued, aloud, \"be pleased to make ready\nfor toast the second.  We will drink success to my nephew's future\nproprietorship of Bergan Hall;--may it come late, and last long!\"\n\nThe cords of conventionalism--even the conventionalism of a\nbar-room--are strong; and Bergan was somewhat young for complete\nindependence of character.  Nevertheless, he was quite capable of\nturning his back on the whole company of tipplers, both genteel and\nvulgar, indifferent alike to their wonder, censure, or scorn, had it\nnot been for his uncle; whose wishes, in his double character of host\nand relative, seemed entitled to some degree of respect.  Yet both\ninstinct and principle revolted from the certain intoxication of the\ndistasteful glass in his hand.  By a quick and dexterous motion, he\nsent half its contents flying out of the window near which he stood,\nand supplied their place with water from a convenient pitcher.\nFlattering himself that he had done this unobserved, he tried to\nswallow his disgust at the place and the companionship in which he\nfound himself with the diluted draught.\n\n\"That's pretty fair stuff,\" said the Major, setting down his empty\nglass; \"it has just about the right snap in it.  Is there enough for\nanother round, Gregg?\"\n\n\"Plenty, sir, and another one on the end of that.  I knew you didn't\nlike to see the bottom of the bowl, in a hurry, Major.\"\n\n\"You are another Solon, Gregg.  Your wisdom is only to be equalled by\nyour disinterestedness.  Come, gentlemen, fill your glasses again!\nHarry, is your glass filled?\"\n\nAs he spoke, the Major drew near, and fixed a keen eye on Bergan's\nglass, in a way which led the latter to suspect that his late manoeuvre\nhad not been so successful as he had imagined.  At any rate, it would\nnot be easy to repeat it.  Well, what matter?  He had submitted to his\nuncle's tyranny long enough; he might as well free himself first as\nlast.  He would try to do so in the way least likely to give offence.\n\n\"Uncle,\" he pleaded, with a graceful frankness and courtesy that could\nscarcely have failed to reach the Major's better self, if it had been\nless under the vitiating influence of strong drink,--\"uncle, I really\nmust beg your kind indulgence.  I am not accustomed to potations so\nmany nor so strong; and whatever I may be able to do, in time, under\nyour skilful guidance, I must now use a little discretion.  Pray excuse\nme from taking any more at present.\"\n\n\"I'll be hanged if I do!\" said the Major, bluntly.  \"If you don't know\nhow to drink like a gentleman and a Bergan, it is high time you should\nlearn.  Fill up his glass, Gregg; he _shall_ drink!\"\n\nScarcely were the insulting words spoken ere Bergan felt, with a thrill\nof dismay, a hot tingling sensation in all his veins, as if the blood\nin them had suddenly been turned to fire.  Too well he knew what it\nmeant.  The \"black Bergan temper,\" which had been the one, great sorrow\nand struggle of his life, thus far, and which he had believed to be\ncompletely tamed, was stirring within him in a way to show that, if it\nwere not instantly controlled, it would carry him, in its headlong\nfury, he knew not whither.  Every other feeling, every other thought,\nwere, for the moment, swallowed up in the instinct of\nself-preservation.  He would submit to his uncle's imperious dictation,\nnot that he either prized his love or feared his anger, but because\nthat treacherous demon within must at once feel a firm foot upon its\nneck, and be shown that it could expect no indulgence, and no quarter.\n\nAt this moment, there was a slight bustle at the door, occasioned by an\narrival; under cover of which he again turned to the friendly water\npitcher, to make sure that, while fleeing from one fatal influence he\nwas not running blindly into the leashes of another.\n\n\"_Dimidium plus toto_, I see,\" observed a well-remembered voice at his\nelbow, in a tone of good-natured sarcasm.  \"But you make a slight\nmistake in your practical translation; it is a 'half,' not a quarter\n(or I might say, an eighth) which is 'better than the whole.'  And\nanyway, I doubt if old Hesiod meant his maxim to apply to punch.\"\n\nGlad of anything that promised to create a diversion, Bergan turned and\ngave the hand of Richard Causton a much more cordial grasp than he\nwould have been likely to do, under other circumstances.  The old man,\nbetter accustomed to the cold shoulder from all reputable acquaintance,\nreturned it with tears in his blear eyes, and for once, had no proverb\nat command wherein to do justice to his feelings.  Before he could find\none, Major Bergan came up, with a sly gleam of humor or of mischief, on\nhis face.  \"What! you know Harry!\" he exclaimed.  \"Oh! yes, I\nremember,--you helped him on his way to Bergan Hall.  So much the\nbetter.  You will be glad to know that it was my nephew to whom you\nshowed that courtesy, and to drink to your better acquaintance.  All\nready?\"\n\nBergan turned round for his glass, which he had left standing on the\nwindow-sill, and, the sooner to be done with the distasteful business,\nswallowed at a gulp what, it seemed to him, the next moment, must have\nbeen liquid fire.  A loud laugh from his uncle told him to whom he was\nindebted for the substitution of raw spirit for weak punch.  The\npassion which he had so promptly smothered, doubly inflamed by the\nconsciousness of being betrayed and the instantaneous action of the\npotent draught, blazed up with sudden, ungovernable fury.  Feeling that\nhe was losing control of temper and reason together, he rushed toward\nthe door.  At a sign from the Major, two or three of the bystanders\nthrew themselves in his way.  They were instantly sent reeling right\nand left by two powerful blows.  Dick Causton, catching hold of him\nwith the friendly design of preventing him from doing more mischief and\nprovoking more enmity, was shaken off with a violence that threw him in\na disordered heap on the floor; over which Bergan strode wrathfully\ntowards his uncle, who had planted himself in the doorway.  The\nspectators held their breath to witness the expected encounter between\nuncle and nephew,--Bergan against Bergan, the blood of both up, the\nhereditary frenzy blazing in each pair of dark eyes.\n\nBut Bergan was not quite so mad as that.  Seeing who it was that\nimpeded his way, he turned and darted through a window close at hand,\njumped over the piazza railing, sprang upon his horse, and was off\nbefore the bystanders had well recovered their breath, or Dick had\npicked himself up, with the caustic observation,--\n\n\"_Perit quod facis ingrato_,--'Save a thief from hanging, and he will\ncut your throat.'\"\n\nPoor Vic!--never in all her life had she been urged to such mad and\nmerciless speed as on that ill-starred day.  Protesting, at first, by\nvarious plunges and rearings, she finally fell in with her master's\nwild humor, and sped through the village at a pace that sent the\nfoot-passengers to the fences in terror, and crowded the doors and\nwindows with wondering gazers.  Whether he were fleeing from\ndestruction, or riding straight to it, was no affair of hers; in either\ncase, she would do her best to meet his wishes.  The village was\nquickly left behind; house after house, and field after field, slid by\nin a swift panorama; already they were turning the corner, toward the\nHall, when Bergan's scattered senses were suddenly recalled by a stern\n\"Halloo! what are you about?\" mingled with a faint cry of alarm.  To\nhis horror, he saw himself to be on the point of riding down a young\nlady equestrian, who was on her way to the village, accompanied by her\nfather.  There was not an instant to lose, not a moment for reflection;\nthe heads of the two horses were almost in contact.  Putting his whole\nstrength into one sudden, ill-considered jerk, Vic was thrown back on\nher haunches, and he and she rolled over in the mud together.\n\nFortunately, neither was much hurt, and both sprang to their feet\nconsiderably sobered by the shock.  Bergan was deeply humiliated, also;\nhe would gladly have compounded with his mortification for almost any\namount of physical pain.  No bodily injury could have made him writhe\nwith so sharp a pang, as the conviction that he had flawed his claim to\nthe title of gentleman.  To have nearly ridden over a lady, in a blind\nfrenzy of rage and semi-intoxication, was a disgrace that he could\nnever forget.  He would gladly have buried himself in the mud with\nwhich he was already tolerably well coated.  Since he could not do\nthat, he took off his hat to the horseman,--he dared neither address\nnor look at the lady,--and said, in a tone that trembled with shame and\nregret,--\n\n\"I beg your pardon, sir.\"\n\n\"You would have done better to look where you were going,\" replied the\ngentleman, with the unreasoning anger that often follows upon the\nreaction from fear and anxiety.  \"No thanks to you that my daughter is\nnot maimed or killed!\"\n\n\"I think you mistake, father,\" quickly interposed the young lady, in a\nlow, sweet voice, tremulous from the recent shock to her nerves;--\"did\nyou not see how promptly the gentleman sacrificed himself to save me,\nas soon as he saw the danger?  I hope you are not hurt, sir,\" she\nadded, courteously, turning to Bergan.\n\n\"Thank you; not half so much as I deserve to be,\" replied he, only the\nmore remorseful on account of the delicate consideration that she\nshowed for him, while her cheek was still blanched, and her lips\ntrembling, at her own narrow escape from danger caused by his rashness.\nAnd, feeling wholly unworthy to say another word to anything so pure\nand sweet, so utterly incompatible with the vile place and scene which\nhe had just quitted, he stood aside, with uncovered head, to let her\npass.\n\nApparently, she would have lingered long enough to make sure that he\nwas really uninjured; but her father, who had been eyeing him keenly,\nhurried her away.  \"Do you not see,\" he inquired, sharply, as they rode\non, \"that the fellow is drunk?\"\n\n\"Impossible, father!  He had such a fine, noble countenance!\"\n\n\"It will not be noble long,\" replied the father.  \"Neither will it be\nthe first noble countenance that has been spoiled by drunkenness,\" he\nadded, with a sigh.\n\nLeft alone, Bergan remounted Vic, though not without difficulty.  The\nbewildering effect of his potent draught, which had momentarily been\novercome by the excitement of his late adventure, now made itself felt\nagain.  As he rode along, his head began to swim; a deadly nausea\nseized him; his limbs seemed paralyzed.  Arrived within the gates of\nhis uncle's domain, he suffered himself to slide slowly from the saddle\nto the ground; and almost immediately, consciousness forsook him.\n\n\n\n\nVIII.\n\nAS A DREAM WHEN ONE AWAKETH.\n\nWhen, in due course of time, Bergan came partially to himself, he found\nthat he was lying on his own bed, with the twilight shadows gathering\nduskily in its hangings.  But his mind was too dull and confused to\ntrouble itself with the question how he came there, notwithstanding\nthat his ears seemed still to retain the sound of low voices, and his\nlimbs the pressure of careful hands.  Scarcely had he unclosed his\nheavy eyes, ere he was glad to shut them again, and to sink anew into\nslumber.\n\nBut this time, it was not, as before, a profound stupor, a deaf, blind,\ntorpid, state of nothingness.  Though it lasted some hours, he never\nquite lost an oppressive sense of overhanging trouble, imperfectly as\nits nature was apprehended.  Moreover, he was harassed by dreams of\nthat most trying character, wherein varying images revolve around one\nfixed idea; combining the misery of continual change with that of\nceaseless iteration into one intolerable horror.\n\nBreaking, at length, from the teasing spell of these phantasms, he saw\nthat it was past midnight.  Through the opposite window, he beheld a\npale, waning moon, and, by its light, a gray, dimly-outlined\nlandscape,--a faint and lifeless sketch, as it were, of a once bright,\nbreathing world.  While he looked, over it came the black shadow of a\nwind-driven cloud, blurring the lines, here and there, into still\ngrayer indistinctness, sweeping across the lawn, mounting the steps of\nBergan Hall, and laying, at last, its thin, light hand over his own\nbrow and eyes.\n\nWith it, as if by right of near kinship, a deep gloom fell upon his\nheart.  Till now, it had not occurred to him why his head ached so\nheavily, nor what weary weight it was that burdened his mind.  Yet he\ndid not--as too many would have done, after a brief flush of shame, and\na momentary feeling of regret--seek to throw off this burden by telling\nhimself that his late aberration was, after all, a matter of small\nmoment, since it was only what hundreds like him had done before, were\nnow doing, and would continue to do till the end of time.  Not of any\nsuch weak stuff, incapable of looking his own acts squarely in the\nface, and judging them according to their merits, was Bergan made.  On\nthe contrary, he felt as much humiliated as if he had been the first,\nlast, only intoxicated young man in the universe.\n\nAnd this, be it understood, was not so much because he had violated the\nhigher law, as because he had broken his own law unto himself.  With\nthe Bergan temper, he had also inherited a fair share of the Bergan\npride, and the Bergan strength of will.  But, softened and guided by\nhome influences at once wise and genial, the one had hitherto shown\nitself mainly in a lofty, almost an ideal, purity of character, and the\nother had expended its force chiefly upon himself.  The two, therefore,\nhad served him little less effectually, in keeping him free from\ncurrent vices, than higher motives might have done.  He had taken a\nstern, proud pleasure in knowing that he wore no yoke but such as it\npleased him deliberately to assume.  He would have scorned to say, what\nhe often heard from the lips of his fellows,--\"I _cannot_ quit\ndrinking, I cannot live without smoking, I _cannot_ resist the\nfascinations of gambling,\" et c\u00e6tera;--he would have felt it a woful\nslur upon his manhood to avow himself so abject a slave to his animal\nnature.  So strong was this pride of character, that no sooner did he\nfeel any habit, any appetite, any pleasure, however innocent in itself,\ntaking firm hold of him, than he was immediately impelled to give it\nup, to refuse it indulgence,--for a time, at least,--just to satisfy\none part of himself that its control over the other and baser part was\nstill perfect.  At whatever price, he was determined to be his own\nmaster.\n\nIt may be imagined, then, with what sharp sting of pride, what\nmiserable sense of weakness and failure, he writhed, as Memory now\nflung open the doors of her silent gallery, and showed him sombre\npicture after picture, representing his own figure in divers\nhumiliating positions.  It shrank from the utterance of its strong\nconvictions of right; it gave way to the assaults of a poor ambition;\nit drifted with circumstance; it was driven to and fro like a\nshuttlecock between outward temptation and inward passion; it was\nsuccessively a fighting rowdy, a blind lunatic, an insensate drunkard.\n\nNot that these representations were all true in tone, unexaggerated in\ncolor, and correct in sentiment.  Often, there is nothing more\ndifficult than to fix upon the exact point where the plain boundary\nline between right and wrong was crossed; and neither pride nor remorse\nis apt to do it correctly.  Some steps may have been taken upon a kind\nof debatable ground; had the march been arrested at any one of these,\nits tendency would have been different.  In reviewing his conduct,\nBergan failed to do justice either to his uncle's undeniable claims to\nhis respectful consideration, up to the point where he had been\nrequired to follow him into a low bar-room, or to the real beauty and\nworth of some of his own feelings and motives.  Looking back, he\nsaw--or seemed to see--only a pitiable career of irresolution and moral\ncowardice, ending in disgrace.  Covering his face with his hands, as if\nto shut out the unwelcome sight, he groaned aloud.\n\nTo his surprise, the groan was distinctly prolonged and repeated.  Was\nit the responsive wail of the ancestral spirits, mourning over their\ndegenerate scion, or only the sympathizing echo of the ancestral walls?\nSpringing to his feet, he beheld a tall, erect figure standing on the\nhearth, showing strangely weird and unearthly by the flickering blaze\nof a few dying embers.  Not till it turned and came toward him did he\nrecognize the dusky features and age-whitened hair of Maumer Rue.\n\n\"I hope that it is not on my account that you are up at this time of\nnight,\" said he, gravely.\n\n\"You forget that night and day are both alike to me,\" she quietly\nanswered.  \"Are you better?\"\n\n\"Much better, thank you.\"  And he added after a moment,--\"How came I\nhere?\"\n\n\"Brick found you in the avenue.  By my direction, you were brought in.\nAt first, it was thought that you had been thrown from your horse,\nbut--\"\n\nRue paused.\n\n\"I understand,\" said Bergan, bitterly.  \"I was drunk.\"\n\nRue did not immediately answer.  It was only after some moments that\nshe said, earnestly;--\n\n\"Master Bergan, I am an old woman.  I have seen four generations of\nyour house,--I have nursed two,--and I have spent my life in its\nservice.  If it had been my own, I could not have loved it better, nor\nfelt its welfare nearer my heart.  If these things give me any right to\nsay a word of warning to you, let me say it now!\"\n\n\"Say whatever seems good to you,\" replied Bergan, gloomily, as he flung\nhimself into a chair.  \"I doubt if you can say anything so hard to bear\nas what I have already said to myself.\"\n\n\"Is that so?\" asked Rue, in a tone of relief--\"is that really so?  Then\nI need not say anything.  It is a higher voice than mine that speaks\nwithin you; and my poor words would only weaken its effect.  Only\nlisten to it, Master Bergan, pray listen to it!\" she went on, with\ntears streaming from her blind eyes.  \"If you stifle it now, it may\nnever speak so clearly again!\"\n\n\"Make yourself easy, maumer,\" answered Bergan, much affected, yet doing\nhis best to speak cheerfully,--\"I have not the least intention of\nstifling it.  Moreover, I assure you that I am in no danger of\nrepeating last night's miserable experience; drunkenness is not my\nbesetting sin.  I only wish I were as certain that I should never again\ngive way to my temper.\"\n\n\"It has run in the blood a great while,\" remarked Rue, not without a\ncertain respect for its length of pedigree; \"it will be hard to get it\nout.\"\n\n\"It _shall_ be gotten out, though,\" responded Bergan, knitting his\nbrows and setting his teeth with true hereditary doggedness.\n\n\"Very likely it may,\" replied Rue, quietly, \"if you take _that_ tone.\nNo doubt the Lord meant the Bergan will to conquer the Bergan\ntemper--with His help.  But I will not trouble you any longer,\nsir;--thank you for setting my mind at rest.  And don't be offended if\nI recommend you not to come in your uncle's way this morning; give him\na little time to get into a better mood.  I will send your breakfast\nout to you.\"\n\nBergan's brow darkened.  \"I do not intend to come in his way,\" he\nanswered a little shortly, \"neither this morning, nor at any other\ntime.  My visit here is at an end.  I leave this house directly.\"\n\n\"Oh, Master Bergan, I beg you will not do that!\" exclaimed Rue.  \"Your\nuncle really loves you in his heart; he will soon forget all about his\nanger.\"\n\n\"It is not because I dread his anger that I go,\" replied Bergan,\ngravely; \"it is because he has lowered me in my own eyes, and disgraced\nme in the eyes of others, in a way that _I_ cannot forget.  At least,\nnot until I have proved to myself that I am neither a moral coward nor\na miserable parasite, and to the world that drinking and fighting are\nnot the essential conditions of my existence.  I cannot well do either\nwithout leaving Bergan Hall.  And I certainly shall not put myself in\nmy uncle's way again, until he sees fit to apologize for what he did\nyesterday.\"\n\n\"Is the world turned upside down, then,\" asked Rue, with a kind of slow\nwonder, \"that an old uncle must apologize to a young nephew?\"\n\nBergan colored, and the unwonted bitterness and irritation of his\nmanner gave way before the force of the implied rebuke.\n\n\"Thank you,\" said he, almost in his natural tone, \"I see that I am--or,\nat least, that I was,--a little beside myself.  Still, I must leave\nBergan Hall.  I cannot think it right or expedient to remain here\nlonger.  But when I have put myself in the way of living independently,\nand cleared up my reputation, I will do what I can, without loss of\nself-respect, to establish friendly relations with my uncle.  Indeed, I\ndo not mean to be foolishly resentful, nor unbecomingly exacting.\"\n\n\"May I ask what you are going to do?\" inquired Rue, after a few moments\nof thought.\n\n\"Certainly.  I am going to carry out my original plan, and my mother's\nexpress wish, by opening a law-office in Berganton, and doing my best\nto win fame and fortune in the place which my ancestors founded; and in\nwhich,\" he added, with a smile, \"their shades may reasonably be\nexpected to watch my career with especial interest, and also to do me a\ngood turn, whenever they have it in their power.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Rue, after a long pause, \"perhaps you are right.  I think\nI begin to see that it may be quite as well for you to go away, for a\ntime.  You shall not lose anything by it; I will take care of that.  I\nhave more influence with your uncle than you would think.  And I\npromise you,--remember, I promise you,\" she repeated, with marked\nemphasis,--\"whatever comes, you shall have Bergan Hall.\"\n\nThe young man shook his head.  \"I think not,\" said he.  \"Indeed, I have\nceased to wish for it; I do not see any place for it in the life which\nI now contemplate.  It was but a pleasant day-dream, at best; and it is\nover.\"\n\n\"It may be over for you,\" rejoined Rue, quietly, \"but it is not over\nfor me.  And my dreams are apt to come true.  I may not live to see\nit,--indeed, it is borne in upon me that I shall not,--but the Hall\nwill surely be yours, one day.\"\n\nBergan again shook his head.  Without making any pretensions to the\nprophetic gift, he thought he could foretell, better than old Rue, the\neffect of the course which he had marked out for himself, upon his\nuncle.  But the blind woman could not see the gesture; and he forebore\nto put his doubt into words,--unless its subtle prompting was to be\ndetected in his next apparently irrelevant sentence:--\n\n\"I shall think it one of my first duties to go and see my uncle\nGodfrey.\"\n\n\"I am glad to hear it,\" replied Rue, placidly.  \"He is a wise, just\nman; and no doubt he will give you good advice about setting up your\nprofession.  I have been hoping that, through you, this long family\nbreach would be healed.\"\n\nAnd here the conversation strayed off amid thick-growing family topics,\nwhere it is unnecessary to follow it.\n\nGray dawn was in the east when, after a long, lingering look at the\nancestral portraits, Bergan went out from the old Hall.  He could\nscarcely believe that it was less than a week since he first entered\nit.  He had passed there one of those crises of life which do the work\nof years.  His short occupancy had left its indelible impress upon his\ncharacter, for good or evil.\n\nRue attended him to the door, and detained him for a moment on the\nthreshold.\n\n\"If ever you are in need of a quiet place where you can feel perfectly\nat home,\" said she, \"come here.  Your room shall always be ready for\nyou; and you might stay here for weeks together, and no one be the\nwiser,--rarely does any one but me come inside the door.  And if ever\nyou should be in any trouble, or in any want, come and see what the\nold, blind woman can do for you; she may be better able to help you\nthan you think.  And now, good-bye, and God bless you, my dear young\nmaster--the future master of Bergan Hall!\"\n\nShe raised her withered hands and sightless eyes to heaven, as she\nended; and when Bergan looked back from the farther verge of the lawn,\nshe was standing there still, in the dim dawn-light, a gray, venerable,\nghostly figure, framed in his ancestral doorway, calling down blessings\non his head.\n\n\n\n\nIX.\n\nTHE BLOT CLEAVES.\n\nYouthful spirits have a natural buoyancy that floats them easily over\nthe first wave of trouble, however severe.  It is the long succession\nof wearing disappointments and corroding griefs, of anxious days and\nrestless nights, of abortive aims and hopes deferred, which finally\novercomes their lightsomeness, and sinks them fathoms deep under a\nsmooth-flowing surface of gentle cheerfulness, a teasing ebb and flow\nof worriment, or an icy plane of despair.\n\nBut of this grievous iteration, and its depressing effect, Bergan, as\nyet, had no experience.  His heart involuntarily grew lighter as he\nwent down the long avenue.  The old Hall, with its dust-clogged and\ntradition-darkened atmosphere, its dusky delights and duskier\ntemptations, seemed to fade back again into the unsubstantiality of his\nchildhood's visions.  His sojourn there was, at best, but a brief,\ncasual episode in an otherwise coherent life.  He now recurred to the\nmain argument.  Not that he could foresee precisely how it was to be\nwrought out.  But the very uncertainty before him was not without its\nown special and potent charm.  It gave such unlimited scope to hope and\nimagination; there was in it so much room for sturdy endeavor and noble\nachievement, for an iron age of progress, and a golden era of fame!\n\nIt was still early when he reached the Berganton Hotel.  The landlord\nwas in the office; he was also in the midst of a prolonged matutinal\nstretch and yawn, when Bergan surprised him with a pleasant;--\n\n\"Good morning.  Have you a vacant room for me?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir,--that is, I will see,\" was the somewhat inconclusive reply;\nits first clause being due to the favorable impression made by Bergan's\nface and manner, and its last to prudential considerations arising from\nthe quickly recognized facts that this prepossessing young man was on\nfoot, and without baggage.  \"Do you want it long?\"\n\n\"I can hardly tell,--some days, perhaps; possibly longer.  I wish to\nsee if it be worth my while to locate myself permanently here.  My name\nis Bergan Arling.  My baggage is to be sent over from Bergan Hall.\"\n\n\"Ah, I see,\" said the landlord, in a tone which implied that he had\nsuddenly been lifted to a point of observation at once wide and\nunpromising.  And almost immediately he added,--\"On the whole, I\nbelieve I haven't got an eligible room to offer you.  The one that I\nthought of at first is partially engaged; I cannot let it go till I\nknow the gentleman's decision.\"\n\nBergan was gifted with perceptions too quick and fine not to notice the\nunfavorable effect produced by his frank explanation of himself.  Nor\nwas he slow to divine the cause.  No doubt his name had been bruited\nabroad in connection with the disgraceful scenes of yesterday; and, as\na natural consequence, in the very place where it would otherwise have\nbeen an advantage to him, it would now stand in his way.  His heart\nsank a little to find that he had not left yesterday's acts so\ncompletely behind him as he had allowed himself to believe.  He had\nstill to endure his inevitable term of bondage to their evil\nconsequences.\n\nYet herein, he remembered, was his strongest motive for perseverance in\nthe path upon which he had entered.  He could not leave a tarnished\nreputation behind him in the place founded by his ancestors,--the very\ndust of which, blowing about the streets, doubtless held many particles\nclosely akin to his own earthly substance, and dimly capable of pride\nor shame on his account.  At whatever cost of present pain or ulterior\nloss, he must stay in Berganton long enough to set himself right in the\npublic eyes.\n\nAnd loss, it was plain, there might be.  Berganton was no longer the\nbusy and prosperous town of his mother's reminiscences.  All these\nyears, it had been going backwards.  Looking up and down its long,\ntame, principal street, with its scant and sluggish flow of human life,\nhe could discover little field for energy, little scope for ambition.\nWere it not for the cords of obligation woven around him by yesterday's\nevents, he would scarcely have stayed for a second look.  But those\ncords held him firmly to his purpose.\n\n\"Do you know of any respectable family where I should be likely to\nobtain board, or, at least, lodgings?\" was his next inquiry.\n\n\"I do not.  I think they might take you in at the Gregg House, down at\nthe lower end of the street.\"\n\nThe words were spoken carelessly enough, yet Bergan could scarcely fail\nto detect in them a covert insinuation, or to imagine one.  His cheek\ncrimsoned, and his eye flashed.  Ere he could speak, however, a\ngentleman whom he had observed sitting near him, with a newspaper\nbefore his face, dropped the printed screen, and came forward.\n\n\"Mr. Arling can breakfast here, at any rate,\" said he, in the tone of a\nman accustomed to overcome all obstacles; \"it will give me pleasure to\nhave him for my _vis-\u00e0-vis_ at the early breakfast that I have bespoken\nthis morning, in order to gain time for a visit to a far-away patient.\nAnd you can at least give him the room of which you speak until it is\ncalled for; by that time, we will hope, he may be provided with one\neven more to his mind.\"\n\n\"Certainly, doctor,\" returned the landlord, looking a little\ncrestfallen.  \"If I had known the gentleman was a friend of yours--\"\n\n\"Hardly that yet,\" interposed the doctor, smiling, \"though I trust he\nmay be, in good time.  I know your uncle very well,\" he continued,\naddressing Bergan, as the landlord moved away,--\"indeed, I may say,\nyour two uncles,--if that be any ground of acquaintance.  But I have\nthe advantage of you, in that I heard your name just now;--mine is\nRemy--Felix Remy--very much at your service.  Not that this\nannouncement places us on an equal footing; for, while your name puts\nme at once in possession of your antecedents, to a certain extent, mine\ntells you nothing about me except that I am of French descent.  Are you\nwilling to take the rest on trust, until a fitting time for a fuller\nexplanation?\"  And the doctor held out his hand.\n\n\"Until the end of time,\" replied Bergan, grasping it warmly.  \"It would\nbe strange if kindness were not its own sufficient explanation.\"\n\nDoctor Remy shrugged his shoulders with a frank cynicism.  \"Perhaps\nso,\" said he.  \"Yet I make bold to confess that my own practice is to\nlook kindness a little more closely in the face than its opposite.  The\nlatter generally wears its reasons openly on its forehead; but for the\ncomplicated motives at the bottom of the former, one needs to look long\nand deep.\"\n\n\"Do they pay for the trouble?\" asked Bergan, smiling.\n\n\"Not unless you love knowledge for its own sake.  As society is\nconstituted, you cannot well act upon it.  To apparent kindness, one\nhas to return apparent gratitude.\"\n\n\"I trust I succeed in making mine 'apparent,'\" said Bergan, falling\ninto the doctor's humor.\n\n\"Perfectly.  It could not be told from the genuine article.\"\n\n\"The same thing might be said of your kindness.\"\n\n\"Doubtless.  But here comes Cato, to show you to your room.  I think\nbreakfast will be ready as soon as you are.\"\n\nA very few moments sufficed for Bergan to remove the traces of his\nearly morning walk, and rejoin his new acquaintance in the\nbreakfast-room.  The two gentlemen at once seated themselves on\nopposite sides of the table.  An opportunity was thus afforded them to\nobserve each other at their leisure, of which Bergan was first to avail\nhimself.  His interest had been awakened by the doctor's peculiar style\nof conversation.\n\nHe saw before him a man of medium height and compactly built figure.\nHis locks had been touched by thought or care to a premature grayness,\nfor he had scarcely yet entered upon middle age.  His features were\nregular, and would have been handsome had they been less keenly and\ncoldly intellectual,--the physical mould was forgotten in the mental\none that made itself so much more manifest.  Their expression was one\nof active intelligence and calm force, embittered, at the mouth, by a\ntouch of scorn.  Yet the face did not absolutely repel; for many minds,\nit would possess an inscrutable fascination.  It provoked study; it\nchallenged the imagination and the understanding.\n\nThe doctor's conversation was marked by a curious frankness, and an\nequally curious reserve.  He made no scruple whatever of opening to the\nlight of day shadowy recesses of motive and aim that most men would\nstudiously close, nor of putting himself at odds with the world on\nvarious points of social or moral ethics, nor of boldly questioning and\ncriticising much that mankind consents to hold in reverence.  Yet, at\nthe end of an hour's conversation, though he had talked readily and\nfluently on many subjects, and said something true, or profound, or\nbrilliant, or suggestive, about each, his interested, amused, startled,\nand bewildered hearer could find almost no _residuum_ of his real\nopinions about any of them.  It was impossible to decide where he had\nbeen in jest, and where in earnest; through his most serious argument\nhad run a vein of mockery, from under his profoundest thought had\npeeped forth a hidden sarcasm.  His creed, social, moral, and\npolitical, continually slipped through the seeker's fingers in subtle,\nwitty, or scornful negations and controversions.\n\nNot that Bergan was conscious of this, at the moment,--nor, indeed,\nuntil after many days of familiar intercourse.  He recognized in the\ndoctor an intellectual cultivation of no ordinary depth and scope; he\nwas interested and well-nigh dazzled by his originality of thought, the\nboldness of his attacks, and the freedom of his speculations; but the\ndubious aspect of his own affairs continually rose before him to harass\nhis mind and distract his attention;--he was himself incapable of close\nobservation or continuous thought.  After a time, his glance sank upon\nhis plate, or wandered aimlessly out of the window: though he forgot no\nrequirement of courtesy, he was often in a state of semi-abstraction.\n\nThen, in his turn, Doctor Remy fixed his eyes upon his companion.  It\nwas evident that to subjected him to a far more careful and penetrating\nscrutiny than he had sustained himself.  He noted his looks, he weighed\nhis words, he analyzed his turns of thought, in a way to indicate that\nexceeding \"love of knowledge for its own sake,\" of which he had spoken,\nor some deeper motive than even his hardy frankness would care to\ndivulge.  Whether or no he liked what he saw, no mortal could have\ntold.  The doctor's face was a sort of mechanical mask, absolutely\nunder his control; it expressed anything or nothing, according to his\nwill.\n\nOne thing only would have been plain to the observer, that he was\npuzzled by something which he found, or did not find.  After one of his\ndeeply penetrating glances, he suddenly called for a bottle of wine,\nand, first filling his own glass, passed it across the table.\n\n\"I am fortifying myself for a harder day's work than usual,\" said he,\nas if by way of apology, if apology were needed.  \"Will you try it?  I\nthink I can assure you that it is tolerably good.\"\n\n\"Thank you; I never take wine at breakfast.\"\n\n\"Anything else that you would prefer--\" began the doctor, courteously.\n\n\"Nothing whatever, thank you,\" replied Bergan, with a most conclusive\nwave of the hand.\n\n\"Then you do not hold the theory that a little good wine, or other\nspirits, after a meal, clears the brain, and aids the digestion?\"\n\n\"Do I look as if I stood in need of either good office?\" asked Bergan,\nsmiling.\n\nThe doctor gave him a quick, critical glance.\n\n\"No, I cannot see that you do,\" he answered.  \"I should say that, in\nyour case, Nature might safely be left to perform her own functions;--I\ndo not think I ever saw human mechanism in a sounder condition, or\nanimated by a richer vitality.  Still, there can be no great harm in\ndrinking in moderation.  Of course, if one cannot do that, it is best\nto avoid it altogether.\"\n\nBergan looked up quickly,--almost angrily,--but there was nothing in\nthe doctor's face or manner to indicate that his general remark was\nweighted with any ulterior meaning.  He was holding his wine up to the\nlight with the air of a connoisseur, and having sufficiently enjoyed\nits color and _bouquet_, he tossed it off with apparent relish.  Yet\nBergan could scarcely have failed to notice, had he been less\npreoccupied, that he then quietly pushed both glass and bottle aside,\nand seemed to forget their existence.\n\n\"Can I do anything for you, before I set off on my daily treadmill?\" he\nasked, when the meal was ended.\n\n\"Nothing, thank you,--unless you can tell me where I shall be most\nlikely to find lodgings and an office.\"\n\n\"An office, did you say?  Do I behold in you a brother of the order of\nthe Asclepiad\u00e6?\"\n\n\"No, I have not that honor.  I am enrolled in the ranks of the Law.\"\n\n\"How many pegs shall I take myself down, in your estimation, if I\nproclaim myself a deserter therefrom?\"\n\nBergan could not help looking the astonishment that he did not express.\n\n\"It is true,\" said the doctor, answering the look.  \"I studied law, and\npractised it for about two years.  But it did not suit me.\"\n\n\"Would it be impertinent to ask why?\"\n\n\"Not at all.  It gave too much scope, or too little, to my natural\nantagonism of mind;--too little for mental satisfaction, too much for\nmaterial advantage.  For instance, I was always possessed with an\ninsane desire to clear the guilty man, whether he were my client, or\nno.\"\n\n\"Yet you deny to yourself the credit of generous impulses!\"\n\n\"Stay a little.  I was often assailed with an equally insane desire to\nconvict the innocent one--when he was not my client.  Do not look so\nhorrified, for the same motive was at the bottom of both.  It was\nbecause I saw so clearly that, with an exchange of\ncircumstances,--inherited traits, education, temptation, and so\nforth,--there would also be an exchange of persons.\"\n\n\"In that case, it would seem that neither should be convicted.\"\n\n\"Exactly.  But it was Society that needed to be convicted and punished.\nThere was a real satisfaction in reversing its unrighteous judgments.\"\n\nBergan felt that he was sinking in a kind of mental quicksand.  \"But,\"\nhe objected, catching hold of the first twig of support that offered\nitself, \"you count the man's will for nothing.\"\n\n\"With most men, it does count for nothing.  Where one man performs\neither a good or a bad action deliberately, looking behind and before\nhim, nine hundred and ninety-nine do it because of the pressure of\noutward circumstance.\"\n\n\"You think, then,\" said Bergan, after a moment's consideration, \"that\nwhen a man wilfully embarks on the current which tends toward the\nNiagara cataract, it is his misfortune, and not his fault, if he\nfinally finds himself at a point where the pressure of outward\ncircumstance must needs carry him over the fall.\"\n\n\"In that case,\" said the doctor, \"the responsibility shifts back to the\npower that made the current and the fall, and put them in his way.\"\n\nBergan saw the wide labyrinth of controversy opening before him, and\ntacitly declined to set foot in it.  He was in no mood for polemics.\nHe merely asked,--\n\n\"And in what way--if the question is admissible--do you find medicine\nmore to your taste than the law?\"\n\n\"In medicine, there is always a distinct and a legitimate foe to\ncombat--disease.  When one engages in a hand-to-hand fight with a\nfever, there are no side issues.  Nor does it matter in the least,\nwhether battle is to be done over the body of an incarnate demon or an\nangel unfledged,--in both cases, the treatment is identical, the\nphysician's duty the same.\"\n\n\"I think I understand you,\" said Bergan, after a pause, during which he\nhad been trying to reconcile these curious and half conflicting\nstatements with some underlying principles, and finding it, at last, in\nhis own heart, rather than in the doctor's words;--\"a physician's\nprofessional and abstract duty are never at variance, while a lawyer\nmust often be puzzled to decide if he is justified in using his legal\nskill to save a criminal from merited punishment.\"\n\n\"It is a question that puzzles few of them,\" remarked the doctor,\ndryly.  \"But in regard to this office, _in posse_, of yours;--I rent my\nown from a very respectable widow lady, whose house is much too large\nfor the narrow income to which she found herself restricted, at her\nhusband's death.  I think she has another room, that she would be glad\nto let to an eligible tenant.  Shall we go and see?  It is quite in my\nway; I must visit my office before I set out on my rounds.\"\n\nThe house won Bergan's liking, at a glance.  It stood on a corner; it\nwas large and airy; double piazzas surrounded it on three sides; over\nit a hale old live-oak and half-a-dozen gray, decrepit china-trees\nflung their pleasant shade.  In the rear, was a tempting thicket of a\ngarden, which Art had first planted, and then handed over to Nature, to\nbe taken care of at her leisure,--the result being an altogether\nadmirable and Eden-like wilderness of boughs and vines, and, in their\nseason, flowers and fruits, such as can be seen nowhere but at the\nSouth.  The interior of the dwelling wore a most attractive look of\nneatness, comfort, and refinement, notwithstanding its extreme\nplainness of finish and furniture.  Crossing its threshold, he felt\nthat a true _home_ had received him into its beneficent shadow.\nNothing could be better for him, he thought, than to find an abiding\nplace therein.\n\nNor was there any difficulty in the way.  The doctor's magical touch\narranged the preliminaries.  Then, Mrs. Lyte,--a pale, sweet,\nfragile-looking woman, with the gentle gravity of manner that comes of\nsorrow at once incurable and resigned--yielded at once to the magnetism\nof Bergan's address,--the involuntary softening of tone wherewith he\nrecognized the claim of her black garments upon his sympathies, the\nmanifest deference which he paid to her loneliness, her bereavement,\nher sorrow.  Since it was needful to sacrifice something of the home\nseclusion and sacredness to the necessity of daily bread, she could not\nhope for a more desirable tenant.  The negotiations were quickly\nconcluded.  Not only was an office secured, but a lodging-room in its\nrear was also placed at his disposal; and he was to take his meals at\nthe hotel.\n\nReturning thither, and finding that his baggage had duly arrived from\nthe Hall, Bergan's active temperament would not let him rest until he\nhad transported it to his new quarters, and gotten them in tolerable\norder.  In this business he consumed the greater part of the day.  The\nsun was low in the horizon, when, by way of a finishing touch, he\nnailed a tin plate, bearing in gilt letters the words,--\"BERGAN ARLING,\nATTORNEY AT LAW,\" to his office window.\n\nWith the act, came a thrill of strange enjoyment.  It was like the\nfirst breath of a new and invigorating atmosphere.  That little sign\nimparted an element of solidity to his plans and aims, hitherto\nlacking.  It marked an epoch in his life.  Now, first, he flung\nhimself, with all his strength and energy, into the great struggle of\nmankind.\n\nTo this pleasantly excited mood, motion was still desirable, weariness\nunfelt.  He decided to pay a visit to his second, and yet unknown,\nuncle,--Godfrey Bergan.  He quitted the village with the last, red\nsunbeams.\n\n\n\n\nPART SECOND.\n\nTHE FRUIT OF THE WAY.\n\n\n\nI.\n\nTHROUGH A MIST.\n\nOakstead, the estate of Godfrey Bergan, was separated from the lands of\nthe Hall by the small river--or \"creek,\" in local parlance--which has\nbefore been mentioned.  The pleasant dwelling of the owner stood not\nfar from a picturesque bend of the stream, commanding a view of its\ntawny, slumberous current for a considerable distance up and down,--a\nview made up of gentlest curves and softest coloring only, yet with\nenough of quiet beauty to arrest Bergan's feet, for some moments, on\nthe oak-shadowed lawn.\n\nThe river's tide stole almost imperceptibly past, mirroring in its\nstill bosom the sunset-painted sky, and the graver tinted objects of\nearth, with equal felicity,--like a gentle spirit, in whose\nwell-ordered life the things of either world find their appropriate\nplace and exquisite harmony.  Just at that point of the upper stream\nwhere an artist would have placed it for the best pictorial effect, was\nthe bridge of the main road, with rough abutments half-buried in wild\nfoliage, and railings overrun with vines; and at a remoter point down\nits shining course, the slenderer span of a narrow footbridge, with a\nsingle rustic railing, was also seen, idealized by distance into an\naerial passway fit for fairy feet.  In the earlier days of Godfrey's\nproprietorship, while the half-brothers were yet on friendly terms,\nthis latter structure had furnished the means of easy and frequent\ncommunication between the two households.  On the cessation of\nintercourse, however, Major Bergan had threatened its destruction, and\nhad even begun an attack upon his own abutment; but his operations\nbeing suddenly suspended, and no convenient opportunity occurring for\ntheir resumption, he had finally left the work of demolition to be\nfinished by the wear and tear of the elements, and the slow tooth of\ntime.  Though in a somewhat ruinous condition, and but insecurely\npoised on the damaged abutment, the bridge was still passable, with due\ncaution; and, doubtless, it served for the nocturnal visits of such\nnegroes of the two estates as were not set at odds by the bitterness of\ntheir masters' feud.\n\nAt a little distance below the footbridge, the river made another\ngraceful bend, and soon disappeared in the shadow of the pine\nforest,--behind and above the dark, swaying fringe of which, the\nposthumous glory of the sun was fading from the western sky.  Against\nthis flitting splendor, the turret-like summits of the chimneys of\nBergan Hall were distinctly visible.  A little saddened by the sight,\nas forcing back on his mind thoughts and images which he had partially\nsucceeded in flinging off, Bergan turned and walked quickly up the path\nto the house.  Voices met him as he drew near.  In one end of the broad\npiazza, so shut in by interlacing vines as to constitute a kind of\nleaf-tapestried parlor, two gentlemen were talking.\n\n\"I am afraid the identity is only too certain,\" said the smooth,\nsarcastic voice of Doctor Remy.  \"But I doubt if the habit be a\nconfirmed one,--certainly, the physical indications are lacking.  At\nany rate, as I said before, he is evidently making an effort to\novercome it.\"\n\n\"I wish that no such effort were necessary,\"--began a different voice;\nbut with the instinct of delicacy, Bergan set his foot upon the lower\nstep of the piazza in a way to be distinctly heard, and would have done\nthe same had he supposed that the conversation concerned him, which he\ndid not.  The voice ceased abruptly, and a gentleman, whom he instantly\nrecognized as his uncle, advanced to meet him.  Though he had enough of\nthe Bergan cast of feature to identify him at the first, casual glance,\nas belonging to the race, it was lost, almost as soon as seen, amid\ntraits widely differing from the ancestral pattern.  He was a much more\ngenuine outcome of American soil than the rest of Sir Harry's\ndescendants,--in whom a childhood fed upon old-world family traditions,\nand a youth spent at Oxford or Cambridge, had availed to preserve the\nEnglish mould from all but the more unavoidable modifications.  The\nrace had always been marked by a greater volume of muscle, a ruddier\ncomplexion, and a sturdier texture of character, than was exactly\nnative to the soil.  But, in Godfrey Bergan, these characteristics were\nlacking.  Though tall and well-formed, he was spare in figure and thin\nin face.  His complexion had the true American sallowness of tint.  In\nmatters of bulk, weight, and coloring,--all the purely animal\ncharacteristics,--he fell far below the standard of his half-brother.\nBy way of indemnity, his figure had more litheness and grace; and his\nfeatures were more clearly cut, and endowed with a keener vivacity of\nexpression,--apparently, they were informed by a quicker and finer\nintellect, as well as a gentler spirit.\n\nAltogether, it was a thoughtful, a refined, and a benevolent\ncountenance, that confronted Bergan; yet not without certain firm lines\nabout the mouth to indicate that its owner could be decided, if he\nchose, and perhaps severe.  While it invited liking, it commanded\nrespect.\n\nIt was with real pleasure that Bergan made his self-introduction to a\nrelative with so many apparent claims to affection and esteem.  Yet,\neven while he mentioned his name and relationship, and held out his\nhand, as to a stranger,--albeit a friend,--he was beset by an uneasy\nconsciousness that he had met Mr. Bergan, or somebody very like him,\nbefore.  But where?  Sending a swift, retrospective glance through his\nlife, he could find no clue to the perplexing feeling; and, having\nscant time for investigation, he quickly dismissed it as the offspring\nof some indefinite and elusive resemblance, perhaps to one of the\nancestral portraits, perhaps to a half-forgotten acquaintance.\n\nIt was the more easily disposed of, that its place was soon filled by\nanother shadowy vexation.  His uncle's reception was both courteous and\nkind; yet he could not help feeling intuitively that it was lacking in\nsome indefinable element of cordiality, even while he repudiated the\nintuition as a baseless figment of his own imagination.  Certainly,\nthere was no tangible coolness, not so much as a thin film of\nindifference, upon which to lay a plausible finger-tip; nothing that\ndid not slip away from every attempt at analysis, and seem to resolve\nitself into a sickly humor of his own.  At worst, he told himself,\nthere was only some less definite expression of consanguineous\nsympathy, in the pressure of his uncle's hand, and in the modulations\nof his voice, than he had allowed himself to look for; and this was a\nmere matter of mood and temperament, the absence of which formed no\ngood ground of complaint, whatever warmth and grace might have been\ncontributed by its presence.  No doubt, it would come in good time.\n\nMeanwhile Doctor Remy, sending forth his keen glance from the shadowy\nend of the piazza, had recognized the new comer; and he now presented\nhimself, hat in hand.\n\n\"The first meeting of near relatives,\" said he, with his indescribable\nmixture of seriousness and sarcasm, \"is a scene upon which a third\nperson is bound to pronounce his blessing, and--turn his back!  Nay, no\ndisclaimers; he is equally bound not to listen to them.  Good evening,\nMr. Bergan,--allow me to remark that good influences may avail much in\nthe matter that we were talking of.  Good evening, Mr. Arling,--it\ngives me pleasure to leave you in such agreeable quarters; Oakstead has\nmanifold attractions, as you are in the way to discover.\"\n\nAnd the doctor bowed, and descended the steps.\n\nMr. Bergan turned to his nephew.  \"I hope you left my sister well,\"\nsaid he.\n\n\"Quite well.  I have a letter from her for you.  I am ashamed that it\nhas not been delivered before, but--\"\n\nBergan hesitated; a further explanation would take him upon delicate\nground.\n\n\"Never mind the sequence of the 'but,'\" said his uncle, smiling, albeit\na little gravely;--\"I am aware that the road from Bergan Hall to\nOakstead is not so smooth as could be wished.  I\"--there was a slight\nhesitation, as if a colder phrase had been sought, and not found,--\"I\nam glad that you were able to surmount its difficulties so soon.  A\nletter from Eleanor!\" he went on, with a sudden change of\nsubject,--\"that will be a treat indeed!  I take shame to myself that\nour correspondence has fallen into such desuetude.  But what one ever\ndid survive the lapse of forty-two years, without the reviving impulse\nof an occasional meeting?  I hardly dare venture a question about my\nsister's family, lest I make some terrific blunder.  I am not even sure\nabout the present number of her children.\"\n\n\"There are six of us left.\"\n\n\"'Left' implies 'taken,'\" said Mr. Bergan, with a sigh.\n\n\"We have lost two of our number.\"\n\n\"So have we,\" replied Mr. Bergan.  \"But we have not six left--we have\nonly one.  However, she is a host in herself,--at least, we think\nso,\"--he added, with a smile at his own enthusiasm.  \"But, will you\ncome in and see your aunt and cousin?\"\n\nHe led the way to a small room, pleasantly furnished as a library; and\nBergan followed him, though not without a vague sense of a lurking\nreluctance and lukewarmness in the invitation,--which he sternly\nsmothered, nevertheless, as unworthy of himself and unjust to his uncle.\n\nStepping to an open French window, Mr. Bergan slightly raised his voice\nand called,--\n\n\"Carice!\"\n\n\"Yes, father!\" was the instant answer, in a voice of peculiar richness\nand melody; and the next moment a young girl stood in the window, with\na light shawl wrapped round her slender figure, and her hands filled\nwith autumn flowers, just gathered.  The light was too dim to show her\nfeatures clearly; but a certain indefinable freshness and sweetness\nseemed to enter the room with her and diffuse itself through the\natmosphere not less perceptibly than the scent of the flowers.  At\nsight of a stranger, imperfectly seen in the twilight obscurity of the\nroom, she stopped abruptly.\n\n\"It is your cousin, Bergan Arling, the son of my sister Eleanor,\"\nbriefly explained her father.\n\nThere was a little start of surprise and of pleasure; then Carice\ndropped her flowers on the nearest table, and gave Bergan two cordial\nhands.  Not only was there a charming grace in the unstudied action,\nbut also the pleasant heart-warmth, the frank recognition of kinship\nand its appropriate sympathies, which Bergan had so unaccountably\nmissed from his uncle's manner, even while trying to persuade himself,\neither that it was there, or that its absence was no matter of surprise.\n\n\"Have I really a cousin, then!\" said she, brightly.  \"I never believed\nit till now.  That story of cousins at the West always sounded like a\npleasant fiction to me,--I am glad to know that it is founded on fact.\"\n\n\"On six facts,\" said Bergan, smiling.  \"I am the fortunate\nrepresentative of five other claimants to your cousinly regard.\"\n\nCarice laughingly shook her head.  \"I believe what I see,\" said\nshe,--\"or rather what I should see, if it were not so dim here.  By and\nbye,--after I have ordered lights,--I may be able to reason from the\nseen to the unseen.\"  And she glided from the room, which seemed to\ngrow suddenly dark and chill behind her.\n\nVery shortly she returned, preceded by a servant bearing lights, and\naccompanied by her mother.  Looking toward Bergan with a smile, she\ngave a slight start; the coming words were arrested on her parted lips;\nthe color mounted to her brow; across her face went a swift ripple of\ndisappointment and pain.  Quickly recovering herself, she presented him\nto her mother; but the bright cordiality, the warm heart-glow, of her\nearlier manner, had faded, and came no more.  It was as if a gray\nscreen had suddenly been drawn before a cheery household fire.\n\nHappily for Bergan, his aunt claimed his attention, before he had time\nto feel the full dreariness of the change.  She was a woman of rare\ntact, and much kindliness of heart, despite a somewhat stately manner,\nand a considerable degree of aristocratic chill for people not exactly\nin her \"set.\"  She gave Bergan a warm welcome,--almost a motherly one;\nthere was something about him that brought a softening remembrance of\nthe two sons that slept in the family burial ground, and quietly opened\nthe way for him into her heart.  Finding his entertainment left very\nmuch in her hands, she cared for it kindly; though not without a secret\nwonder at the inexplicable indifference of her husband and daughter.\nBut she did her best to make amends for it by her own friendliness, and\nin part, succeeded.\n\nMeanwhile, Bergan was beset by another tantalizing resemblance.  Never,\nhe thought, had he seen anything quite so lovely as his cousin\nCarice,--with her soft, brown hair, her clear rose-complexion, her\nlarge, limpid, blue eyes, the lily-like droop of her exquisitely formed\nhead, the inexhaustible grace of her attitudes and movements,--but he\nhad certainly seen somebody a little like her.  So strong, yet so\npuzzling was this conviction, and so frequent the glances consequently\nsent in her direction, that he felt a word of explanation might not be\namiss.\n\n\"Excuse me,\" said he, \"if I seem to be looking at you almost\nconstantly; but there is something about you curiously familiar, though\nit is impossible that we should have met before.  I suppose I must have\nseen somebody that resembled you; but I cannot tell when or where.\"\n\nCarice looked down, and colored slightly.  Her father came to her\nrelief.\n\n\"There is often no accounting for resemblances,\" said he.  \"When there\nis any tie of blood, however remote, we understand them, of course; but\nwhen the face of an utter stranger startles me in the street with the\nvery smile of my sister Eleanor, or the grave look of my dead father,\nwhat am I to think?\"\n\n\"One would like to know,\" remarked Bergan, \"if there is a mental and\nmoral likeness, to match the physical one.  When I fix the resemblance\nthat eludes me so persistently in you,\" he added, turning to Carice, \"I\nhope it will help me to answer the question.\"\n\n\"I doubt if it does,\" replied Carice, quietly, yet not without a\ncertain something in her tone that sounded almost like sarcasm.  He\nlooked at her in considerable surprise, but her eyes were turned away,\nand she said no more.\n\nFeeling as if he were walking in a mist, which everywhere eluded his\ngrasp, while it blinded his eyes, and chilled his heart, he rose to go.\n\n\"Let me see,\" said his aunt, kindly, as she gave him her hand,\n\"to-morrow will be Sunday, will it not?  Pray let us find you in our\npew at church in the morning; and come home with us to an early dinner,\nbefore the evening service.\"\n\nBergan hesitated.  He had no reasonable excuse; yet his uncle had not\nseconded the invitation.  As if suddenly cognizant of the omission, Mr.\nBergan now spoke.\n\n\"Come, by all means,\" said he, with more kindness than he had yet\nshown,--for he could not bring himself to give a half-hearted\ninvitation to his sister's son,--\"I have still a great deal to ask\nabout your mother.\"\n\n\"And I,\" said his aunt, laughing, \"have still a great deal to ask about\nyourself.  Good night.\"\n\nThey stood on the piazza watching him, until he was out of sight.  Then\nCarice turned to her father.\n\n\"Did he say anything about--yesterday?\" she asked, gravely.\n\n\"Not a word.  I should have liked him better if he had offered some\nexplanation.\"\n\n\"Perhaps he did not recognize us,\" suggested Carice.\n\n\"How could he help it?\"\n\n\"I don't know,--only--you were angry and I was frightened; probably our\nfaces did not wear their natural expression.  Besides, he was doubtless\na little bewildered by his fall, and--\"\n\n\"What or whom are you talking about?\" here broke in the amazed Mrs.\nBergan.\n\n\"About my nephew, the mad cavalier who so nearly came into collision\nwith Carice yesterday,\" replied her husband.\n\nMrs. Bergan threw up her hands.  \"And you let me invite him to dinner!\"\nshe exclaimed, in a tone of deep injury.\n\n\"How could I help it, my dear?  Besides, he is my sister's son.\"\n\nMeanwhile, Bergan found his way back to the village through the\ndarkness, wondering what had become of the lightness of heart and\ncheerfulness of hope with which he had set out--he looked at his\nwatch--only two hours before!\n\n\n\n\nII.\n\nSTRENGTHENED OUT OF ZION.\n\nSt. Paul's Church, Berganton, was a small, plain structure of brick and\nstone, rather prettily situated on the bank of the aforesaid creek,\nwhich flowed through the midst of the town.  Its sole claim to exterior\nbeauty must have rested on the thick vines which covered its walls,\nframed its windows, and climbed to the roof of its low, square tower;\ndoing their best to atone for its many architectural deficiencies, its\nfailure to present to the eye a certain material \"beauty of holiness,\"\nin harmony with the spiritual loveliness of the unseen temple, of which\nit was the faint type.\n\nToward this church, on the morning after his visit to Oakstead, Bergan\ndirected his steps.  Meeting his uncle in the vestibule, he was soon\nseated in the square family pew, and had a few moments to look about\nhim, before service.\n\nIn its small way, the church was almost as much a memorial of the House\nof Bergan as the old Hall itself.  Sir Harry had been a fair sample of\nthe average English Churchman of his day, with whom a certain amount of\nreligious observance was deemed necessary and becoming, both by way of\nseemly garmenting for one's self, and good example for one's neighbors.\nIf it did not reach very deep into the heart, it at least imparted a\ncertain completeness and dignity to the outward life.\n\nMoreover, family tradition was strongly in religion's favor.  There had\nalways been relations of a highly friendly and decorous sort between\nthe house and the church; and to have turned his back disrespectfully\nupon the one, would have been to show himself a degenerate scion of the\nother.  As a natural consequence, Sir Harry did not feel that he had\ndone his whole duty to himself, or his posterity, until he had provided\na fitting stage for the necessary family ceremonials of christening,\nmarriage, and burial; as well as an appropriate spot for his own\nenjoyment of a respectable Sunday doze, under the soothing influence of\nan orthodox sermon, after having duly taken his share in the responses\nof the morning service.  If this school of Churchmen had its faults, it\nalso had its virtues.  If its standard of religion was a low one, with\na strong leaning toward human pride and selfish indulgence; it was\nbetter than the open irreverence and infidelity, the unblushing\ndisregard of religious restraints and sanctions, of later generations.\n\nUnder Sir Harry's auspices, therefore, the foundations of St. Paul's\nwere laid, and its walls arose, as a kind of necessary adjunct to\nBergan Hall.  And his successors, with rare exceptions, had felt it a\nduty to add to its interior attractions, as well as to make it a\ncontinuous family record, by memorial windows of stained glass, mural\ntablets of bronze or marble, and thank-offerings of font, communion\nplate, and other appliances and adornments.  Some of these, no doubt,\nwere merely self-laudatory, the fitful outgrowth of family pride;\nothers might have sprung from a sense of what was beautiful and\nfitting,--which was a very good thing, as far as it went, though it\nwent not much below the surface; but a few there were, doubtless, which\nhad been consecrated to their use by heartfelt tears of sorrow, of\npenitence, or of gratitude.  Be this as it may, they all helped (at\nleast, in human eyes) to give the interior of St. Paul's a certain\ncompleteness, and even a degree of beauty and harmony.\n\nStill, both in its size and its decorations, the church was far\ninferior to the Hall.  There was a vast disproportion, both in amount\nand quality, between the space and the furniture set apart for the\nservice and pleasure of a single household, and that consecrated to the\nworship of God, and the spiritual nurture of His people.  But, in the\nmatter of preservation, as well as in answering a definite end, the\nadvantage was greatly on the side of the church and its appointments.\nWherever the Bergan hands had grown slack, or had been withdrawn, in\nthat work, others had taken it up, for the love of Christ, and carried\nit forward to completion, or kept it from lapsing back into chaos.\n\nAnd so, Bergan--remembering how surely the merely secular memorials of\nSir Harry and his successors had been overtaken by the slow feet of\ndecay, while these others had been saved by their connection with an\ninstitution having a deeper and broader principle of life--was led into\na natural enough, though for him a most unusual, train of thought.  He\nasked himself if Sir Harry would not have done better, even for his own\nselfish end, to have given the larger share (or, at least, an equal\none) of his time, care, and money, to the edifice which had the surest\nhold upon permanency, and was most likely to be sacredly kept for its\noriginal purpose.  In our country, more than almost anywhere else,\npeople build houses for other people to dwell in, and Time delights to\nblot family names from his roll, at least on the page where they were\nfirst written.  All family mansions, however fair and proud, are surely\ndestined to fall into stranger hands, or to be given over to the Vandal\noccupation of decay.  All families, of however lofty position, are\ncertain to sojourn, at times, in the valley of humiliation, if they do\nnot lose themselves in the deeper valley of extinction.  Would it not\nhave been better, then, to have foregone somewhat of the frail and\nfaithless magnificence of Bergan Hall, and linked the dear family name\nand memory more closely with the indestructible institution which\nbelongs to the ages?\n\nAnd, as he thus questioned, the narrow walls, the low roof, and the\ninsignificant adornments of the little church seemed slowly to widen\nand lift themselves to the grand proportions of a vast, pillared\ntemple; and the small chancel window--doing so little, nor doing that\nlittle well, to keep alive the fair memory of \"Elizabeth, wife of Sir\nHarry\"--became a great glory of pictured saints and angels, through\nwhose diaphanous bodies the rainbow-light fell softly among a crowd of\nkneeling worshippers;--unto whom the sculptured mural tablets, the\njewel-tinted glass, the stately walls, the soaring arch, told over and\nover again the lovely story, and held up to view the noble example, of\na race whose labor and delight it had been to build strong and\nbeautiful the walls of Zion; and which, in so doing, had raised up to\nitself the most enduring, as well as the most precious of earthly\nmonuments.  How much better this than the crumbling splendors of Bergan\nHall, and the fading glory of an almost extinct name!\n\n\"The Lord is in His holy temple,\" was here breathed through Bergan's\nvisioned fane, in appropriately awed and solemn tones.  Nevertheless,\nthey broke the slender thread of its being.  As Bergan rose to his\nfeet, with the rest of the congregation, its majestic vista, its\npictured windows, and all its rich array, vanished like the filmy\nimagery of a dream, at the moment of awakening.  But it was not without\na keen sense of the contrast that he brought his mind back to the real\nSt. Paul's, and the service going on under its lowlier roof.\n\nNothing remained but the harmonious voice, which had at once perfected\nand broken the spell.  Glancing toward the chancel, Bergan saw a\nclergyman, with a face that would have been simply benignant, but for\nthe vivid illumination of a pair of deep-set, dark-blue eyes,--a light\nnever seen save where a great heart sends its warm glow through all the\nchambers of a grand intellect.\n\nThere is something marvellous in the inexhaustible adaptation of the\nChurch service to the wants of the soul.  At the same time that it is a\nmiracle of fitness for the ends of public worship, it has its adequate\nword for every secret, individual need.  Though Bergan had heard it\nhundreds of times before, and always with a hearty admiration of its\nbeauty and comprehensiveness, never had its rhythmic sentences fallen\nupon his heart with such gracious and grateful effect.  Doubtless, this\nwas owing, in great measure, to the subdued frame of mind induced by\nthe events of the last week; but it was also due, in some degree, to\nthe perfection with which the service was rendered.  It was neither\nhurried nor drawled, neither grumbled nor whined, neither a rasping\nsee-saw nor a dull monotone.  It was not overlaid with the arts of\nelocution; nor was it robbed of all life and warmth by the formal\nemphasis and intonation of the merely correct reader.  But, in Mr.\nIslay's mouth, it became the living voice of living hearts.  The dear\nold words, without losing one whit of the accumulated power, and the\nsacred associations, of long years of reverent use, came as freshly and\nas fervently from the speaker's lips, as if they were the heart-warm\ncoinage of the moment.\n\nAs an inevitable consequence, Bergan's responses were uttered with\nanswering fervor.  And how perfectly they met his wants!  How\nwonderfully they expressed his sense of weakness and failure, his\ndepression and humiliation, his new-born self-distrust, his earnest\ndesire and determination to be stronger against future temptations.  In\nsome sentences, there was a depth of meaning and of fitness, that\nseemed to have been waiting all these years for this moment of complete\ninterpretation.  Continually was he startled by subtile references to\nhis peculiar circumstances, by the calm precision with which his sores\nwere probed, and the tender skill which applied to them healing balm.\n\nEspecially was he struck by the Collect for the day,--so clearly did it\nexpress thoughts and feelings too vague in his own mind to have shaped\nthemselves into words:--\n\n\"O Lord, we beseech Thee, absolve Thy people from their offences; that\nthrough Thy bountiful goodness, they may all be delivered from the\nbands of those sins which by their frailty they have committed.\"\n\nNever before could he have so clearly understood what was meant by the\n\"bands\" of sins, committed, not of deliberate intent, but through\nfrailty.  How painfully he felt the pressure of those bands! how\ncertainly they would cramp his efforts and hinder his progress!  And\nhow singularly distinct they had become to his sight, both in their\nnature and their effects, by means of that old, oft-repeated, yet ever\nnew, Collect!\n\nWith a half-unconscious attempt at divination, Bergan turned over the\nleaves of his Prayer Book, during the short pause before the psalm,\nwondering what other mystic meanings were waiting under familiar words,\nfor his future needs.  It was not without a little chill at his heart\nthat his eye caught the opening sentences of the burial anthem.\n\nThere could be no question about that.  Whatever else might or might\nnot be waiting for him, that was certain, some day, to be said over his\ndead body, and vainly to try to find entrance into his deaf ears.  But\nwhen?  At the end of a long life; in the midst of his days; or ere his\nwork was scarce begun?\n\nHis work.  What was it?  To walk in a vain shadow?  To disquiet himself\nin vain?  To heap up riches for an unknown gatherer?  To write his name\nhigh on the temple of Fame?  To become a philanthropist, or a reformer?\nNo; but to \"apply his heart unto wisdom.\"\n\nIt was both a deep and a hard saying.  Bergan felt that he could not\nfathom it, even while he saw how ruthlessly it struck at the roots of\nhuman pride, and lopped the boughs of personal ambition.\n\nMeanwhile, the psalm had been sung, and with a rustling of leaves and\ngarments, the congregation had settled themselves into their seats.\nThrough the succeeding hush, Mr. Islay quietly sent the words of his\ntext: \"Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might, for\nthere is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor _wisdom_, in the grave\nwhither thou goest.\"\n\nIt was the word in season!\n\nBergan left the church that day, not only with a deeper sense of his\nown mortality, and consequent weakness, than ever before; but also with\na modified view of life's work and duty.  In one sense, it was a\nnarrower view,--with that narrowness which feels the need of some true,\nfixed centre, from which to work outward, with any degree of safety and\nsystem, and, consequently, of success.  He began to see that he who\nwould influence others for good, and through them the world, must first\nbe certain of the point where his influence begins, and that toward\nwhich it tends.\n\nNot that Bergan understood, or would ever be likely to understand, the\nfull measure and real character of the change that had been wrought in\nhim under that lowly church-roof.  Up to this point, his life had been\nfrom without, inward; henceforth, it was to be from within outward.\nThe inner life of the soul was really begun in him,--feebly,\nhalf-unconsciously, it is true,--yet possessing a hidden power of\nassimilation and growth, that would soon bend all things to itself.\nStorm and sunshine, darkness and light, success and failure, would\nalike minister to its wants, and help it to grow fair and strong.\nThings most inimical to it, at first sight, would but give it tougher\nfibre and lovelier grain; in the drought, it would but send its roots\ndown deeper in pursuit of hidden wells; under the pruning-knife, it\nwould but burst forth into fairer blossoms and richer fruit.\n\nYet it was no sudden change, for all his life had been a preparation\nfor it.  Oftenest the kingdom of God cometh without observation.  The\nstones of the spiritual temple may be fashioned amid clamor and\ndiscord, but they are laid in their places with a silence that is full\nof meaning.\n\n\n\n\nIII.\n\nSEEING, BUT UNDERSTANDING NOT.\n\nThe service being ended, Bergan naturally turned to his kinsfolk for an\nampler and friendlier greeting than had been possible at their hurried\nmeeting in the crowded vestibule.  Especially--with a grateful\nremembrance of her yesterday's cordiality--did he look to his aunt for\na word of familiar kindness, that should make him feel less alone, less\nof a stranger, amid the friendly chorus of salutations and\nleave-takings coming to his ears from the departing congregation.  But,\nto his surprise and pain, the same indefinable chill which had made him\nso vaguely uncomfortable with her husband and daughter, had now taken\npossession of her also, and woven a thin film of ice over the manner\nthat yesterday was so kind.\n\nThe change was so unaccountable that he could not believe in it.  He\ntold himself that the real thing at fault was his own sickly\nimagination, that he was morbidly sensitive, as well as foolishly\nexacting.  He convinced his understanding, but could not silence his\nheart.  That Cassandra of the depths continually smote his unwilling\near with her lugubrious voice, calling upon him to observe how\nstrangely Mrs. Bergan had been transformed overnight, from the\ninterested, cordial, even affectionate aunt, into the polite and\npractised woman of the world, doing merely what courtesy required for\nthe entertainment of the guest that circumstances had flung upon her\nhands.\n\nIn this state of affairs, Bergan would gladly have exchanged the dinner\nat Oakstead for a quiet afternoon in his room and a sober talk with his\nthoughts.  But the invitation being already accepted, he must needs\nabide by the event.  Accordingly, he took the vacant seat in his\nuncle's carriage, and was soon set down at the cottage steps.\n\nBefore dinner, the two gentlemen were left to a quiet chat by\nthemselves on the cool, shady piazza.  Bergan embraced this opportunity\nto explain, more fully than he had yet done, his motives and aims.  He\ntold his uncle,--a little proudly, it might be, for he wished it to be\nunderstood that he had come hither with a self-respecting purpose of\nindependence, and not with any idea of leaning upon his friends,--he\ntold his uncle that his choice of Berganton as the starting-point of\nhis professional career, was due to the influence of his mother.  Her\nchildhood's home, and its vicinity, had always kept a tenacious hold on\nher affections, despite the fact that more than two-thirds of her\nwomanhood had been spent elsewhere, and all the deeper joys and sorrows\nof her life had blossomed and fruited in different soil.  When,\ntherefore, it became necessary for one of her sons to go out into the\nworld, in search of a better field of labor than was afforded in his\nnative village, her thoughts naturally turned to the spot so haloed in\nher memory, and where her ancestry had sent such deep, old roots into\nthe soil, as to create a kind of kinship for evermore between their\ndescendants and the locality.  It would be a pleasant thing for Bergan,\nshe thought, to make a home and a name for himself in a place where he\npossessed so strong a claim to residence; it would be equally pleasant\nfor the old town to recognize the familiar mould of features and\ncharacter in its streets; and it would be pleasantest of all for\nherself to know that her son was with her kinsfolk, amid well-known\nscenes, rather than among strangers, on ground where her thoughts could\nfind no foothold.  Some day, she hoped to visit him there, and feed her\nmother's pride upon his success, at the same time that she renewed her\ngirlhood amid old associations.\n\nBergan then touched lightly upon his disappointment in the dull old\ntown--finding it so much duller and older, even to decrepitude, than he\nhad expected, and consequently, so little eligible to his purpose.  And\nhere, if he had been met by a more interested glance, and a fuller\nsympathy, he would have gone on to speak of the disgraceful scene into\nwhich he had been betrayed by his uncle--the Major--and the obligation\nunder which he felt himself placed thereby to remain in Berganton, at\nleast long enough to efface any unfavorable impression which it might\nhave caused.  But, though his uncle Godfrey heard him patiently and\ncourteously enough, there was so little of the hearty interest of\nkinship in his manner, that Bergan could not bring himself to open the\nsubject.  Not only was it unpleasant in itself, but it touched at many\npoints on deep things of his nature, which instinctively refused to\npour themselves into any but a friendly, sympathetic ear.\n\nIf he had known whence came the cloud between his relatives and\nhimself, he would have spoken, as a matter of course, at whatever cost\nof feeling.  But this explanation of the matter suggested itself to\nhim, only to be inevitably rejected.  Although it might serve to\naccount for the coolness that had characterized his uncle's manner from\nthe first, it seemed to throw no light whatever upon the difficult\nproblem of the sudden change from cordiality to reserve, in Mrs. Bergan\nand Carice.  A much more natural supposition appeared to be, that\nsomething in his own manner or conversation had unfortunately awakened\nprejudice or created dislike.  For that, there was no remedy save in\ntime.  He could hope that, when his kinsfolk should come to know him\nbetter, they might be fain to reverse their hasty judgment, and account\nhim worthy of a place in their liking.  But, until that time should\narrive,--though he would do anything in reason to help it on,--there\nwas nothing to encourage or to warrant any overflow of personal\nconfidences.\n\nIt was scarcely possible, under the circumstances, that Bergan should\nhave reached a different conclusion.  Of his meeting with Mr. Bergan\nand Carice, during his frenzy of rage and intoxication, he retained but\nthe vaguest recollection; and he had totally failed to recognize either\nhis uncle or cousin as his co-actors in the dim and misty adventure.\nNor was this the only missing link in the chain of events.  Dr. Remy's\ncasual talk, in the visit immediately preceding his own, which had\nfirst made Mr. Bergan acquainted with the fact of his nephew's presence\nin the neighborhood, and gradually led to his identification with the\nintoxicated cavalier of whom he entertained so disagreeable an\nimpression; Carice's subsequent recognition of him, as soon as his\nfeatures were distinctly revealed to her; and his aunt's later\ndiscovery of the same lamentable identity;--all these facts were\nnecessary to a clear understanding of the situation, and its\nrequirements.  Without them, no wonder that Bergan was led astray both\nin his conclusions and his acts; the former being the inevitable result\nof the false logic of the few facts of which he knew, and the latter\ngoing to help the equally false logic of the facts known to others, of\nwhich he knew nothing.\n\nSo, after Mr. Bergan had politely assented to his observations upon the\ndulness of Berganton, and somewhat pointedly remarked that perseverance\nand energy, when conjoined with upright habits, were pretty sure to\ncommand a reasonable measure of success anywhere, the conversation\nturned aside into other channels.  The opportunity for a frank\nexplanation--which could alone have placed him upon his proper footing\nwith his new-found relatives--was lost.  It would not return until it\nwas too late to be of any considerable service.\n\nNevertheless, at the dinner-table, the moral atmosphere cleared a\nlittle.  Mr. Bergan could not, in justice to himself, allow any guest\nat his board--much less his sister's son--to shiver long in an\nimpalpable mist of coolness and reserve.  His wife gladly seconded his\nefforts toward geniality and cheerfulness.  Under this opportune\nsunshine, Bergan's manner soon lost its reflected touch of constraint,\nand sparkled with pleasant humor, or was warmed through and through\nwith a rich glow of enthusiasm.  Despite their prejudices, his\nrelatives could not but feel its potent charm.  Under protest, as it\nwere, they yielded him a portion of their liking, even while they\nrefused him their confidence.  \"What a pity,\" they thought, \"that he is\nso dissipated, when he can be so captivating!  What a fine character\nhis might be, but for its one miserable, ruinous flaw!\"\n\nEspecially was this thought prominent in the mind of Carice, as she\nlistened delightedly to the pleasant flow of his talk, and her youthful\nenthusiasm involuntarily sprang forward to meet his.  Two or three\ntimes, he caught her eyes fixed upon him with an expression that not\nonly puzzled, but pained him.  But for the absurdity of the\nsupposition, he would have said that it was pity!\n\nIn the hope of finding a clue to the mystery, he took a position near\nher, when they rose from the table,--leaning with an easy grace against\nthe mantel, while she occupied the low window-seat,--and the two were\nsoon deep in a conversation of absorbing interest.  Beginning with\nbooks, if slowly led, by the way of the morning's service and sermon,\nup to vital questions of duty and morals.  In its course, it developed\nso many points of sympathy between the colloquists,--such happy\ncorrespondence of opinion, without lifeless unanimity,--so many\ndove-tailed segments of thought, glad to meet in close and completing\nunion,--that Mr. and Mrs. Bergan, listening, at first, with indulgent\ninterest, finally began to exchange uneasy glances, and, at length,\nwithdrew to the piazza for a hurried consultation.\n\nFor this fair daughter of theirs--this blue-eyed Carice, with the\nlily-like _pose_, and the rose-like face--was their idol.  Not\nspecially congenial on other points, they were yet made one by their\nengrossing devotion to her.  She was at once their exceeding joy and\ntheir exquisite pain.  Although she had scarcely been ill a day in her\nlife, she had a seeming delicacy of constitution that kept them in a\nconstant quake of terror.  She had also a sensitiveness of temperament,\nas well as a singular purity and simplicity of character, that filled\nthem with nameless forebodings for her happiness.  All their days were\nspent in keeping safe watch and ward between her and the first\nthreatenings of evil, of whatever nature.  Every coming shadow, every\nadverse influence, was foreseen or forefelt, and turned aside, before\nit could reach her.\n\nEspecially, of late,--seeing her continual growth in loveliness, of a\ncharacter at once so rare and so attractive,--they had charged\nthemselves with the duty of watching against any unwise bestowal of her\naffections, and consequent misery.  And, up to this time, there had\nbeen no cause for alarm.  But now, as Mrs. Bergan glanced back through\nthe window at the rapt talker and listener, noting the earnestness and\nheightened color of the one, and the unwonted brightness half-hidden\nunder the drooping lashes of the other, she turned to her husband with\nan anxiety that needed no further explanation.\n\n\"They are cousins, remember,\" said Mr. Bergan, snatching at the first\nthread of hope, though not without a sufficient sense of its fragility.\n\n\"Only half-cousins, at best,--or rather, at worst,\" replied his wife.\n\"And so utterly different in type and temperament, that the\nrelationship could never be set up as an insurmountable barrier.\nBesides, having never met before, they now meet as strangers.\"\n\n\"Then it will not do to encourage him in coming here,\" said Mr. Bergan,\nafter a pause.  \"I could never give Carice to a drunkard, though he\nwere fifty times as handsome and talented.\"\n\nAt this moment, Carice, awaking as from a dream, looked round for her\nparents.  Seeing them on the piazza, she quickly rose, and came toward\nthem, followed by Bergan.  There was something in the action\ninexpressibly reassuring to the troubled spectators.  The engrossing\nspell of the young man's conversation was so suddenly broken, when she\nmissed her father and mother from her side!  They looked at each other\nwith a smile, and Mrs. Bergan playfully whispered,--\n\n\"I suspect that we are two fools!\"\n\nNevertheless, enough of the effect of these few moments of parental\nanxiety remained, to fling a slight shadow over the party.  Carice felt\nit first, in her quick sympathy with all her parents' moods; and Bergan\ncaught it from her as speedily as if there were already some invisible\nbond between the two.  Without knowing why, he very soon became aware\nthat the atmosphere was again growing chill around him.  He had been\nbasking, not in a broad glory of summer, but only in a flicker of\nwinter sunshine.\n\nUnder these circumstances, Mr. Bergan's announcement that it was time\nto set forth for the five o'clock service, was heard as a relief.\nAlmost immediately, however, it was followed by an unreasoning pang of\nregret.  It needed no soothsayer to tell him that moments like those\njust passed, were to be rare in his immediate experience of life.\n\nDusk was fast gathering in the corners and under the arches of the\nlittle church, when the service was over.  Parting with his relatives\nat the door, Bergan went his solitary way to his lodgings, through the\ndeepening twilight.  He walked slowly, not that the road was so\npleasant, but because the end had so little attraction.  The walls and\nfurniture of his room were still strangers to him;--no one corner would\nallure him with a more familiar charm than another, no particular chair\nwould draw him irresistibly to its accustomed arms, no sweet, tangled\ncrop of associations would fling their mingled light and shadow across\nthe floor.  It would all be dim, blank, lonely.  And the foot falls but\nheavily on the path, the termination of which neither habit nor excites\nimagination!\n\nNevertheless, the slowest progress brings one quickly to the end, if\nthe journey be short; and Bergan's lingering steps brought him to Mrs.\nLyte's gate ere the dusk had deepened into total obscurity.  Entering\nthe wide hall, which extended through the whole depth of the house, he\nsaw Mrs. Lyte seated at the farther end, in a doorway opening on the\ngarden.  Her little daughter Cathie was sobbing at her side, in what\nseemed an uncontrollable passion of grief and indignation.  The child's\nprotector and playmate, a half-superannuated old mastiff, named Nix,\nsat on his haunches at a little distance, watching the scene with\nsympathetic, intelligent eyes.\n\nCathie was already Bergan's fast friend.  During yesterday's work of\narrangement, she had at first hovered around him at a distance; then,\nyielding to the unconscious fascination of the young man's look and\nsmile, as well as the irresistible attraction of the litter of books\nand papers, she had drawn nearer; later on, she had eagerly favored him\nwith the somewhat questionable help of her small fingers, and the\namusing chatter of her tireless tongue; and she had ended by giving him\nall her childish confidence, and a large share of her freakish\naffections.\n\nFreakish--because Cathie was a sort of elf-child;--or it might be truer\nto say that, in her small compass, there were many elf-children;\nmanifesting their several individualities through her changeable moods,\nand sending their various gleam through the almost weird splendor of\nher dark eyes.  She could be wild and tender, playful and passionate,\nwise and simple, by turns; or in such quick and capricious succession\nthat she seemed to be all at once.  She took as many shapes, in her\nflittings about the house, as there were hours in the day;--now a\nteasing sprite, now a dancing fairy,--at this moment, a tender human\nchild, melting into your arms with dewey kisses,--the next, a mocking\nelf, slipping from your grasp like quicksilver, and leaving you with a\ndoubt if there could be anything human about her,--and anon, a fiery\nlittle demon, with enough of concentrated rage in her small frame to\nsuffice for a giant.\n\nIt was in this latter phase that she was now exhibiting herself.\n\n\"I won't believe it!\" she screamed, clenching her small fists, and\njumping up and down in a fury of excitement.  \"I won't believe it!  It\nisn't true!  Miss Ferrars is a--\"\n\n\"Hush!\" said the mother, softly, hearing the sound of Bergan's step.\n\n--\"A mean, lying old maid!\" went on Cathie, without an instant's\nhesitation.  \"I wish I had told her so!  I will, when I see her again!\"\n\n\"Hush!\" said the mother again, more decidedly; laying her hand over the\nrebellious month, by way of enforcing the mandate.\n\nBut Cathie broke from her, and ran towards Bergan.  At a few paces\ndistant, she stopped and underwent one of her sudden metamorphoses; the\nconvulsive fury left her features, and in its stead, there came a grave\nsorrow and wistfulness, piteous to behold.  Fixing her dark, bright\neyes full on Bergan's face, she solemnly asked,--\n\n\"Are you bad, Mr. Arling?  Tell me, are you really a bad man?\"\n\nWhatever mistakes Bergan may have made, in his life, or may make\nhereafter,--whatever sins he may commit, through ignorance, or in\nsudden passion,--let it be remembered, to his credit, that he could\nmeet those clear, innocent, child-eyes, without a blush, and answer the\nquestion as gravely and simply as it had been asked,--\n\n\"No, Cathie, I do not think that I am.\"\n\nThe truthful accents found their instant way to the child's heart.  Her\nconfidence--which, in truth, had really never been lost--was restored\nfourfold.  She threw herself into his arms, and laid her young cheek\nagainst his, in a loving attempt to atone for the wrong that had been\ndone him.  Nix came also, and rubbed his great head against the young\nman's knee, with an apparent understanding of the whole matter.\n\nNor was the child's mind the only one to which Bergan's words had\nbrought quick conviction.  Hearing his low, grave tones of denial, Mrs.\nLyte felt a weight lifted from her spirits.  She had just been\nlistening to the story of Bergan's intoxication, with adornments,\nbrought by a gossiping neighbor, and her heart had sunk with fear lest\ntrouble and discomfort had found their way under her roof, with the new\ninmate.  But seeing him thus acquitted by the child and the dog,--two\nmost unprejudiced judges, she thought,--she quietly dismissed her\nfears.  For, though so gentle and shrinking in manner as to give the\nimpression of having no character at all, Mrs. Lyte was yet quite\ncapable of forming an independent opinion, and of abiding by it.\n\nSo, when Bergan came toward her, leading Cathie by the hand, she did\nnot hesitate to point him to a seat.\n\n\"Your room must be lonely,\" said she, kindly.  \"Will you sit with us\nfor awhile?\"\n\nBut Bergan did not heed, if he heard, the invitation.  He merely looked\nhis hostess in the eyes, and said;--\n\n\"Mrs. Lyte, will you be so kind as to tell me what made Cathie ask me\nthat question just now?\"\n\n\"Certainly, if you wish it.  But, Mr. Arling, the subject was closed,\nfor me, with her question and your answer.  Would it not be as well for\nyou to let it rest there, also?\"\n\nBergan only shook his head.  And after a moment's study of his grave\nface, Mrs. Lyte, very quietly, as if it were a matter in which she had\nno concern, mentioned the report that had been brought her.  As\nquietly, Bergan told her the whole story of his stay at the\nHall:--doing so the more readily, it needs not to be said to those\nanywise skilled in the intricacies of the human mind, because he felt\nthat it was not required of him.  For, though Mrs. Lyte listened with\nthe kindest interest and sympathy, she took care to show by her manner\nthat she did so more to satisfy him than herself.  In matters like\nthis, she was accustomed to trust her instincts more implicitly than\nher reason; and she was wise enough to know that trust is the short\nroad to truth, in all characters not radically bad.\n\nAnd thus, with the singular inconsequence of human life, the\nexplanation was made where it was not needed, and left unspoken where\nit would have availed much against future misunderstanding, trouble,\nwrong, and sorrow!\n\n\n\n\nIV.\n\nPATIENT WAITING.\n\nFive or six weeks now glided slowly by, without working any change in\neither the circumstances or the relations of the characters with whom\nthis history has to do.  Bergan still shivered in the chill remoteness\nof position into which he had been flung, partly by his fault and\npartly by his misfortune.  Not only between him and his relatives, but\ndividing him from the whole reputable outside world, there seemed to be\na gulf fixed, impassable save to formal courtesies and commonplace\nusages.  Anything warmer, more personal, more exacting, sought in vain\nfor an eligible crossing place; and, if it leaped the gray chasm, it\nwas only to lose itself among chill, elusive shapes of mist, on the\nopposite side.\n\nThus excluded from the only society for which he cared, Bergan did not,\nas a weaker character might have done, betake himself for consolation\nto the lower circles of vice and dissipation that would have welcomed\nhim rapturously.  He could better afford to stand alone, he thought,\nthan to throw himself into arms whose embrace would soil, and whose\nseeming support was an insidious undermining.  Besides, it was much\nmore in accordance with his character to regard the exclusion from\nwhich he suffered as a challenge to be answered, an adversary to be\novercome, rather than a verdict to be acquiesced in.  He would prove to\nthe world that it had been mistaken.\n\nDay after day, therefore, he spent in his office,--as many a\nnew-fledged lawyer has done before him,--waiting with what patience he\nmight for the clients that never came, and reading hard, by way of\npreparation for the cases that never presented themselves.  It was dull\nand lonely work; yet it did him good service, in giving him time for\nthought and reflection, and in making him acquainted with his own\nresources of will, courage, patience, and energy.\n\nThe only persons who came within the circle of loneliness that\nsurrounded him, were Mrs. Lyte, Cathie, and Dr. Remy.  The first showed\nhim much gentle, unobtrusive kindness, chiefly manifesting itself in a\nmotherly oversight of his rooms and prevision of his wants.  The second\nfluttered in and out of his office, like a bird or a butterfly,\naffording him much amusing, and often opportune, distraction from hard\nstudy or sober-hued thought.  But neither of these two, for obvious\nreasons, could give him just the close, helpful friendship, of which he\nstood in need.\n\nNeither did he find it in Dr. Remy.  Though he met the physician daily,\nand often engaged with him in hour-long colloquies upon all sorts of\ntopics, he never felt that he really knew him any better than on the\nfirst day of their acquaintance.  The doctor's peculiar frankness,\nwhich had seemed, at first sight, to promise such facility of intimacy,\nproved to be really more of the nature of an elastic barrier, yielding\neverywhere to the slightest pressure, but nowhere completely giving\nway.  Or, it might be still more fitly characterized as a deceitful\nquagmire, wherein the curious explorer sank indefinitely, but never\ntouched solid bottom.\n\nNot that the doctor was at all reticent in regard to the main facts of\nhis outward life.  In a desultory way he had furnished Bergan with a\nsufficiently distinct outline sketch of his somewhat eventful career,\nup to the present moment,--a career which, for shifts and turns, outdid\nthat of Gil Blas.  According to this, he was born in New Orleans, the\nposthumous son of a French refugee, by an American wife.  When he was\ntwelve years old, his mother had presented him with a stepfather.  The\ngift proved so little to his taste that, two years later, he ran away\nfrom the pair, and flung himself into that El Dorado of boyish\nimagination--life at sea.  In one capacity or another, during the next\ntwelve years, he not only contrived to visit most of the countries of\nEurope, but also by dint of natural aptitude for study, to pick up a\nlanguage or two, and to acquaint himself with the essential part of a\ncollege curriculum.  It now occurred to him to return to New Orleans,\nand claim the modest patrimony awaiting him there, in the hands of his\nfather's executors.  He found that his stepfather had been dead for\nthree or four years, and his mother, after having exhausted her own\nscanty resources, was sinking, with her two children, into the dreary\ndepths of poverty.  It cost her some effort to recognize the slender\nstripling of her memory in the brown, bearded, broad-shouldered man,\nwho now presented himself before her as her son.  However, his identity\nwas satisfactorily established, both by certain indisputable personal\nmarks, and by the presumptive evidence of his willingness to assume the\nburden of her support.\n\nHis next step had been to place himself in a lawyer's office, where, in\nvirtue of close application, he made months do the work of years.\nAdmitted by-and-by to the Bar, he had practised his profession for a\nbrief space, but finding the legal life not wholly to his taste, he had\nflung it aside; and with the ready facility which had characterized his\nwhole career, had betaken himself to the study and the practice of\nmedicine.  Here, he averred, he had found his true vocation, the\nrightful mistress of his intellect, and should undergo no more\ntransformations, and indulge in no more wanderings.\n\nSo far, Dr. Remy gave quite as frank an account of himself as could be\nexpected or desired.  But when it came to his inner life of thought,\nopinion, principle, his frankness was of the sort that obscures, rather\nthan explains.  It put forth jest and earnest, reason and sophistry,\nairy spirituality and dead materialism, with equal readiness, and with\nas much show of interest in one as the other.  If Bergan caught at what\nseemed to be substance, it turned to shadow in his grasp.  If he\ngrappled with apparent earnest, it quickly resolved itself into a\nhollow helmet of sudden championship, or a thin mask of irony.  He was\noften startled with a doubt whether the doctor had any settled opinions\nor principles.  He pulled down, but he built not up; he attacked, but\nhe rarely defended,--or, if he defended a thing to-day, more likely\nthan not, he would assault it to-morrow.  All Bergan's own opinions and\nbeliefs seemed to lose their consistency in the universal solvent of\nthe doctor's talk, and only took shape again after a protracted process\nof precipitation, in his own mind and heart.\n\nIf the latter organ made any part of Doctor Remy's bodily system, it\nnever manifested itself to Bergan by any noticeable throb or sensible\nwarmth.  The young man was often puzzled by the question whence came\nthe doctor's evident interest in himself, since it seemed so plain that\nit did not spring from any warm personal liking.  He felt himself to be\nthe object of his careful study, frequently; of his spontaneous\naffection and sympathy, never.  He could not but wonder at such an\namount and duration of a purely intellectual interest,--for such he\ndecided it to be,--when it promised so little result.\n\nHowever, the doctor's was the only society, worthy of the name, that\nwas offered to him; his, too, the only friendship, or semblance\nthereof, that came within his reach.  He gratefully availed himself of\nboth, even while conscious that neither fully met his wants, or would\nhave been the object of his deliberate choice.  Without this resource,\nthe flow of Bergan's life would have been characterized by a drearier\nmonotony, even, than at present.\n\nThe first slight break in its placid current, occurred one morning, on\nhis return from breakfasting at the hotel.  To his surprise, Vic was\ntied before Mrs. Lyte's gate, arching her neck, and twisting her ears\nabout, in her usual wild and nervous fashion.  In most confiding\nproximity to her restless heels, Brick lay fast asleep on the sunshiny\nsward.\n\nRoused by the sound of approaching footsteps, the latter sprang to his\nfeet, and donned the palm-leaf debris that he termed his hat, in time\nto doff it in deferential acknowledgment of Bergan's surprised greeting.\n\n\"Why, Brick! how do you do?  Is anything the matter at the Hall?\"\n\n\"No, massa Harry, nothing 't all.  Only, ole massa, he say we's gittin\nlazy,--Vic an' me;--an' he tought you'd better be gettin' some good out\nob us, dan to leab us in de stable--no, I mean, in the cabin, no, one\nin de stable and turrer in de cabin--a-eatin' our heads off;--dat's\njes' what he said, massa.  So he clared us off in a hurry, an' tole us\nto gib you his lub, and tell you dat he 'sposed you'd kinder forgotten\n'bout us.\"\n\nThere could be no question but that the overture was kindly meant, on\nthe Major's part, but it was one that Bergan could not possibly accept.\nJudging from present indications, it would be long before his\nprofessional income would suffice for his own support, to say nothing\nof the additional expense of a servant and horse.  Besides, he had\nnever regarded either Brick or the filly as actual gifts, but only\nconvenient loans, for his use while at the Hall.  Any other view of the\nmatter would, by no means, have suited his independent character.  And,\nif this had been the case before the rupture with his uncle, it was\ndoubly so, now.  Major Bergan must not be suffered to think that his\nresentment had given way, or that his good will had been restored, by\nthe aid of any gifts, however valuable, or kindly bestowed.\n\nYet he would be glad to send his uncle a friendly message, to show that\nhe was really grateful for his kindness, and ready to accept any\noverture which would not burden him with too heavy a sense of\nobligation.  To ensure its safe delivery, without the risk of hopeless\ntravesty, at Brick's hands, he went to his desk, and wrote:\n\n\n\"DEAR UNCLE: Thank you for sending me your love; _that_ is a thing\nwhich I am glad to get and keep.  But I cannot keep either Brick or\nVic,--I have no present use for them, and no means of providing for\nthem, if I had.  Besides, I never regarded either as mine, except while\nI remained at the Hall.  Many thanks, all the same, for your kind\nintentions.\n\n  \"Your affectionate nephew,\n      'HARRY.'\"\n\n\nThe signature was written only after considerable hesitation.  His note\nwould be sure to fail of the desired conciliatory effect, if it wholly\nignored the name upon which his uncle had so strenuously insisted.  Yet\nhe could not bring himself to incorporate it with his lawful\nsign-manual.  He was forced to compromise matters by thus using it as a\nsort of _sobriquet_.\n\nGiving the note to Brick, he bade him take it straightway to his\nmaster.  The negro's face instantly fell; then, it brightened again\nwith the light of a plausible explanation.\n\n\"I 'spec I'se to come back, arter I'se 'livered it?\" he asked,\nanxiously.\n\n\"No, Brick,\" Bergan gravely answered.  \"I cannot afford to keep you; it\nis as much as I can do, just now, to keep myself.\"\n\n\"But, massa Harry,\" remonstrated Brick, \"don't you know I 'longs to\nyou?  I'se your nigger, sure as deff; ole massa gib me to you, an' tole\nme to wait on you, don' you 'member?  An' how's I a goin' to wait on\nyou, I'd jes' like to know, wid tree good miles atween us?  'Sides, I'd\nfeel so mortify to go right back dar, like a dog dat don' own no massa,\narter I done tole 'em all I's coming to lib wid you.\"\n\nIt was not without difficulty that Brick was convinced of the\ninevitableness of his return to Major Bergan.  Not only did his heart\nyearn to be in the service of his young master, but he was fully\npersuaded that he could help, rather than hinder, his fortunes.  He\nforcibly expressed his willingness to work his fingers off in the\ncause, and gravely proposed to put himself on a course of\nsemi-starvation, in the matter of \"keep.\"  All this being of no avail,\nhe was finally forced to mount Vic, and turn homeward, a picture of the\nblackest despair.\n\nOn the way, his mind was illumined with a gleam of hope.  Like all the\nnegroes of the plantation, he had large faith in the occult power of\nold Rue.  His present journey, he well knew, was mainly owing to her\ninfluence.  If she could be made to see the propriety of his immediate\nreturn to Bergan's service, as he did, no doubt she could find a way to\nbring it to pass.  And her conversion to his views could be effected,\nhe shrewdly thought, by a skilful use of Bergan's confession of\nstraitened circumstances, as well as a certain suggestive increase of\ngravity that he had observed in the young man's manner.  His smile had\nnot come quite so readily and brightly to his lips as in the old days\nat Bergan Hall.  No doubt he was poor, lonely, and troubled.  He needed\nsome one to take care of him, and watch over him.  And who so eligible\nto this position as himself?  For Brick had inherited his grandmother's\ndevotion to the Bergan blood, and believed that the chief end of his\nbeing was to live and die loyally in its service.  Moreover, his young\nmaster had not only taken tenacious hold of his affections, but also of\nthat still stronger faculty of the negro mind--his imagination.  Though\nhe might be a distressed knight, just at present, Brick's faith was\nfirm that his time of triumph was not far off; and then, he wanted to\nbe \"there to see!\"\n\nHe lost no time, therefore, in presenting himself before Rue, on his\narrival at Bergan Hall.  And so dexterously did he work upon her love\nand pride, by the deplorable picture that he drew of Bergan's sadness\nand poverty, that the faithful old nurse straightway betook herself to\nher master, and never left him till she had persuaded him to mount his\nhorse, and set forth, at a brisk trot, toward Berganton.\n\nIn truth, the Major was only too glad to be so persuaded.  His anger\ntowards his nephew had quickly burned out, by reason of its own fury;\nand in thinking the matter over, he had come to be more tickled by the\nyoung man's prowess than he had, at first, been displeased by his\nflight.\n\n\"You should have seen him knocking those fellows around, like so many\nninepins!\" he exclaimed, exultingly, to Rue.  \"I couldn't have done it\nmore neatly myself, in my best days.  I tell you, he is a true Bergan\nat bottom, if he has got a few crinks and cranks at top.  What a pity\nhe could not make up his mind to stay quietly on the old place, where\nhe belongs; and which he might have done what he pleased with, if he\nhad only taken me on the right tack!  But he'll come back--he'll come\nback!  Estates like Bergan Hall don't grow on every bush.  It won't\ntake him long to find out that he can't raise one from the law.  And\nthen, he'll be glad to come back to me; and I'll receive him as the\nfather did the prodigal son!\"\n\nBut, as time rolled on, and Bergan did not appear to claim this\nwelcome, the Major began to feel a chagrin that would quickly have been\nintensified into anger, but for the happy suggestion that the young man\ndelayed merely because he was dubious as to his reception.  This view\nof the matter was an excellent salve to whatever of bitter or wounded\nfeeling the Major still retained.  Bergan longing, yet fearing, to\nreturn to him, was a vision that gently soothed his pride, while it\nappealed powerfully to his sympathies.\n\nMatters having reached this point, he yielded easily to Rue's\nsuggestion that Bergan's horse and servant should be sent to him, as a\nhint that hostilities had ceased.  And though their prompt return was,\nat first, new matter of wrath, Bergan's note, Brick's report, and Rue's\nrepresentations and entreaties, availed to smother the half-kindled\nflame, and send him forth toward Berganton in a most forgiving and\npatronizing frame of mind.  He was ready to make any concessions to his\nnephew's principles and habits.  If Bergan would but return to the\nHall, he might dictate his own terms, and order his life in his own\nway.  The Major had missed him more than he would have been willing to\nallow.  The old place had not seemed the same without him.  Its present\nhad lost a strong element of cheer and energy, and its future had faded\ninto dimness.\n\nArriving, in due time, at Mrs. Lyte's gate, the Major dismounted, and\nwas about to enter, when his eyes fell on the little tin plate, in\nBergan's office window, which has before been mentioned.  If it had\nbeen the head of Medusa, with all its supernatural powers intact, it\ncould scarcely have wrought a more complete change in the expression of\nhis face.  First, he glared at it in incredulous wonder; then, he\nnearly choked with inarticulate rage; finally, words came to his\nrelief.  To the consternation of Mrs. Lyte, and the intense\ngratification of the crowd of boys and negroes which quickly gathered\nat a safe distance, he proceeded to pour forth a volley of the\nbitterest curses that he could frame upon the author of what he chose\nto consider an insult to himself, and a disgrace to his lineage.\n\n\"That I should live to see the name of Bergan on a snip of a tin sign,\nlike that!\" he growled, shaking his fist at the offending plate, and\ntrembling with rage;--\"what right had the scoundrel to put it there, I\nshould like to know?  'Attorney at Law,' indeed!--he shall have law\nenough, since he likes it so well!  I'll sue him for trespass, libel,\nforgery,--I'll horsewhip him, and then have him indicted for assault\nand battery,--I'll--.\"  But here his indignation choked him, for a\nmoment.\n\nRecovering his voice, his anger took a new direction.  \"'Bergan\nArling,' indeed!\" he muttered,--\"I suppose he was ashamed of the\n'Harry,' though he could put it at the end of his note,--smooth-faced\nhypocrite that he is!  Where is he?\" he went on, lifting his voice.\n\"Why don't he come out, and face me, like a man?  Must I go in and drag\nhim out, by the nape of the neck,--the mean, sneaking, insulting puppy!\"\n\n\"Mr. Arling is out, I regret to say,\" said Dr. Remy, appearing in the\ndoorway, and confronting the furious Major with his cool, cynical\nsmile.  \"He went out for a walk some fifteen or twenty minutes ago.  If\nhe were here, no doubt it would give him great pleasure to meet you.\"\n\nMajor Bergan scowled in a way to show how willingly he would transfer\nhis wrath to this timely object, if he could only find a reasonable\nexcuse.  But, discovering not the shadow of one in the doctor's polite,\ncareless manner, he contented himself with growling,--\n\n\"Out, is he?  I wish he were out of the county--and a good riddance!\nWhen will he be in?\"\n\n\"Not under an hour or two,\" answered the doctor, wisely postponing the\nera of Bergan's return to the utmost limit.\n\n\"Umph! that's the way he spends his time, is it? loafing about the\ncountry when he should be in his office!  Well, I've got something to\ndo, besides wait for him.  Just tell him, will you?  that I owe him a\ngood, sound horse-whipping, and I'll pay it to him the first time I\nmeet him.\"\n\n\"I will take charge of your kind message with pleasure,\" returned the\ndoctor, blandly.  \"Any further commands?\"\n\n\"No!\" roared the Major, with a dim suspicion that he was being made to\nappear ridiculous,--\"not unless you like to come out and take the\nhorsewhipping yourself.  On the whole, I'd just as soon give it to you.\"\n\n\"Many thanks,\" replied the doctor, with imperturbable coolness.  \"But I\ncould not consent to appropriate anything designed for Mr. Arling.\"\n\n\"If it hurts your conscience, you can pass it over to him,\" rejoined\nMajor Bergan, with grim humor.\n\n\"It would lose its flavor at second-hand,\" said the doctor, smiling.\n\n\"It would be your own fault, if it did,\" responded the Major.  \"At any\nrate, take care that my message don't lose anything, on the way.  And\nwhile you're about it, just tell him that he shall never have Bergan\nHall, nor an inch of ground that belongs to it, never!  I'll give it\nto--Astra Lyte, first!\"\n\nThe doctor slightly shrugged his shoulders, as an intimation that the\nMajor's disposition of his property was a matter that did not interest\nhim; but the latter mistook it for a sign of incredulity.\n\n\"I will!  I swear I will!\" he repeated, with an oath.  \"And why\nshouldn't I?\" he went on, after a slight pause, as if the sudden idea\nhad unexpectedly commended itself to him,--\"why shouldn't I?  Her\nfather was my cousin; and he had Bergan blood in his veins, too,\nthrough his mother; and he was a right good fellow, besides.  Where is\nshe?\"\n\n\"Miss Lyte is in New York, on a visit,\" replied the doctor.\n\n\"Umph!  I should like to see her.  Is she growing up bright and\nhandsome?\"\n\n\"She is both,\" returned the doctor, briefly.\n\n\"Then, she shall have it!\" exclaimed the Major, with sudden decision.\n\"I'll go home, and make my will.  Tell Harry so, for his comfort, when\nhe comes back.\"\n\nAnd the Major, delighted that he had bethought himself of a revenge so\nswift and ample, mounted his horse, and rode off.\n\nOn Bergan's return, the scene was described to him by Doctor Remy, with\na minuteness and accuracy of detail and coloring that did great credit\nto that gentleman's powers both of observation and description.\nNevertheless, there was something of cynicism, or of satire, that\ngrated on his listener's ear; and he finally stopped the doctor's flow\nof eloquence with the question,--\n\n\"Who is Astra Lyte?\"\n\nThe doctor looked at him, with much surprise.  \"Is it possible that you\nhave not yet heard of her?\" he asked.  \"She is Mrs. Lyte's eldest\ndaughter; and a genius, too,--or, at least, an artist;--they are not\nalways synonymous terms, I believe.  But where have you been living,\nnot to have become acquainted with her name before this?  It is always\non Mrs. Lyte's lips; at least, she is ready to talk of her by the hour,\nwith a little encouragement.\"\n\n\"My conversations with Mrs. Lyte have not been many nor long,\" replied\nBergan.  \"An artist, did you say?\"\n\nBut Doctor Remy had fallen into a fit of thought.  He merely answered\nthe question by a nod; and very shortly, he left Bergan to his own\nreflections.\n\n\n\n\nV.\n\nUNDER THE OAKS.\n\nNot many weeks after the preceding incidents, Bergan went out, early\none afternoon, for a long, solitary ramble.  It was not his wont to\nleave his office before dusk, but his head ached with study, and his\nheart with loneliness and discouragement; an intolerable weariness and\nirksomeness had taken possession of him; his book seemed meaningless,\nand his brain paralyzed; there was nothing for it but to turn from the\nworld of thought, that had suddenly grown so insufferably arid and\ndead, to the living, breathing world of nature.  Forest, and field, and\nwave, if they could not give him intelligent sympathy, could at least\nfurnish him gentle distraction.\n\nAnd, oftentimes, there was a subtile harmony, almost amounting to\nsympathy, between his lonely moods, and the soft, rich, yet melancholy,\nSouthern landscape,--for melancholy it always seemed to him, though\nthat effect may have been partly owing to the gray medium of isolation\nand depression through which he viewed it.  But, whatever its origin,\nthis gentle mournfulness was the landscape's consummate charm,--at\nleast, for any burdened human heart.  It is possible that Eden wore a\nsoft grace of pensive beauty, after the fall, which Adam and Eve,\nwandering back thither, would have counted a dearer delight, in their\nthen mood, than its old, unshadowed brightness.\n\nOn his way out, Bergan found Nix stretched at full length across the\nthreshold.  With the usual preference of his race for masculine over\nfeminine society, the dog had early attached himself to the young man,\nas much as was consistent with a different ownership.  He now rose,\nshook himself, wagged his tail, and looked wistfully in Bergan's face.\nMeeting with no rebuff, he made bold to follow him.\n\nLeaving the town behind as quickly as possible, Bergan first struck\ninto a long, lonely lane, shut in, on either side, by a thick border of\nmultifarious foliage.  Trees and shrubs, both deciduous and evergreen,\nnot only mingled their boughs along its sides, but were tied together\nin an intricate polygamous knot by tangled vines.  There was an endless\ndiversity of form and color,--every shape of leaf, and every hue and\nshade of green and brown, with occasional tints of red, purple, and\norange, both pale and bright,--and everywhere the gray fringe of the\nSpanish moss.\n\nBy and by, the lane terminated in the inevitable pine barren, which\nframes all Southern landscape pictures.  It stretched away, in every\ndirection, as far as the eye could reach,--a vast, dim solitude, with a\nthick, blue-green roof, upheld by innumerable slender columns, and a\ncarpet of fallen needles, on which the foot fell without a sound.  A\nmysterious sigh pervaded it, even when no breeze was astir; its light\nwas but a gentle gloom; and it had a soft, aromatic atmosphere of its\nown, as if it were another world.  No fitter place could have been\nfound for the indulgence of a youthful day dream, with enough of\ninherent light and color to overcome the prevailing sombreness, or, at\nleast, to set itself in stronger relief against so darksome a\nbackground.  But to Bergan, the vast, dim monotony, with its suggestive\ncorrespondence to the circumstances of his own life, brought only added\nheartache.  The chance openings into the sky were so few, and the\nsunshine never fell save flickeringly, at the farther extremity of some\nlong vista!  He soon began to yearn for outlook and aspiration, some\nspot affording at least a glimpse of the surrounding world, as well as\na fair look at the open sky.  Happily, he knew where to find it.\n\nLong since, he had discovered for himself a convenient and attractive\nout-door haunt,--a kind of natural amphitheatre, on the edge of one of\nthe numerous bays, or creeks, of the vicinity.  Great, patriarchal\nlive-oaks, with hoary beards of moss trailing even to the ground, had\nranged themselves in a semi-circle, on a high bank, overlooking the\nwater.  Standing in attitudes of ponderous grace, each one scattered\nshade and quietude over fifty, sixty, or, it might be, an hundred, feet\nof sward.  Through a broad opening, in the midst of the dignified\ncircle, the cheerful sunshine fell unbrokenly; and on the water-side,\nthere was a fair stretch of blue waves, with a sea-green horizon-line\nafar; and over all, a wide half-dome of sky, with its changeable\ntracery of clouds, and its transparent concord of color.  It was hard\nto believe that the hand of man had not wrought with that of nature, to\nproduce a spot so perfect.  Many a sunset had Bergan enjoyed there;\nmany a twilight had he mused away, under the rustling oak-boughs; many\na time, the rising moon had found him there, and surrounded him with\nweird enchantment.\n\nAll along, this spot had been the goal of his steps, though--by way of\ntrying first what help and heart were to be found in exercise--he had\nchosen to reach it by a most circumlocutory route.  So far as he knew,\nit was his own, by right of occupancy, as well as discovery; never had\nit showed a sign that it knew the pressure of any other human foot.\n\nAs he drew near, the sun was sending long, slanting beams of ruddy\nlight athwart the amphitheatre, and dyeing the polished oak-leaves in\nrich tints of gold and orange.  He quickened his steps, the sooner to\nreach the point whence sunset-splendors were to be seen to the best\nadvantage; and upon which he had taken occasion to construct a low,\nrustic seat.\n\nTo his amazement, it was already occupied.  A lady was quietly seated\ntherein, her cheek resting on her hand, her eyes (as he judged from her\npose, for her back was toward him) fixed on the glowing sky.\n\nHe stopped short, uncertain whether to advance or retreat.\n\nNix--who had lingered behind, to make a feint of hunting a\nsquirrel--settled the question for him.  Coming upon the scene, he\nfirst sniffed the air, and then dashed at the intruder.  Fearing lest\nhis intentions might be unfriendly,--or, at least, that the lady would\nbe startled by his sudden appearance,--Bergan sternly called after\nhim;--\n\n\"Nix!  Nix!  Here!  Come back, you scamp!\"\n\nBut Nix, if he heard, certainly did not heed.  He was fawning upon the\nlady, in a way to indicate a previous acquaintance of considerable\nstanding and intimacy.  She, on her part, received his rude caresses\nquite as a matter of course, and cordially patted his rough head.  Then\nshe turned to Bergan.\n\n\"Nix does not mean to be disobedient,\" said she, apologetically.\n\"Only, he recognizes in me an older friend than Mr. Arling, and,\nperhaps,\"--she smiled,--\"a superseding authority.\"\n\nBergan bowed.  \"He is fortunate,\" said he,--\"that is, in finding a\nfriend, old or new, where he did not look for one.\"\n\nHe spoke with a slight bitterness of tone, in involuntary recognition\nof the fact that no such pleasant discovery was ever the reward of his\nown aimless rambles.  At the same time, he looked curiously at the\nlady, seeking a clue to her identity.  She had seemed to know him; yet\nhe could not remember that he had ever met her before.\n\nApparently, she was young; certainly, she was small, and somewhat\nslender.  Without being absolutely pretty, her face was exceedingly\ninteresting, by reason of its mobility and vivacity of\nexpression;--albeit, its changes were not always to be easily\nunderstood, nor its language at once interpreted.  Her eyes were of the\ndarkest gray, with a clear and penetrative glance, that seemed to go\nstraight to the depths of whatever object they sought.  Her manner,\nthough perfectly feminine, had an air of strength and energy, in marked\ncontrast with the languid grace which is the more frequent product of\nSouthern soil.  She was very simply dressed,--in some soft, gray\nmaterial, the one beauty of which was its ability to fall in artistic\nfolds about her figure;--nevertheless, there was a certain pleasant\npeculiarity, a kind of sober picturesqueness, about her attire, that\nlifted it more surely out of the region of the common-place than any\nrichness of texture, or newness of fashion, could have done.  Moreover,\nit satisfied the eye with a sense of fitness; it was plainly the\nlegitimate outgrowth of the wearer's character.  Not that it bid\ndefiance to fashion, but it did not conform to it to the extent of a\ncomplete sacrifice of individuality.\n\nHer only ornament was a cluster of bright scarlet leaves, that she had\ndoubtless found on her way thither, and fastened on her breast; and\nwhich an opportune sun-ray now touched into vivid splendor.  This, too,\nsuited her.  It seemed the subtile outward expression of some\ncorrespondingly warm and rich characteristic within; glowing soft\nagainst the gray texture of an otherwise grave, earnest, almost severe\ncharacter.  It might be sparkling wit, or warm affections, or both,\nthat were thus pleasantly symbolized.\n\nShe met Bergan's curious glance with a quiet smile, that seemed to\nunderstand its object, and enjoy, beforehand, its discomfiture.  She\neven answered it with a brief scrutiny, that was hardly less in\nearnest, though not at all puzzled,--scarcely, even, inquiring.\n\nAt this moment, the sun suddenly disappeared.  The two faces, that had\nbeen so clearly and ruddily lit up by his declining beams, were left\npale and shadowed, looking at each other under the solemn old trees;\nthrough the branches of which the wind now began to whisper softly, as\nif moved to utter some sombre prediction, which yet it could not make\nquite plain.\n\n\"Do you believe in omens?\" asked the young lady, with a kind of playful\nshiver.\n\n\"Not at all,\" answered Bergan, looking a little surprised.\n\n\"It is as well that you do not.  For I suspect that they are like\ncertain modes of medical treatment; they require a large element of\nfaith to make them efficacious.  And, to say truth, neither do I\nbelieve in them--except in a poetical way.  If I did, I should say that\nthis sudden shadow augurs but badly for our future acquaintance, and\ninfluence upon each other.\"\n\n\"If it means,\" replied Bergan, \"that we are to know sunshine and shade\ntogether, little more could be predicted--or desired--of any earthly\nacquaintance.\"\n\n\"Perhaps not.  Still, as I _do_ believe in omens, as I said before, in\na poetical way, I am glad to see that the sun is not really set, after\nall.  He only sank into a deceptive line of cloud.  There! he comes\nforth again, to give us another bright glance before his final\nleave-taking.  And, in order to leave the omen in its present\nsatisfactory state, I will anticipate his departure.  Good evening.\"\n\nSlightly inclining her head, as she passed Bergan, she quickly\ndisappeared under the low-hanging oak boughs.\n\nNix looked after her, for a moment; then he turned to Bergan, as if\nwondering why he did not go, too.  Seeing no sign of departure, he was\nabout to fling himself upon the ground, when a clear, sweet whistle\nsuddenly sounded from the direction which the young lady had taken.\nPricking up his ears, he instantly set off at a great pace; leaving\nBergan with a vague sadness, as having been deserted by his last friend.\n\nHowever, the feeling was but momentary.  Very quickly he turned to the\nconsideration of the interesting question who his late interlocutor\nmight be.  Running over in his mind all the branches of the family of\nBergan, in the neighborhood (of which there were several, more or less\ndirect), he soon decided that she did not harmonize with what he knew\nof any of them.  Yet she had seemed to know him; and to think, and even\nto intimate, that they were likely to meet again, and possibly to exert\na degree of influence upon each other's lives.  And still, as he\npondered and questioned, the oak trees kept whispering overhead, with\nall their multitudinous tongues, an apparently full, but\nunintelligible, explanation.\n\nHe bewildered himself with conjectures, until all the sunset tints had\nfaded from the sky, and darkness was fast gathering under the oak\nboughs.  Then he rose, and went his solitary way homeward.\n\nArrived at Mrs. Lyte's gate, it seemed to him that there was an unusual\nstir and liveliness about the house.  Certainly, a broad beam of light\nwas shining across the hall, from a door that he had never before seen\nopen.  Ere he could think what these things betokened, Cathie came\nrunning to meet him, with a great piece of news in her beaming face.\n\n\"Oh!  Mr. Arling!\" she exclaimed, in almost breathless delight, \"Astra\nhas come!\"\n\nThe mystery was at an end.  Indeed it could scarcely have been a\nmystery, but for two concurrent circumstances.  In the first place,\nknowing Miss Lyte to be an artist,--or at least, an art-student,--and\npossessed of a sufficiently independent character and spirit, he had\nunconsciously sketched a portrait of her in his fancy, very different\nfrom the original,--taller, larger, with more color, and, certainly,\nless feminine.  And, secondly, only the day before, he had heard Mrs.\nLyte lamenting that her daughter would not be at home for another month.\n\nA sudden turn of circumstances, however, had wrought an equally sudden\nchange in Miss Lyte's plans; and, taking advantage of the opportune\nescort afforded by a business trip of a friend, she had journeyed\nsouthward with such celerity as to outstrip the letter of announcement\nthat she had dispatched, a day before her departure from New York.\nReaching home almost immediately after Bergan had gone out for his\nsolitary stroll, she had spent the afternoon in a long, earnest,\ncircumstantial talk with her mother,--discussing her plans and\nprospects,--throwing off, with careless fluency, vivid picture upon\npicture of her art life and work in the city,--listening eagerly to\ninterjectional items of home news,--and cheering Mrs. Lyte's heart,\nthrough and through, with her bright spirits, her ready, yet healthful,\nsympathy, and the inspiring energy both of her manner and mind.  With\nthe very sight of her, more than half the widow's burden of sorrow and\ncare had slipped unconsciously from her shoulders.\n\nFinally, toward sunset, foreseeing an unusual amount of sky-splendor,\nshe had gone forth for a brief enjoyment of it to her old, favorite\nhaunt,--the oak glade which Bergan had also discovered and taken into\nfavor.  Meeting the young man there, she had instantly recognized\nhim,--by reason of Nix's suggestive companionship, and her mother's\nrecent description,--and had taken an innocent pleasure in subjecting\nhim to a transient mystification.\n\n\"She gave us _such_ a surprise,\" went on Cathie, joyously.  \"Mamma\nalmost fainted, and I--guess what I did, Mr. Arling.\"\n\nTo please her, Bergan guessed what he supposed to be the most unlikely\nthing; and so, in consequence of the child's peculiar character, he\nguessed right.\n\n\"Doubtless, you cried,\" said he.\n\n\"So I did,\" replied Cathie, opening her eyes wide, \"though I can't see\nhow you knew it.  But I thought I was laughing, all the time, till\nAstra asked me why I was so sorry to see her, and offered to go away\nagain if the sight of her was so painful!'  And _that_ made me laugh,\nin good earnest!  And oh! Mr. Arling, do come and see her little white\nboy!  She has just been unpacking him, to show him to mamma.\"\n\n\"Willingly,\" replied Bergan, \"if you are sure that she would like me to\nsee him.\"\n\n\"I'll ask her,\" replied Cathie, darting through the open doorway at the\nleft, whence came the broad beam of light aforementioned, and through\nwhich Bergan caught a glimpse of Mrs. Lyte's black-draped figure,\nseated at the farther corner of the room, in an attitude of pleased\ncontemplation of some object not within his range of vision.\n\nThe next moment, Miss Lyte herself appeared on the threshold, and,\nseeing by his face that his mystification was over, she frankly held\nout her hand to him.\n\n\"So you have found me out!\" said she, laughing.  \"Was it wicked in me\nnot to answer that look in your eyes, which said so plainly, 'Who on\nearth _can_ she be?'  Can you pardon my selfish enjoyment of your\nperplexity?\"\n\n\"A perplexity that ends so pleasantly deserves thanks rather than\npardon,\" returned Bergan.\n\nAnd having answered Mrs. Lyte's cordial greeting, and congratulated her\nupon the event which had brought such unaccustomed radiance into her\nface, Bergan turned, with a pardonable curiosity--or it might more\nfitly be termed, an inevitable interest,--to glance around the room in\nwhich he found himself.  Never before had he happened to enter that\nmiddle ground between the airiest ideal and the earthliest real, which\nis occupied by a sculptor's studio.\n\n\n\n\nVI.\n\nOF CLAY.\n\nBergan's first glance around the studio was necessarily a comprehensive\none, dealing with general effect, rather than minute detail.  A large\n(though not a lofty) room; a bare floor; walls crowded with designs and\nstudies; four or five busts and statues standing around the sides, and\nthe life-size figure of a child in the middle, of the room;--this was\nwhat that first glance revealed to him.\n\nCathie gave him no time for a second.  \"Look at the dear little boy,\nMr. Arling; do look at him!\" she exclaimed, joining her hands over her\nhead, and executing a rapturous _pas seul_ around the object of her\ndelight.  \"See his cunning little whip, and his funny little feet, and\nisn't he a little white darling!\"\n\nThus besought, Bergan turned his attention to the statue in the midst.\n\nAt first sight, it seemed to represent merely a pretty and playful\nhuman child, with a toy-whip in his hand, his head half-turned over one\nshoulder, and an arch and roguish expression, as if bent on some errand\nof mischief.  But, while Bergan continued to gaze, fascinated, the\nsmall physiognomy seemed to grow wily and malign, as well as arch; and\nan intelligence, far more swift and subtle than ever infant of mortal\nrace was gifted withal, informed the tiny features.  The light feet,\ntoo, were plainly moved by deliberate purpose of guile, rather than\nchildish impulse; and on their soles, broad sinuate leaves were bound,\neither for protection or disguise.\n\nBergan looked at the figure long and earnestly, enjoying its delicate\nfreshness and piquancy, but trying in vain to fathom its meaning.\n\n\"What will-o'-the-wisp is it?\" he finally asked.  \"And what is he\ndoing, with his soft cunning and smiling malice?\"\n\n\"He is a god,\" replied Astra.  \"As to his errand, it is the laudable\none of cattle-stealing.\"\n\n\"It seems to be a case of very early depravity,\" said Bergan, smiling,\nyet puzzled.\n\n\"Early enough to be termed 'original sin,'\" returned Astra.  \"For\n\n  'The babe was born at the first peep of day * *\n  And the same evening did he steal away\n  Apollo's herds.'--\n\nDid you ever read Homer's 'Hymn to Mercury?'\"\n\n\"Never.  Indeed, I am not quite sure that I ever heard of it,\" replied\nBergan.  \"Is it usually counted among his works?\"\n\n\"I think so; though it is fair to say that his authorship of it has\nbeen questioned.  At any rate, Shelley has put it into very musical\nEnglish verse; and there I found my subject.  The circumstances of\nMercury's birth being first narrated, the newborn immortal is described\nas 'a babe all other babes excelling,' and also a subtle schemer and\nthief.  He first invents the lyre, and accompanies his own impromptu\nsong of 'plastic verse,' with it; then he is 'seized with a sudden\nfancy for fresh meat,' and betakes himself to the Pierian mountains,\nwhere Apollo's 'immortal oxen' are feeding.  Separating fifty from the\nherd,\n\n  'He drove them wandering o'er the sandy way,\n  But, being ever mindful of his craft,--'\n\nthat is to say, his inborn guile,--\n\n  'Backward and forward drove he them astray,\n    So that the tracks, which seemed before, were aft:\n  His sandals then he threw to the ocean-spray,\n    And for each foot he wrought a kind of raft\n  Of tamarisk and tamarisk-like twigs,'\"--\n\n\"I see,\" said Bergan, smiling.  \"The consummate little rogue!\"\n\nAstra went on:--\n\n  \"'And on his feet he bound these sandals light,\n  The trail of whose wide leaves might not betray\n    His track; and then, a self-sufficing wight, * *\n  He from Pieria's mountain bent his flight,--'\n\ndriving the stolen cattle before him, of course.  And this is the\nmoment at which I have sought to represent him.\"\n\n\"And very perfectly you have succeeded,\" said Bergan, admiringly.  \"The\narch cunning and malice of the face is simply wonderful.  Indeed, it\nseems to me that the statue lacks but one thing.\"\n\n\"And what is that?\" said Astra, quickly; at the same time flashing a\nswift, searching glance at her work, as if she would fain have\nanticipated the criticism.\n\n\"It does not tell how the story ended.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" said Astra, looking both relieved and amused.  \"I am glad that\nyou did not keep me waiting so long as Michael Angelo did poor\nDomenico.\"\n\n\"How long was that, pray?\"\n\n\"You shall hear.  Domenico Ghirlandaio, a celebrated Florentine\npainter, having completed a picture of St. Francis, upon which he had\nexhausted his utmost skill, and which seemed to him to be perfect, sent\nfor a young artist of great promise, Buonarotti by name, (who had also\nbeen his pupil), and asked for his opinion of the work.  The young man\ncontemplated it for some moments, said gravely, 'It needs but one\nthing,' and departed.  The master remained, to study the picture anew,\nto pore over it hour after hour, and day after day, and rack his brain\nwith the question what it needed.  Years after, when Buonarotti had\nbecome Michael Angelo, and filled the world with his fame, Domenico\nsent for him to come to his death-chamber.  'What did the picture\nneed?' he asked, faintly.  'Only speech,' replied Michael Angelo.  The\nold master smiled,--and died.\"\n\n\"It is a touching story,\" said Bergan.  \"And it is almost an allegory,\ntoo.  For 'only speech' is so often the great need of life!  All our\ndeepest feeling and best thought are inarticulate.  But am I to be\nindulged with the rest of _this_ story, also?\" he added, turning again\nto the statue.\n\n\"I will give it you in brief,\" replied Astra, \"by way of whetting your\nappetite for the richer savors of the poem itself.  Having driven his\nstolen cattle to Alpheus, the infant god selected two fat heifers for\nsacrifice.  And here, it seems to me, is one of the finest touches in\nthe whole poem.  After kindling his fire, slaying his heifers, and\noffering a portion to each of the twelve gods,\n\n        ----'his mind became aware\n    Of all the joys that in religion are.\n  For the sweet savor of the roasted meat\n    Tempted him, though immortal.  Nathless\n  He checked his haughty will and did not eat,\n    Though what it cost him words can scarce express.'\n\nHere, you see, is real self-denial and self-conquest,--for the sake of\nmaking an acceptable sacrifice,--and their deep after delight.\"\n\n\"If the offering had been less ill-gotten,\" remarked Bergan, somewhat\ndryly, \"I think the 'touch' would have been still finer.\"\n\n\"I confess that I had forgotten all about that,\" said Astra, laughing,\n\"in my admiration of the infant god's mastery over himself.  Still, we\ncannot expect to find the purity of the Gospel standard of life in the\nheathen mythology; we can but be thankful for the gleams of Divine\nlight here and there irradiating it, since a whole people long lived\nand died under its sanction.  But, at this rate, my story will never\nend!  The baby god next proceeded to remove every trace of his\nholocaust, working all night 'in the serene moonshine.'  Then, at break\nof day, he betook himself to his natal cavern, crept quickly to his\ncradle, pulled his 'ambrosial swaddling clothes about him,' and put on\na soft semblance of new-born innocence.  In due time, Apollo, having\ndiscovered the loss of his cattle, and suspecting who was the rogue,\ncame to the cavern, found the 'subtle, swindling baby,' lying 'swathed\nin his sly wiles,' and taxed him with the theft.  At once, the young\n'god of lies' shows forth his character.  He stoutly denies all\nknowledge of the mischief; he pathetically declares,--\n\n    'I am but a little newborn thing,\n  Who yet, at least, can think of nothing wrong;\n    My business is to suck and sleep and fling\n  The cradle-clothes about me all day long,--\n    Or, half-asleep, hear my sweet mother sing,--\n  And to be washed in water clean and warm,\n  And hushed and kissed and kept secure from harm;--'\n\nand, finally, he swears that he does not even know 'whatever things\ncows are!'  However, Apollo turns a deaf ear to all his wiles and\npleadings, and compels him to go before Jupiter; who laughs to hear his\nplausible account of himself,--'and every word a lie,'--but finally\nbids him show Apollo where he has hidden the stolen cattle.  This he\ndoes, 'nothing loath,' and finally subdues the sun-god\n\n                ----'by the might,\n  Of winning music, to his mightier will:\n  .  .  .  .  .  sweet as love,\n  The penetrating notes did live and move\n  Within the heart of great Apollo: he\n  Listened with all his soul, and laughed for pleasure.'\n\n\n\"And here we may as well leave them.  For the rest of the story,--as\nwell as for many pleasant pictures and nice touches, of which my\nabstract gives no hint,--you should go to the poem itself.\"\n\n\"I shall be sure to do so,\" said Bergan, \"with this arch, airy little\nfigure to lead the way.  But it should be in marble, it seems to me,\nrather than in plaster.\"\n\nAstra smiled gravely.  \"For that, a patron--or, at least, a\npurchaser--is needed.  Marble is expensive as well as indestructible;\nfew artists can afford to put their works into its safe keeping,\nwithout help.  And perhaps it is as well that such is the case, else\nPosterity would never be able to bear the stony accumulation that would\nbe heaped on its back.\"\n\n\"I think I can venture to promise that it would never feel this airy\ncreation to be a burden,\" said Bergan, earnestly.\n\n\"I hope not.  But my little Mercury is still my youngest darling, and I\nfeel all a mother's partiality for it; I have no eyes for its faults.\nWhen the inevitable time of disenchantment comes, and I am able to see\nit as it is, I can better tell whether I care to commit it to the white\nimmortality of marble.\"\n\nShe continued to gaze at the statue for some moments with fond, dreamy,\nwistful eyes,---just as a mother might regard her newborn infant.\nBergan felt a slight pang in beholding this nearness of the work to its\nauthor, this strong, tender, indissoluble bond between the two.  Would\never any work of his--any brief, or plea--come from such a warm depth\nof his heart, and embody so much of his life?  A poet, a musician even,\nmight know something of this deep gladness of creation; but a lawyer, a\njudge, dealing with dry reason and dusty legal enactments,--was there\nany such joy in his work for him?\n\nLeaving the question unanswered,--as he must needs do, until time and\nexperience should come, to his help,--Bergan turned anew to the\ncontemplation of the Mercury; which seemed to grow in beauty and power,\nas he continued to look.  It would be hard to say how much of this\npleasurable effect was due to the inherent charm of the work, and how\nmuch to the spell shed from the rapt face and softly illuminated eyes\nof the artist.  Many a work that we look upon but coldly, would quickly\nfind its way to our hearts, if we knew enough of its history and its\nauthor, to give us the clue to its subtler spirit and aim; while those\nwhich we love without such knowledge, would, by its help, be\ntransfigured--glorified.  If we could stand with Michael Angelo before\nhis \"Moses,\" or with Guido before his triumphant \"Archangel,\" what new\nlights of interpretation would be lit for us at the eyes and lips of\nthose great masters!\n\nNor must it be said that the spectator may be dazzled by the artist's\nenthusiasm into awarding the work higher praise than a cooler judgment\nwould sanction.  For just here lies the truth which is too often\noverlooked in criticism, both of literature and art.  If the critic be\nnot in sympathy with the worker,--if he do not, in some measure, behold\nthe work through his eyes,--if he cannot discern what was attempted as\nwell as what is attained,--then his eyes will be partially holden both\nfrom the beauties and the faults of the work.  For nothing, in life or\nart, was meant to be looked at by itself.  Everything is related to\nsomething else; each helps all.  The moment wherein the spectator's\nmood and the artist's work make sweet harmony, is the moment of correct\nappreciation.\n\nIf Bergan did not understand what an illumination the presence of Miss\nLyte threw over her work, he was fully conscious that her work shed a\ntransfiguring light over her.  The face under the whispering oak boughs\nwas not the same as this in the studio.  That had been simply bright\nand mobile, with a spice of _espi\u00e9glerie_; this was all alight and\nastir with genius.  Miss Lyte's very hand partook of the\ntransformation.  Bergan had happened to notice its symmetrical shape,\nas revealed by a careless gesture, at their first meeting; but he now\ndecided that it was not so much its beauty which had attracted his\nattention, as a certain peculiarity of delicate energy and adroitness,\nwhich ought of itself to have suggested its artistic skill.\n\nBergan's eye fell next on the pedestal of the Mercury, improvised by\nturning up on end the packing-box in which it had arrived.  The lid lay\non the floor, in two pieces, and was surmounted by a sturdy-looking\nhammer and chisel.  Bergan's glance went back to that slender hand,\nwith an unconscious question in it; which Astra was quick to understand.\n\n\"Why not?\" said she, with a smile.  \"Of course, I might have called in\nold Cato to open the box; but he would have done it so slowly and\nawkwardly that I should have suffered tortures in watching him; it was\neasier to do it myself.  To be sure,\" she went on, taking up the hammer\nand chisel, \"these are not quite so fit for a lady's hands as the\nlighter and slenderer implements that I use in modelling; but I like\nthem well, nevertheless.  It would go hard with me, here in this quiet\ncountry town, away from all aids and appliances of art, if I were not\non very good terms with purely mechanical labor.  I made the mould,\nfrom which that cast was taken, myself;\"--she pointed to the Mercury.\n\nBergan looked as if he scarcely understood.\n\n\"I suppose you are aware,\" pursued Astra, \"that the word 'sculptor' is\na misnomer, nowadays.  The real sculpture--that is the\nmarble-cutting--except a few finishing touches, is done by artisans\nskilled in that work.  The plaster casts are made by regular casters,\nfrom moulds taken from clay models.  These last, only, are the work of\nthe artist throughout,--shaped by his fingers, and informed by his\nthought.  See! here is the raw material of my work!\"\n\nShe pointed to a large triangular box, in one corner of her closet,\nfilled with fine, moist clay.  She even leaned over it, and inhaled its\nearthy odor, with a kind of affection.\n\nBergan also looked into it so long, so silently, and with so meditative\nan aspect, that Miss Lyte finally interrupted the flow of his thoughts\nwith a question as to their character.\n\n\"I was thinking,\" replied he, \"of the many differing shapes,--lovely,\ngrand, sorrowful, joyous, winning, repulsive,--that might be lurking\nwithin your tub.  And I was wondering which of them you would next call\nforth.\"\n\n\"Think, rather,\" said Astra, smiling, \"of all the shapes that I have\nsent into it.\"\n\n\"You do not mean to say that you use the same clay over again,\"\nexclaimed Bergan, in surprise.\n\n\"Certainly, I do.  It loses none of its adaptability by use.  In that\ntub is the original clay of everything that you see in my studio,--all\nthe busts, statues, and reliefs, that I have ever done, or tried to\ndo,--all my successes, and all my failures;--every one of them has gone\ninto that tub, even as it came out of it.\"\n\n\"Creation and death!\" exclaimed Bergan.  \"'Dust thou art, and unto dust\nthou shalt return.'  It is a world in miniature!\"\n\n\"And does it not also show that there is nothing new under the sun?\"\nsaid Astra.  \"It is always the old material in new shapes, the old\nthought in new phraseology, the old human nature in new conditions,\neven the old particles of disintegrated human bodies in new organisms.\"\n\n\"And yet,\" remarked Bergan, musingly, \"the spirit, the idea, that\ninformed those bodies, and gave them identity, is not lost, as your\nMercury shows plainly.  The being that you have created lives, and\nglows with all his proper warmth and fire, even though his original\nsubstance has not only returned whence it came, but has helped to frame\nan entirely different being.\"\n\n\"The natural body and the spiritual body,\" returned Astra.  \"Not that\nthe two processes are really analogous,--I do not mean that,--but one\nnaturally suggests the other to the mind.  And, seeing how I am thus\nable to accomplish a kind of resurrection, in a way that I understand,\nI do not find it difficult to believe that the Almighty can do it, in a\nway that I do not understand, and far more perfectly,--retaining not\nonly the indwelling spirit, but enough of the individual clay to\njustify Job's saying, 'In my flesh I shall see God.'\"\n\nThe thought kept them both silent, for a moment; then Bergan turned to\nsee what else of interest was to be found in the studio.\n\nThe completed works were not many; Miss Lyte was still too young to\nhave made a large accumulation of such things.  There was a bust, with\na very sweet and noble expression, wherein she had embodied her\nrecollections of a fellow student in art.  There was a half-sleepy,\nhalf-ashamed boy-face, looking out from under the shadow of a drooping\nhat, representing \"Little Boy Blue,\" of nursery fame.  There was a\nwinged cherub, with an exceedingly lovely, innocent face,--a very\nincarnation of celestial joy and peace.  In relief, there was a stout\nurchin, ankle-deep in water, laden with pond-lilies, and looking for\nmore.  Finally, there were innumerable studies, sketches, and designs,\nwith all the warmth and freshness of the original inspiration lingering\nabout them; which interested Bergan scarcely less than the finished\nwork, as admitting him still more freely into the arcana of the\nartist's mind and method.\n\nHe was especially interested to observe in how many directions the\ngenius of Miss Lyte had tried its wing.  There were studies, and even\nfinished pictures, in oil and in crayon; there was an exquisitely-cut\ncameo, fastened on a background of velvet; there were designs for\nstained-glass windows; and in all, there was a curious medley of\nsubjects,--scriptural, mythological, historical, domestic, and\nstill-life.  It was plain that she had been slowly feeling her way to\nsome point, where she could take her final stand, and see her life-work\nlying clear and fair before her.  Had she found it?  Looking at the\nMercury, Bergan could almost believe that she had; but, glancing again\nat her deep, wistful eyes, he doubted it.  A little more time, a\nprofounder and wider experience, would settle her genius, fix her aims,\nand make her capable of things far higher than aught that she had yet\nachieved.\n\nMeanwhile, never, he thought, was anything quite so inspiriting as her\nconversation.  As she went with him from statue to statue, and sketch\nto sketch, talking frankly of her difficulties and struggles, her\nfailures and successes, her aims and aspirations,--now dropping a\nfertile suggestion, now pointing out a subtile analogy, now giving the\nkey-note to some elevating strain of thought,--she seemed to radiate\nenergy, and exhale inspiration.  Listening to her, Bergan's depression\nand discouragement vanished like mists before the sunshine.  When he\nwent back to his studio, it was with new strength and courage and\nambition.  Somehow, life had ceased to look unsympathizing, and success\nremote.\n\n\n\n\nVII.\n\nHIDDEN RICHES.\n\nUp to this time, the history of Astra Lyte may be compressed into a few\nsentences.  She was the daughter of Dr. Harvey Lyte, who had been, for\nmany years, the leading physician of Berganton.  Her artistic talent\nhaving early manifested itself, her father had taken pleasure in\nfostering and developing it; first, by giving her the benefit of\nwhatever rudimentary instruction the neighborhood offered, and then, by\naffording her a year's enjoyment of the best art advantages to be\nprocured in New York.\n\nLittle more than a year ago, however, the good doctor had been forced\nto succumb, in his own person, to the two powerful foes that he had\nspent his lifetime in battling for others,--namely, disease and death.\nHis professional income necessarily dying with him, only a moderate\nprovision remained for his family; enough to enable them to eat the\nbread of carefulness, but not sufficient to maintain them in the degree\nof easy comfort and luxury to which they had long been accustomed.  In\ndue time changes and sacrifices became necessary; among which may be\nmentioned the letting of the vacant medical office to Doctor Remy, and\nthe subsequent handing over of other dispensable rooms to the occupancy\nof Bergan Arling.\n\nBefore this last arrangement was effected, however, Astra had gone to\nNew York, to see what could be done to make her art productive of\nsomething besides pleasure.  That had been a very bright moment, amid\nthe gloom and straitness following upon her father's death, wherein it\nhad occurred to her that she possessed in brain and fingers, in her\nwonderful power of kneading together thought and matter into beautiful\nand significant shapes, the means of restoring to her mother the ease\nand independence which had been impaired by her father's death.  Never\nhad her art looked so divine as when it cast aside the soft drapery of\npersonal gratifications and aims, and stood forth a young athlete,\neager for strife, a sturdy son of toil, ready to earn its bread by the\nsweat of its brow.\n\nNot that Astra expected to win success all at once, or quickly.  There\nwas a vast deal of practicality underlying her imaginativeness and\nenthusiasm,--the solid foundation which is needed to make genius\navailable.  She foresaw (no one more clearly) the difficulties, delays,\nand disappointments, before her.  But what of that?  She was young; she\nwas in good health; she had a courageous heart, an energetic\ntemperament, and buoyant spirits; she could afford to work and wait.\nHer tastes were simple, her wants, outside the domain of art,\nfew,--and, even there, deficiencies could be supplied, in a measure, by\nsevere study and closer application.  If the superior masters, the\nsojourn in Europe, to which she had looked forward, were denied her,\nshe was not going to break her heart nor cloud her brow, about it.\nGod, who had given her talent, would not leave it without due means of\nincrease.  Her duty was to work, to be brave, and to be cheerful; all\nelse would come, in good time.\n\nThis, then, was the sort of a person who had now come to dwell under\nthe same roof with Bergan; and who straightway set to work in her\nstudio, which was divided from his office only by the airy breadth of\nthe main hall.  Of course, he saw her frequently; her art afforded them\nbroader, freer ground upon which to meet than is always open to man and\nwoman.  Not that the proprieties need have been scandalized had Miss\nLyte's occupation been the embroidering of roses in worsted, instead of\nthe modelling of figures in clay; for the door between studio and\nsitting-room stood always open, and Mrs. Lyte, from her work-table,\nfrequently threw a passing remark into the conversation that came so\nfreely to her ears; while Cathie continually flashed in and out like a\nfire-fly or a humming bird.  But the worsted roses would scarcely have\nconstituted a subject of mutual interest for the young man and woman,\nas did the clay figures; nor would the talks over them have run so\nnaturally, and almost inevitably, upon the same elevated and impersonal\nplane of thought.  Setting the worker entirely aside, Bergan could not\nfail to be deeply interested in the work.  He liked to understand its\nprocess, and watch its progress.  It was wonderful to him to see the\ndull clay slowly taking the shape of the viewless, informing thought.\nHe went back to his office, not only with a deeper comprehension of the\nrespective functions of mind and matter, but with a wider view of their\nscope and influence.  Words, he saw, were also a kind of plastic\nmaterial, through which thought revealed itself to eye and ear.  He\nbegan to study expression, as well as meaning; he selected words, and\nconstructed sentences, with greater care and conscientiousness; he saw\nthat, since thought could only become visible through form, form was a\nmatter of more moment, and involved a stricter duty, than he had\nhitherto believed.\n\nBut if Bergan learned so much from the work, it must be acknowledged\nthat he also learned something from the worker.  She was so loyal to\nher art and her aims.  She wrought with such cheerful diligence, such\nunwasting enthusiasm, and such thorough conscientiousness.  Having done\nthe best of which she was capable, she maintained such a steady front\nagainst the assaults of depression and discouragement, deploying their\nforces upon the wide space between her conception and her achievement.\nIf she failed, she cheerfully declared that the failure had taught her\nmore than any success could have done, and commenced anew; if she\nsucceeded, she was soberly glad, as having gained an inch or two of the\nfield,--over which, however, it might be long ere she could wave the\nbanner of victory.  The spectacle could not fail to have a healthful\ninfluence upon Bergan, inasmuch as Miss Lyte's patrons were not more\nnumerous than his clients; he saw that she kept her face bright, and\nher spirit brave, under very real trials of limitation, delay, and\ndisappointment.  He always went to his own work with a stouter heart\nand steadier purpose, after watching hers for some moments; whether she\nmerely retouched and revised the preceding day's labor, with minute,\ninexhaustible patience; or quietly gathered up the fragments of a model\novertaken by sudden disaster; or moulded moist clay, with rapt face,\neyes lit by a deep, inward fire, and fingers so swift and forceful as\nto suggest the guidance of some unseen power.  In this last case, he\ndid not disturb her by so much as a word.  He only looked on in silence\nuntil her white heat of inspiration had kindled something like a\nkindred glow in his own mind; when he noiselessly stole out, to plunge\ninto his own work with renewed ardor.  We may well believe that, just\nat the moment when Bergan's lonely life and dim prospects were\nbeginning to tell upon his spirits and energies, it was not without\nprovidential design that an object so inspiring and heartening as Astra\nLyte in her studio, was placed before his eyes.\n\nNor was the benefit wholly on one side.  Astra found real help and\ncheer in Bergan's intelligent interest and hearty appreciation.\nMoreover, he was quick to see whenever mechanical contrivance or manly\nstrength could come to her aid; and he knew how to furnish both, in fit\nand delicate measure.  His perceptions were scarcely less nice than her\nown; he knew just when to extend the helping hand, and when to withdraw\nit; neither hesitation nor officiousness marred his aid.\n\nBut Bergan was not the only visitor at the studio.  Doctor Remy's\nstraight-featured, intellectual face was often to be seen there, with\nits chill and satirical expression half-obliterated by a look of kindly\ninterest.  And his aid was not less ready than Bergan's, and, perhaps,\nmore valuable.  Hints and criticisms, suggested by his profound\nanatomical and physiological knowledge, often came just in time to\nprevent a blunder, or clinch a success.\n\nSo time rolled on, for another month or two, doing much for the growth\nof acquaintance, and even a degree of intimacy, between the artist, the\nlawyer, and the physician, thus thrown together under one roof, but\nvery little for the pecuniary advantage of the two former.  Astra had\nreceived a commission for a small portrait-medallion; Bergan had been\nemployed to draw up a few law-papers.  The two often exchanged\ngood-humored jests upon the manifest ability of the world to get on\nwithout their help.  But it was a much more serious matter for the\nyoung man than the maiden.  Astra had understood that, Art being a\nluxury, it must first create the demand which it meant to supply; but\nBergan knew well that law was neither unknown nor unsought, in\nBerganton.  Courts were held, and lawyers gathered, there; it was\nstrange that so little of the work came to his hands.  Meanwhile, the\nfunds with which he had been supplied, on leaving home, were rapidly\nmelting away; and he was unwilling to apply for more, both because he\ndesired to be self-dependent, and disliked to admit failure.\n\nHe was sitting in his office, one afternoon, dividing his thoughts\nbetween his books and the unpromising state of his affairs, when there\ncame a cautious knock at the door.\n\n\"Come in!\" he called out, wondering if his long-expected client were\nabout to present himself.\n\nFirst, appeared a black hand and a nondescript hat; next, a woolly head\nand a wide, delighted grin; finally, a loose, slouching form, in a\nshapeless suit of plantation gray.  No client was this.  It was only\nhis would-be property, Brick.\n\nPerhaps Bergan's disappointment showed itself in his countenance, for\nthe negro hastily began to explain the reason of his coming.\n\n\"Gramma Rue, she sent me, massa.  She don't feel right smart, dese yere\ntimes, an' she say she tink her days drawin' to her close, an' she's\nmighty anxious to see you, massa, 'fore she done gone.  So she tole me\nto ax you, could n' you come to yer ole room in de Hall, some ob dese\nyere ebenins, jes' so's to gib her a chance to talk wid you.  Ole massa\nneed n' know nothin' 'bout it; he's allers safe 'nough in de cottage\ndem times.  An' she hopes you'll hab de kin'ness to come, 'case she's\ngot suthin' bery partic'lar to say to you.\"\n\nBergan hesitated.  He could not visit the old Hall without reviving\npainful recollections; besides, it did not suit his natural\nstraightforwardness to go thither in a half-clandestine way.  Yet how\ncould he refuse the urgent request of Maumer Rue, weighted not only\nwith the probability of coming death, but with the consideration of her\nlong, faithful, life service of his mother's family?  And, after all,\nthere was no great harm in a visit to the deserted Hall, to gratify an\nold, infirm, attached dependent.  He certainly need do no skulking; if\nhe chanced to come upon his uncle, he could fairly and frankly face\nboth him and the situation.\n\nAccordingly, he directed his evening stroll toward Bergan Hall.  It was\nan obscure night of late March.  A gray veil of cloud covered the wide\nexpanse of sky, from horizon to zenith; through which only the faintest\nlight struggled, to guide his steps up the ruined avenue.  He could not\nbut be reminded of his first forlorn coming upon the desolate scene;\neven though he was obliged to confess that, in some respects, matters\nwere mending.  Though the Hall stood silent and ruinous as before,\nunder the sighing oaks, it was not wholly dark.  An arch of light shone\nabove the doorway, and a second gleam came invitingly from the window\nof the room that he had once called his own.  The door, too, yielded\nreadily to his pressure.  At this rate of improvement, a few years\nmight easily transform the shadow-haunted old ruin into a cheery,\nheartwarm home.\n\nIt was only a passing thought, and did not slacken in the least the\nlight, quick step with which he ran up to his old room.  Rue had done\nher best to give it a look of home and welcome.  A fire blazed on the\nhearth, and reddened the walls; his favorite arm-chair was drawn before\nit; near by, stood a round table, with two tall candles, a few\nscattered books, and a tray of refreshments.  It all looked strangely\nfamiliar:--there was the secretary at which he had written his letters\nhome; there was the book that he had been reading, with his mark\nbetween the leaves; there was the flute, so few of whose long-prisoned\nharmonies he had been able to set free.  Was it really five months\nsince he saw them last?\n\nRue was not in the room when he entered it; it did not suit her notion\nof their respective positions to assume any quality of hostess.  But\nshe almost immediately appeared, and greeted him with tearful affection\nand respect.  Bergan looked at her narrowly, and was pained to see that\nher tall form had lost much of its old erect stateliness, and that she\nleaned heavily on her cane as she walked.  Still, there was no sign of\nimmediate loosing of the silver life-cord; on the whole, he thought\nthat she bore her heavy burden of years wonderfully well, and the\nthought came naturally to his lips.\n\n\"It may seem so,\" replied the old woman, with a slow shake of her head,\n\"but I feel a greater change than you can see, Master Bergan.  Till\nnow, I never knew anything about the chill or the heaviness of age; it\nhas come upon me all at once.  I do not think, any more than you do,\nthat the end itself is close at hand; but the beginning of the end is\ncertainly here.  Let it come as soon as the Lord wills; He knows I'm\nready.  Only it is borne in upon me that there's something more for me\nto do for the family, before I leave their service; though I cannot\nrightly see what.  Sometimes I am almost sure that it's just to see\nthat you are put into your rightful place as the master of Bergan Hall.\nIf that is all that I am waiting for, I wish it might be done quickly.\nCouldn't you make up your mind to come back here now, if Master Harry\nwould ask you kindly?  I know I can get him to do it.\"\n\n\"Indeed, I could not, maumer,\" answered Bergan, quietly, but very\nfirmly.  \"I am not yet in a position to treat with my uncle, on equal\nterms.  And I am less than ever inclined to be dependent upon him, or\nany one.  Let me beg you to give yourself no further care or thought in\nthe matter.\"\n\nRue sighed deeply.  There was something in the young man's tone that\nforestalled either argument or entreaty.\n\n\"Pardon an old woman's curiosity,\" she said, at length, \"but, are you\nvery much nearer to independence than when you left here?\"\n\n\"I cannot say that I am.\"\n\n\"Do you have much to do, in the way of your profession?\"\n\n\"I could easily do more.\"  There was a slight dryness in Bergan's\nintonation, that did not escape the blind woman's quick ear.\n\n\"Come with, me, please; I have something to show you,\" said she,\nturning toward the door.  \"You had better bring a light, too; you will\nneed it, though I do not.\"\n\nShe led the way to a large room on the other side of the hall,--the\nbed-chamber (and death-chamber, too) of the mansion's departed owners.\nIt was lined, from floor to ceiling, with carved and panelled\nwainscoting.  Rue went straightway to one side, not far from the\nmantel, ran her fingers carefully over the dark, uneven surface, and\nfinally pressed hard on a projecting point.\n\n\"Now, Master Bergan,\" said she, pointing to a great, carved acorn,\n\"take hold of that, and push this way.\"\n\nBergan obeyed, and a considerable portion of the wainscoting slid\neasily to one side, disclosing a small room or closet, so artfully\ncontrived between wall and chimney, that its existence could never have\nbeen suspected.  It was lighted and ventilated by a window, and\nfurnished with an armchair and a massive, old-fashioned secretary.  Rue\nopened one of the compartments of the latter, and revealed several\nsmall canvas bags, which, it was easy to see, contained gold and silver\ncoin.\n\nBergan was naturally a good deal surprised at sight of the hidden\nhoard.  It seemed scarcely credible that any man in his senses should\ncare to lay up such idle store of the precious metals, which might\notherwise be profitably employed in an easy process of\nself-augmentation.  Still, he knew enough of his uncle's surly and\nsuspicious character, and of his distrust of banks (which he had once\nheard him characterize as \"ready sinks for fools' money\"), to leave\nonly room for a passing wonder.\n\n\"I have brought you here, Master Bergan,\" said Rue, solemnly, \"because\nthis secret rightly belongs to you, as the future master of the Hall.\nIt is the duty of each owner to make it known to his heir, on his\ndeathbed, or earlier.  The place was contrived by Sir Harry, because\nthere was something like it in the English Bergan Hall, which served\nfor a hiding place for men and women in troublous times; and he\nprovided for the keeping and handing down of the secret, in the same\nway as it, had been done there.  It was only to be known to the owner\nand the heir.\"\n\n\"Then how came you to know it?\" asked Bergan.\n\n\"I will tell you.  When the third Harry Bergan was at the point of\ndeath, his heir was in Europe.  The person whom he most trusted, in the\nworld, was his body-servant, Cato.  He gave the secret to him, to be\nkept till the heir's return.  Cato was my great-great-great\ngrandfather.  He thought the same thing might happen again, and the\nsecret be lost; so, on his deathbed, he told it to his son, and the son\ntold it to his son, and so on, till my father, who had no son, told it\nto me.  So, you see, the secret has run down in the black blood\nalongside of the white blood, and been kept just as sacredly.  But the\nwhite blood has never known it till now; when I tell it to you, because\nI have no child living, and Brick is still too young to be trusted with\nsuch a matter.\"\n\n\"What a strange circumstance!\" said Bergan, deeply interested.  \"Has\nthe place ever been used except as a storeroom for valuables?\"\n\n\"Only once, to my knowledge.  During the Revolution, Colonel Bergan was\nhidden here some days, when a party of British were quartered on the\npremises,--some of the same party that Sergeant Jasper afterwards\ncaptured.\"\n\nShe paused for a moment, while Bergan silently looked round the narrow\nwalls; and then she resumed.\n\n\"You see what use Master Harry makes of the place.  And perhaps you\nknow him well enough to understand that he will never tell any one\nwhere he keeps his money, until his breath is almost out of his body.\nThat is why I brought you here.  I cannot expect to outlive him; and if\nhe should die suddenly, or with the secret only half-way off his\ntongue, it would die with him.\"\n\n\"Perhaps you have done well,\" said Bergan, after a moment of thought.\n\"Certainly, I shall regard it only as a trust for the future owner of\nthe Hall, whoever he may be.\"\n\n\"He will be none other than yourself,\" returned Rue, decidedly.  \"I\nonly wish I were as certain of the time, as I am of the fact.  And\nnow,\" she continued, pointing to the bags of coin, \"take as much of\nthat as you need.  Master Harry will never miss it; I don't think he\never counts it over, he is so sure that it is safe here.  And it will\nall be your own some day.\"\n\n\"What do you mean!\" exclaimed Bergan, angrily, starting back.  \"Do you\ntake me for a thief?\"\n\n\"Of course not, Master Bergan, of course not,\" answered Rue, earnestly\nand deprecatingly, laying her hand on his arm.  \"It is only because I\nknow that it will be yours in time; and as Master Harry does not need\nit nor use it, why shouldn't you have the good of it now, when you need\nit more than you ever may again?  If it suits you better, take it as a\nloan, and pay it back, when you are able.\"\n\n\"No! no!\" said Bergan, turning hurriedly away, \"it is impossible.  You\nmean kindly, I know, Maumer Rue, but you do not seem to understand the\nfacts.  I have no more right to it than any stranger; I could not touch\nit, to save me from starving.  Come, let us go!  I have seen enough.\"\n\n\"I believe you are right,\" said Rue, after a pause, \"and I am a foolish\nold woman.  I could not bear to think that my dear Miss Eleanor's son\nwas pinching himself, in the least, when there was so much idle gold in\nthe old house; but I see you are right, sir; and I beg your pardon.\"\n\nIt was not without a sense of relief that Bergan soon after closed the\ndoor of the old Hall behind him, and stepped out into the cool, fresh\nnight air.  Not that he had suffered any real trial of temptation,--his\nprinciples were too true and firm for that;--but there had been\nsomething in the whole sombre scene--the deserted, death-scented\nchamber, the concealed closet, the hoarded gold--that had left him with\na sense of oppression, which kept its hold of him all the way home.\n\nIt was late when he reached his office.  To his surprise, it was not\nempty.  A gentleman was sitting by the table, with a pile of papers\nbefore him, and a weary, discontented face, as if his waiting had\noutlasted his patience.\n\nBergan's heart gave a great leap.  He divined that his long-looked-for\nclient was before him!\n\n\n\n\nVIII.\n\nTHE WIND CHANGES.\n\n\"Good evening, Squire,\" said the stranger, in a deep voice,--a voice\nthat would have been gruff, but for the melodizing influences of the\nsoft southern climate.  \"My name is Corlew--John Corlew, of Williston.\nI came to see if you would consent to take charge of a case of mine,\nwhich is to be called to-morrow.\"\n\n\"To-morrow!\" repeated Bergan, in much surprise.  \"That is very short\nnotice.\"\n\n\"I know it.  But it is of the greatest consequence to me that the case\nshould be tried at this time, and not carried over to another term.  It\nwas in the hands of Squire Fielder, one of our Williston lawyers; but\nhe was taken sick this afternoon,--fell down in court, some brain\ndifficulty or other,--and is forbidden by the physicians to do a thing.\nSo I inquired for a lawyer that hadn't got his hands full of business,\nand somebody mentioned you.  I remembered your name; I happened to be\nNorth five years ago, and heard your Commencement speech, and knew what\nsort of a reputation you graduated with; so I quickly made up my mind\nthat you were the man for my need.  I've brought all the\npapers,--Squire Fielder's notes and all,--he couldn't well do less than\ngive them to me, under the circumstances.  I understand matters pretty\nwell myself; and we've got the night before us.  If you'll undertake to\nmaster the case by ten o'clock to-morrow morning, I am willing to put\nit in your hands.\"\n\n\"I will do my best,\" said Bergan, after a brief consideration.\n\nMr. Corlew immediately began to open and sort his papers; Bergan\nbrought writing materials, drew his chair to the opposite side of the\ntable, and bent all the powers of his mind to the hard task before him.\nIt was an action for ejectment, involving trial of title, and with the\nusual mixed and intricate character of such things; interwoven, too,\nwith a pathetic story of misfortune.  Bergan patiently examined and\nquestioned; Mr. Corlew intelligently explained and answered.  The\ninvestigation was scarce half concluded, when Bergan quietly pushed Mr.\nFielder's notes aside.\n\n\"They do not help me,\" he explained, in answer to a glance from Mr.\nCorlew, \"In my judgment, he has mistaken the point on which the case\nreally hangs.  At all events, I shall do better to manage it in my own\nway.\"\n\nMidnight came and went on silent feet; the \"wee, sma' hours,\" sacred to\nlove rather than law, hastened, one after another, to join their\nnumerous kin in the misty vale of the Heretofore; the stars went out\nlike spent lamps; the dim night-silence began to stir with vague\npremonitions of light and sound; finally, gray dawn looked solemnly in\nthrough the windows.  Then Bergan lifted his head, and pushed back the\nhair from his brow.\n\n\"Now leave me,\" he said to his companion, with unwonted sombreness.\n\"The rest must be done by myself.  I will meet you at the court-house,\nin good time.\"\n\nHe made an almost imperceptible pause.  Then, looking Mr. Corlew full\nin the face, he said, in a tone half-assertive, half-questioning;--\n\n\"You wish to succeed in this suit?\"\n\nMr. Corlew's eyes fell under his penetrating gaze.  \"Of course I do,\"\nhe answered a little surlily.  \"What else am I here for?\"\n\nBergan seemed to muse for a moment.  \"Well,\" said he, at length, in the\ntone of a man who recalls his thoughts from an episodical flight to the\nmain subject, \"I think you may reasonably expect success, if your\nwitnesses testify as is here set down.  The law is clearly in your\nfavor.\"\n\n\"I am glad to hear it,\" returned Mr. Corlew, heartily.  Yet he looked\nslightly annoyed, none the less; and his \"Good morning,\" as he went\nout, was a little stiff.\n\nBergan leaned back in his chair, folded his arms, and knitted his brow.\nHe looked like a man assailed by some miserable doubt or suspicion,\nwhich yet he is half-inclined to regard, as illegitimate.\n\n\"It is a necessity of my profession,\" he muttered, at last; and, with a\nmighty effort, he tore himself free from the teasing phantom, and\naddressed himself anew to his work.\n\nThere is no need to burden these pages with the tedious formalities of\na trial at law.  Suffice it to say that Bergan conducted the case with\nan ease and ability that surprised his legal associates.  They had\nlooked for some nervousness, some hesitation, some solicitude, some\nawkwardness, in the manner of the young legal _d\u00e9butant_; they could\ndetect nothing of the sort.  He made his opening speech with consummate\nclearness and composure; and he examined and cross-examined witnesses,\nquoted authorities, took exceptions, and made points, with a quiet\nease, and even, at times, with a touch of listlessness, that argued\nexcellent training and profound knowledge.\n\nPerhaps his quietude of manner was the more perfect, that a slight\ncloud hung on his brow, all through the two days of the trial; though\nhis observers were too little acquainted with the wonted expression of\nhis face to discover it.  Not till he rose to make his final speech did\nthe shadow lift.  Then, indeed, the spectators noticed a change.  He\nhad spoken but a few sentences, when his eyes kindled, his brow\ncleared, his voice gathered fulness and melody, he forgot himself and\nhis doubt in the glow of an irresistible inspiration, in the glad\nexercise of a natural gift of oratory so wondrous, so unexpected, and\nso potent, that court and spectator were alike taken by storm.  Only in\ndim tradition had such a speech ever been heard in that court room,--so\nfluent, so animated, so skilfully throwing an ideal grace around dry,\nbare legal facts, without dimming their outline or destroying their\nlogical connection.  People held their breath to listen, unwilling to\nlose one delicate shade of thought, one fit, luminous expression.  Two\nor three times, the judge was forced to suppress outbursts of applause,\nin which, nevertheless, his pleased and interested face concurred; and\nwhen Bergan took his seat, gray-headed lawyers stretched their hands\nacross the table in hearty congratulation.\n\nA verdict for his client was almost immediately rendered.  Then he\nstepped out into the crowd, to be met on all sides by extended hands\nand enthusiastic compliments.  People that had always studiously\navoided him, now sought to catch his eye; gentlemen who had never\nvouchsafed him more than a stiff nod, now waited to give him a friendly\nhand-grasp and a few congratulatory words.  One of the magnates of the\nneighborhood publicly stamped him, as it were, with the seal of his\nhigh approbation, by engaging him for a few moments in conversation,\nand then parting from him with an intimation that he might expect an\nearly invitation to dinner.\n\nTurning away from the dog-day smile of this personage,--late and\nsultry,--Bergan encountered the meaning gaze of a pair of blear eyes.\n\n\"Sudden change of weather,\" remarked Dick Causton, dryly.  \"'it never\nrains but it pours.'  You are in a heavy shower, Mr. Arling.\"\n\nAnd with unwonted consideration, Dick waited till Bergan had passed on,\nbefore he muttered, \"_In picciol tempo passa ogni gran pioggia_,--a\nheavy shower is soon over.\"\n\nDr. Remy came next.  \"I never sing in chorus,\" said he, shrugging his\nshoulders, and putting his hands behind him; \"I shall keep my\ncompliments for a day of dearth.  But what a weathercock is public\nopinion!\"\n\nYet the change was not altogether so sudden and radical as it appeared.\nBergan's upright, independent course of conduct, so quietly persisted\nin, through all these months, despite every discouragement, had at last\nbegun to tell upon the prejudices of the community.  Mrs. Lyte's warm\nadvocacy and indignant protest, in her small circle, had also had its\nweight.  Probably both would have availed much earlier, but for the\ncuriously infelicitous language in which Dr. Remy had all along chosen\nto couch his responses to such persons as had approached him in\nrelation to Bergan's character and habits.\n\n\"As talented a fellow as ever lived,\" he replied to one inquirer,--\"and\nas deep a one.  Ah! he knows well what he's about!\"\n\n\"Sober?\" he answered another,--\"certainly; as sober as an anchorite.  I\nhope he will keep so.\"\n\n\"Mr. Arling is my neighbor and friend, as friendship goes,\" he said to\nanother; \"I neither make, nor listen to, derogatory remarks about him.\nIf you want confirmation for your prejudice, go elsewhere.  I am not in\nthat line.\"\n\nIntentionally or not, Dr. Remy's cool cynicism rather damaged than\nhelped Bergan's cause.\n\nNevertheless, the steadfast testimony of his upright life remained, and\ncould not be wholly ignored.  The feeling was fast becoming general\nthat the young man deserved somewhat better at the hands of the\ncommunity than he had received.  And the feeling would doubtless have\nmanifested itself in good time, and with due caution, if Bergan's\nunexampled success in the court-room had not fairly dazzled out of\nsight the last lingering shadow of prejudice, and caused a popular\nreaction toward the other extreme of enthusiastic admiration and\napproval,--a reaction all the stronger because spurred on by a lurking\nsense of past injustice.\n\nMoreover, the little, sleepy town, whose intellectual brilliants were\nfew, and not of the first water, naturally felt that it could not\nafford to ignore the fine talent which had so suddenly blazed out in\nits midst, and which might be regarded as, in some sense, of its own\ncreation.\n\n\"He really belongs to us, you know,\" remarked one townsman proudly to\nanother.  \"He comes of the Bergans of Bergan Hall, on the mother's\nside,--good old aristocratic stock.  And he's an honor to it!\"\n\nAnd so, as has been said before, Bergan's exit from the court-room was\na scene of triumph that might easily have turned an older head, and\nquickened the beating of a chiller heart.\n\nBut Bergan took it all quietly, gravely,--almost indifferently.  The\ncloud had settled back upon his brow, and never stirred for any\ncompliment, or congratulation, or friendliness.  Most persons\nattributed it to wounded pride, not yet healed.  In the midst of the\novation, they believed that he kept a rankling remembrance of the\ncoldness and neglect which had preceded it.  One observer only, a\nlittle clearer eyed than the rest, said to him:--\n\n\"You look tired.\"\n\n\"And well he may!\" responded Mr. Corlew, standing by with a face of\nunalloyed satisfaction.  \"He never saw the case until evening before\nlast; and he has not slept for two nights.\"\n\nThere was another, and a stronger, burst of admiration, mingled with\nwonder; but the complacent, satisfied tone of Mr. Corlew's voice only\ndeepened the shadow on Bergan's brow.  Quickly extricating himself from\nboth crowd and client, he walked swiftly home, meditating, as he went,\nupon the seeming churlishness of human existence, in that it never\ngives us what we want, or gives it only in such way and shape as to\nneutralize its sweetness.\n\nWhat, then, was the drop of bitterness in his cup of triumph?\n\nNot the paltry pride that had been attributed to him, nor yet the\ndepressing reaction that comes after excitement, but an uneasy\nsuspicion that he had helped to do an injustice.  He had\ndiscovered,--or seemed to discover,--as the intricacies of the recent\ncase had unfolded themselves before him, that law and justice stood on\nopposite sides of it.  Of his client's legal right to the property in\ndispute, admitting his statements to be true, there seemed to be no\nquestion; but of his moral right to it, as well as of his own personal\nintegrity, and that of his principal witness, Bergan had grave doubts.\nAnd these doubts had followed him, and planted a heavy footstep on his\nconscience, all the way down through the trial.  For he was still\nyoung, his personal conscience tender, and his professional one\nundeveloped.  His duty as a man, and his duty as a lawyer, had not yet\ndistinctly separated themselves into opposing segments.\n\nSo, while the whole town was ringing with the fame of his successful\nlegal _d\u00e9but_, he sat moodily in his office, a prey to troubled and\nhalf-regretful thought, until Sleep, so long defrauded of her rights,\nstole upon him in his chair, and held him fast prisoned in her soft\nembrace.\n\n\n\n\nIX.\n\nTHE FIRST LINKS OF A CHAIN.\n\n\"I don't beg pardon for disturbing you,\" said Doctor Remy, giving the\nsleeper a vigorous shake.  \"You are in as fair a way to catch your\ndeath of cold, a your worst enemy could wish you to be.\"\n\nBergan slowly opened his eyes and stared vacantly around him.  The\ndoctor's words, though they had reached his ears, had not penetrated to\nhis understanding.  As yet, he was but half cognizant of his\nwhereabouts, not at all of his circumstances.\n\n\"Come, up with you!\" persisted the doctor, \"and take a turn round the\nroom, to get the chill out of your Mood.  Man alive! what were you\nthinking of, to go to sleep before that window, with such a damp wind\nblowing in?\"\n\n\"I did not mean to,\" responded Bergan, drowsily.  And his eyes closed\nagain.\n\n\"Did not mean to!\" repeated Doctor Remy, in a tone of ineffable\ncontempt.  \"You might at least have vouchsafed me a newer excuse: that\nis worn threadbare.  It has served the whole human race, from Eve over\nher apple, down to Cathie over her last broken doll.  Nobody 'means' to\ndo anything.  Except me--I 'mean' to wake you up.\"  And the doctor gave\nBergan another uncompromising shake.\n\n\"It is so good to sleep!\" remonstrated the young man, in the same\ndrowsy tone.\n\n\"It is so good to have the rheumatism, or that cream of delights known\nhereabout as the broken-bone fever!\" returned the doctor, with cool\nirony.  \"However,\" he added, indifferently, turning away, \"_chacun \u00e0\nson go\u00fbt_.\"\n\n\"You surely do not mean to leave him, in that way, Doctor,\" said a\nrebuking voice, beneath the window.  Miss Lyte, fastening up a\nrosebush, in the dusk outside, had heard the whole.\n\n\"Certainly not, if it pleases you to wish otherwise,\" replied the\ndoctor, gallantly.\n\nAnd returning to the charge, Doctor Remy did not remit his efforts\nuntil he had gotten the half-vexed young man upon his feet, and forced\nhim to pace two or three times up and down the office.  Thereupon\nBergan was fain to avow that his limbs were stiff and sore, and he had\nno mind for further exercise.\n\n\"Just as I expected,\" said the doctor, calmly.\n\nWithout further words, he marched Bergan off to bed, and did not let\nhim alone, until, by dint of various outward and inward applications,\nhe had restored natural warmth and circulation to his chilled, benumbed\nframe.  In doing this, the young man was effectually roused; and memory\nand thought came back with consciousness.\n\n\"Doctor,\" said he, suddenly, \"I almost envy you your profession.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Because, as you told me at our first meeting, your duty is always\nplainly one thing--to save life.\"\n\n\"Humph! it seems to me that yours is equally plain--to save your\nclient.\"\n\n\"What! whether his cause be right or wrong?\"\n\n\"_I_ save life, whether it be good or evil--a thief's or a saint's.\"\n\nBergan was silent for a moment.  He felt the sophistry, but could not,\non the instant, detect wherein it lay.  He allowed himself to be\ndiverted from the main question by a side issue.\n\n\"You say that you save life,\" said he, \"but do you feel that it is\nreally you?  Are you never conscious of a power above you, without\nwhose help your efforts would avail nothing?\"\n\n\"Granted, for the sake of argument,\" replied Doctor Remy, composedly.\n\"Then you may believe that it is not your efforts which gain a cause,\nbut the 'power above,' of which you speak.\"\n\nIt is not often that a side issue leads so directly back to the main\npoint as in this instance, thanks to Doctor Remy's mode of treating it.\n\"I see,\" said Bergan, musingly, \"the difference is in the intent.  Of\ncourse, God does decide the event, or consequence,--_that_ is beyond\nus.  He can frustrate our best efforts, or crown them with success, as\nHe pleases.  Our business, then, is with motives--and aims--and means.\"\n(The last clauses came slowly, and in the natural, if not the logical,\norder of thought.)  \"It is only after we have made sure that those\nthree are right,\" he went on, \"that we are freed from responsibility,\nand can comfortably leave results to God.\"\n\n\"All very fine,\" returned Doctor Remy, coolly.  \"But it seems to me\nthat our motives, means, and aims (that is to say, yours and mine) are\nthe same.  Motive, love of life; means, a profession; aim,\nmoney,--which though in itself only a means, is the most convenient\nrepresentative of all that it will buy; that is, all that supports\nlife, and enhances its enjoyments.\"\n\n\"I hope you are not serious,\" replied Bergan, gravely.  \"I should be\nsorry to think that any man--much less a man with your talent, culture,\nand opportunities for benefiting his fellows--could be satisfied with\nso poor an ambition as that.\"\n\nDoctor Remy slightly raised his eyebrows.  \"My dear fellow,\" said he,\n\"if you do not follow your profession for the sake of the money that\nyou expect it to bring you, what _do_ you follow it for?\"\n\n\"Money is one object, of course,\" answered Bergan, \"but I hope it is\nnot the only one, nor even the chief one.  When my mind takes a leap\ninto the future, it is not so much fees that I think of, as wrongs to\nbe redressed, and rights to be protected, and influence to be gained\nand exercised,--yes, and fame and independence to be won.\"\n\n\"All very good things,\" returned Doctor Remy, smiling; \"and all very\ndependent on those same fees, of which you think so little.  Without\nmoney, you will not do much for right, nor against wrong; neither can\nyou be independent, or famous, or influential.\"\n\n\"I do not know about that,\" rejoined Bergan, smiling.  \"Certainly, it\nwas not his riches that made Diogenes independent.  Neither does the\nname of Howard borrow any of its lustre from gold.  Nor--to come down\nto our own time--is Mr. Islay influential on account of his wealth.\"\n\n\"Mr. Islay influential!\" repeated Doctor Remy, contemptuously.  \"In\nwhat way, let me ask?\"\n\n\"In a hundred ways.  Every week, his words, his thoughts, go into\nscores of hearts and homes, for warning, for comfort, for inspiration;\nand reappear constantly in human lives.  Certain sentences of his last\nSunday's sermon have been ringing in my ears all day.  And only three\nor four days ago, Miss Lyte, under the influence of that suggestive\ndiscourse, asked me how far I thought one was justified in a purely\nnegative use of a talent,--that is, in merely refraining from doing\nharm, rather than trying actively to do good.  And these are only two\nexamples, you see, where there are doubtless many.\"\n\n\"Priests easily influence women,\" said the doctor, scornfully.\n\n\"Women!\" exclaimed Bergan, stretching out a stalwart arm toward the\ndoctor.  \"Are not those the muscles and sinews of a man?\"\n\n\"I beg your pardon,\" said the Doctor, laughing, \"I had forgotten what\nwas the first of your two examples.  Still, that sort of influence\nwould never suffice for me.  If I cared for anything of the kind, it\nwould be for power,--direct, absolute power over men's acts and lives.\nBut as that belongs only to kings and generals, I am content to do\nwith--\"\n\nHe hesitated.\n\n\"Well, what?\" said Bergan.\n\n\"Wealth--when I get it,\" answered the doctor.  \"Wealth, and what it\nbrings; ease, leisure, unlimited opportunity and means for the\ncultivation of the intellect.\"\n\n\"The intellect, then, is your final object, your ultimate good?\" said\nBergan.\n\n\"Yes; it is the one thing which distinguishes man from the brutes,\"\nreplied the doctor.\n\n\"With the soul,\" rejoined Bergan.\n\n\"A word without an idea,\" returned the doctor,--\"unless, indeed, you\nmean to apply it to that life-principle, which belongs to plants and\nanimals, as well as men.\"\n\nBergan looked amazed.  \"Do you really make no distinction,\" he asked,\n\"between mind and soul?\"\n\n\"None.  To me, they are synonymous terms.\"\n\n\"Is it from the intellect, then,\" said Bergan, \"that the moral sense\ncomes?\"\n\nDoctor Remy's lips opened for a reply, but closed again in silence.\nAnd, knowing that he was never at a loss for a rejoinder, Bergan\nsuspected that the words so suddenly cut off from utterance were of a\nfranker character than his second thought approved.  Before his less\nimpromptu answer was ready, Bergan, following out some rapid,\nunexplained train of thought, asked;--\n\n\"Doctor, did you ever feel remorse?\"\n\n\"Never.  That is a disease.  I am in health.\"\n\n\"But, doctor,\" persisted Bergan, \"should you call that a healthy body,\nwhich was incapable of feeling pain?  Should you not rather say that it\nwas paralyzed, or ossified?\"\n\n\"Just as I should say that it was inflamed, if mere pressure caused it\nacute pain,\" answered Doctor Remy.\n\nBergan looked unconvinced.\n\n\"I do not mean that I never feel regret,\" explained the doctor.  \"I\nhave often been angry with myself for having been guilty of a mistake.\"\n\n\"A mistake,\" repeated Bergan, doubtfully.  \"Do you mean a sin?\"\n\n\"I will not be particular about terms,\" replied Doctor Remy, shrugging\nhis shoulders.  \"But I prefer my own, as better expressing my ideas.\"\n\nBergan looked a little bewildered.  The doctor again condescended to\nexplain.\n\n\"Like you,\" said he, \"I hold it to be every man's duty to make the most\nof his life,--his talents, time, and health.  If he so act as to hinder\nthe development, or impair the value and efficiency, of any of these,\ndoes it make any practical difference whether we call it a sin or a\nmistake?\"\n\n\"None,\" answered Bergan, with scorn that he could not repress; \"except\nthat it narrows everything,--aim, responsibility, hope, faith, desire,\nand fulfilment,--down to man's miserable self!\"\n\n\"Well,\" said the doctor, coldly, \"bring me the most signal example of\nheroism, disinterestedness, charity,--what you like,--that you can\nfind; and I will point out to you a plain germ of selfishness at the\nbottom of it.\"\n\n\"What of that?\" replied Bergan, with kindling eyes.  \"Because we can\nnever wholly get rid of self, in this lower life, does it therefore\nfollow that we must concentrate our thoughts and aims upon it?  Must we\nforever deny ourselves the ennobling, elevating, softening influence of\na duty and a hope outside of ourselves; an object of affection, trust,\nand desire, higher than ourselves?\"\n\nBergan reached out for a book, found a marked passage, and read aloud.\n\n\"'Take the example of a dog, and mark what a generosity and courage he\nwill put on, when he finds himself maintained by a man, who, to him, is\ninstead of a God, or _melior natura_; which courage is manifestly such\nas that creature, without that confidence in a nature better than his\nown, could never attain.  So man, when he resteth and assureth himself\nupon Divine protection and favor, gathereth a force and faith which\nhuman nature would not otherwise obtain.'\"\n\n\"I deny--\" began Dr. Remy, with his wonted audacity.  But, at this\nmoment, his office-boy, Scipio, thrust his woolly head in the door with\nthe laconic intimation,--\n\n\"Sent for, massa.  Drefful hurry.\"\n\n\"And in good time,\" laughed the doctor.  \"I was forgetting my\nprofessional duty to you,--which was, to have left you long ago to the\nsleep which you so much need, and which you may now safely and\nprofitably take.  Good night.\"\n\nFor some moments, Bergan lay thinking over the conversation.  Never had\nDr. Remy's low and limited notions of life been so nakedly presented to\nhis abhorrent gaze.  A certain distrust and dread awoke within him,\naccompanied by a chill creeping of the flesh, as at something not\naltogether human.  It impressed him that there was a dark and sinister\npeculiarity about this man, with the rarely cultivated intellect and\nthe inert affections,--this man whom he had so long called his friend,\nand who, so far as he knew, had not ill deserved the name;--a\npeculiarity that could not fail to be pernicious to lives and\ncharacters too intimately connected with him.  Running over in his mind\nthe whole course of their acquaintance, he could not remember ever to\nhave heard the doctor give utterance to one lofty aspiration, one\npurely benign impulse, one word of hearty sympathy or generous\naffection.  His opinions and beliefs were chill products of the\nintellect, unwarmed by any glow of the affections, unpurified by any\nstrict assay of conscience.  And Bergan was just beginning to discover\nthat, while pretending to great breadth and depth, they were really\nnarrow, because limited to life and earth, and shallow, because never\npenetrating below or above the reach of the human intellect, when his\nthoughts suddenly began to grow vague and dim, as if seen through a\nmist, and the next moment, he was sound asleep.\n\nMeanwhile, much to his surprise, as well as gratification, Doctor Remy\nwas hastening toward Bergan Hall.  Maumer Rue being suddenly seized\nwith alarming symptoms, the Major's head man, Ben, had been despatched\nto Berganton, with instructions not to return without a physician.  In\nhis haste and anxiety, it had not occurred to the Major to make any\nexception; though he retained a sufficiently angry reminiscence of\nDoctor Remy's cool and satirical demeanor, on the occasion of his\nill-fated visit of reconciliation to Bergan, to have prompted one, if\nhe had bethought himself of it in time.\n\nBen, therefore, having sought two other representatives of the medical\nprofession without success, finally presented himself at Dr. Remy's\noffice.  There the doctor found him, on quitting Bergan's room; and in\nvery brief space of time, the two were driving swiftly up the long\navenue, through a moonlight that was scarcely less illuminative than\nsunshine, and far more beautifying, by reason of the soft charm with\nwhich it enhanced beauties while it concealed defects.\n\nIt was the first time that Doctor Remy had entered upon the territory\nof Bergan Hall.  He was surprised both at its extent, and its signs of\nopulence.  As he passed the stately, deserted mansion,--showing so fair\nin the moonlight, under its grand, sheltering oaks,--and came in sight\nof the populous negro-quarter, and the far stretch of cultivated fields\nbeyond, his face was alive not only with interest, but with something\ndeeper still; it might be calculation.\n\n\"A fair inheritance!\" he said to himself.  \"Miss Astra will be a most\neligible _parti_.  I wonder if that will is made!\"\n\nThe Major was standing in the door of his cottage, as the buggy drove\nup with the doctor.\n\n\"So it's _you_, is it?\" was his curt salutation.  And his tone and look\nsaid plainly enough, \"I wish it were anybody else!\"\n\nBut Doctor Remy, though generally armed at all points against such\nlooks and tones, now seemed to take no notice.  \"Yes,\" said he,\ngood-naturedly, \"it is I.  Harris and Gerrish were both out, and Ben\nhad to take me or nobody.  Allow me to assure you that he chose wisely,\nfor, if the case be what I suspect, from his account, it does not admit\nof delay.  It follows, therefore, that the sooner I am introduced to\nthe patient, the better.\"\n\nIf the doctor had been studying his speech for the last half-hour, it\ncould not have been more skilfully constructed.  The Major's irritation\ninstantly gave way, partly melted by the doctor's good humor, partly\nforgotten in a sudden rush of anxiety.\n\n\"Come on, then,\" said he, turning to lead the way to old Rue's cabin,\nwhich was but a little way from the cottage.  As they approached,\npainful gasps and groans were distinctly heard from within.\n\nOn the doorstep, Major Bergan paused.  \"She is my old, faithful nurse,\"\nsaid he, feelingly.  \"Spare nothing,--no skill, nor trouble, nor\nexpense,--no more than if she were the first lady of the county.\"\n\nA kind of spasm crossed his rugged features, and throwing himself down\non a bench beside the door, he left the doctor to enter alone.\n\n\n\n\nX.\n\nFEELING HIS WAY.\n\nRue was lying on her bed, propped up by pillows into a half-sitting\nposture.  Her breath came raspingly and painfully, and she had the\ndingy pallor wherewith disease is wont to write itself on the African\nface.\n\n\"Is it death?\" she asked, hoarsely, when the doctor had finished his\nexamination.  \"Because, if it is, I should be glad to know in time to\nsend for Master Bergan,--I mean, Mr. Arling.\"\n\nDoctor Remy looked down upon the blind woman with a grave,--almost a\nfrowning, face--which she could not see.\n\n\"So you are attached to Mr. Arling,\" said he.\n\n\"Certainly, sir,\" replied Rue, simply.  \"He is Miss Eleanor's son, you\nknow.\"\n\nIf Doctor Remy did not know, he could easily understand.  He was aware\nthat the daughter of a Southern house remains \"Miss Eleanor\" (or\nwhatever the Christian name might be) to the end of her days, with the\ndusky home population, although, in the meantime, she may have become a\ngreat-grandmother.  Moreover, various scattered shreds of rumor came to\nhis recollection, enough to afford a tolerably accurate explanation of\nthe blind woman's reason for desiring to see Bergan Arling at her\nbedside.  And though the matter would seem to be no concern of his, it\nis certain that he gave it a moment or two of profound study, ere he\nanswered the question which Rue had addressed to him.  Indeed, it was\nvery much Doctor Remy's habit--as it is that of selfish natures in\ngeneral--to consider all events mainly with reference to their bearing\nupon his own interests, and to hold them important or trivial,\naccording to the degree of favorable or adverse influence which they\nwould be likely to exert upon his fortunes.\n\nThe doctor's reflections were short and swift.  To the bystanders,\nthere seemed to be only the natural, deliberate pause of the careful\nphysician, before deciding upon the case presented to him.  Nor was\nRue's patience greatly tried, ere his answer to her question was ready\nfor her.\n\n\"Your case is not desperate, this time,\" said he, \"though I can see\nthat it is painful.  Your cold, being unwisely left to run its own\ncourse, has resulted in inflammation of the throat, and, partially, of\nthe lungs.  But it is not beyond present relief, nor permanent cure, I\nthink.  At least, we shall soon see.\"\n\nThere was no question of Doctor Remy's professional skill.  In\nBerganton, his scientific superiority had early been recognized by the\ncommunity, and tacitly conceded by his medical brethren.  Yet he could\nhardly be said to be popular, even with his patients.  There was no\naffection mingled with the respect accorded to his talent.  It was\nintuitively felt, if not clearly understood and expressed, that, though\nhe brought every resource of science to the sick-chamber, he brought\nnothing else.  He was as cold and pitiless as his own steel probe or\nlance.  And there are times when a deep, human sympathy, on the part of\nthe physician, is as real a medicament to the sufferer, as any set down\nin the pharmacopeia; in which fact many a genial quack finds his\naccount.  It had come, therefore, to be very much the Berganton habit\nto reserve Doctor Remy's skill for severe accidents, for consultations,\nfor the awful conflict of life and death over wasted forms writhing\nwith sharp pain, or locked in moveless stupor.  But the thousand\npettier ills of life, which asked for tender consideration almost as\nimperatively as for medicine, preferred to commit themselves to the\nfatherly kindness of good old Doctor Harris, or the warm-hearted\nenthusiasm of the last medical arrival,--Doctor Gerrish, whose\nscientific attainments had, as yet, to be taken for granted, but whose\nsmile was a veritable cordial.\n\nIt was Doctor Remy's fate, therefore, to stand by many\ndeathbeds,--where he comported himself much more like a baffled and\nbeaten general than a sympathetic, sorrow-stricken friend.  It was also\nhis frequent privilege to see the life-forces rally and stand fast,\nunder his generalship, to begin anew the fight that seemed wellnigh\nover, to win back, inch by inch, the ground that had been lost, and\nfinally to stand a conqueror on the field.  Even then, those most\nindebted to his skill were often chilled to see how little the cold\ntriumph of his face had to do with their deep heart gladness.\nNevertheless, this was the position wherein the doctor appeared at his\nbest,--as now at Rue's bedside.\n\nFor some reason,--probably as a step to Major Bergan's favor,--he was\nputting forth all his skill.  In one respect, he was always admirable:\nhe never hesitated to put his professional hand to any business that\nmight seem to belong more properly to the nurse.  Rue's attendants were\nignorant and awkward; if Doctor Remy had not helped to carry his orders\ninto effect, progress would have been slow.  As it was, the treatment\nwas prompt and effective.  In about an hour, the acute pains had\nceased, respiration had become less difficult, and Rue having devoutly\nthanked the doctor, under God, for relief so speedy and so grateful,\nhad turned on her side for a complete self-surrender to the delightful\ndrowsiness that was stealing over her.\n\nComing out, Dr. Remy found Brick waiting for him, on the bench where he\nhad left the Major.\n\n\"Is gramma goin' to get well?\" he asked, anxiously.\n\n\"Certainly,--in a few days,\" returned the doctor.  \"Where is your\nmaster?\"\n\nThe negro pointed to the Major's cottage.  \"Ole massa is thar,\" he\nanswered.  \"He tole me, when you's t'rough, to ax you to come an' see\nhim.\"\n\nThe doctor turned in the direction indicated, but was plainly in no\nhurry to reach the goal.  He walked very leisurely, stopping, now and\nthen, to look round on the moonlit landscape.  Not till he seemed to\nhave settled some knotty point to his satisfaction, did he enter the\ncottage.\n\nThe Major was seated at the table, with his bottle and glass before\nhim.  He did not need to ask Doctor Remy how the case had gone; _that_\nhad already been made known to him by the mouths of half-a-dozen eager\nmessengers.  He merely said, in a tone that was half a protest;--\n\n\"I never expected to be so much obliged to you, Doctor Remy.  I should\nbe sorry to lose my faithful old nurse.  She is the last link between\nme and my early days.  Is she out of danger?\"\n\n\"For the present, yes.  And in the morning, I will look in to see how\nshe goes on,--that is, if you wish.\"\n\n\"I shall take it as a favor,\" returned the Major, in a tone that was\nalmost courteous.  \"Sit down, before you go, and take a drink.\"\n\nDoctor Remy quietly took a chair, but shook his head at the proffered\nglass.  \"No, thank you,\" said he.  \"We physicians need to keep our\nheads clear and our nerves steady; and brandy does not conduce to\neither.\"\n\n\"It never hurt mine,\" answered Major Bergan, rather surlily, as if he\nsuspected a covert insinuation in the doctor's words.\n\n\"Perhaps not,\" replied Dr. Remy, indifferently.  And, glancing out of\nthe open window, he added, \"A fine place you have here.\"\n\n\"The finest in the county,\" replied the Major, with frank pride.  \"That\nis, as far as soil and crops are concerned.  The old Hall is out of\nrepair, to be sure, but it can be restored to its former grandeur,\nwhenever I see fit.\"\n\nDr. Remy gave his host a long, penetrating, comprehensive look.  \"I\nshould advise you not to neglect the work too long,\" he observed,\ngravely, \"if you have it much at heart.\"\n\nMajor Bergan set down the glass that was on its way to his lips, and\nlooked wonderingly at his guest.\n\n\"Why?\" he asked.\n\n\"Because a man of your age, with your habits, breaks down soon, when\nonce he begins.\"\n\n\"My habits!\" growled the Major, drawing his eyebrows into a heavy\nfrown, \"what do you mean, you insolent scamp?\"\n\n\"I mean,\" replied Doctor Remy, composedly, \"habits at once active,\ncareless, and self-indulgent; such as riding or walking in the heat of\nthe day, spending hours in the rice fields, rising early and sitting up\nlate, eating _ad libitum_, and drinking _ad infinitum_.\"\n\nThe summary was too truthful, and the tone too professional, for the\nMajor to retain his unreasonable anger.  He merely asked,--\"How do you\nknow that I do these things?\"\n\n\"By your looks.\"\n\n\"Pshaw!\" exclaimed Major Bergan, with a scornful curl of the lip.\n\nDoctor Remy smiled, with the calm unconcern of a man who knows his\nground.  \"Your looks tell me more than that,\" said he.\n\n\"If they tell you anything but that I am well,--perfectly well,--they\nlie,\" answered the Major, bluntly.\n\n\"I am glad to hear it,\" replied Doctor Remy.  \"Doubtless, then, you\nsleep sound and soft.\"\n\n\"No, I don't,\" grumbled the Major, with unsuspecting frankness, \"I\nsleep like a man tossed in a blanket.\"\n\n\"And probably you have pleasant dreams.\"\n\n\"On the contrary, a perfect Bedlam of furies and horrors.\"\n\n\"And I suppose that you never have headaches, or dizziness, or\nvagueness and loss of sight.\"\n\n\"I have them all,\" growled the Major, with an oath, \"every miserable\nitem of them.  I had an attack, about a fortnight ago, that actually\nlaid me up in bed for a day!  I wonder what it all means!\"\n\nDoctor Remy forebore to signalize his victory by so much as a\ntriumphant look.  \"It means,\" he answered, quietly, \"that you will be\nnone the worse for a little medicine in the house, as a provision for\nfuture attacks of the sort.\"\n\nAnd opening his pocket medicine-case, Doctor Remy selected three or\nfour small phials, and began to measure, mix, and fold up powders, with\na dexterity that it pleased the Major to witness.  He noticed, too,\nthat the doctor's brow was deeply knit as he prosecuted his task, and\nthat he held one of the phials suspended, for a moment, over the small\nsquare of paper, before discharging its contents.  All this looked as\nif his case was getting due consideration, and the Major was proportion\nably gratified.\n\nDoctor Remy ended by pushing a dozen or more of tiny folded papers\nacross the table.  \"Take one, in water, every two hours,\" said he,\n\"till the symptoms abate,--that is, of course, when you have another\nattack.  There are enough for several occasions; I know you do not like\nto send for a doctor, if it can be avoided.  At the same time,\" he\nadded, \"take care to drop those careless habits that I mentioned.\"\n\nThe last sentence brought a cloud to Major Bergan's brow; but the\ndoctor gave it time to dissipate while he packed his medicine case, and\nchatted pleasantly about its convenient arrangements.  \"And now,\" said\nhe, rising, \"what else can I do for you?\"\n\n\"Nothing, that I know of,\" replied the Major, \"except it be to present\nyour bill.  What else _can_ a doctor do?\"\n\n\"Several things,\" answered Doctor Remy, lightly.  \"Make your will, for\ninstance.\"\n\nThe Major laughed outright.  \"I should say that was a lawyer's\nbusiness,\" said he.\n\n\"So it is.  But do you not know that I once belonged to the bar?\"\n\n\"I do remember hearing something of the sort, now that you remind me of\nit,\" rejoined the Major dryly.  \"I don't think any the better of you\nfor it.\"\n\n\"Nor any the worse, I hope,\" returned Doctor Remy, placidly.  \"At all\nevents, I always advise my patients to make their wills.  There is\nnothing like a mind at rest about the future, to prolong life.\"  He\nseemed to speak carelessly, yet he fastened a keen look on the Major's\nface, nevertheless.\n\nThe latter only smiled.  \"When I want my will made,\" said he, coolly,\n\"I will employ you to do the job.\"\n\n\"He has made it already, as he said he would,\" thought Doctor Remy to\nhimself.  \"And the chances are that he won't live to alter it.\n\n\"I shall be very much at your service,\" he answered, aloud.  \"And now,\nI must be getting townward; I have to see another patient this evening.\"\n\nThe Major followed him out, and stood for some moments watching the\nretreating buggy.  Doctor Remy, looking back, saw him there in the\nmoonlight, and a strange, furtive look came into his eyes.\n\n\"I have given 'Providence' a chance,\" said he to himself.  \"Let us see\nwhat it does with it.\"\n\nMajor Bergan, meanwhile, was muttering,--\"What did he mean, I wonder,\nby talking to me about my will?  It is certainly no concern of his.\nDoes he really think me near death?\"  And the Major shivered, as if\nthere had been an uncomfortable chill in the thought.\n\n\"Uncle Harry,\" said a clear, sweet voice, close at his elbow.  He\nstarted, and turned quickly round.\n\nA slender, girlish shape,--a graceful head, drooping like a lily on its\nstem,--a fair, pure, bright face,--this was the vision that confronted\nhim, and carried him back to his youth, and to the love of his youth;\nthe untoward course of which had doubtless helped to make him the man\nthat he was.\n\n\"Clarissa!\" he exclaimed, trembling, and feeling as if he were in a\ndream.\n\nThe vision smiled.  \"Do you not know me, uncle?\" it asked, in its sweet\ntones; \"I am Carice.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" said the Major, slowly, and as if but half awake.  He took his\nniece's hands, and gazed earnestly in her face.  \"You are like your\nmother, child, or like what she was at your age, much more than you are\nlike the child that used to play around my knees,--let me\nsee,--six--eight--nine years ago.  I missed her, Carice, when she\nstopped coming, I missed her.\"\n\n\"She missed you, too, uncle,\" replied Carice.  \"She was very fond of\nyou.'\n\n\"Then why did she stop coming?  asked the Major, gloomily.\n\n\"Because, uncle,\" answered Carice, simply, \"she grew old enough to know\nthat it is a child's duty to obey, and not to question.\"\n\nThe Major's brow darkened; but he looked sad, too.  \"I never laid it up\nagainst _you_, Carice,\" he said, with significant emphasis.\n\n\"Nor against any one, I hope,\" replied Carice, coaxingly.  \"Oh, uncle,\nought not this long feud to cease?\"\n\nMajor Bergan shook his head.  \"There is no feud between you and me,\nchild,\" said he.  \"But, as for your father,\" he went on, with a\nkindling eye and a roughening voice, \"when _he_--\"\n\nCarice laid her hand upon his arm.  \"As you were just saying,\" said\nshe, gently, \"he is my father.  And, dear uncle, a daughter's ear is\neasily hurt.\"\n\nThe Major stopped, and nearly choked himself with the sentence so\nsuddenly arrested on his lips.  \"Then, what are you here for?\" he\nfinally blurted out, half-wonderingly, half-sternly.\n\n\"Ah!\" exclaimed Carice, in a tone of sudden recollection, \"I had nearly\nforgotten my errand, in the pleasure of seeing you.\"\n\nThe Major's face grew soft again.  He put his hands on Carice's\nshoulders, turned her toward the full moonlight, and looked long and\nearnestly in her face.  \"How beautiful you have grown!\" said he, with\neven more of wonder than admiration in his voice; \"I am not sure but\nthat you are still more beautiful than _she_ was.  But you don't look\nas if you belonged to this earth, child; and there's not a bit of the\nfamily look left in you.  Are you certain that you are Carice Bergan,\nand not a changeling?\"\n\n\"Quite sure, uncle,\" she answered, smiling, \"Ask Rosa, there, if I am\nnot.\"  She pointed to her maid, who had accompanied her, and stood\nwaiting near.\n\n\"Then, Miss Bergan,\" said the Major, making her a courtly bow, \"what\ncan your old uncle do for you?\"\n\n\"Nothing, at present,\" she replied, \"except to let me keep my own, old\ncorner in his heart.  I only came to see Maumer Rue, if I may.  We\nheard she was dying.  So I begged hard to be allowed to come and tell\nher that I had not forgotten how kind she used to be to me, and to see\nif I could do anything for her.  I fancied it would please her to see\nme, if she is still able to recognize me.  Is she?\"\n\n\"Perfectly able,\" replied Major Bergan, \"and will be, I hope, for years\nto come.  She has been very ill, but she is much better.  She is now\nasleep.\"\n\n\"Then I will not disturb her,\" returned Carice.  \"And yet, I am loath\nto go back without a glimpse of her.  Could I not look in upon her for\none moment?  I will be sure not to make a sound.\"\n\nMajor Bergan led her to Rue's cabin, and waited on the threshold,\nwhile, with her finger on her lips, to guard against any outburst of\nastonishment from the negro woman in attendance, she stole softly to\nthe bedside, and bent over the sleeping Rue.  A wondrously lovely\npicture she made there,--a picture of such unearthly grace, delicacy,\nand purity, that the Major's eyes filled with unconscious moisture as\nhe gazed.\n\nSuddenly Rue's lips parted, in a dream, \"The Bergan star!\" said she.\n\"See! it rises!\"  And, after a moment, she added, decidedly, \"He\n_shall_ have Bergan Hall!\"\n\nCarice quickly stole out to her uncle.  His face looked very gloomy, as\nhe led her back toward the cottage.\n\n\"Carice,\" said he, suddenly, \"have you seen your Western cousin?\"\n\n\"Bergan Arling?  Yes, certainly,\" she answered.\n\n\"How do you like him?\"\n\n\"He seems very pleasant,\" she replied, evasively.\n\n\"Seems!\" repeated her uncle, gruffly.  \"What is the matter with him?\"\n\n\"I do not know, uncle.  It is said that he is very dissipated.\"\n\nThe Major laughed ironically.  \"Nonsense!  The most incorrigible\nmilksop that ever I saw,\" said he.  \"That is why we quarrelled.\"\n\nCarice looked at him doubtfully.  \"The very first thing that we heard\nof him,\" said she, \"was that he had been mixed up in a low brawl at\nGregg's tavern.\"\n\n\"All my fault, Carice,\" returned Major Bergan, shortly.  \"I took him\nthere, and cheated him into swallowing a glass of raw brandy.\"\n\nCarice's blue eyes looked a sorrowful astonishment.\n\n\"I did not mean to do him any harm,\" pursued the Major, answering their\nmute eloquence; \"I only wanted to teach him to drink like a man and a\nBergan.  I loved the boy, Carice, like my own son, and would have kept\nhim with me, if I could.  But he forsook me for the law, the ungrateful\ndog!\"\n\n\"Perhaps he had no choice,\" suggested Carice.\n\n\"No choice!  Didn't he have the choice of Bergan Hall, and all that\nbelongs to it?  That was what was running in Maumer Rue's head, just\nnow.  But he preferred independence--and a tin sign in his window!  He\nis a degenerate scion of the race, like your--\"  The Major suddenly\nrecollected himself, and broke off with a dry cough.\n\nCarice was looking down thoughtfully.  An unexpected clue to Bergan's\ncharacter, motives, and aims, had been put into her hands; and she was\nslowly trying to follow it out.\n\n\"Thank you, uncle, for telling me this,\" said she, at length.  \"I am\nafraid we have been doing Bergan an injustice.\"\n\n\"You certainly have, if you have thought him a drunkard,\" replied the\nMajor.  \"But, nevertheless, he's no true Bergan, Carice; don't have\nanything to do with him.\"\n\n\"No more than is just and right,\" said Carice, quietly.  \"And now I\nmust go; mamma will be getting anxious.  Come a little way with me,\nuncle, as you used to do.\"\n\nThe Major walked by her side down to the creek, and watched her\nanxiously across the dilapidated bridge.\n\n\"Don't come that way again,\" he called to her, as she reached the other\nend.  \"It's unsafe.\"\n\n\"Mend it then, uncle,\" she called back to him.  \"For I like old\npaths--and old friends--best.\"\n\nThe Major turned away with a smile.  And all the way to the cottage he\nwas saying to himself,--\n\n\"Perhaps I _had_ better make my will.\"\n\n\n\n\nXI.\n\nSLEEPLESS NIGHTS APPOINTED.\n\nDoctor Remy possessed in perfection the power of rapid concentration of\nthought.  Otherwise, he would have taken a divided mind to the bedside\nof his second patient, that night, after leaving Bergan Hall.  As it\nwas, he was glad when the stroke of midnight set him free, body and\nmind; the one to find its way mechanically to the hotel, through the\nsilent moonlighted streets of Berganton, the other to occupy itself in\narranging and perfecting the details of a certain plan for his future\nadvantage, which had suddenly shaped itself out before him, so\ndistinctly, if roughly, that he had already taken an important step\ntoward its accomplishment.  It now remained to provide for the rest of\nthe way.\n\nThe midnight heaven was without a cloud, and the moon filled it with\nwhite radiance.  Every object down the long line of the town's\nprincipal street was shown with the clearness of noonday, but also with\nthe ghostlike awfulness that moonlight is wont to impart to objects the\nmost familiar.  The large, wooden houses, with their broad, shadowy\npiazzas and dim doorways; the wide, empty sidewalks; the great,\nshining-leaved oaks, dotting the silvered highway with black islands of\nshadow; the narrow wheel-track, with its broad margin of grass and\nweeds, through which an isolated footpath took its solitary way to\nevery gate;--all were distinctly visible, but with a singularity of\naspect that seemed to change their whole character and meaning.\n\nAnd perhaps something of the same effect extended to the countenance of\nDoctor Remy, as he came down the street, followed by the dreary echo of\nhis own lonely footsteps, as if dogged by immitigable fate.  To his\nfeatures, as to all other objects, the moonlight seemed to impart a new\nexpression.  Those who were best acquainted with him, had any such been\nabroad, would have needed to look twice at his dark moody countenance,\nand the ominous gleam of his deepset eyes, to feel themselves quite\nsure of his identity.  Continuing to brood over the casual encounter,\nas they pursued their way, they might have tried to divine what sombre\nenergy of purpose it was that had lit his eyes with such deep, dusky\nlight, and marked his brow and eyes with lines so sternly rigid;\nshuddering, too, to think how remorselessly he would sweep from his\nterribly direct, if underground, path, whatever object should intervene\nbetween himself and his goal.  Then, seeing how the moonbeams had\nsubtilized some mean hovel into a phantom palace or tomb, wrought of\nalternate silver and ebony, they would be fain to set down both the\norigin and substance of their reflections to the same magical agency,\nand breathe more freely in making haste to forget the whole matter.\n\nSecure in the absence of all observation, the dark face kept on its way\nthrough the silent street, giving its features the fullest liberty of\nevil expression.  Opposite the principal dry goods store of the street,\nit paused for a moment; its restless glance had caught sight of a faint\ngleam from one of the rear shutters, which was plainly not moonlight.\n\n\"They are up late,\" muttered the doctor, \"or there is mischief afoot.\nWell! what is it to me?  Have I not enough else to think of?\"  And he\nkept on his rapid way.\n\nBut the incident seemed to have set free the faculty of speech.  Words\nbegan to drop from his set lips; short, disconnected sentences, through\nwhich, nevertheless, there ran a distinct thread of suggestion.\n\n\"I have waited long enough,\"--so ran one of these half-involuntary\nutterances,--\"I have waited long enough for Fortune's willing favors;\nit is time to grapple with the exasperating jade, and wring them from\nher reluctant hands, by fair means or foul.  For what else was I\nendowed with talent, daring, energy, and will, beyond most men?  Not,\ncertainly, to waste them all in earning a bare subsistence, or little\nmore, as I am now doing.\"\n\n\"Is it my fault,\" he went on, in broken, detached sentences,--\"is it my\nfault that Fortune never shows herself to me, save at the farther end\nof some dark vista which the world calls crime?--Pshaw! what is a life,\none worthless, drunken, half-worn-out life, in comparison with the ends\nthat I have in view,--increase of knowledge, expansion and perfection\nof science, and through them--as a casual end, I do not pretend that it\nis a direct one, for me--the advancement of the human race.--The plan\nseems feasible, as much so, at least, as anything can be, in this\nmiserable, mocking world, where Fate seems to delight in balking the\nbest talent and deranging the artfulest contrivance.--Fate, Chance, or\nProvidence, which?  Three different terms for the same thing;--language\nwould be more accurate, if there were less of it.--At any rate, I have\ngiven Providence a chance.  Let it take the responsibility of the\nresult.--If that will be not made!  But to whom else should he give the\nplace?  He cannot abide either his brother or his nephew.  And Miss\nLyte comes next.  Besides, there are ways of finding a will, at need.\nThe essential point is, that no other be made.\"\n\nHe was now nearing Mrs. Lyte's house, and the sight of it prompted his\nnext sentence.\n\n\"Astra!--there, at least, the way is easy.  Only, it must be secret;--I\ndoubt if the old Major would altogether relish me for his heir, despite\nto-night's increase of cordiality.--As for Arling, it is said that\nhistory--\"\n\nDr. Remy broke off suddenly.  The subject of his soliloquy was calmly\nlooking at him across Mrs. Lyte's gate.\n\n\"Pardon me for interrupting jour conversation,\" said Bergan, with a\nsmile which satisfied the doctor that he had not heard what he was\nsaying.  \"One's talks with one's self are sometimes very interesting.\"\n\n\"Why are you not in bed?\" asked the doctor, with a sharpness that\nBergan set down to professional anxiety.\n\n\"A man who goes to bed at six may well get up at twelve,\" he replied,\nlightly, \"especially if sleep forsakes him.  Have you been out until\nthis time?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" answered the doctor, debating within himself whether he would\nspeak of his visit to Bergan Hall, and quickly deciding in the\nnegative, since there was little probability that Bergan would hear it\nfrom anybody else; inasmuch as the Hall led an independent, isolated\nlife of its own, the events of which rarely made their way into the\ntalk of the town.  \"It is nothing new for me to be late,\" he added, by\nway of finish to his monosyllable.\n\n\"I will walk down with you as far as the hotel,\" said Bergan, coming\nout, and closing the gate behind him.  \"Perhaps I may be able to pick\nup a few seeds of sleep on the way, which will sprout into another nap,\nwhen I return.  What a night it is!\"\n\n\"For lunatics--yes,\" said the doctor dryly.\n\n\"Among which you would doubtless class your humble servant,\" returned\nBergan, \"if you could look into his mind, at this moment.\"\n\n\"Very likely,\" rejoined Doctor Remy, indifferently; but he gave his\ncompanion a quick, keen glance, nevertheless.\n\nBergan was looking straight before him.  \"Doctor,\" said he, suddenly,\n\"I believe you know the world well; what does it do to the man who goes\ncounter to its traditions and prejudices,--whom, in short, it is\npleased to look upon as a kind of modern Don Quixote?\"\n\n\"Laughs at him first, hammers him next, flings him aside last,\"\nreturned the doctor, sententiously.\n\n\"But if he does not mind being laughed at, bears the hammering without\nflinching when he must, hammers back again when he may, and will not be\nflung aside, what then?\" pursued Bergan.\n\nThe doctor stopped short in his walk, and looked long and searchingly\nin the young man's face.  \"Then,\" said he, slowly, as if the words were\ndrawn out of him almost against his will,--\"then it gives way to him,\nand honors its conqueror.  But,\" he added, \"it is a long, exhausting\ncontest.  I do not advise you to try it.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" answered Bergan, quietly.  \"I am inclined to try it,\nnevertheless.  But here we are at the hotel.  Good night.\"\n\nDoctor Remy stood on the steps of the hotel, looking moodily after him.\n\n\"What has he taken into his head now?\" he asked himself.\n\nHe had not long to wait for an answer.  In the morning, the light which\nhe had noticed in the rear of the drygoods store, found its sufficient\nexplanation in an empty safe and rifled shelves.  A week afterward, a\ntall, ill-favored man was arrested on suspicion of being concerned in\nthe robbery.  Two days later, it was known that Bergan Arling had\npositively refused to undertake his defence.  In due course of time, it\nleaked out, through the amazed prisoner himself, that he had done so\nbecause he believed it to be no part of his professional duty to try to\nshield a criminal from just punishment.\n\n\n\n\nXII.\n\nA CONSULTATION.\n\nPlainly, Mrs. Bergan had something on her mind, that bright spring\nmorning.  Though she poured her husband's second cup of coffee with a\ndeliberation that seemed to promise much for its flavor, he was fain to\nsend it back, after tasting it, with the explanatory remark:--\n\n\"You have forgotten to smile into it, my dear; it is not sweet enough.\"\n\n\"Eh!\" exclaimed Mrs. Bergan, absently, extending her hand toward the\ncream pitcher.\n\n\"I doubt if cream will mend the matter much,\" observed Mr. Bergan,\ngravely.  \"A lump of sugar might do, if the smile be absolutely _non\nest_.\"\n\nMrs. Bergan's mind having by this time returned to the business in\nhand, both sugar and smile were immediately forthcoming, in sufficient\nmeasure to threaten the coffee with excess of sweets.  Nevertheless,\nshe continued to have fits of abstraction, at short intervals, until\nthe breakfast things had been removed, and Carice had quitted the room.\nThen, she turned to her husband with a serious face.\n\n\"I really think, Godfrey,\" she began, \"that we owe your nephew some\nattention.\"\n\n\"Of what kind, pray?\" inquired Mr. Bergan, in considerable surprise.\n\n\"Well, it seems to me that we ought,--once, at least,--to invite him\nformally to dinner.\"\n\n\"Pray, what has he been doing, to place us under such an obligation?\"\nasked Mr. Bergan, somewhat dryly.\n\nMrs. Bergan colored slightly.  \"I am afraid that we made a mistake at\nthe outset,\" said she.  \"Of course, the attention was due to him then\nas much as now.\"\n\n\"I thought we agreed that the less Carice saw of him, the better,\"\nreplied Mr. Bergan.\n\n\"Yes, I know.  But that was because we believed him to be of\nintemperate habits.\"\n\nMen of Godfrey Bergan's thoughtful and deliberate character, when they\nadopt a mistaken opinion, are wont to wedge it in so firmly among\nthings undeniably true and just, that to dislodge it is like tearing up\nan oak which has rooted itself in a rock cleft.  \"I wish I were certain\nthat he is not,\" he answered, with a slow, grave shake of the head.\n\nMrs. Bergan gave him a surprised look.  \"I don't see why you should\ndoubt him,\" said she.  \"Everybody agrees that a more correct young man\ndoes not exist.  He is always to be found in his office during office\nhours, attends Church regularly on Sundays, as well as at most of the\noccasional services, goes into but little society, and that of the very\nbest,--what more would you have?\"\n\n\"Nothing,\" replied her husband, \"except the certainty that it will\nlast.  A drunkard's reform is so rarely a permanent thing, that one is\njustified in distrusting it.  Though he may keep as sober as a\nCarthusian monk for a few months, or even for a year or two, his\nunhappy appetite is only a caged lion: in the first unguarded moment,\nit is certain to break out, and to sweep everything before\nit--resolution, hope, energy, and promise.  Unfortunately for my\nnephew, perhaps, but very fortunately for ourselves, I fancy, I happen\nto retain a distinct recollection of my first meeting with him.\"\n\n\"But,\" urged Mrs. Bergan, \"I thought Carice told you what your brother\nHarry said about that matter.\"\n\n\"With all due respect for my brother Harry,\" returned her husband,\ncoolly, \"I don't consider his testimony, in this matter, to be worth\nmuch.  Intemperance is, in his estimation, so very venial a sin,--not\nto say, so very Berganly a virtue,--that he would be sure to extenuate\nit, if he could.\"\n\n\"He would never say what was not true,\" affirmed Mrs. Bergan, decidedly.\n\n\"No, but he would look at the affair from his own point of view, and\nspeak accordingly.\"\n\n\"But your nephew left him on account of that very affair,\" persisted\nMrs. Bergan, \"and has refused to have anything to do with him since,\neven with Bergan Hall held out to him as a bait.\"\n\n\"In which,\" rejoined Mr. Bergan, composedly, \"he shows that he has more\nof the hereditary temper than is good for him, or any one connected\nwith him.  It is the same trait that has made Harry so bitter against\nus, all these years.  And one feud in the family was enough--and too\nmuch.\"\n\nMrs. Bergan began to look annoyed.  While she admitted the general\ntruth of her husband's observations, she had an intuitive conviction of\ntheir present misapplication.  Her womanly instincts were all in\nBergan's favor.  But that, she knew, was no ground of effective\nargument.\n\nHer husband looked at her clouded face, for a moment, and then went to\nher side.  \"Confess now, Clarissa,\" said he, pleasantly, laying his\nhand on her shoulder, \"that our nephew's claims upon our attention\nwould never have presented themselves so strongly to your mind, were it\nnot for his late brilliant hit in the court room, and the sudden\nadmiration and popularity which it has won him.\"\n\nA slight flush showed on Mrs. Bergan's cheek; nevertheless, she met her\nhusband's eyes frankly.  \"I acknowledge that those things had their\neffect in making me ashamed of myself,\" she answered.  \"But, all the\ntime, I have had an uneasy feeling that we were not doing our duty by\nyour sister's son.  Surely, we ought to have been the very last persons\nto have listened to, and acted upon, a rumor unfavorable to him; or, if\nit were certain that he had made a false step, we should have been\nready with our influence and countenance, to help him to retrieve\nhimself.\"\n\n\"You forget, my dear,\" said Mr. Bergan, gently, \"that it was for\nCarice's sake.  We were thinking only of her.\"\n\n\"And so we did evil that good might come,\" returned his wife, somewhat\nruefully.  \"But evil follows the universal law, and brings forth after\nits kind.\"\n\n\"What do you mean?\" asked Mr. Bergan, looking both surprised and\npuzzled.\n\nMrs. Bergan smiled at him half-pityingly, half-sarcastically.  \"Oh, ye\nmen!\" she exclaimed, \"if ye are wise as serpents, in matters of the\nintellect, ye are blind as bats, in matters of the heart.\"\n\n\"I am ready to admit the truth of the abstract proposition,\" said Mr.\nBergan, quizzically, \"as soon as I am made to understand in what way I\nfurnish a proof of it.\"\n\n\"Don't you see,\" returned Mrs. Bergan, seriously, \"that if ever Carice\nis to become over-interested in Bergan, now is the time,--now that he\nis presented to her imagination in the attractive light of a long\nneglected and misunderstood, but patient, persevering, and, finally,\nall-conquering hero?\"\n\nMr. Bergan looked as if he did see--several things.  \"Is that the\nreason why you propose to throw them together?\" he asked, dryly.\n\n\"Certainly,\" replied Mrs. Bergan, with perfect composure.  \"The first\nthing is to destroy the halo with which he is now surrounded, by\nbringing him into the disenchanting daylight of commonplace, everyday\nassociation.  Next, we must rob him of the crown of martyrdom, so far\nas we are concerned, by frankly confessing that we were a little too\nsevere upon him at first, and by doing full justice to his talents in a\nmatter-of-fact way.  Finally, we must make the most of the\nrelationship.\"\n\n\"You may be right,\" said Mr. Bergan, after some moments of deep\nthought.  \"Though, at first sight, it looks very much like jumping into\nthe river, to avoid the rain.\"\n\n\"My dear,\" replied Mrs. Bergan, earnestly, \"we cannot keep them apart,\nif we would, as matters are now turning.  Twice already, we have met\nhim at dinner parties, where he is the lion of the hour, and everybody\nmakes much of him but ourselves; and we shall continue to do so, until\nthe round is finished.  It must be confessed that he wears his honors\nmodestly; at times, I cannot help feeling proud of him myself.\"\n\n\"I never doubted his ability, nor overlooked his pleasing manners,\"\nsaid Mr. Bergan.  \"But what are they but gems on a poisoned cup, if the\nvirus of intemperance be in his blood, or his principles be unsound?\"\n\n\"The latter can hardly be the case,\" remarked Mrs. Bergan, \"if the\nreport be true that he refuses to have anything to do with a cause that\nhe does not believe to be just.  That seems to argue uncommon strength\nof principle.\"\n\n\"I am not so sure about that,\" returned Mr. Bergan, shaking his head\ndubiously.  \"Most people, I find, regard it as one of the many\neccentricities of genius.  Others think he only showed his shrewdness\nin declining to undertake a cause that he was sure to lose, after his\nbrilliant victory in the case of Corlew vs. Kenan.  Besides, he has not\nannounced that such is to be his settled course of action.  And if he\ndid, it would seem arrogant, in so young a man.  It is, in fact,\njudging the cause before it is tried.\"\n\n\"It strikes me that a man must needs judge things beforehand, where his\nown conscience is concerned,\" observed Mrs. Bergan, thoughtfully.  \"You\nwould not expect him to act first, and decide afterward whether he had\ndone right or wrong.\"\n\n\"In judging his own actions, he need not judge those of his fellows,\"\nreplied Mr. Bergan, somewhat magisterially.\n\nHis wife could not help wondering within herself how such judgment\ncould well be avoided, where a course of action was involved.  But she\nwisely forbore to press the point, and reverted to the main argument.\n\n\"At all events,\" said she, \"if he gets to visit here frequently and\nfamiliarly, we shall have an opportunity of seeing for ourselves what\nhis character really is.  He may prove to be everything that is safe\nand admirable; or he and Carice may never think of each other in the\nway that we are contemplating.  And, after all, I think we might trust\nour daughter; she has never shown herself silly or wilful; she is not\nlikely to despise our judgment, or disregard our wishes.\"\n\n\"All the more reason why we should do our whole duty by her,\" rejoined\nMr. Bergan, \"in the way of prevention as well as cure.  In such\nmatters, parental commands generally come too late to forestall\nmischief; the most that they do is to prevent it from going any\nfarther.\"\n\n\"True,\" replied Mrs. Bergan, quietly.  \"And I confess that I might have\nbeen more puzzled what to do, if,\"--Mrs. Bergan made a slight pause, to\ngive her words the greater effect (like a wise woman, she had kept her\nstrongest argument until the last),--\"if I were not tolerably certain\nthat he is already engaged--or, at least, likely to become so--to Astra\nLyte.\"\n\n\"That alters the case, indeed,\" said Mr. Bergan, thoughtfully.  \"But\nwhat reason have you for thinking so?\"\n\n\"Miss Ferrars was here last evening, and she told me--in confidence,\nyou know--that she had no doubt of it whatever.  Her window overlooks\nAstra's studio, and she says that she often sees him there, helping\nAstra about her work, or watching her with the most absorbing interest,\nor talking to her with a very tell-tale earnestness.\"\n\n\"It would hardly be received as evidence in a court of justice,\" said\nMr. Bergan, smiling, \"though it sounds suggestive.  But Miss Ferrars is\ngiven to gossip--'in confidence,' as you say.\"\n\nHis wife laughed.  \"Of course she is; else I should never have heard of\nthis pleasant probability.  For both pleasant and probable it certainly\nis.  Astra is turning out a wonderfully fine, talented girl; and she\nand Mrs. Lyte have been Bergan's fast friends and defenders, all along.\nHow can he show his gratitude more gracefully than by marrying her?\"\n\n\"Does Carice know of this?\" asked Mr. Bergan, after a moment.\n\n\"Yes; Miss Ferrars told me in her presence, and greatly shocked her by\ndoing so.  She thinks it wrong to connect names so carelessly.\"\n\n\"She is right,\" said Mr. Bergan, emphatically.\n\n\"At the same time,\" continued Mrs. Bergan, \"she remarked, that it would\nbe a very nice thing, if it were only true.  And afterward she said\nthat she would like to renew her acquaintance with Astra;--you remember\nthat the two were very good child-friends, though circumstances have\nkept them apart, of late,--as they have their mothers!  I really feel\nguilty when I think how fond I used to be of Catherine Lyte, and how I\nhave allowed her to slip out of my life.  But then, we were both\ninvalids, for many years, with scarce strength enough for home cares,\nand not a jot for friendship or society.  Still, I have all my old\nregard for her carefully buried in my heart, like the talent in the\nparable; intact, if not in a way to increase.  One of these days, I\nmean to dig it up, and go with Carice to pay her a visit, and take a\nlook at the wonders of Astra's studio.\"\n\n\"I am glad to hear it,\" said Mr. Bergan.  \"Well!  I suppose the\nconclusion of the whole matter is, that we are to give Bergan a dinner,\nand the freedom of the house.\"\n\n\"Precisely,\" replied Mrs. Bergan, nodding her head.  \"And now, I want\nto consult you about the invitation list.\"\n\nMr. Bergan rose hastily.  \"I am quite content to leave that to you, my\ndear.\"\n\nHis wife caught his arm, \"You are not going to shirk the responsibility\nin that way,\" she said, decidedly.  \"I really want your advice.  Am I\nto ask Dr. Remy?\"\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"I don't quite like the man.\"\n\n\"I cannot see what you have against him, unless it be that he was not\nborn in the county, and you don't know his whole pedigree.\"\n\nMrs. Bergan did not answer.  She knew her dislike to be a case of\nspontaneous generation, and not at all qualified to give a lucid\naccount of itself.\n\n\"Besides,\" continued her husband, \"he is Bergan's particular friend.\"\n\n\"Is he?\" asked Mrs. Bergan, innocently.  \"I did not know that he was\nanybody's friend.\"\n\n\"Clarissa!\" exclaimed Mr. Bergan, rebukingly.  \"I never heard Dr. Remy\nspeak ill of anybody, in all my acquaintance with him.\"\n\n\"Did you ever hear him speak well of anybody?\" responded Mrs.\nBergan,--\"well enough, that is, to give you new interest, faith,\ndelight, in the person of whom he spoke?  On the contrary, does he not\nsomehow manage to chill what you have?\"\n\n\"I cannot say that he talks of his friends with the warm effusion of a\nwoman,\" answered Mr. Bergan, sarcastically.\n\n\"But only with the cold malice of a man,\" retorted Mrs. Bergan.\n\"There! a truce!  He shall come, if only to prove what I have said.\nNext, I want to invite Mrs. Lyte and Astra.\"\n\n\"Very well.\"\n\n\"And Mr. Islay, and Judge and Mrs. Morris, and--\"\n\n\"You have seven already,\" interrupted Mr. Bergan, \"making ten with\nourselves; which I hold to be the magic number for a dinner party.  If\nyou want to invite anybody else, better wait till another time.\"\n\nMrs. Bergan was wise enough to be the bearer of her own invitation to\nMrs. Lyte; else it would scarcely have been accepted.  The latter had\nlost the taste for society with the habit of it; nothing short of the\npersonal solicitation of her old friend, now asking it as a favor to\nherself, and now urging it for Astra's sake, would have induced her to\ngive up, even for a few hours, the seclusion that had slowly been\ntransformed, for her as for most invalids, from a grievous necessity\ninto a calm pleasantness.\n\nThus far, Mrs. Bergan was successful.  But she missed seeing either\nAstra or Bergan; both happened to be out, on their respective ways.  As\nregarded the former, it did not much matter; but she was sorry not to\nsee Bergan, and utter the few graceful words of apology for the past,\nas well as of promise for the future, wherewith she had intended to\npreface her invitation to dinner, and inaugurate her new policy.  As it\nwas, she could only leave a pencilled note of invitation on his desk,\nand reserve her explanation for a personal interview.  Then she went\nback to the studio, where she admired everything cordially, and with\nwonderful impartiality.  Carice, meanwhile, was hanging over the winged\ncherub, with a deep, silent delight that went to Mrs. Lyte's heart.\n\n\"You will take such pleasure in meeting her again!\" she said to Astra,\nwhen she came in, a few moments after the visitors had gone.  \"She is\njust the friend that you need.\"\n\n\"I am not so sure about that!\" returned Astra wilfully.  \"I sometimes\ncatch a glimpse of her at church; and she looks a great deal too soft\nand dainty and delicate for a friend.  If I were a Roman Catholic, I\nmight set her up in a corner, and worship her as a madonna, or a saint.\nBut, being a Protestant, I really don't see that I have any need of\nher,--or she, indeed, of me!\"\n\nMrs. Lyte shook her head in mild reproof.  \"You do say such strange\nthings, Astra,\" said she, \"things so liable to be misunderstood.\"\n\n\"_You_ do not misunderstand them, mamma,\" returned Astra, fondly.\n\n\"No, but Mr. Arling might.\"\n\nAstra turned, in surprise, and met Bergan's quiet smile.  He had come\nin just behind her, and had heard almost the whole.\n\n\"I think not,\" said Astra, coolly.  \"Mr. Arling is pretty well used to\nmy ways, by this time.  We were speaking,\" she continued, \"of that\nineffable combination of snow and sunshine, lily and rose, saint and\nangel, known among mortals by the name of Carice Bergan.  Can you even\nimagine being on familiar terms with her?  Or would you if you could?\nDoes she not seem fitter for a pedestal or a shrine,--some place a\nlittle above, or remote from, life's ordinary round?\"\n\n\"She does, indeed,\" replied Bergan, earnestly.  \"There is a\nhalf-unearthly purity about her, that keeps even one's thoughts at a\nreverent distance.  Snow and sunshine!--yes, she has something of both,\na kind of soft, white chill, interfused with a rich brightness,\nhalf-golden, half roseate;--but it is impossible to put the idea into\nwords!\"\n\nAnd Bergan turned, musingly, toward his office door.\n\nAstra looked after him, for a moment, and then glanced smilingly at her\nmother.\n\n\"Fortunately, there are such things as household divinities,\" said she.\n\n\"Eh?\" said Mrs. Lyte, wonderingly.\n\nBut Astra did not explain.\n\n\n\n\nXIII.\n\nDINNER-TABLE TALK.\n\nLate wisdom is apt to taste of the flower of folly whence it is\ndistilled.  So, at least, thought Mrs. Bergan, when, months afterward,\nshe looked back upon her dinner-party, and seemed to see in it the\nbeginning of trouble.  But it is probable that nothing which she could\nhave done, or left undone, would have availed to alter the natural,\nirresistible course of events.  At the most, she may have hastened its\ncurrent a little.  Her dinner-party only furnished a convenient point\nof meeting for lives inevitably tending toward each other, for\ninfluences long converging, and certain to meet at last, in clash or\nharmony.  Without it, there must needs have been a swift birth of\nfriendship between Carice and Astra, at their next meeting; which\nmeeting could not have been much longer deferred.  Without it, Doctor\nRemy would assiduously have spun his web for self-advantage, fastening\nhis threads indifferently to whatever or whomsoever seemed to promise\nthe best support, and quickly unfastening them whenever a prop failed\nhim.  Without it, the hearts of Bergan and Carice would sooner or later\nhave inclined toward each other, by reason of an instinct truer and\nsurer than maternal foresight or forestalling.\n\nThe dinner was, _per se_, a success.  The table was elegant with glass,\nsilver, and flowers; the viands were the creation of one of those\nround, greasy Africanesses, who are born to the gridiron not less\nindubitably than a poet to the lyre; and white-haired old Sancho waited\nwith a blending of obsequiousness and pomposity, wonderful to behold.\nThere were neither culinary failures to harrow the soul of the hostess,\nnor glass-fractures or sauce-spillings to disconcert her guests.\n\nThe conversation was bright, easy, and desultory, as well as\ninterlocutory and general by turns, as dinner-table talk should be.\nOnly once, and that quite at the last, did it take a graver turn than\nwas well suited to the occasion, or seem to stir any ill-feeling.  In a\npause of the more general conversation, Doctor Remy was heard saying to\nCarice, who sat next him;--\n\n\"You are fortunate in being able to believe so implicitly, without\nampler proof.\"\n\n\"Do you think the proof insufficient, then?\" asked Carice, with a\nlittle look of wonder in her blue eyes.\n\n\"To some minds,\" answered Doctor Remy, evasively.\n\n\"Perhaps,\" interposed Mr. Islay, whose ears had been open for some\nmoments toward this conversation,--\"perhaps such minds find the proof\ninsufficient only because they have not yet been able to look at it in\nthe right light.\"\n\n\"What light do you mean?\" asked Doctor Remy, a little doubtfully.\n\n\"The light of a renewed heart and an obedient life.  No man apprehends\nthe truths of Christianity clearly, nor believes them with a belief\nthat is worth anything, until he feels his own personal need of them.\nWhen that time comes, he catches hold of them, without proof, as it\nwere,--or, at least, without other proof than their felt adaptation to\nthat intense need,---just as a man who is hungry and thirsty accepts\nconvenient food without troubling himself about its chemical analysis.\nThen, holding them fast, and feeling how perfectly they meet his wants,\nwhat strength and satisfaction they give to his mind, and what symmetry\nand dignity they impart to his life, he begins to look back over the\nlong line of prophecy and testimony for proof, and finds it ample.  Men\nare prone to forget, Dr. Remy, that the natural order--as we see in\nchildren--is through the heart to the intellect, not through the\nintellect to the heart.\"\n\n\"But,\" objected Doctor Remy, \"if a man is not sensible of any such\npersonal need, how is he to be made to feel it?\"\n\n\"Who can tell?\" responded Mr. Islay, solemnly.  \"If the eye sees no\ncomeliness in Christ, to desire Him, if the heart feels no void which\ncraves His fulness, no pang which needs His healing, who can tell when\nthe one will be opened, the other emptied or smitten?  'The wind\nbloweth where it listeth.'  But I can tell you, Doctor Remy, how a man\ncan postpone the time of conviction to the last moment, perhaps to the\nvery end.\"\n\n\"Indeed,\" answered Doctor Remy, lifting his eyebrows.  \"May I ask for\nthe formula?\"\n\n\"Simply by leading a life of deliberate, habitual sin and selfishness.\nThere is nothing like sin for blinding the eyes, and misleading the\njudgment, in regard to spiritual things.  Indeed, if I desired to shake\nmy own faith in Christ to the very centre, I know no way in which I\ncould do it so surely as by committing some dreadful crime--murder, for\ninstance.  All my views of life and death, earth and heaven, would at\nonce become distorted and confused, just as all my thoughts and aims\nwould immediately take a new direction.\"\n\nMr. Islay being on the same side of the table as his interlocutor,\ncould not observe the latter's sudden change of countenance; but\nBergan, sitting opposite, was surprised to see the doctor's face darken\nwith some powerful emotion, while he shot a furtive, suspicious glance\nat the speaker.  Yet his voice, when he spoke, was studiously low and\neven, so much so that its latent venom was unnoticed by the majority of\nthe party.\n\n\"Inasmuch,\" said he, \"as Mr. Islay is able to speak so intelligently of\nreligious faith, because of his thorough acquaintance therewith, so,\ndoubtless, his remarks upon crime and its effects are the outcome of\nhis own personal experience.\"\n\nBergan colored with indignation, and was about to say something in\nsharp rebuke of the covert insult; but Mr. Islay stopped him by a look,\nand a slight, yet decided gesture.\n\n\"You are thinking, doubtless,\" said he, mildly, turning to Dr. Remy,\n\"of the deep truth that he who would teach successfully, must know\nsomething of his subject by experience as well as theory.  A clergyman\ncertainly does find in his own heart both the suggestion and the proof\nof the truths which he seeks to enforce upon others.  Herein lies his\nfitness for his office.  Out of seeming weakness comes real strength.\nFeeling, or having felt, in his own person, the power both of sin and\nof redeeming love, he can the better set forth the hatefulness of the\none, and the efficacy of the other.\"\n\nThere was a slight pause; then, Mrs. Bergan made haste to break the\nsilence, and to do it in such a manner as to induce a speedy change of\nsubject.  And Dr. Remy, after a brief moodiness, which seemed to\nindicate some lingering effect of the preceding discussion, suddenly\nunbent his brow, and threw himself into the new theme with animation,\nto the immediate enlivenment of the party, and the gradual extinction\nof his hostess's resentment.  She acknowledged to herself that he could\nbe exceedingly agreeable, when it pleased him.  If he would but spice\nhis conversation a little less freely with sarcasm!\n\nAnd then she gave the signal for the ladies to leave the table.\n\nAs has been already hinted, the more immediate and visible result of\nthe dinner-party at Oakstead, was a swift budding and blossoming of\nfriendship between Carice and Astra.  Despite the playful disclaimer of\nthe latter, when the probability of such a consummation had been\nmentioned by her mother, no sooner did the two girls meet face to face,\nthe gray eyes and the blue ones looking straight into each other's\ndepths, than there was an instant, unlooked-for revival of their\nchildish affection and confidence; quickly informed by a deeper\nsympathy and fuller comprehension.  It was much like\nsisters--unavoidably separated for years, but in whom the instinct of\nkinship cannot be lost--that they sat talking together, in a twilight\ncorner of the parlor, until the gentlemen came from the dining-room.\nNot only were there pleasant childhood memories to recall, but the\nlife-story of each was to be brought fairly up to the present time, for\nthe enlightenment of the other.  Astra's was the more eventful; it\nembraced all her art-education and life, with its toils, pleasures,\ndifficulties, ambitions, and disappointments.  Carice's was more like\nthat of a flower; she had lived and grown in the home-precinct, she had\nfed on sunshine and dew, sweet and right thoughts had been as natural\nto her as perfume to a rose, she had made a little space very\ndelightsome with her beauty and her sweetness; and that was all.  Each\nfelt a very genuine admiration for the other;--Carice bent loyally\nbefore Astra's crown of genius; Astra held her breath, half in awe,\nhalf in tenderness, before the aureola that she saw encircling the fair\nhead of Carice.  As for the \"chill\" of which she had spoken to Bergan,\nshe had ceased to think of it.  Carice's affections were warm enough,\nshe saw, when they were reached.  Yet there was something about her\ntoo, which she would still have been forced to call chill, for want of\na better word,---that indefinable quality which is inseparable from\nanything at once white and pure,--a pearl, a star, or the white wing of\na dove.\n\nAs a natural consequence of this friendship, Carice came often to\nAstra's studio.  Not infrequently she met Bergan there.  Remembering\nMiss Ferrar's statement, and giving it more credit than she was really\naware of, she wondered, sometimes, that she could detect no sign of a\nsecret, or tacit, understanding between him and Astra.  Their manner to\neach other was most frank and kind, but it seemed totally devoid of any\nlover-like quality.  She finally settled it in her mind that no\nengagement existed as yet; but she also decided that, inasmuch as they\nwere admirably fitted for each other, it was sure to come, in good\ntime.  Nothing better, she thought, in her innocent heart, could well\nbe devised for either.\n\nAstra, meanwhile was watching Bergan and Carice with as warm an\ninterest, and a far more penetrating glance; and often she smiled to\nherself over the discoveries that she made.  To her, they appeared to\nbe drifting as surely, if unconsciously, down the smooth, gliding\ncurrent of love, as could be desired.  She was glad to have it so.  She\nbelieved them to be true counterparts, needing each to be completed by\nthe other.  Bergan had strength, nobleness, enthusiasm; Carice had\nsweetness, purity, repose; how beautiful and fit the union, how\nsymmetrical the result!  There was a genuine artistic joy in the\nthought.\n\nAnd then, all at once, she forgot to watch them.  Suddenly, or\ngradually, she knew not which, a magical change had been wrought in her\nsurroundings; old things had vanished, all things had become new.  A\nnew sky, a new earth,--stars and cloud-shapes of bewitching vagueness\nand softness,--scenery of wondrous coloring and surpassing\nloveliness,--lights that were tenderer than any shadows, and shadows\nthat were only subdued lights;--of what were these things the signs?\nHad she also been drifting, and whither?\n\n\n\n\nPART THIRD.\n\nTHE IN-GATHERING.\n\n\n\nI.\n\nUNFOLDINGS.\n\nSpring was abroad in the land.  No one could tell just when she had\nstolen into the woods and gardens, and begun her pleasant labors, but\nthere was no question about the fact of her presence and industry.\nEverywhere, there were the tender green of newborn foliage, and the\nvaried odors of opening buds and blossoms.  The new leaves of the ilex\ntrees had quietly pushed off the old ones.  The hedges were thick-sown\nwith the white stars of the Cherokee rose.  The passion-vine trailed\nits purple garments along the fences.  Houstonias spread a soft blue\nhaze over the grass.  Wild plum and cherry trees flung drifts of\nfragrant snow along the road side.  The air was faint with perfume from\nthe ivory censers of the magnolia, swinging dreamily overhead.\nWherever a vine could cling and climb, there was a seemingly miraculous\noutburst of foliage and flowers; every dry stick and stem became a\nleafy thyrsus, every crumbling stump a green and garlanded altar.\n\nMrs. Lyte's great, irregular thicket of a garden was quick to feel the\ngenial influence, and to twine and twist itself into a denser tangle\nthan ever.  Rose bushes laughed the virtue of economy to scorn, with\ntheir perfumed affluence of pink and crimson and yellow.  Pomegranates\nburst into scarlet flames; mimosas tossed aloft feathery balls of many\nhues.  Jessamines and honeysuckles, holding up vases of gold, to catch\nevery sunbeam, ran hither and thither at their own sweet will.  So did\ntiny green lizards, with scarlet throats, and swift chameleons, with\ncurious intelligent eyes.  The air was tuneful with the flight and song\nof bees and humming-birds, cooing doves, and shining-winged spindles.\nManifold, in truth, were the garden's delights: varied sound and color\nand perfume, cheerful radiance and gentle gloom, unobtrusive\ncompanionship and soft seclusion, were all to be found within its\npleasant compass.\n\nAnd, as the days grew long and warm with the Spring's advance, Bergan\nnow and then, growing weary of the confinement and monotony of his\noffice, took his Blackstone, or Kent, or whatever might be the legal\nauthority under examination, and gave himself the refreshment of an\nhour's reading, in one of the garden's shady, sequestered nooks.  Doing\nthis, one sultry afternoon in May, the drowsy influence of the\natmosphere, and the soothing murmurousness of the insects' song, soon\nproved too potent for the logical connection of the learned legal\nthesis; there were unaccountable gaps between fact and deduction; and,\ngoing back to pick up the broken thread, Bergan lost it altogether.\nSleep had stolen upon him through the dusky foliage, and she held him\nfast until the latest sunbeam, through a convenient aperture in the\nverdant walls, laid its light finger on his eyelids.\n\nWaking suddenly, but completely, hushed voices, proceeding from a\nneighboring thicket, met his ear.\n\n\"Impossible, Felix.\"\n\n\"But, Astra,--\"\n\nHad there been danger in those low, earnest accents, Bergan could\nscarcely have started up more quickly and cautiously, nor have fled\nfrom them faster.  As he expected and desired, the low boughs closing\nand rustling behind him, made what followed inaudible.  He was loath to\nhear another word.  He felt almost guilty for having heard so much.\nThose subdued, confidential tones, those quietly spoken Christian\nnames, had, of themselves, been a startling revelation.  For,\nnotwithstanding her frank, easy, affable deportment toward those who\ncame within her sphere, Astra Lyte knew well how to hedge herself round\nwith a maidenly dignity that kept familiarity at a distance.  She was\nnot the kind of girl whose Christian name finds its way easily to\nunaccustomed lips.  Despite his own residence, for a considerable time,\nunder the same roof, and the frank and friendly intercourse which had\ngrown out of it,--despite, too, the fact that Mrs. Lyte often called\nhim her son, and Cathie was wont to spring to his arms as to those of a\nbrother,--it had never occurred to himself to call her anything less\nformal than \"Miss Lyte.\"  Nor would it have done to Dr. Remy, he felt\nsure, without the sufficient warrant of a close and tender relation.\nThis premise being established, the conclusion that such a relation\nexisted was unavoidable.\n\nAnd, looking back over the events of the past few weeks, Bergan was\namazed to see with what an amount of corroboratory evidence he was\nunexpectedly furnished.  Not only did numberless glances, tones, and\nactions, bearing directly upon the case, start suddenly into view, but,\njust as the landscape through which one passes presents new outlines,\nnew features, and a new sentiment, in a backward survey, so these\nthings assumed new faces and a new meaning, in his review of them.\nOnce or twice, of late, it had occurred to him that Astra was scarcely\nat her ease, in Dr. Remy's presence; he now understood that this\nconstraint came of affection, fearful of betraying itself, and not, as\nhe had imagined, of some newborn distrust or dislike.  Anterior to\nthis, he had observed that the doctor's visits to Miss Lyte's studio\nwere much more frequent than formerly, and that he was making an\nobvious enough attempt to commend himself to her favor by a more\ncordial and constant interest in her work, as well as by exercising a\nmore careful circumspection over his conversation.  His cynicism\nvanished, or veiled itself, before the rich glow of her enthusiasm.\nHis satire spared her generous ambition.  His scepticism, though not\nless frank, was less hostile and inveterate; and often it resolved\nitself into a kind of weary and wistful sadness, as if it were less a\nchoice than a misfortune, and would gladly exchange itself for\nsomething better, if it only knew how.  At such times, Bergan himself\nwas sensible of a singular charm in his conversation, a kind of\nautumn-night splendor; chill, lustrous moonlight, mystical shadow, and\nvague mournfulness, blending into one, irresistible fascination.  No\ndoubt, Astra had been made to feel it still more keenly; no doubt, too,\nshe had been led to believe that whatever was amiss in the doctor's\nbeliefs would yield readily to her influence,--that he would prove\nscarcely less plastic in her hands than the clay wherewith she was wont\nto deal so cunningly.\n\nYet Bergan could not help wondering a little at the doctor's ready\nsuccess.  Astra's genius, he thought, should have saved her from any\nhasty bestowal of her affections.  He did not know that, in this\nregard, a woman of genius differs little from the most commonplace of\nher sisters.  She gives her affections as trustfully, and flings\nherself away as freely, as the silliest of them all.\n\nHaving gotten to this point in his meditations, and also to the middle\nof the open field, back of the garden, Bergan could not help turning\nand looking toward the thicket, the neighborhood of which he had so\nhastily quitted.  His face grew troubled and anxious, as he gazed.  Was\nDoctor Remy anywise worthy of the heart that he had won?  Bergan shook\nhis head ruefully, as he asked himself this question.  Without intent\nor wish of his own--in spite, even, of some strenuous efforts to the\ncontrary--a deep distrust of the doctor had rooted itself in his mind.\nThough it gave but scanty justification of itself to his intellect, and\nwas not allowed to show itself in his actions; though, now and then, he\nmade a sturdy effort to uproot it, and cast it out, as an ungenerous\nreturn for kindness, or something that looked like it; it,\nnevertheless, kept its ground, and quietly strengthened itself there.\nIt did not fail, now, to thrust itself into view, as a partial answer\nto his question.  The bright spring landscape, with its crowded leaf\nand bloom, and its rich promise of fruit, seemed to darken with a\nshadow from Astra's future, as thus revealed to him.  Must the promise\nof seed-time and harvest fail, then, only in the moral world?\n\nThough Bergan, driven by a nice sense of honor, had fled so\nprecipitately from the voices and the neighborhood of the lovers, there\nis no reason why the reader may not return thither, and see what is to\nbe learned from their conversation.\n\n\"I cannot think it right,\" said Astra, \"to leave mother in ignorance\nany longer.\"\n\n\"Do you think, then,\" asked Doctor Remy, reproachfully, \"that I would\nask you to do anything wrong?\"\n\nAstra hesitated for a moment.  Perhaps it then and there occurred to\nher, for the first time, that the doctor's standard of right was likely\nto differ from her own, in the same ratio as his religious faith.\n\nDoctor Remy did not wait for the tardy answer.  Putting his arm round\nAstra, he drew her head on to his shoulder.  The movement might have\nbeen prompted by tenderness; none the less, it had the effect to take\nhis face out of her line of vision.\n\n\"All my life long, Astra,\" said he, in a deep, moved tone--(it is often\neasier to put a desired note into the voice, than a corresponding\nexpression into the face)--\"all my life long, I have had a strange\ndesire to be trusted,--trusted implicitly.  Faith without sight--blind,\nunquestioning faith--is to me one of the most beautiful as well as\ndesirable things on earth; all the more so, perhaps, that it is not\ngiven to me to feel it.  But it has always been my dream, my hope, to\ninspire it.  In my ideal picture of the woman whom I should love, it\nwas always her consummate, irresistible charm.  Must I now make up my\nmind to do without it?\"\n\nAstra was touched.  \"If it did not seem to be wrong!\" she exclaimed.\n\nThe doctor shook his head.  \"_That_ is not trust,\" said he, \"at least,\nnot the trust that I mean.  Who can so order circumstances that they\nshall never seem to condemn him?  But the faith of which I speak,\nhaving once assured itself of the integrity of its beloved, never again\nadmits it to be an open question.\"\n\nAstra was silent.  The doctor heaved a heavy sigh.  \"I see that I am\nnot to realize my ideal,\" said he.  \"Well, it cannot be helped.  I will\ngive you the explanation that you need.  Perhaps, being satisfied, in\nthis instance, that I have a good reason for what I do, you will be\nable to trust me hereafter.\"\n\n\"I will, indeed I will!\" exclaimed Astra, eagerly.\n\n\"The worst of it is,\" pursued the doctor, \"that you compel me to betray\na trust--your mother's trust.\"\n\nAstra's cheek flushed.  She had been miserable at the idea of keeping\nanything from her mother; was she, then, the one really excluded from\nconfidence?\n\n\"Stay,\" said she, proudly, \"I do not wish to hear anything that my\nmother desires to conceal from me.\"\n\n\"Then,\" replied the doctor, \"it is impossible for me to explain why our\nengagement must not be made known, at present, to your mother.\"\n\nAstra looked bewildered, as well she might, at this apparently\ninscrutable complication.\n\nDoctor Remy seemed to take pity on her perplexity.  \"Listen, dear,\"\nsaid he, \"and you will soon understand.  Your mother consulted me\nprofessionally, a fortnight since.\"\n\nAstra's cheek grew white with sudden fear.  \"What is it?\" she gasped.\n\n\"There is no immediate danger,\" said the doctor, \"and may not be, for\nyears, with due precautions.  But there is a tendency to heart disease;\nand it is imperative, just now, that she should not be agitated.  And\nthis, Astra, is the reason why she must not hear of our engagement, for\nsome time to come.\"\n\nAstra looked down thoughtfully.  \"I think you are mistaken,\" said she.\n\"I believe it would be a relief to her to know that my future is in\nsuch good hands.\"\n\n\"Doubtless, that would be the ultimate effect,\" replied Doctor Remy;\n\"but there would be emotional excitement, at first, more than is good\nfor her;--so much that I, as a physician, am bound to forbid it.\"\n\nAstra could not but admit that the prohibition was just.  Mrs. Lyte had\nseemed very fragile and feeble, of late.  Astra had urged that\napplication to Doctor Remy which, it now appeared, her mother had made,\nbut in regard to the results of which she had chosen to keep\nsilence,--from a loving wish, probably, to save her daughter from\nunavailing anxiety.  Astra's heart swelled at the thought.\n\n\"Are you _sure_,\" she asked, \"that there is no immediate danger?\"\n\n\"As sure as one can be, in such cases--_if_ she is kept quiet.\"\n\n\"And is there any probability that the disease may be eventually cured?\"\n\n\"There is a possibility,--with the same indispensable condition.\"\n\nDoctor Remy waited for a moment, in order that Astra might be duly\nimpressed with this answer; then, he asked with a kind of proud\nhumility;--\n\n\"Have I justified myself, in this matter?\"\n\n\"Forgive me,\" said Astra, penitently.  \"Of course I never really\ndistrusted your motives; I only fancied that my duty to my mother could\nnot be affected by them.\"\n\n\"You see,\" suggested Doctor Remy, \"how easy it is to be misled by\nappearances, even with the best intentions.  The faith, of which I used\nto dream, would never have fallen into that error.\"\n\n\"I will try to have it, hereafter,\" said Astra.\n\n\"And yet,\" returned Doctor Remy, \"you will doubtless insist upon a\nfurther explanation of the reason why I do not wish our engagement to\nbe known to the outside world.\"\n\n\"Indeed, I shall not,\" returned Astra, glad of an opportunity of\nproving that she was neither so distrustful, nor so curious, as he\nbelieved.  \"Of course, the outside world must wait till mother is\ninformed; she has the right to the first telling.  If you have any\nother reason for keeping the matter secret, I do not seek to know it.\"\n\nCould Astra have seen the look of triumph in Doctor Remy's face, she\nwould have been startled.  But he only said, quietly,--\n\n\"Thank you for so much trust.\"  And, after a moment, he added,--\"As you\nsay, it is your mother's right to know first.  Of course, then, you\nwill not indulge in any confidences to intimate friends.\"\n\n\"Certainly not,\" said Astra, a little surprised.  \"Indeed, I have\nnone,--except, perhaps, Carice Bergan.\"\n\n\"I would not mention it, even to her,\" said the doctor.\n\n\"I do not intend to,\" replied Astra, decidedly.  \"But I must go in;\nmother will miss me.\"\n\n\n\n\nII.\n\nTHE FOUNDATIONS FAIL.\n\nAstra's light form being quickly lost behind the intervening foliage,\nDoctor Remy turned slowly and meditatively toward his office; which,\ninasmuch as it had been built for the use and behoof of the late Doctor\nLyte, possessed its own door of convenient communication with the\ngarden.\n\nGiven opportunity, social equality, and a fine, unremitting tact, and\nit would seem that any man can marry any woman, whose affections are\nfree.  Else, it would be hard to understand how Doctor Remy could have\nfound his way into the heart of Astra Lyte; unless indeed, as is\nfrequently the case, their very dissimilarity should have constituted a\nprinciple of attraction; character has its own laws of effective\ncontrast.  Astra was enthusiastic, generous, affectionate, with strong\nreligious instincts and aspirations; Doctor Remy was cold, selfish,\naustere, without reverential sentiment, and, in matters of faith, an\nutter sceptic.  But these traits need not be supposed to have exhibited\nthemselves to Astra in their naked unloveliness.  To her imagination,\ndoubtless, they took the fairer form of a calm temperament, and great\nforce and firmness of character, allied to a keen and critical\nintellect; which last must needs be allowed to take its own appropriate\ntime and road to belief (except as it seemed willing to owe something\nto her loving guidance).  And Astra was of the age and character which\nare most prone to fall down and worship human intellect; failing, as\nyet, to understand that it is, in itself, of the earth earthy, and\nreally noble and admirable only as it is enlightened by the spirit of\nGod.  She was dazzled and fascinated by the extent and variety of\nDoctor Remy's attainments, and the range and freedom of his ideas.  To\ntalk with him was like drawing the curtain and opening wide the window\non a wintry evening, admitting free, frosty air, and giving a far\noutlook over bleak, white hills and leafless forests.  Nor did it alarm\nher that the air was much too fresh and chill to be breathed long with\ncomfort or safety, and the landscape drearily bare and skeleton-like,\nsince the doctor was always ready, at her slightest sign, to drop\nwindow and curtain, and turn back with her to warmer precincts and\ngentler themes.\n\nAnd so, it had come to pass that, as Doctor Remy walked up the shady\ngarden walk, he had good reason to congratulate himself upon the\nsuccess, thus far, of his plans.  Not only was Astra won, but she had\nconsented to keep silence about the wooing, for awhile.  Thus he was\nsaved from the awkwardness of having to account to Mrs. Lyte for his\nunwillingness to have the engagement made public.  It would be\ndifficult to invent a reason likely to commend itself to her judgment;\nyet it was out of the question to give her the real one,--namely, his\nreasonable doubt whether he should be altogether acceptable to Major\nBergan as the future husband of that gentleman's heiress, and so, in\nsome sense, as his heir; and his consequent fear lest the will in her\nfavor should be set aside.  Such a confession might give a mercenary\ntinge to his suit, in Mrs. Lyte's eyes, which he wisely deprecated.  So\nfar as he knew, neither she nor her daughter had ever heard of the\nMajor's declaration of his gracious intentions toward the latter; or,\nif they had, they regarded it only as a meaningless ebullition of his\nrage at Bergan Arling.  Such, in truth, would the doctor himself have\nthought it, except for certain later inquiries respecting Miss Lyte,\nput to himself by the Major; which seemed to show that the matter had\nnot escaped his memory.  Besides, in consideration of the Major's\nbitter resentment toward his brother and nephew,--extending,\napparently, to everybody connected with either,--no more eligible heir\nto the Bergan estate was to be found, than Astra Lyte.  If the Major\nhad made his will, as he threatened, there was no one, in the whole\nBergan connection, with so strong a claim upon his favorable\nconsideration.\n\nHere the doctor paused, for a moment, in his slow walk.  \"If!\" he\nmuttered, peevishly.  \"To think that the whole thing turns on a\nmiserable 'if!'  I must contrive some way of finding out whether that\nwill--or any will--was ever made.  There must be no defective nor\nmissing links in this chain, nothing to invite the meddling of the\ncursed fate which has followed me so long.  The Major must not be\npermitted to die, one of these days,--by the interposition of\nProvidence and delirium tremens, or something vastly like it,--and\nleave me with an abortive plan and a portionless _fianc\u00e9e_.  To be\nsure, I should not be long in getting rid of the latter, but there\nwould be no help for the former.\"\n\nHis soliloquy had brought him to his office door.  Suddenly bethinking\nhimself, then, that a certain patient had been overlooked in the\ncatalogue of the day's duties, he called for his horse, and set out to\nmake good the omission.\n\nHis road led past the Bergan estate.  As he was galloping swiftly\nonward, absorbed in his own reflections, he heard an energetic\n\"Halloo!\"  Pulling up his horse, and looking back, he beheld Major\nBergan leaning over a small gate, which opened into the fields near the\nquarter.\n\n\"Are you deaf?\" was his angry salutation, duly emphasized with an oath.\n\"Here I've been hollering after you, till I'm black in the face.  I\nwish I had saved myself the trouble!\"\n\n\"All the fault of my horse's hoofs,\" replied the doctor,\ngood-humoredly, as he turned his horse toward the gate; \"they made such\na clatter under me that I could not well hear anything else.  How can I\nserve you?\"\n\nMajor Bergan hesitated.  Apparently his business did not come readily\nto his lips.\n\n\"Perhaps you are on your way to a patient,\" he finally observed, as if\nhe would be well enough suited to find an excuse for not broaching it\nat all.\n\nHis reluctance only stimulated the doctor's curiosity.  \"The case is\nnot urgent,\" said he, carelessly; \"by and by, or even to-morrow\nmorning, will do just as well.  There is no reason why I should not be\nentirely at your service--as I am.\"\n\n\"Come in, then,\" returned the Major, in a tone that was far from\ngracious; but swinging open the gate, nevertheless, for Doctor Remy's\nadmission.\n\nThe latter dismounted, led his horse through, and slipping the bridle\nover his arm, walked by the Major's side to the cottage.  On the way,\nthe latter vouchsafed a brief explanation of his wishes.\n\n\"I've been thinking a good deal of the advice that you gave me awhile\nago,\" said he, \"and--and--I've concluded to make my will.  So, seeing\nyou riding by, just as my mind was full of the subject, it occurred to\nme that I might as well call you in, and have the thing over with.\"\n\n\"And a very sensible decision,\" returned Doctor Remy, as quietly as if\nhe were not filled with unexpected delight that the information which\nhe had hoped to gain only at cost of some deep and difficult scheming,\nwas thus placed within easy reach.  \"I only wonder that you have not\ndone it before.\"\n\n\"I don't see why I should,\" replied Major Bergan, sharply; \"I've always\nbeen strong and hearty,--what had I to do with making wills?  And, now\nthat I think of it, what have I to do with it now?  I'm not in a\ndecline yet, by any means.\"\n\n\"So much the better for your work,\" replied Doctor Remy, composedly.\n\"Deathbed wills are often contested.  No one will question your\nsoundness of mind, at present.\"\n\n\"I should think not,\" said the Major, decidedly.  \"If he did, he\nwouldn't be apt to doubt the soundness of my sinews,--I'd horsewhip him\ninto instant conviction.\"\n\n\"Are you provided with witnesses?\" asked the Doctor, when the Major's\nchuckle had subsided.\n\n\"Witnesses?  How many does it want?\"\n\n\"Two are necessary.\"\n\nThe Major mused for a moment.  \"I can have them here by the time they\nare needed,\" said he.  \"My new overseer at Number Two will do for one,\nand I'll send for Proverb Dick for the other.  Step into the cottage,\nand make yourself at home for a moment, while I see about it.\"\n\n\nDoctor Remy flung himself into the first chair that presented itself,\nand sank into a fit of thought.  A vague disquietude oppressed him,\nnotwithstanding that events seemed to be shaping themselves so much in\naccordance with his wishes.  He believed himself to be on the eve of\nvictory, or at least of a certain measure of present success which\nwould insure victory; but both religion and philosophy, he knew, were\nagreed in representing human expectations as of the nature of the\nflower of the field, in various danger from the frost, the knife, and\nthe uprooting wind.  To this general testimony he could add the special\nconfirmation of his own experience.  Like most men, Doctor Remy had the\nsobering privilege of looking back upon a career of which the successes\nwere few, and the failures and disappointments many.  The track of his\nearthly pilgrimage, thus far, he bitterly thought, was tolerably well\nstrewn with wrecks and abortions.\n\nA better man, trying to spell out the meaning and tendency of his life\nby the aid of a higher inspiration, might have found some comfort in\nthe review, nevertheless.  He might have discovered some evidences of\nharmony and design amid seeming discord and confusion, some solid\nfoundations showing underneath abortive ruins, some steady inward\ngrowth of patience and strength and hope, in lieu of an outward harvest\nof earthly possessions.  He might have discerned, with awe and\nhumility, that sometimes he had builded better than he knew, because\nbuilding in accordance with a certain overruling design, of which he\nnow first began to catch faint and partial glimpses.  But such\nconsolation was not allowed to Doctor Remy.  In his past, all was\nincomplete, confused, and unsatisfactory.  He had not gained what he\nsought, and nothing better had come to him through its loss.  For many\nyears of time, and an uncommon measure of talent, he had scarce\nanything to show of what he considered life's highest prizes--wealth,\nposition, influence.  He set himself seriously to discover why.  And,\nfor one moment, he, too, had a chill perception of a certain unity and\nsequence in the debris left behind him, unperceived before; which\nseemed to show that, though he had served his own ends but poorly, he\nhad none the less helped to forward some extended scheme, whereof he\nhad known nothing at the time, and could now discern only the most\nfragmentary outline.  But Doctor Remy quickly shook himself free of\nthis notion, with a smile at his own absurdity.\n\nWhy, then, he asked himself, had he failed?  Because of his mistakes,\nno doubt.  Let every man bear the blame of his own acts, and not try to\nthrow it off on his neighbors, or that convenient scapegoat,\nProvidence.  Looking back, he could discern many a point (and notably\none), where he had committed a grave error.  But his mistakes had been\nhis instructors, nevertheless.  He had gained from them knowledge that\nshould stand him in good stead yet.  To his former qualities of\nboldness, energy, perseverance, and skill, he now added the experience\nthat could use them to better effect.  It would be strange, indeed, if\nhe could not henceforth command success.\n\nHe had just reached this conclusion when Major Bergan joined him.\nAmple provision of lights, paper, pens, and ink, being then placed upon\nthe table, together with the inevitable brandy bottle, the two\ngentlemen sat down opposite each other, and Doctor Remy began his task\nof drawing up the will.  He first wrote the usual legal preamble, in a\nclear, rapid hand, and read it aloud for Major Bergan's approval.  Some\nsmall legacies followed, taken down nearly verbatim from the Major's\ndictation.  Doctor Remy then waited, for some moments, with his pen\nsuspended over the paper, while the Major seemed trying vainly to\narrange his thoughts.\n\n\"I don't quite know how to word the next,\" said he, at length, \"you\nmust put it into shape yourself.  I hold a mortgage of the place where\nCatherine Lyte lives; and I want it cancelled, at my death, in her\nfavor, or, if she does not survive me, in favor of her daughter Astra.\"\n\n\"You surprise me,\" remarked Doctor Remy, as he began to write; \"I have\nalways understood that the place was free from incumbrance.\"\n\n\"You understood wrong, then,\" replied Major Bergan.  \"Though, for\nanything that I know, Catherine Lyte may think so herself.  You see,\nHarvey got into difficulties eight or nine years ago, and I lent him\nmoney, and took a mortgage on the place.  He kept the interest paid up\nuntil his death; and since then, nothing has been said to me about\neither interest or principal; from which I concluded that Catherine did\nnot know of the fact.  And as I felt sorry for her, I decided to say\nnothing about it myself, as long as I was not in need of the money, nor\nlikely to be.  But it will not do her any harm to know, after I am\ndead, that I have been kinder to her than she knew of.\"\n\nDoctor Remy looked up with a smile.  \"I suspect,\" said he, \"that it\nwould not be well for her to offend you.\"\n\n\"I don't know about that,\" replied Major Bergan, complacently.  \"She\ndid offend me, when she took my nephew in; and I came pretty near\nforeclosing then.  But Maumer Rue convinced me that she could not\nafford to refuse a good offer for her rooms; and moreover, as Harry\nonly had his office there, and took his meals at the hotel, she need\nnot have much more to do with him than I did, if she did not choose.\"\n\nDoctor Remy did not think it necessary to enlighten the Major in regard\nto Bergan's familiarity with the family of Mrs. Lyte, since such a\ndisclosure must needs militate directly against his own ends.  He\nsilently put the Major's wish into correct legal phrase and form, and\nthen lifted his head with the question;--\n\n\"What next?\"\n\nMajor Bergan's face grew grave and troubled.  Thus far, it had been\neasy work, merely giving away what he did not care for, and should not\nmiss.  But now that the bulk of his property, real and personal, was to\ncome in question, he groaned inwardly at the necessity of bequeathing\nit to any one.  Did it not represent all the hopes, energies, labors\nand results of his whole life?  What a naked, shivering, miserable soul\nhe would be without it!  He had a feeling that he should never be quite\ncertain of his own identity, in eternity, without the houses and the\nlands, the negroes and the gold, for which he had lived in time.\n\n\"Well!\" said Dr. Remy, by way of reminding him that he was still\nwaiting.\n\nThe Major frowned; nevertheless, after another moment, he resumed his\ndictation.\n\n\"I give and bequeath,\" said he, slowly, \"my house known as Bergan Hall,\nwith all the lands thereto pertaining, including the rice-plantation\nknown as 'Number Two;' also my three houses in the town of Berganton;\nalso my block in the city of Savannah; also my negroes, horses, mills,\nand plantation implements; also, my household furniture and other\npersonal property, including all bonds, mortgages, moneys, and all\nother property whereof I die possessed, to-----\"\n\nDoctor Remy had written down the items of this comprehensive inventory\nwith a delight that he could scarcely keep from shining out in his\nface; and he now held his pen over the paper, while the Major paused,\nin real enjoyment of so timely an opportunity for pleasurable\nrecapitulation and anticipation.  The pause being a long one, however,\nhe finally raised his eyes to the rugged features opposite, and saw\nthat they were tremulous with emotion.  Words, too, soon began to break\nfrom the Major's lips, according to the habit which had grown upon him\nin his solitude;--he had forgotten for the time, that he was not alone.\n\n\"He is the natural heir, as Maumer Rue insists,\" he muttered, \"and the\nonly one justified by the old family precedents.  But,\" he went on, as\nDr. Remy began to tremble, vicariously, for Astra's prospects, \"he left\nme without so much as saying 'good bye;' he did just what he knew I was\nmost bitterly opposed to; and he has never come near me since.  No, he\nshall not have it!--he never shall have it, in spite of Maumer Rue's\nprophecies--I'll take care of that!\"\n\nAnd he began to repeat slowly, \"bonds, mortgages, moneys, and all other\nproperty whereof I die possessed, to--to--\"\n\nAgain he paused.\n\n\"Why can't he say 'to Astra Lyte,' and done with it?\" thought Dr. Remy,\nimpatiently, as he suddenly checked his pen in the midst of the first\ncurve of the letter A.\n\nThe Major made another effort;--\"To my niece, Carice Bergan,\" he\nconcluded, with a sigh.\n\nDoctor Remy's face fell so suddenly, that it attracted the Major's\nattention.\n\n\"Well! what is the matter now?\" he demanded, sharply.\n\nDoctor Remy could not immediately answer.  His mind was in a whirl of\nconfusion, disappointment, and anxiety.  Mechanically, he put his hand\nto his brow; and the gesture helped him to a plausible explanation.\n\n\"A sudden pain,\" said he, in a low, shaken voice; \"I have felt it\nseveral times of late.  Wait a minute, it will soon be over.\"\n\nAnd covering his eyes with his hands, he addressed himself at once to\nthe task of answering the difficult question;--\n\nWhat is to be done now?\n\nIt was well for him that he was accustomed to think rapidly and\nclearly, in the immediate presence of danger, that he was tenacious of\npurpose too, and that his instinct, in the midst of overthrow and ruin,\nwas to commence at once to rebuild.  Yet, for some moments, not an\navailable suggestion presented itself, not a shadow of help for the\nexigency that had so unexpectedly arisen.\n\n\"Then, suddenly, a thought came to him, and with it, a gleam of hope.\nHe took his hands from his eyes, and looked the Major gravely in the\nface.\n\n\"Before we go any farther,\" said he, \"I feel bound in honor to make a\nconfession.  If I had supposed that writing your will was going to put\nme in such an awkward position, I should certainly have desired you to\nlook elsewhere for a lawyer.  However, it cannot be helped now.  Well,\nthe truth is\"--he stopped for a moment, as if to overcome an excessive\nreluctance,--\"the truth is, I have long admired your niece; and now, as\nmy practice is steadily increasing, and I think I could take care of a\nwife, I had made up my mind to ask permission to pay her my addresses.\"\n\nMajor Bergan uttered a prolonged \"Whew!\" and settled himself back in\nhis chair.  \"That alters the case, certainly,\" said he, after a brief\nconsideration of this new phase of the matter.\n\n\"I am glad to hear it,\" exclaimed Dr. Remy, eagerly.  \"Pray--if it is\nnot too selfish in me to ask it--pray give Bergan Hall to the next most\neligible claimant, and leave me Miss Carice.\"\n\nThe Major raised his eyebrows, and leaning forward, fixed his eyes on\nDoctor Remy, as if he had found a new and interesting subject of study.\n\n\"Do you mean to say,\" he asked, gravely, \"that you would rather have\nCarice without Bergan Hall than with it?\"\n\n\"Decidedly,\" replied Doctor Remy.  \"I prefer an equal match to an\nunequal one.  I prefer to be credited with honorable motives, rather\nthan mercenary ones.  I don't want to be a pensioner on my wife's\nbounty.  It is doubtful if I could ever make up my mind to address the\nheiress of Bergan Hall.  And thus, you see, if you persist in making\nMiss Bergan your legatee, you are playing the mischief with my hopes\nand plans.\"\n\nMajor Bergan continued to stare, thoughtfully, at the doctor.  He was\nbeginning rather to like this disinterested suitor.\n\n\"Have you any reason to think that Carice favors you?\" he asked,\nfinally.\n\nDoctor Remy hesitated.  \"I really don't know how to answer that\nquestion.  If I should say 'yes,' in view of the 'trifles light as\nair,' from which I have ventured to draw some slight encouragement, I\nshould seem, even to myself, to be a conceited ass; and yet, if you\nwould only be good enough not to throw Bergan Hall into the scale\nagainst me, I should not be absolutely without hope.\"\n\nMajor Bergan gave a short laugh.  \"Who will know,\" he asked, \"that\nCarice is to have Bergan Hall?  I expect you to keep my counsel in this\nmatter.  That is why I asked you to do the business.  I had an idea\nthat you were closer-mouthed, both by nature and training, than those\nlawyers in Berganton.\"\n\n\"_I_ shall know it,\" replied Doctor Remy, virtuously, answering the\nMajor's question, and taking no notice of the compliment which followed\nit.  \"And I shall know, too, that the heiress of Bergan Hall, if she\nwere aware of her position, might reasonably expect to find a better\nmatch than a mere country physician.\"\n\n\"On my soul,\" exclaimed the Major, heartily, \"I think she might 'go\nfarther and fare worse!'  Go on, doctor and win her, if you can;--you\nhave my best wishes for your success.  Leave Bergan Hall out of the\nquestion; indeed, it may never come into it, after all.  Carice may\nrefuse you----\"\n\n(\"Little doubt of that,\" thought the doctor.)\n\n\"I may alter my will a dozen times, or make a new one,--\"\n\n(\"You will have to be in a hurry, if you do,\" thought the doctor again,\ngrimly.)\n\n\"At any rate, I expect you to frame that one so that Carice's husband,\nwhoever he may be, can have no control whatever over the property.  It\nis to be hers, and her children's, only.  So scribble away there, at\nyour best pace, or Proverb Dick will be here before we get through.\"\n\n\"But your brother Godfrey,\"--began Doctor Remy, in despair, racking his\nbrains for some consideration that would be likely to shake the Major's\npurpose.\n\n\"My brother Godfrey,\" interrupted Major Bergan, sternly, \"has nothing\nto do with this matter.  I don't give the property to him, but to\nCarice.  Perhaps, on the whole, I had better just give her a\nlife-interest in it, and then have it go to her eldest son, who shall\ntake the name of Bergan, and be christened Harry.  Yes, that will be\nthe better way.  Write it down so.\"\n\n\"But\"--began Doctor Remy again.\n\n\"Save your 'buts,' until we get through,\" broke in Major Bergan,\nsharply.  \"I tell you, Carice shall have the place.  If you don't want\nher with it, you can let her alone.  And if you can't, or won't, write\nmy will to suit me, I'll scud for some one who can and will.\"\n\nThis threat effectually silenced Doctor Remy.  It was essential that\nthe matter should not be taken out of his hands, till he had satisfied\nhimself that it could in nowise be turned to his account.  \"If it comes\nto the worst,\" said he to himself, \"it is something to have the\ndocument in my own handwriting.  That gives me a better chance to\nfurnish a substitute, at need.\"\n\nWith the rigid self-control that always characterized him, therefore,\nhe now put aside, as far as might be, his own hopes and plans, and set\nhimself diligently to the work of completing the will, in accordance\nwith the Major's instructions, and to his entire satisfaction.  He did\nnot even move a muscle when, in due time, the Major dictated a\nparagraph to the effect that if Carice should not survive him, or\nshould die without issue, the estate should fall to a distant cousin,\nnow in Europe, whose sole claim to his consideration appeared to be\nthat he bore the family name.  The doctor was proof against any further\nshocks, this evening.  Fate had done her worst for him, in forcing him\nto write \"Carice Bergan,\" where he had confidently expected to write\n\"Astra Lyte,\" and to find his account in so doing.\n\nAt the end of an hour, three closely written sheets lay upon the table,\nready for the signatures of the witnesses, whenever they should appear;\nand the Major, drawing a long breath of relief, to see his lugubrious\nbusiness so nearly finished, applied himself to the brandy bottle for\nappropriate refreshment.  Doctor Remy sat silent, abstractedly toying\nwith the pen that had been making such havoc with his plans.\n\nSuddenly he raised his eyes to Major Bergan's face with the question;--\n\n\"How did that medicine suit you?\"\n\n\"Admirably,\" replied the Major.  \"I have had one attack since you were\nhere,--a tolerably severe one, too,--but the second powder acted like a\ncharm.\"\n\n\"The second powder!\" thought the doctor.  \"I am afraid that I gave him\ntoo many!  At that rate, if chance favors him, he may hold on for a\nyear, or more.\"\n\nHe was opening his lips for another remark, when the door shook under a\nvigorous rap; and scarce waiting for the Major's invitation, Dick\nCauston entered.\n\n\n\n\nIII.\n\nBUILDING ANEW.\n\nThe new comer opened his eyes wide at sight of Doctor Remy, and the\ntable littered with writing materials; and looked with evident\ncuriosity at the closely written sheets of the will, the character of\nwhich he seemed at once to discover or divine.\n\n\"I see,\" said he, sententiously, nodding his head,--\"'Our last garment\nis made without pockets.'\"\n\nMajor Bergan shivered as if he had felt a chill breath from the mouth\nof a tomb.  It was hard to be so often reminded that he and his\npossessions must soon part, with small prospect of meeting again.\n\n\"If you must quote proverbs, Dick,\" he exclaimed peevishly, \"pray don't\nquote such cold-blooded ones as that!\"\n\n\"How could I help it, when 'it came to my hand like the bow o' a pint\nstoup?'\" answered Dick Causton coolly, with his eyes fixed hungrily on\nthe Major's brandy bottle.\n\nThe hint was successful.  Bottle and glass were immediately placed\nwithin his reach, and he made haste to warm and quicken his age-frosted\nblood with a deep draught of the potent liquor.  It was both strange\nand sad to see how his eye brightened, his face grew more animated, his\nfigure became more erect, his whole frame seemed to gather vigor and\nenergy, under its influence, while his air became, if possible, more\nmean and slouching than before.  It was as if he felt conscious\nhimself, and knew that any beholder would be sure to discover, that his\nproper strength and manhood had long since died out of him, and he was\nnow drawing unworthy breath and life from a source of which he was\nthoroughly ashamed, though unable to do without it.\n\nMajor Bergan, meanwhile, briefly explained why he had sent for him,\nadding, in a tone that was meant to be courteous, but narrowly escaped\ncondescension;--\n\n\"I knew that you would be glad to do a favor to an old friend like me,\nDick.\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" replied Richard Causton, heartily; \"especially as I\nsuspect that I shall also be doing a favor to my young friend, Mr.\nArling.  'He that loves the tree, loves the branch,' you know.\"\n\nMajor Bergan frowned.  \"I don't see what my nephew has to do with it,\"\nsaid he, surlily.\n\nDick Causton gave him a look of surprise.  \"_De vrucht valt niet ver\nvan den stam_,\" said he, shaking his head.  \"That is to say, The fruit\nfalls near the stem.  It isn't nature for a man to leave his property\naway from his own blood.  It isn't right, either, in my opinion.\"\n\n\"I am not going to leave mine away from my blood,\" replied Major\nBergan, austerely; \"though, if I were, I do not see that it is\nanybody's affair but my own.\"\n\n\"Nor I either,\" rejoined Dick Causton, coolly, \"unless your dead\nancestors should imagine it to be theirs.  _Os demos \u00e1 os suyos\nquieren_,--The devils are fond of their own,--and so, doubtless, are\nthe saints, if any such are to be found in your pedigree.  It is\nreasonable to suppose that they would all prefer to see their earthly\npossessions go down in the channel marked out by nature.  Anyway, I'm\nright glad to know that Mr. Arling is to have his rights, some day,\nfine fellow that he is!  I've always had a kindness for him, ever since\nI first gave him a lift, on his way to you.\"\n\nMajor Bergan looked very grim.  \"Yes, Mr. Arling will have his rights,\"\nsaid he, with stern emphasis,--\"I've seen to that.\"\n\nDick Causton glanced from the Major's face to the will, with an\ninstinctive feeling that all was not right, but could make nothing of\neither.  The one was dark and impenetrable; the other was upside down,\nfrom his point of view.  Apparently, nothing invited attack but the\nbrandy bottle.  That, he was glad to see, was not yet empty.\n\n\"I am wasting words,\" said he, shrugging his shoulders.  \"_A chose\nfaite conseil pris_.  'Advice after action is like medicine after\ndeath'--or brandy after one has ceased to be thirsty.\"\n\n\"Take another glass,\" said Major Bergan.\n\nDick obeyed with alacrity.  The dram was scarcely swallowed, ere a tap\nat the door announced the arrival of the overseer from \"Number Two,\"--a\ntall, lank, taciturn Texan, whom the Major had recently taken into his\nemploy, as a short cut to that avoidance of the rice fields which\nDoctor Remy had recommended.\n\nThe ceremonies of signing and sealing the will immediately followed.\nDick Causton was greatly disappointed that the document was not read in\nhis hearing, as he had expected.\n\n\"Never buy a pig in a poke, nor sign a paper without reading it,\" said\nhe, as he took the pen into his hand.  \"How am I to tell what will I\nreally signed, if I know nothing of the contents?  However, it's your\nrisk, not mine,\" he added, hastily, seeing that Major Bergan was\nbeginning to look impatient.  And, forthwith, he bent his energies to\nthe task of writing his name in a large, angular, and very tremulous\nhand; and then shook his head dubiously over the result.\n\n\"It looks like nothing that ever I wrote before,\" he remarked, as he\nlaid down the pen.  \"But _Hund er hund om han er aldrig saa broget_,--A\ndog, is a dog whatever be his color,--and so, a signature must be a\nsignature though it wiggle across the paper like a tipsy eel.  Perhaps\nI shall know it by that token, when I see it again.  But I can't\npromise.\"\n\n\"I shall know mine,\" observed the overseer, confidently, as he lifted\nthe pen.\n\nDoctor Remy leaned forward with sudden interest.  The name was written\nin commonplace fashion enough, but it was finished with an odd,\ncomplicated flourish.\n\n\"Do you always sign your name in that way?\" he asked.\n\n\"Always.\"\n\n\"It looks very difficult; yet you seemed to do it with much ease.  Let\nme see the process again.\"  And he pushed a piece of paper over to the\nman, who, gratified to find his skill so heartily appreciated, scrawled\nit all over with his sign-manual, in wearisome repetition.  The paper\nwas then passed from one to another, for a brief examination, and was\nfinally left in the hands of Doctor Remy; who first began absently to\nroll it round his fingers, and ended by tearing it in three or four\npieces, in a fit of apparent abstraction.  Nobody noticed that one of\nthese found its way into his pocket as a thing of possible utility, in\nthe future.\n\nHe then rose.  \"I am sorry to be obliged to go so soon,\" said he,\ncourteously, \"but a physician's time is not his own.  Good evening,\nMajor Bergan, I am always at your service, and in any capacity.  Good\nevening, Mr. Causton, doubtless, we shall meet again.\"\n\nDick glanced at the brandy bottle, and, seeing that it was empty, was\ntaken with a sudden fancy for the doctor's society.\n\n\"I'll walk along with you, doctor, at least as far as our road is one,\"\nsaid he, rising.  \"Good company makes short miles.\"\n\n\"I came in the saddle,\" answered Doctor Remy, \"but we can be companions\nas far as the gate, if you like.\"\n\nNevertheless, the pair did not separate at the gate.  Their\nconversation had become too interesting, apparently, to both; and Dick\nCauston continued to walk on by the side of the doctor's horse.\n\nIt was late when he reached his cabin, that night.  Very suggestively,\ntoo, he reeled across the threshold, and, missing the bed, deposited\nhimself heavily on the floor.\n\n\"_Tidt meder man ei did som man vil skyde_, A man does not always aim\nat what he means to hit,\"--he muttered, resignedly, merely changing his\nposition for a more comfortable one, and dozing off to sleep.\n\nSomewhere, on the way--or out of it--apparently, he had found a\nsupplementary brandy bottle, and had not left it until it was as empty\nas the Major's.\n\nIt was late, too, when Doctor Remy laid his head on his pillow, that\nnight.  And, perhaps, in all Berganton, there was no wearier nor sadder\nman than he.  One apparently well-constructed plan had just gone to\npieces in his hands, without note of warning.  Another was now to be\nbuilt up out of the fragments, pitilessly rejecting whatever had been\nan element of weakness in the first.  Already, its outline had begun to\nshape itself dimly against his mental horizon.  Yet he did not allow\nhimself to linger upon it to-night.  With the rigid self-control which\nhe habitually exercised, he put aside disappointment, care, and hope,\nand soon slept as soundly as if no anxiety rested on his mind, no stain\non his conscience.\n\nHe was early astir.  With the morning light came quickness and\nclearness of thought.  His scheme began to look more distinct and\nfeasible.  By way of getting it in hand at once, he tapped lightly at\nthe door of Astra's studio.\n\nHe was somewhat surprised to find her before an easel, palette and\nbrushes in hand.  She smiled and blushed at his approach.\n\n\"I know what you would say,\" she began, apologetically,--\"'A Jack at\nall trades,' _et caetera_, but I really wanted color for _this_\nsubject.\"  She pointed to her canvas.  \"Do you recognize it?\"\n\n\"I can see that those are Miss Bergan's eyes,\" replied Doctor\nRemy;--\"all else is delightfully vague and suggestive.\"\n\n\"And what eyes they are!\" exclaimed Astra, admiringly,---not without a\npleasant perception, too, that she had succeeded wonderfully well in\nputting them on canvas.\n\nDoctor Remy did not answer immediately.  He was regarding the portrait\nwith a gravity that Astra could not understand,--unless, indeed, his\nthoughts were elsewhere.  Nevertheless, when he spoke, it was\nsufficiently to the point.\n\n\"Yes, they are very fine eyes,\" said he.  \"And Miss Bergan is\naltogether very pretty,--in an uncommon style, too.  It is surprising\nthat she has remained heartfree so long.\"\n\nAstra looked at him with soft, smiling, amused eyes.  \"Heartfree!  As\nmuch as I am,\" said she.\n\nDoctor Remy gave her a questioning look.\n\n\"I am not going to tell you anything about it,\" said she, laughingly.\n\"Use your eyes, sometimes, in watching your neighbors, as I do.\"\n\n\"Who _is_ my neighbor?\" asked Doctor Remy, smiling.\n\n\"The proper question!\" laughed Astra.  \"In this case, you need not\njourney beyond this roof, to find him.\"\n\nDoctor Remy's eyes lit with a sudden, strange gleam.  \"Do you _know_ it\nis so?\" he asked, quickly.\n\n\"Ho, I cannot quite say that;--I doubt if she knows it herself yet.\nBut I believe it, all the same.\"\n\nDoctor Remy watched her absently for some moments, then made a few\ncurt, critical remarks about her work, bade her a cool good morning,\nand withdrew.\n\nAstra looked after him, with a troubled, wondering expression.\n\n\"What has come over him?\" she asked herself.  \"How have I offended him?\nOr was it only my fancy that he seemed so cold and strange?\"\n\n\nBefore Doctor Remy began his professional rounds, that morning, he had\nsketched, in outline, the main features of a new plan for the\nacquisition of Bergan Hall.  The minor details he wisely left to the\nsuggestions of time and circumstance.\n\nOne of these proved to be very close at hand.  As he drove mechanically\nthrough the principal street of Berganton, revolving various\nprobabilities and possibilities in his mind, and trying to make some\nprovision for each, he espied Miss Ferrars coming up the\nsidewalk,--easily recognizable, at almost any distance, by her\npeculiarly mincing and swaying gait.  In all similar encounters with\nthe slightly faded maiden,--whom he shrewdly suspected of designs upon\nhis bachelor liberty,--it had been his wont to slide swiftly past, with\na low and deprecatory bow, suggestive of his deep regret that the\nurgency of his haste denied him the pleasure of stopping to inquire\nafter her health.  On this occasion, therefore, she was agreeably\nsurprised to see him rein his horse up to the sidewalk, with the\nobvious intention of speaking to her.  Perhaps her heart beat a little\nmore quickly, as she stopped to listen.\n\nApparently, however, he had nothing of more importance to communicate\nthan a commonplace enough observation about the heat of the weather,\nand a friendly caution not to walk far in so fervid a sunshine as was\nflooding the town with its golden waves.  Then, he gathered up his\nreins, as if to signify that his say was said, and he was ready to\nproceed.  Nevertheless, he lingered a moment longer, to add,\ncarelessly,--\n\n\"By the way, I ought to acknowledge that you were right, and I was\nwrong, the other day.  It is not the first time that man's reason has\nhad to admit the superior correctness, as well as quickness, of woman's\nintuition.\"\n\nMiss Ferrars looked both pleased and puzzled.  \"It is very good of you\nto say so,\" she answered, simpering;--\"but really, I can't think what\nyou allude to.\"\n\n\"When you called at my office, a few days ago,\" explained the doctor,\n\"you did me the honor to confide to me your impressions with regard to\nmy friends, Miss Lyte and Mr. Arling.  I thought you were mistaken, and\ntold you so.  It turns out, however, that the mistake was on my part,\nnot yours.  I was really blind--not wilfully so, as you had the charity\nto suppose.  I mention the matter the more readily because it must soon\nbe patent to everybody.  Good morning.\"\n\nAnd without waiting for a reply, Doctor Remy courteously lifted his\nhat, and went his way, with a curious smile on his lips.\n\n\"That last intimation ensures speed,\" said he to himself.  \"Miss\nFerrars will do her best to be beforehand with the news.  Before\nto-morrow morning, it will be known throughout the town.  Then, I can\neasily manage so that it shall reach the Major's ears, and--by the help\nof my loving commentary--produce the desired effect.  Astra must be\ngotten out of the way, for the present, at least.  So must Arling; last\nnight's business convinced me that he is more dangerous than I\nimagined.  The Major deceives himself, but he does not deceive me; his\nbitterness towards his nephew is nothing more than piqued and smothered\naffection,--affection undergoing fermentation, as it were, and certain\nto work itself clear and sweet, in time.  If Arling remains in the\nneighborhood, the Major will soon be seizing upon some pretext for a\nreconciliation.  Failing of that, Miss Carice is certain to inherit his\nestate; just because he wooed--and did not win--her mother, some\ntwenty-five or thirty years ago!  No doubt, a marriage between the two\nwould suit him exactly, if he once got hold of the idea.  Yes, Arling\nmust be gotten rid of.  But how?\"\n\nHe bent his brows moodily.  Some expedient, apparently, soon suggested\nitself to him, and was immediately rejected with a shake of the head.\n\n\"No, not _that_ way,\" he muttered.  \"I'm determined against actual,\npoint-blank crime, so called,--except as a last resource.  Besides, it\nis not necessary; I only want to get rid of him until the Major is\ndead, and Miss Carice is my wife.  There _must_ be some way to dispose\nof him, by lawful means, if I could only hit upon it!  Really, if there\nwere a Devil, as some people believe, he would strain a point now in my\nfavor!  At all events, I think I see my way clear with Astra.\"\n\nHe was silent, for an instant; his brow grew sombre with unwonted\nregret.\n\n\"Poor Astra!\" he murmured, as he drove into the cathedral-like gloom of\nthe far-stretching pine barren,--\"I am really loath to give her up!\nBut her chance of the Hall, I see now, is not worth a picayune.  And it\nwon't do to trust to the possibility of substituting a manufactured\nwill for the real one, as long as I cannot find out where the latter is\ndeposited.  The Major was very close-mouthed about _that_ matter.  No,\nMiss Carice is my safest resort.  Yet Astra would suit me much better,\non the whole.\"  And once again, looking absently up the long, columned\nvista of the narrow road, he murmured regretfully;--\n\n\"Poor Astra!\"\n\n\n\n\nIV.\n\nA SERMON.\n\nThe next day was Sunday.  It came to the earth, as it comes always,\nwith kindly, hallowed hands full of blessings, but found not everywhere\nhearts and minds open to receive them.  Carice Bergan, to be sure,\nknelt in her accustomed place, in the little church of her fathers,\nwith a face which might almost have rivalled that of an angel in its\nbright peacefulness, and with all the windows of her soul plainly open\nto the heavenly sunshine.  Bergan Arling, too, conscious that each one\nof these holy days had its own special gift or grace for him, its own\nkind and measure of spiritual food, which he could ill afford to lose,\nknelt in his proper place, and reverently lent his full, rich voice to\nswell the solemn flow of common prayer, or the harmonious burst of\nchoral praise.  And Mrs. Lyte, in her widow's weeds, looking upward in\nspirit, to the long peace of Paradise, and the shining faces of the\nredeemed, was glad to believe in \"the communion of saints,\" and\nrejoiced in the day that was both a foretaste and a promise of the\n\"life everlasting.\"  Even Astra Lyte, though suffering from a vague and\nnameless depression,--a burden of which, as yet, she felt only the\nweight and chill, without comprehending, or daring to try to\ncomprehend, whence it came or what it meant,--was sensible of a dim\ndelight, and possibly a latent helpfulness, in the sweet and solemn\ninfluences of the day and the place.  Here and there, moreover, a soul\nbowed under the weight of recent affliction, or shaken with the terrors\nof a newly-awakened conscience, was both awed and glad to be able to\ngive itself audible expression in words so fit and forcible as those of\nthe Confession and the Litany, and thankful if it might pick up so much\nas a crumb of pardon and peace from the Master's bountiful table.\n\nBut, to Doctor Remy, paying an unwilling tribute to public opinion by\nshowing himself at church, on this morning, after many weeks of\nabsence, and leaving it to be inferred that, but for his professional\nduties, he would be seen there regularly; to Miss Ferrars, mingling\nsolemn words of confession and penitence with frivolous thoughts of\ndress and gossip; to Dick Causton, slinking shame-facedly into the rear\npew, to listen to the conclusion of the sweet, old, familiar hymn, the\nfirst sounds of which had fallen enticingly upon his ear, as he was\nstaggering up the street;--to these, and many others like them,\ndoubtless, Sunday brought only present irksomeness and future\ncondemnation.\n\nThe hymn being finished, Mr. Islay ascended the pulpit, and, laying his\nmanuscript open before him, looked round on the crowded congregation,\nwith serious, almost melancholy, eyes.  Perhaps he sought, amid those\nupturned faces, for some sign of human sympathy, to lighten a little\nhis heavy sense of responsibility; perhaps he wondered to which of\nthese souls his words were now to prove a savor of life unto life, and\nto which, a savor of death unto death.  Deep and clear, and full of a\nsolemn music, his voice broke the silence.\n\n\"In the fifth, chapter of Proverbs, and in the twenty-second verse, it\nis written:\n\n'HE SHALL BE HOLDEN WITH THE CORDS OF HIS SINS.'\"\n\n\nThree faces were at once alive with interest.  Doctor Remy, indeed,\ngave a slight and almost imperceptible start, as if his intellect not\nonly, but his memory or his conscience, had felt an awakening touch.\nBergan Arling merely fixed his eyes more intently on the speaker, with\nthe aspect of a man who was glad to find that the coming discourse was\nlikely to link into, and carry on, some previous train of thought.  As\nfor Dick Causton, the word \"Proverbs\" was sufficient to command his\nearnest, and even critical, attention.  He believed that he knew a good\ndeal about proverbs himself; he had made a lifelong study of their\ncharacteristics and principles of interpretation; he had often declared\nthose of Solomon--such as were strictly proverbs--to be of the best; he\nwould stay and hear what a tyro like Mr. Islay had to say about this\nparticular one.\n\nThis, briefly, was what the clergyman said.\n\n\"Many texts are like rosebuds.  They have a simple form, and an obvious\nsignification.  But if you steep them in the dew of meditation and the\nsunshine of faith, they begin to unfold meaning after meaning, as the\nrosebud petal after petal; and in the centre there is a golden\nheart,--the gracious blessing of God on the fervent and prayerful\nspirit, and the inquiring and teachable mind.  Let us pray that the\ntext which we are considering, may prove such an one to each of us.\n\n\"A man's sin is sure to find him out.  It may have been committed in\nsecret, muffled thickly with caution, and finally buried deep under\ntime and distance and circumstance; it may remain hidden for years; it\nmay have been forgotten, except for an occasional dark moment, by the\nsinner himself; yet, some time, some day, what seems to be a chance,\nbut is truly a providence, lifts the veil, and takes hold of the\nclue,--or death throws the lurid light of his inverted torch over the\ndark transaction,--and the liar, the thief, the adulterer, the\nmurderer, or whatever may be the miserable man's miserable name, is\nbrought to the bar either of human or divine justice.  And there is no\nescape.  The bands of his iniquity are around him; they bind him hand\nand foot; he is holden with the cords of his sins.\n\n\"This is perhaps the first and most obvious meaning of the text.  It\nassures us that, 'though punishment be lame, it arrives.'  It warns us\nnot to make cords which are certain to be used, some day, for our own\nbinding.\n\n\"But men are apt to think lightly of a remote evil.  The present\nmonopolizes their fears, as it does their labors.  Moreover (they say),\nthere are dozens of little, everyday sins, which entail no such fearful\nconsequences.  Let us see how our text bears upon these points.\n\n\"Sin is not a simple, but a complex, thing.  It is a cord twisted of\nmany threads, and some of them begin very far back.  A man is seldom\ntaken in the toils of a sudden, single temptation, or bound with the\ncords of an utterly unimagined and unpremeditated sin.  He has made the\nway and work easy to each of them, by yielding to preliminary\ntemptations, and carelessly allowing the binding of preparatory sins.\nHe is holden with the cords of the evil thought to the unhallowed\ndesire and the foul gratification.  He is holden with the cords of that\nseemingly venial sin to this final burden of guilt and shame, by that\nunbridled passion to this startling, terrible crime.  The slender cord\ndraws the stout one after it: at sight of _that_, the man may start and\nshrink, but he is already half-bound, and his resistance is feeble.\nHaving taken the first step, he is committed to the second; having\nadmitted the premise, he is bound to the logical conclusion.  Here, as\nbefore, he is holden with the cords of his sins.\n\n\"Moreover, there are few things stronger, for good or ill, than habit.\nAnd every sin, however small, _may_ begin an evil habit, and is _sure_\nto confirm one.  Round and round goes the slender cord, till it binds\nas strongly as a chain of iron.  One part after another yields to the\nsubtle, stealing influence; first, the will succumbs; then, the reason;\nfinally, the conscience.  Day by day, good ceases to attract, and evil\nto repel.  Day by day, the right becomes more difficult, and the wrong\neasier.  The habit soon becomes fixed; the man is firmly bound.  To the\nside of evil, and the service of Satan, he is holden with the cords of\nhis sins.\n\n\"Again: If thought be the spring of action, action is also the spring\nof thought.  If it be true that, 'as a man thinks, he is,' so it is\ntrue that as he is, he thinks.  Thought is by turns cause and effect.\nIf a man's sins are the result of his evil thoughts, so his evil and\nerroneous thoughts are sometimes the result of his sins.  He cannot\nlong continue to think right if he act wrong.  After breaking the\nSabbath awhile, he ceases to think of it as a holy day.  After\ncommitting murder, he ceases to regard life as sacred.  Violating human\nlaw, it becomes a terror instead of a protection.  Defying the Divine\nlaw, he soon denies its authority.  Sin distorts his views, as well as\nhis life.  The truths of religion lose their clearness to his mind with\ntheir power to influence his action.  Doubts, scepticism, infidelity,\nfind an open door, and an easy road, to his heart.  If a man would keep\nfast hold of his Christian faith, let him take care to order his\nactions, as far as possible, in conformity to its precepts.  But, on\nthe other hand, let him give free rein to his appetites and\nambitions,--yea, even to the commission of absolute crime,--if he\nwishes to become a mocker and an infidel, without love of God or man,\nwithout correct views of time or clear ones of eternity.  For, to all\nthese things, he will be sure to be holden with the cords of his sins.\n\n\"Finally; All men love liberty.  But sin, though it may seem, at first,\nto be the wildest liberty, soon proves to be the narrowest bondage.\nThe sinner is the slave of appetites, of habits, of thoughts, that are\nhard task-masters; and the wages of which are every kind of death.  For\nthere are many kinds,--social, political, moral, before the final,\neverlasting death;--and one, or all, of these, he is sure to taste, as\nthe reward of his faithful service of Satan.  His health is undermined,\nor his reputation destroyed; his fortune is dissipated, or his gold\ncorroded in the using; he is shaken with the terrors of conscience, or\nhardened into the semblance of stone; he is without adequate\nconsolation in the day of trouble, and without strengthening hope in\nthe day of death; but his slavery is abject and absolute.  He neither\nwill nor can escape.  He is holden with the cords of his sins.\n\n\"Thus you will see, beloved, that our text has a word of solemn warning\nfor the present, as well as for the future.  The holding of sin is to\nbe dreaded in life, not less than at death.  One sin holds fast to\nanother.  Single sins twist together into the strong cord of habitual\nsin.  The sinful act draws after it evil thoughts and loose opinions.\nSin is a continual, daily bondage, as well as a final retribution.\n\n\"Beware then, oh, ye young! how you bind yourselves with cords of\nsinful thoughts, or habits, or opinions, or passions, to the exclusion\nof that blessed liberty which is in Christ Jesus.  Beware, oh, ye\nadults! how you go on adding sin to sin, and cord to cord, till you are\nbound hand and foot, thought and will, body and soul; and are finally\ncast down to perdition, in bonds of your own industrious\nforging--holden with the cords of your sins!\n\n\"But,--do you say?--we are all sinners, we are all 'holden,' how are we\nto break from the cords of our sins?  Go to Christ.  At His feet, all\nbonds are broken, all slavery ends.  He leads captivity captive, and\nHis service is perfect freedom.  He is our righteousness, and the man\nthat trusteth in Him, shall no more be holden with the cords of His\nsins.\"\n\nSuch was the substance of the sermon.  But in the delivery, there was a\nwarmth and an earnestness, a happiness of expression and illustration,\nand a deep solemnity, that held the congregation spell-bound with\ninterest, to the end!\n\nPerhaps no one had listened more attentively, or humbly, than Bergan\nArling.  So recently had he felt the irksome holding of the cords of\nhis sins!  And he would still, no doubt, be holden to their\nconsequences, all the days of his life, if not to their guilt.\n\nAs for Doctor Remy, there was an unusual pallor in his face, when he\nrose, at the singing of the last hymn.  But it was quickly gone; he\ncame out of the church with much of his usual cold, composed demeanor.\nHis sins had held him too long to loosen their stricture at one\ntransient quake of conscience.\n\nDick Causton had listened for some time with marked attention, and\napparent approval.  Then, a kind of haze had slowly bedimmed his sight\nand beclouded his brain.  When the congregation came down the aisles,\nhe was fast asleep, with his head drooping heavily on his breast.  If\nanything could have added to the effect of the sermon, this sight ought\nto have done so.  Most certainly, poor Dick was \"holden with the cords\nof his sins.\"\n\nWhen the church was empty, he was shaken rudely by the sexton, and\nturned out, muttering caustic proverbs by way of retaliation.\n\n\n\n\nV.\n\nPARTINGS.\n\nBergan and Doctor Remy walked home from the church, as they had gone\nthither, side by side; yet, for a considerable time, neither spoke.  If\nnot altogether congenial spirits, they were on sufficiently easy and\nfamiliar terms, in virtue of their almost daily association, to allow\neach to pursue his own train of thought, on occasion, without reference\nto the other.\n\nTo Bergan, Mr. Islay's sermon had been interesting and effective, not\nonly for what it contained, but for what it suggested.  Naturally,\ntherefore, his mind was now busy in following out those suggestions to\nthe point where they bore upon his own experience, and unfolded their\nlessons for his own soul.\n\nBut Dr. Remy's thoughts had long since strayed away from any channel\ninto which the sermon was calculated to lead them.  There had been some\nbrief moments, during its delivery, to be sure, when he had shrunken\ninwardly, iron-nerved though he were, from the deep, sharp probing of\ncertain of its sentences; and there had been a single instant, perhaps,\nwherein he had been made dimly to see, or to suspect, that his own life\nand character--much as he had prided himself upon being the independent\nartificer of them both--were really the results to which he had been\nholden by the cords of former, half-forgotten sins.  But he had made\nhaste to shake himself free from both the idea and its effect, with one\nsmile of scorn at his own folly, and another at what he chose to\nconsider the weak superstition of the clergyman and his awed,\ninterested flock.  He thanked God--using the phrase in a vague, general\nsense which, perhaps, was only equivalent to thanking himself--that he\nwas not as these men were.  And no sooner was he in the open air than\nhe set his busy mind to the consideration of his own projects.  Some\nclue to its workings may perhaps be afforded by the question with which\nhe finally broke the silence.\n\n\"Have you ever had the yellow fever, Arling?\"\n\n\"No; it does not visit our western villages.\"\n\n\"Then, I advise you to take refuge in one of them, for the next three\nmonths.  It is certain to visit Berganton ere long.\"\n\n\"Indeed!\" said Bergan, with more curiosity than alarm.  \"Why do you\nthink so?\"\n\n\"From the weather, the atmosphere, the present type of disease,--a\ndozen indications patent to the eye of experience.  Besides, I am\ninformed by a private letter that it has already appeared in New\nOrleans.  Its arrival here is but a question of time.  And I assure you\nthat its acquaintance is to be avoided.\"\n\n\"Doubtless.  And I shall do my best to avoid it--except by running\naway.\"\n\n\"You might as well say,\" answered Doctor Remy, dryly, \"that you will\ntake every precaution against drowning--except to keep your head above\nwater.  Don't be fool-hardy, Arling.  Yellow Jack has a keen appetite\nfor strangers,--that is to say, for all who are not native born.  If he\nspares any, it is usually the sickly and feeble, not the strong and\nvigorous.  He would consider you a toothsome morsel.  Take my advice,\nand go home, or go North, or take a sea-voyage,--do anything rather\nthan remain here during the last of summer and the beginning of autumn.\nIt will be no loss to you.  After the first of next month, there will\nbe absolutely nothing for a lawyer to do here but try to keep cool.\"\n\n\"And you?\" asked Bergan.\n\n\"Oh, I stay, of course.  An epidemic is a physician's harvest time.\nBesides, I have had the yellow fever.\"\n\n\"Then the native-born do not all escape?\"\n\n\"By no means.  Besides, I lost my birthright by many years' absence in\nEurope.  It was immediately after my return that I was taken.  Now I\nmay consider myself acclimated.\"\n\n\"As I must be,\" replied Bergan, \"if, as is likely, I am to spend the\nremainder of my life at the South.  Thank you for your friendly\nwarning, but I think I must stay.\"\n\nDoctor Remy shrugged his shoulders, and said no more.  He had merely\ntried the first and simplest expedient which occurred to him, for\nremoving Bergan from the neighborhood.  He was not surprised nor\ntroubled that it had failed.  He had expected as much.  But there were\nother and surer means to his end, he believed, at his command.\n\nHowever, he was not obliged to resort to them.  Early next morning\nBergan came into his office, with an open letter in his hand, and a\nmost anxious face.\n\n\"Read that,\" said he, huskily, \"and tell me if there is any hope.\"\n\nDoctor Remy obeyed, reading the letter not once only, but twice, and\nlooking long and meditatively at the signature.  Then he lifted his\neyes to Bergan's face.\n\n\"Plenty of hope, in my opinion,\" said he; \"I do not attach as much\nimportance as this Doctor Trubie does to your mother's fancy that she\nis going to die.  It only argues a depressed state of mind,\ncorresponding to a low state of body.  Nevertheless, it is well to do\nwhatever can be done to raise her spirits; and I suspect that your\npresence at her bedside will avail much to that end.  Of course, you\nset out at once?\"\n\n\"Certainly.  Can you tell me at what hour the next train leaves\nSavalla?\"\n\nDoctor Remy glanced at his watch.  \"In an hour and a half.  That gives\nyou ample time;--fifteen minutes to throw a few things into a\nportmanteau, and tell me what I can do for you while you are away; five\nminutes for _adieux_, and an hour and ten minutes to reach Savalla, in\nthe saddle, with a swift horse.\"\n\n\"If I can find one at such short notice,\" said Bergan, doubtfully.\n\nDoctor Remy pulled a bell-wire, and Scipio's black head appeared as\ninstantaneously as if he had been attached to the other end of it.\n\n\"Saddle the roan, and take him round to the front gate,\" said Doctor\nRemy.  \"Mr. Arling will ride him to Savalla, You will go after him, by\nthe stage, this afternoon.  Quick now!\"\n\nThe head ducked, and disappeared.\n\n\"How can I thank you!\" exclaimed Bergan, wringing the doctor's hand.\n\n\"By attending to the portmanteau business at once.  I will come with\nyou; we can talk while you work.  I want to ask something about this\nDoctor Trubie.  Does he keep up with the times,--in medicine, that is?\"\n\n\"I don't know--I believe so.\"\n\n\"H'm; there have been some recent discoveries of great value in the\ntreatment of typhoids, when they run long and low, as they are apt to\ndo.  Suppose I write down a few suggestions, which, if there is grave\nneed, you can commend to Doctor Trubie's favorable consideration.\nOtherwise, don't interfere.\"\n\nBergan tried once more to express his gratitude, as the folded paper\nwas put in his hand; but Doctor Remy cut him short.\n\n\"If you really want to thank me,\" said he, \"do it by staying away until\nthe sickly season is over; I shall have yellow fever patients enough\nwithout you.  Indeed, you _must_; having left, it would be suicidal to\ncome back before the first of November.  Tell your mother that I said\nso, when she is convalescent.\"\n\n\"When she is convalescent,\" repeated Bergan, quickly.  \"Then you _do_\nhope!\"\n\n\"Of course I do.  There is every reason for it.  Your mother, being a\nBergan, has a sound constitution, and an almost indomitable vitality;\nand she is not yet old.  If Trubie makes a good fight, he is sure to\nwin.  At any rate, never despair till the breath is out of the body;\nnor even then, till you are certain that it cannot be brought back.\"\n\nBergan could not but feel a pang of self-reproach for his\nlong-smothered dislike and distrust of the man who was thus loading him\nwith obligations,--help on his way to his mother, ready encouragement,\nand valuable professional advice.  It did not occur to him that there\nis such a thing as doing good that evil may come!\n\nDoctor Remy looked after him with a triumphant smile.  \"One out of my\nway already!\" he exclaimed.  \"It would seem that the Devil (another\nname for Fate or Chance) _has_ helped me!\"\n\nBergan next sought Mrs. Lyte and Astra, for a parting word.  He found\nthe latter in her studio, sitting idly by a window, with her hands\nfolded listlessly in her lap, and a weary, dejected face that went to\nhis heart.  Never before had he seen her otherwise than busy, bright,\nand earnest; never had she met his look with so faint and transient a\nsmile.\n\n\"I am sorry that you are going,\" said she, sombrely; \"sorrier, perhaps,\nthan the occasion may seem to warrant.  But I cannot rid myself of a\nsuspicion that this phase of our life and friendship is finished; and\nwho can tell what the next may be!  Do you remember our first meeting\nunder the oaks, and the red sunset light, and the dark sunset cloud?\nYou interpreted them to mean that we were to know sunshine and shade\ntogether, did you not?  Well, we have had the sunshine; now, it is time\nfor the shade.\"\n\n\"You forget,\" said Bergan, kindly, \"that the cloud was but for a\nmoment, and the sunshine returned.\"\n\n\"No, I remember it well.  But the cloud was very dark while it lasted,\nand the shine was not quite so bright afterward.  It was nearer to its\nsetting.\"\n\nBergan could scarcely believe that it was Astra who spoke.  Hitherto,\nshe had been the moral sunshine of the house, felt even where it did\nnot directly fall.  Her spirit, in its potency of cheer, resembled the\nsunbeam which, though it kindle but one little spot on the floor into\nactual brightness, diffuses its light and cheerfulness throughout a\nwhole room.  As every article of furniture, every picture, every face,\nin the room, is the brighter for the sunbeam, so every inmate of Mrs.\nLyte's rambling old dwelling had been the happier for Astra's presence\nand influence.  The sound of her clear, buoyant voice, the thought of\nher light, busy figure, just across the hall, had always served to\nquicken and brighten his own energies.  It had been very much his wont\nto bring all his shadows, discouragements, and despondencies, to be\ndissipated by contact with her breezy activity and cheery hopefulness.\nWhat had come over her, that she met him now with such dreary\npremonition of ill, such persistent dwelling upon the dark side?  He\nlooked down upon her with the question in his eyes, if not on his lips.\n\nShe understood and answered it.\n\n\"It is only a dark mood,\" said she, passing her hand over her brow,\n\"not an actual trouble,--at least, not yet.  But forgive me for\nafflicting you with it now, when you are under the shadow of a real\ncloud.  Let us hope that it will pass quickly.  When you reach home,\nmay the sunshine be already there!\"\n\n\"Thank you.  I shall expect to hear from you through Doctor Remy--all\nof you, I mean.  He has promised to let me know how everything goes on\nhere.\"\n\nAstra lifted her eyes searchingly to his face.  Her fine perceptions\nhad not failed to take note of his inadvertent linking together of\nDoctor Remy and herself, and his quick attempt to conceal it.  She\ndivined that he knew her secret.  Her eyes fell, and her face flushed.\n\nBergan took her hand, and lifted it, in gentle, chivalrous fashion, to\nhis lips.  \"I wish you every happiness,\" said he, in a tone that said\nmore than the words,--\"every sunshine, and few clouds.  Good-bye.\"\n\n\"Good-bye,\" she answered, withdrawing her hand, yet not without a\ncertain lingering pressure, that seemed even sadder than her face, and\nthat Bergan felt long afterwards.  And he left her sitting where he\nfound her.\n\nMrs. Lyte and Cathie followed him to the door, the one with much quiet\nsympathy and regret, the other with passionate tears and lamentations.\n\n\"He will not come back!  He will not come back!\" she screamed, wringing\nher hands, as he rode away; and the mournful cry followed him down the\nstreet, like a prophecy of woe.\n\nA little farther on, he discovered that Nix was trotting quietly\nalongside of his horse.  And so intimately had the dog been connected\nwith all his sojourn under Mrs. Lyte's roof, that, in sending him back,\nhe seemed to close the final page of this whole epoch of his life.\n\nHis road skirted a retired portion of the grounds of Oakstead.\nSuddenly, he espied Carice, standing on the bank of the creek, with her\neyes thoughtfully fixed upon its rippling flow.  His sad heart yearned\ntowards her with irresistible force.  Glancing at his watch, he saw\nthat there was yet time for a brief, parting word.  He flung himself\nfrom his horse, threw the bridle over a gatepost, and ran quickly\ntowards her.\n\n\"I am so glad to find you here!\" he exclaimed, as he drew near.\n\"Otherwise, I must have gone without saying good-bye.  I am sent for,\nin great haste; my mother is very ill, and--\"\n\nHe stopped; his grave face said the rest.\n\n\"I am very, very sorry!\" putting her hand in his, with quick, earnest\nsympathy.  \"When did you hear?\"\n\n\"This morning.  She insisted that I should be sent for, as soon as she\nwas taken ill; she believed that she could not recover.  It is the\ntyphoid fever.\"\n\nCarice's face blanched suddenly.  \"Ah! that has a fearful sound,\" she\nsaid, shiveringly.  \"My two brothers\"--\n\nHer voice failed, and her slight frame shook with sudden emotion.  It\nwas the first time that Bergan had heard her allude to the only sorrow\nwhich she had yet known; but the effect of which had been all the more\nkeenly felt, doubtless, because, for her parents' sake, she had shut it\nresolutely into the depths of her heart, never allowing its shadow to\nbe seen for a moment on the face wherein they now looked for\nconsolation and cheer.\n\nMuch moved, Bergan put his arm round the slender, tremulous form.  At\nfirst, it was only the blind, manly instinct of help and support that\nprompted him; but with the act there came a swift revelation, a great\nrush of tenderness, that almost took his breath away.  Though he had\nnever suspected it till now, he knew, in an instant, beyond the\npossibility of a doubt, not only that he loved Carice, but that he had\nloved her long.\n\nCarice, on her part, was quick to feel the sudden, subtile change in\nthe character of the support given her, and made a fluttering movement\nof escape.  But Bergan would not let her go.\n\n\"Carice,\" said he, gravely, \"if I should return sorrowing, will you\nconsole me?\"\n\n\"If I can,\" she answered, simply, raising her blue eyes to his face.\n\n\"If you can!\" he repeated, with a deep tender intonation,--\"oh, Carice!\nit must be a heavy sorrow indeed that you cannot console!\"\n\nAs he spoke, the day, which had hitherto been cloudy, suddenly broke\ninto a smile, pouring a flood of golden light on the river, trickling\nthrough the boughs of the overhanging trees in great, shining drops,\nand flinging a yellow gleam far down their gray trunks.  Wondrous\nsympathy of Nature with the bliss of two spirits made one,--the tender\njoy that keeps, throughout the musty years, the freshness and fragrance\nof its Eden birth!  Yet, had the day still held its gloom, it would\nhave been bright in Carice's eyes, and bright in Bergan's!  Wherever\nLove is newly born, it creates a sunshine of the heart, which overflows\nupon the outward world, and fills it with celestial radiance.\n\nFive minutes later, and Carice was alone by the river's bank, blushing\nto hear how persistently the little stream kept whispering and singing\nof what it had just seen and heard.  The leaves, too, seemed to be\nsoftly talking it over among themselves; and a red bird and a gray one\nwere gossiping merrily about it among the branches.\n\nStill more plainly, Carice's face told the story, when she sought her\nparents.  They saw at once that it was not the same face which had gone\nout from them an hour before.  It had changed as an opening rosebud\nmust have changed in the same time, under the balmy breathing of the\nwarm south wind.  Its merely girlish loveliness was over; playing about\nthe mouth, and shining from the eyes, there was a bright and tender\nsmile that seemed gushing from the very heart of awakening womanhood.\nNever had she seemed so lovely, never so radiant.  Looking upon her, it\nwas easy to divine the secret of angelic beauty.  The heavenly\nexistences are immortally beautiful because immortally happy.\n\n\"Did you engage yourself to him?\" asked Mr. Bergan, almost sternly,\nwhen her brief tale was told.\n\n\"Of course not,\" answered Carice, opening wide her blue eyes at the\nunusual tone,--\"not until you and mamma are consulted.  Only, we know\nthat we love each other.\"\n\nAt the same time, Dr. Remy stood smiling to himself, in his office,--a\ndark, ominous smile.\n\n\"I am sure of three months,\" said he.  \"And, in three months, tact and\nperseverance can accomplish a great deal.\"\n\nAt the same time, too, Astra rose suddenly from the chair, where Bergan\nhad left her sitting, and began to pace up and down the room.\n\n\"I have been idle too long,\" she said to herself; \"I have let myself\ndream till my world is peopled with shadows, and I cannot distinguish\nthe false from the true.  Work is what I want.  Work will exorcise\nthese phantoms, and make my brain clear and strong again.\"\n\nShe stopped and looked fixedly into vacancy, striving to recall a\nformer conception that had been dazzled out of sight in the golden dawn\nof her love.  In a moment, it rose again before her; a great, stalwart,\nstraining figure,--a man struggling up out of the waves that had\nwellnigh worsted him, with a little child on his shoulders.\n\nQuickly she improvised a kind of platform, and brought out her fertile\nbox of clay.  Nervously, she fastened her supports together; rapidly\naround them rose the soft, gray, plastic material in the rude, rough\nresemblance of a human form.\n\n\n\n\nVI.\n\nWITH A DOUBLE HEART.\n\nNow and then, on a summer's day, the air is suddenly filled with\nminute, swarming insects of the genus _ephemera_.  They come unnoticed\nand unheralded; the air is thick with them ere one is aware; ears,\nmouths, and nostrils are filled with them, despite all efforts to the\ncontrary; they are variously regarded from the scientific, the poetic,\nand the moral point of view, or merely as nuisances; by and by, they\nare gone as they came.\n\nIn just such wise, a swarm of rumors prejudicial to the reputation of\nBergan Arling suddenly filled the air of Berganton; coming no one knew\nwhence, but quickly circulating everywhere, to be variously met with\nsurprise, doubt, belief, regret, anger, and indifference.  It was\naverred that he had gone home deeply in debt, at least to his good\nfriend Doctor Remy, who certainly deserved better treatment at his\nhands.  It was alleged that he was hopelessly the victim of a depraved\nappetite for strong drink, although, by the help of the same good\nfriend, he had managed, thus far, to save himself from public exposure.\nIt was affirmed that he had persuaded Astra Lyte into a secret\nengagement, perhaps for the sake of mere pastime, perhaps with a view\nto the ultimate possession of the roof which had so long sheltered him,\nor to the union of his own with Astra's chances for the future\nownership of Bergan Hall.  Finally, it was shrewdly suspected that,\nhaving grown weary alike of the debts, the engagement, and the measure\nof constraint which he had hitherto exercised over himself, he had\nsuddenly broken away from all three, with the trumped-up excuse of his\nmother's illness, and taken himself off, not to return.\n\nComing, as has been said, no one knew from whence, and having no\napparent voucher, these rumors nevertheless penetrated to\ncounting-rooms and boudoirs, to offices and to bar-rooms, to Major\nBergan on his vast estate, and Dick Causton in his narrow cabin, to\nGodfrey Bergan at his desk, and Carice beside her mother,--everywhere,\nsave to the two persons most directly interested; namely, Bergan Arling\non his rapid way homeward, and Astra Lyte in her studio.\n\nAstra was hard at work now.  Every hour, her clay model grew in\nstrength or symmetry under her rapid touches.  Yet her hope of finding\nclearness and quietness of mind in the exercise of her beloved art, had\nbeen wofully disappointed.  The phantoms of doubt and anxiety which had\nhaunted her idleness were not laid by her industry, but only held in\nabeyance until the inevitable moment of exhaustion, or of suspended\ninspiration, brought them upon her again, with tenfold power to annoy.\nDo what she would, she could not shut her eyes to the fact that a\nchange had come over Doctor Remy, nor prevent herself from speculating\nas to its nature and cause.  At first, it was only that miserable and\ndream-like change of look and manner which forbids one to complain,\nbecause it gives no lucid explanation of itself to the intellect,\nhowever it may disturb and depress the heart.  Its effect was magical,\nnevertheless, in clearing Astra's vision from that soft, transfiguring\nhaze of the imagination through which love delights to gaze at its\nobject, and in giving her occasional glimpses into the depths and\nintricacies of Doctor Remy's character.  Unconsciously, whenever he\ncame near her, she fell to watching his words, his tones, his looks,\neven his motions and attitudes, for indications of the hidden, inner\nman, upon whose qualities and tendencies her happiness so largely\ndepended.  The object of this scrutiny was too keen-witted not to be\naware of it, and too subtile not to avail himself of it to further his\nown ends.  With apparent carelessness, but consummate art, he allowed\nmore and more of his true character to come to the surface; he showed\nhimself scornful toward religion, faithless toward mankind, indifferent\nand unsympathizing toward herself, in the hope of quickly transforming\nher affection into disgust, and forcing her to put a speedy end to\ntheir engagement.  Doing this whenever he met her, he none the less\ntook good care to make it manifest that he avoided her as far as\npossible.\n\nUnder these circumstances, no wonder that Astra grew pale and thin,\nthat alternately she worked as in a fever, or stood idle as in a dream,\nthat her old, cheery alacrity gave place to sombre restlessness, and\nher glow of happy spirits to pale depression, that, in short, she\nspeedily became so unlike herself as greatly to alarm Mrs. Lyte, who\nfinally appealed to Doctor Remy.  He was only too glad to prescribe\nimmediate change of air and scene.\n\nMrs. Lyte stood aghast.\n\n\"I do not see how I can manage it,\" said she, slowly.  \"My income is\njust sufficient for our present mode of life; there is no surplus to\nmeet the added expense of a health trip.\"\n\nDoctor Remy mused for a moment.  \"We will talk over this matter again,\"\nsaid he, at length, looking at his watch; \"just now I have an\nengagement.  But trust my assurance that wherever there is a plain\nnecessity for a thing, there is a way to obtain it.  Good morning.\"\n\nDoctor Remy's engagement did not prevent him from repairing straightway\nto Bergan Hall, whither the rumors already alluded to had preceded him.\nAnd so artfully did he work upon Major Bergan's hasty and arbitrary\ntemper as to induce him forthwith to warn Mrs. Lyte of the existence of\nthe forfeited mortgage, and his intention to foreclose at an early day.\nBe it said, however, in the Major's behalf, that he graciously designed\nsaid warning to play somewhat of the part of a blessing in disguise.\nFor, having first shown Mrs. Lyte how completely she was in his power,\nit was his generous intention to offer her the largest mercy\nthereafter, even to the immediate relinquishment of every claim against\nher estate, on the easy condition that she, and her daughter should at\nonce break off all relations and engagements with his nephew, Bergan\nArling.  Thus, he would save Astra from what he was easily persuaded\nwould turn out to be a most unhappy marriage; at the same time that he\nwould gratify a certain odd itching in his fingers to meddle in\nBergan's affairs.  The whole business was arranged in less than an\nhour, and Doctor Remy returned homeward triumphant.\n\nNor was his elation at all shadowed by any thought of the suffering\nabout to be inflicted at his instigation.  Men of his naturally hard\nand forceful character, intensified by long culture of the intellect at\nthe expense of the sensibilities, are apt to take a terribly straight\npath in one sense, if a wofully crooked one in another, to whatever end\nthey have in view.  The feelings of others, where they cannot be made\nto subserve their purposes, are regarded as so many obstructions in\ntheir way; to be pushed aside, or trampled under-foot, as the case may\nbe.\n\nPossibly, too, they do not credit others with a greater depth of\nfeeling than they are conscious of in themselves.  Certainly, Doctor\nRemy, knowing nothing, by experience, of the tender and sacred\nassociations that cluster around the home of years, was not likely to\nconcern himself about the probable grief of Mrs. Lyte, at leaving hers,\nexcept as it might hinder or prevent her departure.  For, go she\nmust,--at least, for a time,--since Astra would not be likely to go\nwithout her.  His present task was so to smooth and clear the way for\nthem, on the one hand, while he furnished the necessary degree of\nmotive power, on the other, that they should be gone ere Major Bergan\nwas aware, or had submitted his terms of compromise to their\nconsideration.\n\nIn furtherance of this design, he had tapped lightly at the door of\nAstra's studio, ere the sound of voices from within told him that she\nwas not alone.  Carice Bergan was with her, and both were discussing\nAstra's statue of clay; unto the creation of which she had lately\nturned--with such scanty measure of success--for distraction, if not\nfor comfort.  With a slight bow and a word of greeting to Doctor Remy,\nCarice went on with what she was saying, in her own singularly gentle,\nyet frank and fearless, fashion.\n\n\"As I said just now, it is simply wonderful, in its way; but, Astra, I\ndon't like its way at all.  The Offero (for I suppose he is not to be\ncalled Saint Christopher yet,) is much too near to falling and fainting\nunder his burden,--\"\n\n\"Perhaps he may literally do so,\" interrupted Astra, with a sad and\nbitter smile.  \"Nay, you need not look so startled, I only mean that I\nfear his supports are not strong enough; I did not realize what would\nbe the gravitation of such a huge mass of clay.  The figure is\ncertainly settling more than I like to see.\"\n\n\"I did not allude to material supports,\" replied Carice, steadily, \"but\nto that spiritual aid which the Christ-Child would be sure to give to\none who bore Him so cheerfully and bravely as Offero did, however\nheavily He might be pleased to burden him.  There should be more of\nsteady hope and courage, as well as of wonder at the supernatural\nweight of his small burden, instead of that terrible strain and agony\nof effort, and that dreary, dogged sort of resolve.\"\n\n\"You forget,\" said Astra, \"that he does not yet understand the nature\nof his burden, nor wherefore it is laid upon him;--neither,\" she added\nmournfully to herself, \"neither do I.\"\n\nCarice shook her head.  \"You have forgotten,\" she replied, \"that he is\nnot bearing the burden _for himself_, but for love of that far-off,\nmighty King of whom he has heard; which feeling ought to strengthen his\nheart and his sinews, and shine out in his face.\"\n\nAstra turned away her head.  As she had unconsciously wrought her own\nwretched, despondent moods of the past week into the sensitive clay, so\nCarice's comments upon the result had their sidelong application to\nherself.\n\n\"As for the Christ-Child,\" continued Carice, raising her eyes from the\nBearer to the Burden, \"how did you ever get that look of immitigable\nfate into a child's rounded face?  As a piece of work, it is almost\nmiraculous; but, as a conception of the Christ-Child--I beg your\npardon, Astra--it is absolutely dreadful.\"\n\n\"It may stand for Offero's idea of the face which he cannot see,\"\nsuggested Astra, in a low voice.\n\n\"Well, perhaps it might, if he were thinking of the face, which I\ndoubt.  That is to say, the true Offero would be thinking of the King\nwhom he was trying to serve, rather than the burthen that he was\nbearing.  At any rate, it is just because he cannot see the face that\nhe has such an idea of it.  But to us, who can see it, it ought to show\nitself most benignant, most pitying, most tender and satisfying in\nevery respect.  Else, we miss the only really helpful lesson that your\nOffero is calculated to teach.\"\n\nAstra looked at her friend half sadly, half-wonderingly.  \"Let no one\ntrust your gentle, innocent look, Carice,\" said she; \"you are a\nsharp-sighted critic, and as severe as you are sharp-sighted.\"\n\n\"On the contrary,\" returned Carice, \"I am not criticising at all; I am\nmerely telling you how your statue looks to me, in its unfinished\ncondition.  No doubt every stroke of that magical scraper of yours will\ntake away something of the look which I do not like, and put in\nsomething of that which I long to see.\"\n\n\"I do not know,\" responded Astra drearily, shaking her head.  \"I have\nnot your singular depth and simplicity of vision, in spiritual things.\"\n\n\"Nay,\" Carice, \"you have something more than that,--the power to\ncreate; I have only the power to discern.  That cherub yonder, for\ninstance;--I am glad that I am able to see that it is lovely beyond\nexpression, but the power to make it so, ah! that is beyond me!\"\n\nAnd Carice moved away to the object of her admiration, and seemed to\nforget herself and all around her, in contemplating it.\n\nDoctor Remy remained, looking critically at the clay figure.\n\n\"You have not yet said what you think of it,\" said Astra, turning and\nlooking him intently in the face.\n\n\"I had nothing to say--from the spiritual side,\" he answered, coolly.\n\"Miss Bergan exhausted that; besides, it is not in my line.  But, if\nyou are pleased to desire my sort of criticism, here it is.  That arm\nis too long, and that clavicle is not sufficiently raised, and this\nmuscle is too flat.  For the rest,\" he added, after a slight pause, \"it\nis a sufficiently ambitious work.\"\n\nThere was a touch of mockery in his tone which did not escape the\nsensitive ear of his listener.  \"You think it too ambitious, perhaps,\"\nshe said, quietly, yet not without a keen glance at his face.\n\nHe gave the clay figure another comprehensive look; then he turned to\nAstra with a gentler expression than she had seen in his eyes for many\ndays past.\n\n\"Poor child!\" said he, pityingly, \"what disadvantages your genius has\nto labor under, in this little, remote town, where you never see a work\nof art, nor an artist, from month's end to month's end!  Why do you not\ngo--for awhile, at least--where you can find something for your genius\nto feed upon?  It is a law of life that there can be no good growth\nwithout proper food.\"\n\n\"You know,\" replied Astra, very gravely, \"that I cannot leave my home\nand my mother.\"\n\n\"Then,\" returned Doctor Remy, with equal gravity, \"it would be a kindly\nblast--though it might not seem so, at first--that should blow you all\nto some point where your genius could find fuller and freer\ndevelopment.  If such an one should ever come to you, I hope you will\nbe able to regard it as--what Miss Bergan would doubtless call a\nprovidence.\"\n\nCarice was looking towards them, now; and his last words were spoken\nwith a smiling glance that was apparently meant to draw her into the\nconversation.\n\n\"And what would Doctor Remy call it?\" she asked, but without any\nanswering smile.\n\n\"Doctor Remy does not concern himself about names, but things,\" he\nreplied, pleasantly.\n\n\"Things answer to names,\" she rejoined, quickly; \"and if Doctor Remy to\ncall a providence a chance, for instance, let him not wonder if it\nprove a chance--to him.\"\n\n\"I am afraid that I am wofully obtuse,\" returned the doctor, with the\nair of a man who asks for a further explanation.\n\n\"From the hand of Chance,\" she answered briefly, \"one gets little good,\nand much harm; from the hand of Providence, only good, however\ndisguised.  The difference is in the taking and the using.\"\n\nShe turned towards the window as she finished, with the air of who\ndismisses the subject.\n\nAstra, meanwhile, stood gazing at the doctor with a most anxious,\ndisturbed expression.  She was beginning to understand too well that\nunder many of his seemingly most careless utterances, there lurked a\ndeep significance and design.  In the tone of his last speech to her,\nthere had been something which caused her a vague alarm.\n\n\"What did he mean?\" she asked herself, wearily putting her hand to her\nbrow,--\"What did he mean?\"\n\n\n\n\nVII.\n\nOVERBURDENED.\n\nCarice Bergan was gifted with instincts singularly quick and delicate.\nShe had not long breathed the same atmosphere with Astra and Doctor\nRemy before she felt it growing heavy around her with some intensity of\nemotion which she neither shared nor understood.  It might be sympathy,\nit might be aversion; in either case, its effect was to make her feel\nconfused and constrained, in their presence.  At one moment, she seemed\nto behold them afar off, as it were, in a sphere of their own, whither\nshe had neither the right nor the ability to follow them; at another,\nshe felt herself standing between them, barring their way to a free and\nsatisfactory interchange of thought and feeling; and again, she\nbelieved that Doctor Remy alone was responsible for her discomfort,\ninterrupting, by his presence, the cordial flow of sympathy between\nAstra and herself.  At any rate, it would be a relief to escape from so\noppressive an atmosphere; accordingly, she took her departure, leaving\nthe lovers--if such they can be called--together.\n\nCertainly, there was nothing lover-like in the manner with which they\nfaced each other, a few moments after the door had closed behind her.\nThat brief interval had been spent by both in preparation for the\ncrisis which the one knew, and the other felt, to be approaching.\nAstra awaited it with a mixture of eagerness and dread; she was weary\nof wearing the checkered tissue of suspense and anxiety; she would be\nglad to know exactly what was in store for her, even though the bitter\nfruit of such knowledge should be mortification and anguish.  Doctor\nRemy's face was set and hard; over it a sombre emotion, like the gray\nshadow of a cloud on a rock, now and then passed swiftly, taking\nnothing from its sternness, but adding much to its gloom.  He looked\nlike a man who, at no slight cost to himself, has braced his soul with\niron for the performance of some heavy, but necessary, task.  Little as\nhe likes it, he will carry it out pitilessly to the end.\n\nWith an inauspicious frown on his brow--none the less dark because it\nmust have been assumed--he now opened the conversation by saying,\nabruptly;--\n\n\"Astra, I have heard some very strange rumors, of late.\"\n\n\"Indeed!\" she returned, with a note of disappointment, as well as of\nsurprise, in her voice.  This was but a roundabout road to explanation,\nshe thought; it would have pleased her better had the doctor chosen a\nmore direct one.  She looked round for a chair, and sat down wearily,\nas if to wait his pleasure with such patience as she could command.\n\nHowever, Doctor Remy was going as straight to the point--his point, at\nleast--as could be wished.  \"Perhaps you will be less indifferent to\nthese rumors,\" he continued, insinuatingly, \"when you understand that\nthey concern you, and your good name, much.\"\n\nA slight flush rose to Astra's face, and her eyes lit; but she kept her\nseat, and she answered not a word, though Doctor Remy waited a moment,\nas if he expected her to speak.  Seeing her silent, however, he went\non, slowly, and with seeming reluctance; yet, to a keen and\ndisinterested observer, it might have appeared that he was trying his\nbest to provoke her.\n\n\"I once told you that it was not in my nature to trust,\" said he.  \"But\nI have trusted you, Astra, even to blindness,--else I should not have\nbeen indebted to others for the first intimations of things that I\nought to have seen for myself.  I should have discovered what sort of\ngame you were playing, before the knowledge was forced upon me at the\nhands of public rumor.  I suppose that I ought to take shame to myself\nfor being so easily deceived;--I do,--nevertheless your shame is\ncertainly the greater for having so deceived me.\"\n\nThe flame in Astra's eyes was kindling brightly now, and her breath\ncame quick and short; nevertheless, it was in a tone of the coldest and\nquietest dignity that she answered;--\n\n\"I am not quick at reading riddles--be so good as to tell me, plainly,\nwhat you mean.\"\n\n\"As plainly as the subject allows,\" returned Doctor Remy, in a tone\nthat was in itself a taunt.  \"I mean that the names of Astra Lyte and\nBergan Arling are ringing together from one end of the town to the\nother, in a way which, it may readily be believed, is not pleasant to\nmy ears.  It is confidently asserted--and believed--that a secret\nengagement exists between them.  That is to say; the lady has long\nadmitted the gentleman to a degree of daily intimacy and familiarity,\nwhich she could not with propriety have accorded to any other than her\npromised husband;--some say, not even to him.  Mr. Arling has been\nobserved to be in her studio for hours together; he has been seen\nstrolling with her in the outskirts of the town; the twain have been\nnoticed talking earnestly together in that out-of-the-way spot known as\nthe oak amphitheatre.  On all these occasions the lady has been\nobserved to be so much the more demonstrative of the two, as to give\nrise to the suspicion that the gentleman's sudden journey westward has\nbeen taken, mainly, for the purpose of freeing himself from\nentanglements not approved by his better judgment.\"\n\nAs these atrocious sentences fell, one by one, with distinct and\ncutting emphasis, from Doctor Remy's lips, Astra rose to her feet; the\nflush on either cheek settled into a vivid crimson spot, in the midst\nof a deadly pallor; her eyes darted fire; her lips trembled with the\nrush of an indignation too tumultuous, as yet, for word or action.\nNoting these signs, Doctor Remy congratulated himself upon the\nsuccessful progress of his experiment.  Already, the lioness was at\nbay; with a little more provocation, she would think only of vengeance.\n\nHe resumed his statement.  \"At first, of course, I paid no attention to\nthese rumors; my ears and eyes were closed against them by that blind,\nfoolish trust in you, of which I have spoken.  By and by, they came\nthicker and faster, and in a shape to compel my consideration.  I began\nto understand that the possible heir of Bergan Hall possessed an\nimmense advantage over the humble physician;--although it might be well\nto keep a hold on the latter until the former was secure, and his\ninheritance certain.  By way of two strings to the bow, there might be\ntwo secret engagements.  I commenced an investigation.  I traced the\nreports which I have mentioned back to their source--\"\n\n\"You did!\" interrupted Astra, with indignation that she could no longer\nrepress.  \"Instead of sending these foul slanders back down the throats\nwhich invented them, you--\"  She stopped, choked by her bitter sense of\nindignity and wrong.\n\n\"--took the pains to verify them,\" rejoined Doctor Remy, coolly\nfinishing her sentence.  \"Every accusation was established in the\nmouths of several witnesses.  Arling himself had spoken frankly, as\nwell as lightly, of his engagement, to more than one person.\"\n\n\"It is false, and you know it!\" exclaimed Astra.  \"Mr. Arling is\nincapable of such baseness.\"\n\n\"Never mind defending _him_,\" said Doctor Remy, with a curl of the lip.\n\"What have you to say for yourself?\"\n\nAstra walked to the door, and flung it wide open.  \"I have _that_ to\nsay,\" she replied, turning upon him with a look of ineffable scorn, and\na queenly gesture of dismissal.  \"Go!\"\n\nDoctor Remy stood for a moment irresolute, with an unwonted flush of\nshame rising to his brow.  The climax had not only come sooner than he\nanticipated, but in an unexpectedly embarrassing shape,--a shape that\ngave him a sudden, startling perception of the vileness of the task\nwhich he had set himself to do.  Naturally, he was inclined to be angry\nwith Astra for the action to which he owed this moment of\nself-recognition; yet, on the whole, it was the most bewitching thing\nthat he had ever seen her do.  Never had she attracted him so strongly\nas while she thus stood pointing him to the door.  Her free and noble\nattitude, the wonderful vividness of her expression, the maidenly\ndignity of her tacit refusal to descend for one moment to his level,\nand discuss with him the points that he had raised, thrilled him with\ninvoluntary admiration.  It irked him to think that he must needs give\nher up.  Was there really no way to keep her, and at the same time win\nBergan Hall?  He sent his thoughts back over the road which they had\ntrodden so often, during the past fortnight, and decided once more that\nthe risk was too great.  He must persevere in the course upon which he\nhad entered.  Nor did a little present mortification matter, in\ncomparison with hopeful progress.  Astra was only helping him forward\nin the way that he wished to go.  How easily the affections and\npassions of others became the puppets of his will!\n\nNevertheless, it was not without a softened, almost regretful, tone\nthat he finally said,--\"If I go, Astra, you understand that our\nengagement is at an end.\"\n\n\"Our engagement!\" repeated Astra, looking at him with a kind of\nscornful amaze.  \"How dare you insult me thus?  I was never engaged to\nyou,--never!\"\n\nDoctor Remy stood aghast.  For one moment, he believed that her senses\nwere taking leave of her.\n\n\"Never!\" repeated Astra, with proud emphasis.  \"I was engaged,\" she\nwent on, after a moment, in an altered and tremulous tone, \"to a\nMAN,--a calm, wise, noble man,--not a monster, nor a piece of\nmechanism.  I was engaged to an earnest seeker after truth, a\ncourageous grappler with problems that other men shunned, an honest\nspeaker of his own thoughts and moulder of his own opinions,--a man\nwho, though he might be temporarily led astray by the very excess of\nhis virtues of candor, boldness, and integrity, would be sure to come\nright in the end.  He is dead,--or he never lived, except in my\nimagination,--_requiescat in pace_.  But to _you_,--a body without a\nsoul, an intellect without a heart, a will without a faith, a kind of\nhuman beast of prey, intent on nothing but the gratification of his own\nselfish ends,--to you I was never pledged.  I would as soon have bound\nmyself to a corpse, or a calculating machine.\"\n\n\"This is plain talk, Astra,\" said Dr. Remy, growing pale with anger and\nmortification.  \"If you were not a woman, it would be easier to answer\nit.\"\n\n\"It is not only plain talk, but plain sight,\" replied Astra.  \"The\nscales have fallen from my eyes; at last, I see you as you are.  The\nmost that can be said for you, as well as in excuse for my late\ninfatuation (for I would not seem altogether despicable in my own\neyes), is that great and rich capabilities have been miserably\nperverted, in your person.  A grand soul has somehow been strangled\nwithin you.  Some hidden canker--beginning I know not when nor where,\nbut to which your surgeon's knowledge ought to have impelled you long\nago to put the surgeon's knife--has slowly eaten out everything that\nwas sound and good, in your moral system, and left nothing but\nrottenness.  And it is now too late for remedy.  If it were not,--if\nthere were any hope that I could help to save you, by clinging to\nyou,--I think I have the strength and courage to do it.  As it is, I\nshould only corrupt myself.  Indeed, I fear it will be long ere I get\nrid of the virus of doubt and captiousness, which, I find, you have\nalready introduced into my mind; and of which that figure\" (she pointed\nto the statue of clay) \"is the legitimate outcome.  You have given a\nbias to my mode of thought, which has already shaken my faith to its\nfoundations,--and might, in time (but for the scathing commentary of\nyour life upon your opinions), have destroyed it.  Leave me now.  We\nhave done with each other.\"\n\nPerhaps Dr. Remy's good angel, absent from his side for many years,\nhovered, at that moment, above his head, with a wistful--almost a\nhopeful--face.  For, at last, the strong man was visibly affected.\nSome chance word of Astra's had found a joint in his iron armor, and\npenetrated to the living flesh.  His lip trembled,--it may have been\nwith an unshaped prayer to Astra to make that effort to save him, of\nwhich she had declared herself capable,--it may have been with a sudden\nperception of the barrenness of his life, and the valuelessness of its\nends, disposing him, for a moment, to try whether any richer realities\nwere to be reaped from an unselfish human affection and an\nunquestioning heavenly faith.\n\nBut not thus easily and quickly was the whole bent of a life to be\nchanged, not thus the holding of the cords of evil to be loosed!\nSuddenly, between him and Astra, rose a vision of Bergan Hall, with its\nimmense revenues, its ancient and aristocratic _prestige_, the vast\npower and influence that it would impart to capable hands, the abundant\nmeans and leisure that it would allow for scientific pursuits.  For, if\nDoctor Remy lived for anything besides himself, it was for science.  He\nhad managed to persuade himself that the interests of the two were\nidentical.  He had embodied his selfishness, as it were, in a theory;\nfor the development, confirmation, and proclamation, of which, he\nbelieved that he desired leisure and wealth, far more than for himself;\nand through which he meant to be a benefactor to his race, as well as\nto wreathe his own name with undying laurels.  On the one hand, then,\nwas this wide prospect of wealth, freedom, usefulness, and fame; on the\nother, Astra, and a life of restrictions and limitations, narrowed down\nto the daily necessity of daily bread.  Quickly he made his choice.\nThe angel spread his white wings, and flew upward,--never to return!\n\nDoctor Remy turned to Astra, and held out his hand.  \"Let us part\nfriends,\" said he.\n\n\"Not so,\" replied Astra; \"let us part--as we are to remain--strangers.\nNo need to mock the sacred past with the commonplace civilities of\nordinary intercourse.  The relation that once existed between us is\nsimply dead, not changed into something else.\"\n\n\"As you will,\" returned Doctor Remy, after a pause.  \"At least let me\nwish you a short mourning, and a bright thereafter.  Adieu.\"\n\nHe went out as he spoke, closing the door behind him.  In his\nexcitement, he used more force than he was aware of, and it fell to\nwith a clangor that reverberated loudly through the large, uncarpeted\nroom, and jarred painfully upon Astra's nerves.  She shivered, and her\neyes fell upon the clay figure.  Apparently, it was trembling with\nsympathetic emotion; it even bent toward her, as if suddenly endued\nwith life; for one moment, the old fable of Pygmalion seemed coming\ntrue, in her modern experience.  Then, the limbs gave way, the trunk\nfell forward, down went Bearer and Child together, the faces of each\ngiving her one last, distorted look of malign meaning, ere they crushed\ninto fragments on the platform.\n\n\"It is not the only ruin that he has left behind him,\" murmured Astra\nto herself, with a sad and bitter smile.\n\nIn another moment, she too began to sink.  The long fever of suspense\nwas ended; the excitement that had carried her through the late trying\ninterview was over; the inevitable time of reaction and depression had\ncome.  The thought of the terrible blank left in her heart and life, of\nthe woful loss of affection, faith, and hope, that she had suffered, of\nthe miserable waste in her past, and of the chaotic emptiness in her\nfuture, came over her with awful force.  Slowly she sank, as if an\ninvisible weight were pressing her to the earth.  Settling upon her\nknees, she leaned her head on the ruins of her statue, and shook with\nsobs of tearless agony.\n\nShe knew not how long a time went by thus; it seemed to her to stretch\nits slow length over an age.  But it is a merciful provision that acute\nsorrow soon exhausts itself.  The mind, like the body, has beneficent\nlimits to its power of endurance.  In due time, Astra exchanged the\nanguish of wretchedness for its torpor.  Her sobs died away, the\nconvulsive trembling of her frame ceased, she sat up and looked around\nher with a face of quiet misery.  Perhaps it was a little hard, too.\nHer pride was coming to her aid in bearing the burden for which, she\ntold herself, she was largely accountable, and must therefore struggle\nalong with as best she could.  It was miraculously heavy, it would tax\nall her strength and resolution, she saw that plainly enough; but she\nforgot to look into it for any sign of divine origin, or promise of\ndivine help.  The baleful effect of Doctor Remy's influence still\nfollowed her, making God an overhanging Law, instead of a surrounding\nLove.  She could not even read aright the lesson of her own fragments\nof clay!\n\nShe was struggling up to her feet, when Mrs. Lyte hurriedly entered,\nholding an open letter in her hand, and looking both frightened and\nbewildered.  Perhaps nothing could have been better for either mother\nor daughter, at that moment, than to see the other's troubled face.  In\nboth countenances, there was a quick change of expression,--something\nof sorrow and anxiety gone, something of loving sympathy in its\nplace,--as each uttered the eager inquiry;--\n\n\"What is the matter?\"\n\nFortunately, Astra was not obliged to answer.  Mrs. Lyte instantly\ndiscovered the fallen statue, and connected it, though not without a\ndegree of surprise, with her daughter's woe-begone face.  For Astra had\nbeen wont to bear disaster with more fortitude!  Still, this was the\nlargest work that she had yet undertaken; besides, she had seemed so\nfar from well, of late!  Mrs. Lyte's heart thrilled with motherly\nsympathy.\n\n\"I am so sorry!\" she said, pityingly.  \"Is it an utter ruin?\"\n\n\"Utter,\" replied Astra, with dreary emphasis.  \"But never mind about it\nnow.  What has happened to distress you?\"\n\nMrs. Lyte put the letter into Astra's hand.  \"Read that,\" said she,\n\"and see what you can make of it.\"\n\nIt was not without difficulty, under the pressure of her own misery,\nthat Astra made herself comprehend the purport of the document before\nher, through the disguise of the legal terms wherein it had duly been\ncouched by the lawyer employed by Major Bergan.  With enlightenment,\nhowever, strange to say, came a quick sense of relief.  Here, at least,\nwas a necessity for action; and the trouble which is attended by that,\nis never so great as one which calls only for patient endurance.\nBesides, how glad would she be to leave Berganton at this juncture, to\nescape at once from its curiosity, its sympathy, or its censure, to be\nspared the pain of meeting Doctor Remy's altered face, and the\nirksomeness of going on with the old life, in the old scene, after it\nhad lost all the old color and substance.  Her face brightened so much,\nas she looked up from the letter, that Mrs. Lyte gave a sigh of relief.\n\n\"Then it is not so bad as I thought,\" said she.\n\nAstra's heart smote her for her selfishness.  She reflected what grief\nit would cause her mother to be thrust out from the home endeared to\nher by so many and sacred associations.  Her face fell, and her heart\nsank again.  Covering her eyes with her hands, she burst into a sudden\npassion of tears,--a softer agony than had shaken her before, but still\nso plainly an agony disproportionate to the occasion, that Mrs. Lyte's\neyes suddenly opened to the perception of some hitherto unsuspected\nsorrow.  She put her arms round her daughter, and drew her head on to\nher bosom, as in the days of her childhood.\n\n\"What is it, darling?\" she asked.\n\nThe soft tone, the affectionate touch, the motherly sympathy, were\nirresistible.  Before she well knew what she was doing, Astra was\npouring forth all her sad story.\n\n\"Oh, mother!\" she moaned, as she finished, \"if we could only go\naway,--just for a time, at least, until I have recovered myself a\nlittle!  If we could only go at once, too, without explanations or\nfarewells!\"\n\n\"We will, my child,\" returned Mrs. Lyte, soothingly,--\"that is, if I\ncan manage it.\"\n\nThen followed a long consultation.\n\n\n\n\nVIII.\n\nA BUSINESS LETTER.\n\nFrom Astra's studio, Doctor Remy went to his office, and devoted an\nhour to the task of writing a letter; which seemed to make an unusual\ndemand upon his skill, either of composition or penmanship.  Three\ndifferent sheets were defaced and destroyed, ere the work was\naccomplished to his mind.  The epistle was addressed to Mrs. Lyte,\nenclosing what purported to be the amount of an old, outlawed debt to\nher deceased husband; of which the debtor, having recently met with a\nstroke of good fortune, was glad to relieve his conscience.  In good\ntime, after making a short _d\u00e9tour_, it arrived at its destination; and\nplayed an important part in events, by furnishing Mrs. Lyte with an\nopportune sum of ready money.\n\nFive days afterward, as Major Bergan was about to sally forth for his\ncustomary morning visit to his beloved rice fields, a letter was put\ninto his hands.  It ran as follows:\n\n\n\"DEAR MAJOR BERGAN: I duly received your notice of foreclosure, and I\nthank you for the measure of forbearance that you have hitherto\nexercised toward me.  As you are doubtless aware, I have no means of\npaying off the mortgage, except by the sale of the property which it\ncovers.  As I am about to leave Berganton, for a time, on account of my\ndaughter's health, I hereby surrender my house and grounds into your\nhands, to be sold, or otherwise disposed of, as you may deem best for\nour mutual interests.  If they sell for more than the amount of the\nmortgage (as I hope they will), I know I may safely trust to you, as a\nman of honor, and a good friend of my late husband, to hold the balance\nsubject to my order.  You will find the house in charge of my old and\nfaithful servant, Cato; whom I also venture to commend to your kind\ncare, until I shall be able to send for him.  I cannot find it in my\nheart to sell him; besides, he is too old to be of much value, though\nstill quite able to earn his bread, on your plantation.\n\n\"This is not a man's way of doing business, I am well aware; it is only\na woman's way of shirking responsibility, in matters that she does not\nunderstand.  I know that my interests are safer in your hands than in\nmy own.  As soon as I am comfortably settled anywhere, I will let you\nknow my address.  Till then, believe me,\n\n  \"Very truly yours,\n      \"CATHERINE LYTE.\"\n\n\nIt will be seen that this epistle was a masterpiece of diplomacy, in\nits way.  Though it proved Mrs. Lyte to be a most unbusiness-like\nwoman, it none the less evinced her thorough knowledge of the one-sided\nand contradictory character of the man with whom she had to deal.\nGrasping and impracticable as Major Bergan would be sure to be, with a\nsurly and obstinate debtor who met him squarely on his own ground, she\nbelieved that he would not fail to show himself scrupulously just, and\neven generous, to the woman who, without a word of reproach or\nremonstrance, quietly resigned herself and her affairs into his hands,\nto be dealt with according to his good pleasure.\n\nIn this conclusion, she was justified by the event.  A more astonished\nand disgusted man than Major Bergan, after he had mastered the contents\nof her letter, it would be hard to find.  For once, even his brandy\nbottle was empty of comfort.  He could only partially relieve his mind,\nwhile his horse was being saddled, by pouring forth volley upon volley\nof curses; distributed, impartially, at first, among Mrs. Lyte, Doctor\nRemy, his nephew, his frightened servants, and himself.  Later, his\nwrath began to concentrate itself on Doctor Remy.  That personage had\nundoubtedly influenced him to the commission of the act which he now\nstigmatized, in his most emphatic manner, as unworthy a Bergan and a\ngentleman.  In return, he threatened to break every bone in the\ndoctor's body, and grimly consigned the fragments to a place of deposit\nalways much in favor with men of his habits.  Finally, he mounted his\nhorse, and trotted rapidly toward Berganton.\n\nHis first visit was, of course, to Doctor Remy.  With the most\nimperturbable good humor, that gentleman listened to the flow of his\noaths and objurgations, until it had partially exhausted itself by its\nown fury.  He then assured the Major that his surprise and regret at\nMrs. Lyte's departure were fully equalled by his own.  The thing had\nbeen managed so quietly and adroitly, that he had not suspected it,\nuntil his attention had been attracted by the deserted look of the\nhouse.  At the same time, he must acknowledge that it was only a short\ntime since he had advised Mrs. Lyte to try a change of air, both for\nherself and her daughter; and doubtless that had had its share in\ninfluencing her action.  Besides, it was on the whole the best thing\nthat could do to take Miss Astra out of the way, until the present\ncloud of gossip had blown over.  Finally, he threw out a suggestion\nthat the twain had possibly gone to join Mr. Arling.\n\nHereupon, Major Bergan's wrath broke out afresh.  It was not in human\nnature--certainly not in that particular species of human nature\nrepresented by the Major--to hear with equanimity that the very measure\nwhich he had taken to prevent what he considered to be an unsuitable\nmarriage, had possibly availed to hasten it forward.  The walls of the\ndoctor's office trembled with the oral thunderbolts launched at the\noffenders.  In due time, however, these also subsided into the low\ngrowl of the exhausted tempest; dying away, at last, in muttered\nimprecations upon that curious turn of events--the grim humor of which\nthe Major was now quite capable of appreciating--which had made him the\ntrustee of Mrs. Lyte's affairs, and the guardian of her interests.\n\nTo the Major's credit be it spoken, that he was incapable of betraying\nthe trust thus committed to him.  Quitting Doctor Remy's office, he\nwent in search of old Cato, put the premises in his charge during the\nabsence of his mistress, promised him an occasional visit of inspection\n(and a sound thrashing if all was not found in complete order), made\ndue provision for his maintenance, and then took himself grumblingly\nhome, to drown the remnant of his chagrin in the Lethean glass that had\nalready swallowed up so many of his better thoughts, impulses, and\ncharacteristics.\n\nOf course, Mrs. Lyte's departure--or flight, as it was not infrequently\ntermed--made the nine days' wonder of Berganton.  Some few gentle,\ncharitable souls there were, no doubt, who, judging their neighbor by\nthemselves, saw no harm either in the fact or the manner of her going.\nShe was ill; so was her daughter; they had neither time nor heart for\nleavetakings.  But there were others, wise in the crooked ways of the\nhuman heart through much practice therein, who scrupled not to find\nmotives and objects for the course of the pale-faced widow and her\ngifted daughter, with which it is not necessary to stain this page.\nThere was the more room for this, inasmuch as Major Bergan, partly out\nof consideration for Mrs. Lyte, and partly out of shame on his own\naccount, had taken care that the existence of the mortgage should not\ntranspire.  Yet Mrs. Lyte had depended upon the ultimate disclosure of\nthis fact, to furnish that explanation of her departure which she had\nshunned to give herself, and to turn the current of popular sympathy in\nher favor.  In yielding to Astra's morbid desire not only to leave the\nscene of her untoward love behind, but to do it in such swift and\nsilent wise that neither curiosity, nor sympathy, nor malevolence,\ncould immediately follow them, to inflict their various torture upon\nher sore heart, Mrs. Lyte had looked confidently forward to this\nforthcoming justification of her step.  Her old friends, she thought,\nwould be sure to understand the feeling that led her to flee from the\nsight of the sale of her lifelong home (it might be under the\nauctioneer's hammer), and to shut off all means of communication\nbetween herself and the painful transaction, until time had given her\nstrength to bear it.\n\nNext to Major Bergan, the person who felt most aggrieved at the fact\nand manner of her departure was Carice.  Astra, to be sure, had not\nfailed to send her friend a brief note of farewell; but it was couched\nin such vague terms, owing to the confusion and distress of mind in\nwhich it had been written, as to afford little satisfaction to the\nreader.  She could only gather from it that, in one way or another,\nAstra's happiness was very seriously compromised; so much so as to make\na change desirable, though it were only a change of pain.  And, in\nCarice's present circumstances, this was either too much or too little.\nThe rumors which had filled Berganton had found their way to Oakstead\nalso; and, for the first time in their lives, parents and daughter were\ndivided in sentiment, and alien in sympathy.  Mr. and Mrs.\nBergan--terrified that their idolized child should have given her heart\nto a man persistently held up to view as a thin mask of outward\nmorality over an inward rottenness of intemperance, indebtedness, and\nunscrupulous trifling with affection--could think of no better way of\ncorrecting the mischief than by continually repeating in her unwilling\nears the various dark rumors in circulation, together with such facts\nand theories as tended to confirm them.  Carice, on her part, turned\nfrom them all with the instinctive disgust of a pure mind, and the\ngenerous faith and confidence of a true affection.  And she was right.\nTrust, as long as it is in anywise possible, is the heart's deepest\nwisdom, as well as its surest instinct.\n\nNevertheless, it was hard to find her parents arrayed against her, with\nall the rest of the world.  Duty, decorum, forbade her to set up her\nown opinion in opposition to theirs; often she had but to listen in\nsilence to statements and inferences which she could neither admit nor\ndisprove.  She would have been glad, therefore, had Astra's note\nfurnished one scrap of evidence in support of her own convictions; on\nthe contrary, its testimony went quite the other way.  She could only\nneutralize its effect upon herself by supposing that Astra had given\nher affections to Bergan unsought, and was now suffering from a\ndisappointment none the less bitter that she had brought it upon\nherself.  But Carice was too delicate and generous to breathe this\nsuspicion aloud; at the same time she knew that it would have no weight\nwith minds so deeply prejudiced as those of her parents.\n\nCarice's worst trial was, however, her growing wonder why nothing was\nheard from Bergan.  His last words to her had been a promise to write\nimmediately, both to her father and herself,--to the former by way of\nfrankly avowing his love, and asking for permission to address his\ndaughter; to the latter, as a necessary sequence to that brief\ninterview by the singing river, the thought of which was Carice's one\nsubject of delightful contemplation.  But no letter came, not so much\nas a word of regret or excuse for necessary delay.  As time dragged its\nslow length along, a touching look of wistfulness, mingled with a\nsorrowful patience, came into the face that had lately been so serenely\nhappy,--a look over which Mr. and Mrs. Bergan scarcely knew whether\nmost to lament or to rejoice, it was grievous to behold it there; and\nyet, if Bergan would only keep silent, she must eventually give him up!\n\nAlas for Carice! there was no doubt whatever that Bergan would keep\nsilent--or seem to do so.  Her parents' minds would have been set at\nrest on that point, if they could invisibly have followed Doctor Remy\ninto the Berganton Post Office some weeks previous, and listened to his\nconversation with the pale, slight, weak-looking young man in charge.\nOne month before, he had so obstinately and successfully fought death\nat the bedside of this young man's newly wedded wife, as to call forth\nan unusual amount of gratitude.  To this fact he now alluded.\n\n\"Well, Jekyll,\" said he, \"I have come to make trial of that eternal\ngratitude which you swore to me, not long ago.\"\n\n\"I am glad of it, sir,\" responded Jekyll, warmly.  \"What can I do for\nyou?\"\n\n\"The question is rather, what _will_ you do for me?\" returned the\ndoctor, with marked emphasis.\n\n\"Anything, anything, that is not wrong,\" replied Jekyll.\n\n\"Right and wrong are relative terms,\" replied Doctor Remy, quietly.\n\"If you had understood the nature of the drugs which I gave your wife\nthe other night, you would have said that I was trying to poison\nher;--yet, you see, I saved her life.  It is the motive which\ndetermines the character of the act.\"\n\n\"Y-e-s, sir,\" rejoined Jekyll, considerably bewildered; but,\nnevertheless, feeling quite certain that so learned a man as Doctor\nRemy must understand these matters a great deal better than he did.\n\n\"And so,\" continued the doctor, suavely, \"what I am about to ask you to\ndo, is not really wrong, though it may seem so at first sight.  It is\nonly a quiet method of averting a great deal of trouble and scandal\nfrom a very worthy family.  Should you recognize this handwriting, if\nyou were to see it again?\"\n\nJekyll looked at the paper held towards him, and answered,--\"Yes,\ncertainly; it is--\"\n\n\"Never mind whose it is,\" interrupted the doctor; \"it is just as well\nnot to know anything about that.  Well, Jekyll, what I want you to do,\nis simply to keep a sharp lookout for any letters, in that handwriting,\nwhich may come to Godfrey Bergan, or his daughter, or his wife, and\nhand them over to me.\"\n\nJekyll opened his eyes wide with surprise and terror.  \"Good gracious!\"\nhe exclaimed, \"it's a penitentiary business!\"\n\n\"Not at all,\" replied Doctor Remy, calmly.  \"In the first place, no one\nwill know anything about it but you and me.  In the second, you are not\ndoing this thing for your own advantage, but just to help me to save\ncertain excellent people from sore sorrow and trouble.\"\n\nJekyll did not answer, but he still looked dismayed and unconvinced.\n\n\"If it will ease your scruples any,\" pursued the doctor, after a pause,\n\"I don't mind telling you, in confidence, that Mr. Godfrey Bergan very\nmuch desires the suppression of these letters, though he does not want\nto appear in the matter himself.  And you must admit that he has a\nright to control the correspondence of his own household.\n\n\"But why does he want his own letters stopped?\" asked Jekyll.\n\n\"For the best of reasons,--he does not want to receive them.  He\nprefers to be able to say that he hears nothing, and knows nothing.\nTherefore, you will readily understand that nothing is to be said, or\neven hinted, to him.  He puts the matter in my hands, and you are\nresponsible to me only.\"\n\nIt is unnecessary to trace the conversation to the end.  Its results\nare already patent to the reader.  Doctor Remy was specious and\nplausible; Jekyll was weak and grateful; the yielding of the pliant\nnature of the former to the stronger one of the latter, could only be a\nquestion of time.\n\n\n\n\nIX.\n\nSMOOTHER THAN BUTTER.\n\nNo sooner was the way made clear, by the removal of Bergan and Astra,\nthan Doctor Remy began to visit assiduously at Oakstead; taking good\ncare, at first, that the object of these visits should seem to be\nanything but Carice.  He came to discuss local politics or town hygiene\nwith Mr. Bergan; or he sought to interest his wife in some newly\ndiscovered object of charity.  By and by, it was a mere matter of\npleasant habit, apparently, that he stopped at Oakstead four or five\ntimes a week, as he came and went on his professional rounds.\n\nIf Carice was absent, on these occasions, he never asked for her; if\nshe was present, he rarely addressed his conversation to her;\nnevertheless he weighed every word, and shaped every sentence, with\nartful reference to its effect upon her ear and mind.  Every resource\nof his tact and skill was exhausted, in his effort to attract and keep\nthe attention of the fair, silent girl, sitting in the shadow, with the\ndrooping head, and the patient, preoccupied face.\n\nIt was long ere he could congratulate himself upon any measure of\nsuccess.  The little that Carice had hitherto known of Doctor Remy, she\nhad intuitively disliked.  She now acknowledged that she had scarcely\ndone him justice in her thought; or he had changed since then.\nOccasionally, in his mention of his poorer patients, there peeped out\ntraits of thoughtful kindness and generosity,--or something that looked\nlike them,--for which she would never have given him credit.  She was\nglad to know that he was better than he had seemed.  But here the\nmatter ended, so far as she was concerned.  She did not care for him,\npersonally; she shunned his visits, as much as possible; when compelled\nto be present, she oftenest sat a little apart, thinking her own\nthoughts over her embroidery or her drawing, and letting the brightest\nflow of his conversation pass by her unheeded.\n\nBut so consummate a social strategist as Doctor Remy was not thus to be\nbaffled.  One day, he took fitting occasion to bring Bergan's name into\nhis talk,--speaking of him quietly and unconcernedly, as it was natural\nto speak of a man with whom he had been intimately associated for some\nmonths,--and speaking of him kindly, too, as of one for whom he\nentertained a real regard.  Carice turned away her head, and tears\nsprang to her eyes.  It was so long since she had heard Bergan's name\nspoken in a friendly tone, and unaccompanied by a disparaging\ncommentary!  When she ventured to look at Doctor Remy, it was with a\nsoft, grateful expression, which he did not fail to detect and\nunderstand.  There was a certain wistfulness, also, as of a flower\nwhich, having been refreshed by one little drop of unexpected dew,\nopens its petals for more.  This, too, the doctor understood, and was\ntoo wise to disappoint.\n\n\"By the way,\" said he, turning to Mr. Bergan, \"perhaps I can give you\nthe latest news from your sister,--I had a letter from Mr. Arling this\nmorning.\"\n\nCarice's heart gave a great leap, of mingled pleasure and pain.  At\nlast she was to hear something;--yet, certainly, it ought not to be in\nthis roundabout way.\n\n\"It will be the earliest news as well as the latest,\" responded Mr.\nBergan, drily; \"I have heard nothing, as yet.\"\n\n\"Is it possible!\" exclaimed Doctor Remy, with well-feigned surprise; \"I\nhad no idea of that.  Still, severe sickness is an engrossing guest in\na house, as I often have occasion to notice; outside friends are apt to\nbe forgotten, or rather ignored, except as they can be made useful.\nProbably, Arling would not have written to me, if he had not wanted\nsomething supplementary to certain medical suggestions with which I\nfurnished him, when he left, and which seem to have been of use.\nAnyway, I am glad to be able to tell you that the fever has passed the\ncrisis.\"\n\n\"I am glad to hear it,\" returned Mr. Bergan, heartily enough, yet with\nan evident dislike of the subject.  Carice being present, he could not\nforget that talking of Mrs. Arling was the next thing to talking of her\nson.\n\nMrs. Bergan, however, was more alive to the demands both of kinship and\nof courtesy.  \"Is our sister out of danger, then?\" she asked with\ninterest.\n\n\"Except as there is always danger of a relapse,\" answered Doctor Remy.\n\"Still, judging from Mr. Arling's letter, I should say that there is\ngood reason to hope that his mother's convalescence will be sure and\nswift.  In that case, we may look for him back among us, ere long.\"\n\nMr. Bergan frowned; Carice turned away her face, that her gladness\nmight not be seen shining in her eyes.  This, then, was the reason why\nBergan had not written to Oakstead.  At first, there had been\nengrossing anxiety and fear; then, finding that he should soon be able\nto come and plead his cause in person, he had not thought it wise to\ncommit it to the colder advocacy of a letter.  There were many\nadvantages in a face-to-face discussion; especially where, as he\ndoubtless suspected, prejudice was to be met and overcome!  And he\ncould not honorably write to her, until he had written to her father.\n\nNor would she admit, even to herself, that this explanation did not\nquite cover every point, that it hardly excused Bergan for subjecting\nher to so long a strain of expectation and suspense.  She was so glad,\npoor child! to discern even the outline of a reasonable solution of the\nmystery that had so oppressed her!  And, for the rest, was he not\ncoming soon, to make everything smooth and plain?  Might he not be here\nin a few days,--a week,--a fortnight,--at farthest?  Or, suppose it\nshould be a month:--well, no need for her heart to sink thus,--could a\nmonth ever seem long again, in comparison with that which was just past?\n\n\nPerhaps it may be well to offset the foregoing scene with one or two\nveritable paragraphs from Bergan's letter:--\n\n\"The crisis of the fever, Doctor Trubie thinks, was passed a week ago.\nBut my mother does not rally, in the least.  We just succeed in keeping\nher alive--if anything so like death can be called life--by the means\nwhich you suggested.  If she does live, we shall owe it, under God, to\nyou.  The great obstacle to her recovery, now, is the ulceration\nmentioned above; Doctor Trubie warns us that it may terminate fatally,\nany day.  If you have any further suggestions to offer, I need not say\nhow gratefully we shall accept them.\n\n\"Can you tell me if they are all well at Oakstead?  I wrote some time\nago, but have heard nothing.\"\n\nThe second of these paragraphs, Doctor Remy had dismissed with a single\nreading and a sinister smile; but, over the first, he had knitted his\nbrows into their sternest, deepest lines of thought,--the look of a man\nhurling all his reserved force into the fight, and determined to wring\nvictory from defeat.\n\n\"She must not die!\" he muttered to himself,--\"that would set Arling\nfree too soon.  The longer and slower her convalescence, the\nbetter,--but she _must not die!_\"\n\nAnd the return mail carried back to Mrs. Arling's bedside--where the\nbattle seemed wellnigh over--the strong reinforcements of Doctor Remy's\nscience and experience, to carry on the fight.\n\nFrom all of which, it will easily be seen that Carice's days of\nsuspense were not yet over.  Doctor Remy had artfully lifted her a\nlittle way into the sunshine, first, as a means of commending himself\nto her favor, and next, in order that her lapse into the shadow should\nbe the more complete.\n\nIn the first of these objects, he was measurably successful.  Carice no\nlonger shunned him.  He was certain to see her, soon or late, whenever\nhe came to Oakstead.  With the current of feeling setting so strongly\nagainst Bergan, in every other quarter, she could not afford to lose\nany kindly mention of him, in this one.  Though she still sat a little\napart, it was plain that she lost no word of his conversation.  Her\nface, as she listened, had the same look of patient interest, with\nwhich a solitary prisoner might watch for the flight of a bird across\nthe small square of blue sky which is his only prospect.\n\nHer parents noticed the change, and rejoiced in it, inasmuch as they\ndid not suspect its cause.  For it must be confessed that Doctor Remy\nacquitted himself marvellously well of the delicate task of mentioning\nBergan in terms at once pleasant to the daughter's ears, and void of\noffence to those of the parents.  He understood perfectly the art of\nconstructing two-sided sentences, which gave Carice the impression that\nhe was the young man's stanch, if undemonstrative, friend, at the same\ntime that Mr. and Mrs. Bergan found in them abundant confirmation of\ntheir prejudices.\n\nOf course, neither party discussed these impressions with the other.\nCarice, feeling the uselessness of the task, had long since ceased to\ndefend Bergan; her parents, believing that his silence was operating\nmore powerfully against him than any arguments of theirs could do, had\nceased to attack him.  Nor will it seem any paradox to say that, while\nthey were unspeakably glad of his omission to write, it was, on the\nwhole, his worst fault, in their eyes.  They resented the slight to\ntheir daughter none the less, because it hastened the end which they\nardently desired.  To have sought her love was bad enough, but to have\nflung it aside so quickly, as a thing of no value, was a thousand times\nworse.  Godfrey Bergan gnashed his teeth, whenever he thought of it,\nwith an indignation for which he had no words.\n\nOne day, Doctor Remy, to his great gratification, found Carice alone in\nthe library; and at once seized upon the opportunity to speak of\nBergan, in kinder and fuller strain than he had ever yet ventured to\ndo,--though not in a way to suggest that he was aware of any special\nbond between his listener and his subject.  He described his first\nmeeting with the young man, and its immediate results; he sketched\nvarious pleasant scenes and incidents that had come to pass under Mrs.\nLyte's kindly roof; and he dwelt with hearty admiration upon Bergan's\noratorical and intellectual gifts.  Carice listened like one entranced.\nHer joy was too perfect to admit of any alloy, even when Doctor Remy\nwent on to speak of Bergan as a young man whose character was still in\nprocess of formation, whose talents were, as yet, far in advance of his\njudgment, and whose kindly impulses often led him into error.  Yet\nthese few words, of all that had ever been spoken disparagingly of\nBergan, in her hearing, were the only ones that had yet effected any\nlodgment in her mind.  So artfully thrown in, among much that was\nfriendly and encomiastic, as to be scarcely noticed at the moment, the\ntime came when these words shot up, in Carice's memory, into manifold\nthorn-branches of suggestion.\n\nAt present, however, she was inexpressibly cheered by this hour's talk\non the subject that lay nearest her heart.  She greeted her parents,\nupon their return, with a face so much more like that which had once\nbeen the sunshine of their hearts, that they exchanged looks of\nsurprise and delight.  They were looks of questioning too.  Was this\npleasant change owing to Doctor Remy's influence?  Was he beginning to\nthink of Carice, in lover's wise?  Was she beginning to turn\nunconsciously from the love that had failed her, to the calm and mature\naffection that was certain to stand by her?  Then, by all means, let\nthe matter so arrange itself.  Though Doctor Remy was not quite the man\nwhom they would have chosen for Carice, he was infinitely better and\nsafer than their nephew.  His reputation was fair, his talents\nundeniable; he was certain to win eminence in his profession; and\npossibly, fame beyond it, as a man of science.  If he had seemed a\nlittle cold and hard, hitherto, love would soften him.  Who could be\notherwise than soft to Carice!\n\nAnd so, Doctor Remy came and went, and unlimited opportunities were\ngiven him to talk to Carice,--of Bergan, or of anything else,--of which\nhe failed not to make artful use, with reference both to the present\nand the future.  In due time, she came to look upon him somewhat as\nAstra had once done,--as a man more wise and calm than tender, more\njust than genial, but a man to be greatly esteemed and trusted,\nnevertheless; and, certainly a true, if not an enthusiastic, friend of\nBergan.  Yet she never thought of him, strange to say, as a friend to\nherself.  Her instincts were far too fine and clear for that.  If ever,\nfor a moment, she felt inclined to turn to him for sympathy, she\nimmediately shrank back from him, as powerless to give her what she\nsought.  It was precisely the same feeling--though she did not\nrecognize it as such--with which she would have turned away from an\nimage in a mirror, which, during a single illusive moment of twilight,\nshe had mistaken for a living form.\n\nAnd the days came and went, and another month drew nigh its close.\n\n\n\n\nX.\n\nA WICKED DEVICE.\n\nCarice was strolling languidly along the bank of the creek, the\nheaviness of her heart easily discoverable in her absent face and\nlanguid step.  Her eyes rested on the same stream, her ears were filled\nwith the murmur of the same leaves, which had witnessed her parting\nwith Bergan, nearly two months before, yet neither made any distinct\nimpression on her mind; she saw and heard but the flow and murmur of\nher own troubled thoughts.  She had noticed a singular change of tone\nin Doctor Remy, of late, with respect to Bergan.  He no longer made the\nyoung man the subject of free and frank conversation; if obliged to\nmention him at all, he did it with a certain reserve and caution, an\nair of picking and choosing his phrases, which at first puzzled, and\nwas now beginning to alarm, the poor girl, already worn and nervous\nwith the long sickness of hope deferred.\n\nHer fears, however, took a different direction from what Doctor Remy\nhad anticipated.  He had intended his alteration of manner to suggest\nthe grave, stern reserve of a man, who, though he had himself lost\nconfidence in his friend, is still honorably reluctant to injure him in\nthe estimation of another.  But from any such suggestion, Carice's mind\nwas shielded by her loyal faith in her lover, as by an armor of proof.\nDr. Remy's change of manner only served to strengthen her growing\nconviction that Bergan's failure either to write, or to appear in\nperson, could be caused by nothing short of some great and unexpected\ncalamity.  As her eyes followed a swift cloud-shadow from object to\nobject of the summer landscape, so her mind followed the dark shade of\nher fears from point to point of possible ill.  Perhaps the fever,\nquitting his mother, had fastened upon Bergan himself; perhaps he was\nill, suffering, unconscious, dying, even, or--the thought shook her\nlike a sudden blow--dead!  Gasping for breath, she leaned against a\nfriendly tree, and closed her eyes, as if to shut out the agonizing\nvision, which, nevertheless, rose but the more vividly before her.\nQuickly opening them again, she saw Doctor Remy coming toward her from\nthe direction of the cottage.  He had espied her from the piazza, as he\nwas taking his leave, after having spent a half-hour with her mother.\n\nShe was glad to see him.  He could set her free from the intolerable\nchafing of suspense, though it were but to hand her over to the chill\nbondage of despair.  He would doubtless have done so, ere this, but for\nsome request or warning of her parents to the contrary.  How far this\nmight have let him into the secret of her relations with Bergan, she\nknow not,--neither did she care much, just now; how far it might avail\nto close his lips was a much more important consideration,--still she\nbelieved that she could gather something from the expression of his\nface, even though he should think it right to evade her questions.\n\nShe seized upon the first opportunity, therefore, to look him, steadily\nin the face, though her own flushed a little, as she did so; and to\nask, quietly,--\"Have you heard anything from my cousin Bergan lately?\"\n\nDoctor Remy's face underwent a quick change of expression, none the\nless effective that it was obedient to his will.  \"Yes,\" replied he,\nsombrely, \"I had a letter from him two or three days ago.\"\n\nCarice could scarcely restrain a cry of joy; it was such a relief to\nknow that Bergan was alive, and able to write.  But her immediate\nperception that something was kept back, saved her self-possession.\n\n\"And my aunt,\" she went on, as soon as she could, command her voice,\n\"is she quite recovered?\"\n\n\"Yes,--that is, I inferred so.\"\n\nCarice looked a little surprised.  It would seem that Bergan's letter\nhad made no mention of his mother.  \"Has the fever attacked any of the\nothers?\" she continued.\n\n\"None.\"\n\n\"And Bergan is quite well himself?\"\n\n\"He says nothing to the contrary.\"\n\nSatisfactory as were these replies, in substance, there was a degree of\ndryness and brevity about them which was far otherwise.  Unwilling to\nquit the subject thus, Carice ventured another query:--\"Then, I suppose\nhe may be expected back very soon?\"\n\nDoctor Remy looked grave even to sternness.  \"No, I think not.\"\n\nCarice's heart sank.  \"Did he not say when he should come?\" asked she,\nanxiously.\n\nDoctor Remy seemed to become suddenly aware that she really had\nsomething more than a conventional interest in the subject, and to be\nwilling to gratify it, to the best of his ability.\n\n\"I forget exactly what he said about it,\" replied he, \"but I think I\nhave his letter in my pocket-book.\"  He drew forth a closely written\nsheet, and glanced rapidly over it, but seemed not to find what he\nsought.  Applying again to the envelope, he produced a separate bit of\npaper.  \"Ah, yes, here we have it, in this slip of a postscript,\" he\nwent on,--\"'In order to'--um--um--'I think I shall postpone my return\nuntil after Christmas.'  That is all.\"\n\nCarice stood as in a dream.  Bergan well!  Bergan silent only to her!\nBergan not coming back for three months yet!--her mind utterly refused\nto receive three such incongruous ideas.  There must be some miserable\nmistake,--but where?  She put her hand to her brow with a piteous\ngesture of perplexity and bewilderment.\n\nDoctor Remy, meanwhile, failed not to observe the effect of his words,\nthough apparently thinking only of refolding and rearranging his\npapers.  It was precisely what he had expected; and, feeling quite\nsecure, for the moment, from Carice's observation, he took occasion, as\nhe returned Bergan's letter to his pocket-book, to let the postscript\ndrop to the ground, taking care to conceal it with his foot during the\nremainder of his stay, which he wisely made short.\n\n\"Can I do anything more for you?\" he asked, graciously, as he put up\nhis pocket-book.\n\nCarice gave a slight start, and turned toward him, with an inquiring\nlook.  She had heard, but she had not understood.  He repeated his\nquestion.\n\n\"No, thank you,\" replied Carice, letting her eyes go back to the far,\ndark line of the pine forest.\n\n\"Then I must leave you.  I only stopped to say good morning and\ngood-bye.  I had already spent my few moments of leisure with Mrs.\nBergan.\"\n\nHe raised his hat courteously, and was gone.\n\nCarice remained, trying her best to reduce the confusion of her mind to\norder, and, especially, to discover some clue to the mystery of\nBergan's doings and intentions.  She gave up the difficult task, at\nlast, with a weary little shake of the head, and a smile of pity at her\nown helplessness.\n\n\"It is too deep for me,\" she said to herself, \"but Bergan will be sure\nto explain it all.  I must just go on trusting till he comes, or\nwrites.  He shall never be able to say that my faith in him was\nconquered by the first difficulty!\"\n\nThere was something quieting and strengthening in the mere resolve.\nTrust has its own special delight,--a far subtler and sweeter thing\nthan any satisfaction of the understanding.  Carice's face was almost\nbright, as she turned to go home.\n\nA folded paper lay directly in her path.  Mechanically she picked it\nup; mechanically she read it almost through, before her mind, busy with\nother thoughts, began, even vaguely, to grasp its meaning.\n\nIt ran thus:--\n\n\"P.S. I cannot understand how my foolish engagement to Astra Lyte\nshould have leaked out.  With all due respect for your opinion, I\ncannot think of fulfilling it; indeed, I wrote to break it off\nimmediately after coming home.  I should never have entered into it,\nbut for a mistaken notion that it would advance my interests in a\ncertain quarter.  Finding that it was likely to do just the opposite,\nthere was nothing for it but to take the shortest cut out of the\nscrape.  Never fear for Astra, she does not belong to the Ophelia order\nof women, she has pride and pluck enough to carry her through a worse\ndisappointment; besides, hearts are never broken except in novels and\nplays.  I am much obliged to her for leaving Berganton, the affair will\nblow over the sooner.  In order to give it time to do so, I think I\nshall postpone my return until after Christmas.  \"Yours, B.A.\"\n\n\nTwice did Carice read the paper's contents through, before she began to\nunderstand what it was, and whence it came.  She had seen Bergan's\nhandwriting a few times, in notes addressed to her mother; and she\nremembered enough of its peculiarities to recognize them in the lines\nbefore her, as soon as her mind was able to grasp the fact that, in\nthis heartless production, she beheld the postscript which she had seen\nin Doctor Remy's hand, and which he had doubtless dropped accidentally,\nwhile replacing his papers in his pocket-book.  That it should have\nbeen deliberately forged, and designedly put in her way--a sort of\nmoral torpedo, loaded with mischief--was a depth of wickedness, of\nwhich, in her innocence, she could never have conceived.  She could\nscarcely make herself comprehend the evil tenor of the words before her\neyes.  She read them over again, with a feeling that either their form\nor their purport must change, if she only studied them carefully\nenough; it was impossible that she had read them aright.\n\nNo, they would not alter.  Her efforts only served to brand them more\ndeeply on her mind.  She looked up, at last, with a kind of wonder that\nthe earth was still firm under her feet, and the sky's arch entire\nabove her head.  It would have seemed more in keeping to have beheld\nthe universe crashing backward into chaos.\n\nNot that she suffered very keenly yet.  She was too much stunned to\nrealize the extent of her wounds and bruises.  She picked herself up,\nas it were, after the fall and the shock, and walked mechanically\nhomeward.  Her strength did not give way until she found herself in her\nroom, shutting her door behind her, and felt what a different being had\ngone out of it only a little while before.\n\nAn hour after, Mrs. Bergan found her lying on her bed, white and still,\nmore like a corpse than a living, suffering girl.\n\n\"Carice!\" she cried, appalled, but not without an intuitive perception\nof the truth,--\"Carice, my child! what is the matter?\"\n\n\"I don't know--don't ask me,\" replied Carice, turning her face to the\nwall.\n\nMrs. Bergan burst into tears, and stole softly away.  Here was a grief\nin which even she could only intermeddle as a stranger.  She could\nsimply commend her child to tenderer, wiser hands than hers.\n\nA day or two went by, and Carice was down-stairs again, white; still,\npatient; filling her old place, and doing her old tasks, with a sad\ncomposure that was more affecting than any abandonment of sorrow.  Her\nwoe seemed to take the form of torpor, rather than of anguish.  It was\nthat chill and heavy misery, that dismal realization of the actual\npresence and power of evil in the world, which never comes to us except\nthrough the sin of some cherished, trusted friend; standing hitherto as\nthe representative of all that is good and true, the earthly type of\nthe Divine perfection.  Falling, he falls not alone, but drags down\nwith him the supports of every earthly confidence, and even makes the\nfoundation of our heavenly faith to tremble.  Such grief is dumb and\ntearless; it coils itself round the heart in cold, serpent-like folds,\nchilling the blood, and oppressing the breath; but it makes no single,\nspecial wound, to call forth cries and sobs of pain.\n\nMeanwhile, the yellow fever, as foreseen long ago by Doctor Remy, made\nits silent entry into Berganton.  One day a single case was reported in\nthe outskirts of the town; another week, and there was scarcely a\nthreshold which it had not crossed, either to strike or slay.  The town\nput on sackcloth and ashes; business was suspended, except the business\nof nursing the sick and burying the dead; the streets were deserted,\nexcept by hearses and doctors.  Or, it would be truer to say, a doctor;\nfor Doctor Gerrish, being unacclimated, was one of the earliest\npatients; and Doctor Harris, being old and infirm, quickly sank\nexhausted; so Doctor Remy was soon left to face the pestilence alone,\nand multiply himself as best he could, to meet the demands of a whole\npeople.\n\nLet us do him ample justice.  All that an iron frame, a steady courage,\nadmirable executive ability, profound medical skill, and deep\nscientific interest, could prompt or do, he did.  He organized and\ninstructed a corps of nurses, and made them do effective work; he\nscattered printed suggestions and directions broadcast over the town,\nfor the behoof of sick and well; he was himself constantly in the\nthickest of the fight, animating the workers, cheering the sick,\nwellnigh raising the dead,--doing everything but comfort the mourners,\nfor that he had neither time nor talent.  The town rang with praises of\nhis energy and skill; his presence had brought back hope to many a\nhouse whence it seemed to have flown forever, joy into many a heart\nthat had only made itself ready for sorrow.  Even Carice, as her\nprivate grief half-sank, for the time, under the great wave of public\ncalamity, was moved to a degree of respect and admiration for the\ndoctor, of which, two or three weeks before, she could not have\nbelieved herself capable.  There was still a hero, and room for\nheroism, in the world!\n\nBy and by, Mr. Bergan fell ill, not of the fever, but of one of the\nsympathetic diseases, which often go hand in hand with it.  There were\na few days of intense anxiety, during which the wife and daughter\nlived, as it were, on the words of Doctor Remy's mouth, and the look of\nhis eyes.  After these came slow weeks of convalescence, of exacting\nfeebleness and irritable complaint.\n\nIt was during these that Doctor Remy spoke.\n\nIs it necessary to describe the conflict, or designate the result?  On\nthe one side were parental wisdom, love, and authority, with the strong\nsanction of recent danger and present feebleness; on the other, filial\nrespect, affection, and obedience, and a great self-distrust.  For\nCarice remembered that she had taken her own way before, and whither it\nhad led; now, ought she not to submit to the guidance ordained of God?\n\nOctober found her bound fast by a promise, held irrevocably to a day.\nThe outward conflict was over; but the inward struggle, she found, was\nscarce begun!  Under that, she paled and wasted; sleep and appetite\nforsook her; her eyes grew to have the pathetic, pleading look of a\ndumb animal taken in a net.  Finally, worn-out nature took refuge in\napathy that nothing seemed to disturb.\n\n\n\n\nXI\n\nA CLUE.\n\nA chill November day was drawing near its close.  With the evening dusk\nsnowflakes filled the air, and began to whiten the swells and slopes of\nthe Arling farm, and lay the foundation of future drifts beside the\ndoorstep and under the eaves of the Arling homestead.  This structure\nhad begun life as a log cabin, but had grown, by the simple and natural\nprocess of adding on a room or a wing, as fast as it was required and\ncould be afforded, into a large, and somewhat picturesque, cluster of\nroofs and gables; beneath which there might easily be not only room for\nthe fullest, heartiest flow of domestic and social life, but also means\nand influences to a considerable degree of refinement and culture.\n\nToward it, a stout, broad-shouldered personage was making his way,\nthrough the dusk and the snow, with a cheery face and an energetic\ntread, that plainly minded neither.  Tramp, tramp, went the brisk\nfootfalls up the gravel walk, the bright brass knocker was made to send\na note of warning through the house, and the wayfarer admitted himself\ninto a lighted hall, through which he strode to the open door of the\nsitting-room at the farther end.\n\nA pleasant family picture was before him.  Bergan Arling, on one side\nof the crimson-covered centre-table, looked up, smiling, from the book\nout of which he had been reading aloud.  Two of his sisters sat near\nhim, busy with crotchet needles and bright worsteds.  Still another was\ndrawing at a side-table; and over her, giving her the benefit of his\ncriticism, leaned her brother Hubert, scarce two years younger than\nBergan, and so strikingly like him, that one was often taken for the\nother, outside the family circle.  At one side of the fire-place sat\nthe master of the house, a tall, noble-looking man, with eye undimmed\nand hair unfrosted by the snows of over sixty years.  Opposite him was\nthe home's true light and centre, the house-mother.  She reclined in a\nlarge, low easy chair, the paleness on her face half concealed by the\nglow of the blazing fire, and her eyes shining with that tender joy and\npeace which convalescents sometimes bring back from the edge of the\ngrave,--a reflection, perhaps, from the paradise that was already\nopening before the gaze of the half-freed spirit.\n\nDoctor Trubie paused for a moment in the doorway, to master the details\nof the scene.  He has changed but little since he was introduced to the\nreader, fourteen years ago, in his medical Alma Mater.  His figure has\ngained in breadth and strength, and his features in character, but it\nis the same frank, genial face, and the same good-humored smile.  No\none that knew him then, could fail to recognize him now.\n\nIn a moment, he caught sight of Mrs. Arling, and hastened toward her\nwith outstretched hand.  \"I don't know whether to congratulate or to\nscold you,\" he began, smiling, yet shaking his head with mild\ndisapproval.\n\nHubert Arling came forward to Bergan's side.  \"I can settle the\nquestion for you,\" said he.  \"Congratulate her, and scold us.  We\nbrought her down, chair and all; she did not touch foot to the floor in\nthe transit.\"\n\n\"Then I will save my scolding until it is needed.  It seems little less\nthan miraculous to see you here,\" he went on, turning to Mrs. Arling,\n\"when I think how things seemed to be going, a few weeks ago.  It has\nbeen a hard pull, and a long one.\"\n\n\"And a strong one, and a pull altogether,\" added Hubert Arling,\nmerrily, by way of arresting the tears that he saw starting into his\nsisters' eyes.\n\n\"The strong pull,\" remarked Doctor Trubie, \"came from my medical\nbrother, down South.\"\n\n\"You underrate yourself,\" replied Mr. Arling.  \"Of what avail would\nDoctor Remy's suggestions have been, without your indefatigable\nvigilance, and your professional skill and knowledge to carry them out?\"\n\n\"That is to say,\" returned Doctor Trubie, \"that a good\ncommander-in-chief can do nothing without good generals.  At all\nevents, Doctor Remy is a wonderfully talented fellow.  He seems to keep\nnot only abreast of medical science, but in advance of it.  That very\nsuggestion of his, which proved most valuable to us, was mentioned in\nmy last medical review, as the latest discovery at Paris.  There is\nsomething about his bold, yet scientific mode of reasoning which\nreminds me strangely of an old fellow-student.  But Doctor Remy, I\nhope, is a better fellow than _he_ was.  By the way,\" he added, turning\nto Bergan, \"I came near forgetting that I have brought you a letter\nfrom him, as I judge from the handwriting.\"\n\nBergan tore open the letter, and with an apologetic bow to the company,\nbegan eagerly to read it.  Doctor Trubie seated himself by the table,\npicked up the rejected envelope, and gave it a critical examination.\n\n\"That's what I call a good hand,\" said he, \"a round, clear, energetic\nhand, that neither tries your eyesight, nor rouses your distrust.\nThere is no crookedness nor meanness in it; yet there is plenty of\ncharacter; one can see, at a glance, that the writer is bold and\nsagacious as well as profound, a man of action as well as a man of\nscience.\"\n\nBergan had finished the letter, which was short; and he now looked up\nwith a much amused face.  \"I ought to tell you,\" said he, \"that Doctor\nRemy possesses the rare accomplishment of being able to write with\neither hand; he uses the right or the left, at pleasure.  But the two\nhandwritings are entirely distinct.  That address was written with his\nleft hand, and so, I remember, were the suggestions and prescriptions\nthat I handed over to you.  But this letter was written with his right\nhand; see what you can make of it,\" and Bergan pushed the open sheet\nacross the table.\n\nThe change in Doctor Trubie's face was startling.  \"This!\" he\nexclaimed, his voice trembling with excitement, \"who did you say wrote\nthis?\"\n\n\"Doctor Remy, the same man who wrote that address.\"\n\nDoctor Trubie glanced back at the letter, and his eyes lit with a\nstrange, stern joy.  \"At last!\" he muttered through his set teeth.\n\nMrs. Arling leaned forward, and her face grew pale.  \"What is it,\ndoctor?\" she asked, trembling.  \"What is the matter?\"\n\nDoctor Trubie glanced at her excited face, and saw what mischief he was\ndoing.  \"Nothing,\" he hastened to answer, \"nothing, only an old sore\npressed on suddenly.  This handwriting reminds me of one that--I never\nexpected to see again.\"\n\nHe gave the letter a long, moody look, then refolded it, and handed it\nback to Bergan.\n\nMrs. Arling looked anxiously at her son.  \"Does Doctor Remy give you\nany special news?\" she asked.\n\n\"Not much.  Uncle Godfrey is better, and the fever is over.  Business\nis still dull.\"\n\n\"Then you will not need to hurry back?\"\n\nBergan knelt by his mother's side.  \"My dear mother,\" he whispered,\n\"you know it is not for the sake of my business that I am anxious to\nreturn, as soon as I may.  I must see Carice, and satisfy myself that\nnothing is amiss.\"\n\nMrs. Arling smiled, yet she sighed, too.  \"Ah, yes, I remember,\" said\nshe, \"and you are quite right.\"\n\nDoctor Trubie rose, and came to the other side of Mrs. Arling's chair.\n\"I am glad to see that I am not wanted here any longer,\" he began,\npleasantly;--\n\n\"But you are wanted,\" interrupted Mrs. Arling; \"you are always wanted,\nas a friend.\"\n\n\"Thank you; but I am wanted elsewhere as a physician; so I must take my\nleave, for the present.\"\n\nHe shook hands with Mrs. Arling, and gave Bergan a meaning glance, as\nhe did so.  The young man rose.  \"I will walk a little way with you, if\nyou like,\" said he.  \"I have a boyish delight in the first snow, and I\ndid not see any last winter, you remember.\"\n\nThe two gentlemen were hardly outside the gate, before Doctor Trubie\nasked;--\"What do you know of this Doctor Remy's antecedents?\"\n\nBergan narrated the facts which he had gathered, from time to time,\nfrom Doctor Remy's conversation.\n\n\"So, he would have us believe,\" said Doctor Trubie, contemptuously,\n\"that he transformed himself from a poor lawyer into a scientific\nphysician, in a year and a half, by the help of a friendly doctor, and\na course of lectures!  There is falsehood on the face of it.\"\n\n\"He had a genius for the study,\" replied Bergan.\n\n\"Aye, I'll warrant! that is the saving grain of truth in the whole\nstory.  Do you remember the circumstances of your elder brother's\ndeath?\"\n\n\"Not very distinctly.  I was so young, at the time; and then, you know,\nmother could never bear to hear any allusion to them.\"\n\n\"You know that he was murdered?\"\n\nBergan looked surprised.  \"I know there was talk of suicide,\" said he,\n\"but I thought it was decided that he was poisoned by mistake.\"\n\n\"He was murdered,\" asserted Doctor Trubie, getting his teeth, \"foully\nmurdered by the man who professed to be his friend,--a man who wrote a\nhand as much like this Doctor Remy's as one side of your face is like\nthe other.  I charged him with it, at the time, and I have always\nbelieved that I should live to see the charge proven.\"  And he finished\nby giving a succinct account of the circumstances attending Alec\nArling's death.\n\nBergan listened attentively and critically, as became his legal\ntraining.  \"I do not understand why the finding of the diamond was such\nconclusive evidence of guilt,\" said he, when the doctor paused.\n\n\"Because Roath swore, at the inquest, that he did not touch either\nbottle or glass, and did not even go to that end of the table.  That\nwas where he overreached himself; without that, the stone in the glass\nwould not have been such a damning circumstance.  He recognized it as\nsuch himself;--else why did he fly?\"\n\n\"Well, you may be right about the murder,\" said Bergan, after a little\nconsideration, \"but I think you have mistaken the man.\"\n\n\"Let us see,\" said Doctor Trubie.  \"He is about my height?\"\n\n\"Yes,--perhaps a little taller.\"\n\n\"He stoops a little?\"\n\n\"Not at all, he is uncommonly erect.\"\n\n\"He has dark hair?\"\n\n\"It may have been so, it is prematurely gray.\"\n\nDoctor Trubie looked a little discomfited.  \"Give me a sketch of his\ncharacter,\" said he.\n\nBergan hesitated.  It was a difficult thing to do, on the instant.  His\nimpressions of Doctor Remy's character had varied, as he remembered.\n\n\"On second thought,\" said Doctor Trubie, \"I will give you one.  All of\nhim, that is not intellect, is ice.  In religious matters, he is an\nutter sceptic.  Socially, he is brilliant; but he has no intimate\nfriends, and he makes no confidants.  Men and women, to him, are\nsubjects of study, not objects of affection.  He cares for nothing but\nhimself and his profession.  And no one cares for him--much.  They may\nadmire, but they cannot love.\"\n\nBergan looked considerably startled.  \"Your sketch tallies well with\nsome impressions of mine, which I did my best to rid myself of,\" said\nhe.  \"But Doctor Remy has befriended me, from the first, and you\nyourself say that he has been largely the means of saving my mother's\nlife.\"\n\n\"He has had his own reasons for both; Edmund Roath never did anything\nwithout a reason, and a selfish one.  Has he anything to gain by\nkeeping you out of the way?\"\n\n\"Nothing, that I can imagine.\"\n\n\"When do you return to Berganton?\"\n\n\"Mother has consented that I shall start on Monday, if she is no worse.\"\n\n\"She will be much better.  Do not delay longer than that.  I will\naccompany you; I want to see this Doctor Remy.  Seeing is believing.\nBut, mind, not a word of my coming, to him or any one else.  Now, go\nback to your mother, or she will be alarmed.  Good night.\"\n\nBergan walked back slowly and thoughtfully.  Without being fully\nconvinced of the truth of Doctor Trubie's suspicions, he was strangely\ndisturbed and startled.  Reaching the gate, he turned his face\nsouth-eastward, and gazed across the white meadows, toward the dim\noutline of the distant hills.  His thoughts overleaped even that far\nbarrier, and took an air line to Oakstead and to Carice.  Her face rose\nvividly before him, not, strange to say, as he had seen it last, rosy\nand bright, but pale and piteous, and gazing toward him with a look\nthat besought sympathy and succor, plainer than any speech.  His eyes\ngrew moist, his breath tremulous; his heart swelled with passionate\nlove and longing.\n\n\"I will beg my mother to consent to my going at once,\" said he to\nhimself.  \"I cannot wait another day.\"\n\nThe next afternoon, he was on his way to Berganton, whither Doctor\nTrubie was shortly to follow him.\n\n\n\n\nXII.\n\nTOO LATE.\n\nIn those days, there was a pleasant spice of uncertainty about Southern\njourneyings.  Cars, steamboats, and stages ran in happy independence of\neach other and the time-table.  The traveller never knew at what point\nof juniper swamp, or pine barren, or cotton plantation, he would be set\ndown to while away some hours in botanical or ethnological\ninvestigations, if his mind were sufficiently at ease, or in chewing\nthe bitter cud of impatience, if it were not.  Defective machinery and\nlazy officials labored mightily together to miss connections, and\nwherever human inefficiency came short, down swept a hurricane from the\nskies, and strewed the roads with prostrate trunks of trees, through\nwhich the cumbrous stage coach had literally to hew its path.\n\nMore than one such delay attended Bergan's progress southward.  Under\ntheir teasing friction, the shadowy anxiety with which he had set out,\nincreased to a positive weight of alarm.  Reaching Savalla on the\ntwelfth evening, he stopped neither for rest nor refreshment, but\nlooked up a horse, flung himself into the saddle, and set off toward\nBerganton at a rapid rate.  Outside the city limits, however, he was\nforced to slacken his pace.  The night was dark, no faintest gleam of\nmoon or star tempered the black obscurity of the tree-arched and\nswamp-bordered road.  Compelled thus to feel his way, as it were, it\nwas near midnight when he came upon the outlying fields of Oakstead.\nReluctantly he told himself that an interview with Carice, to-night,\nwas out of the question; she and all the household were certain to be\nfast asleep, it was doubtful if even the faintest outline of the\ndarkened dwelling would be discernible through the murky night.  He had\nno choice but to ride on to Berganton.\n\nScarcely had he reached this conclusion, when a radiant window shone\nvision-like through the trees; a little farther on, and the cottage,\nthough yet distant, came full into view through an opening in the\nforest, brilliantly illuminated from roof to foundation as for a\nfestivity of no ordinary magnitude.  Even the surrounding lawn was\nlighted up into the semblance of day; and in its remotest corner, a\ngroup of negroes, dancing to some strain of music inaudible to the\nwondering spectator, looked fantastic enough for the unsubstantial\nimages of a dream.\n\nFor a moment or two, Bergan suspected his jaded senses of playing him\nfalse, as a step preparatory to taking leave of him altogether.  There\nwas something too incongruous to be real, between this gay scene of\nfestivity and the picture presented by Doctor Remy's last letter,--a\ndull, silent house, its master a feeble, exacting convalescent, its\nmistress and daughter worn out with anxiety and watching.  An intuition\nof some unlooked-for calamity seized him.  Putting spurs to his horse,\nhe dashed over the mile that intervened between him and the cottage, at\na scarcely less furious rate than that with which Vic had borne him\nover the same road--how well he remembered it!--just one year ago.  He\ndid not suspect that he was now to taste the bitterest consequences of\nthat ride.\n\nIn a very few moments, he rode through the open gates of Oakstead.\nHere, he found the avenue to the house encumbered with teams and\nsaddle-horses, tied to every tree and post.  The every-day aspect of\nthese sleepy animals was like a bucket of cold water to his excited\nimagination.  Strains of dancing music, too, came to his ear,--flutes\nand violins, none too well played, sent forth the notes of a popular\nair.  Plainly, he had been a fool to connect the thought of calamity\nwith anything so exceedingly common-place as an evening party.  If\nGodfrey Bergan chose to call in his friends and neighbors to dance over\nhis restoration to health, who should gainsay him?  Convalescents had\ntheir fancies, and must be humored.\n\nIn this cooler frame of mind, it naturally occurred to Bergan that he\nwas in no fit condition to face a festal throng.  His appearance, thus\nway-worn and travel-stained, would be scarcely more timely than that of\nthe Ancient Mariner to the wedding guest.  It would look as if he, too,\nhad a tale of horror to impart, and Carice might be unpleasantly\nstartled,--Carice, who little imagined him so near to her!  At the\nthought, a strange, indefinable thrill and shiver passed over him, hard\nto define as either pleasure or pain.\n\nAfter a moment's consideration, he dismounted, and walked quietly round\nto the spot where the negroes still kept up their lively dance.  One of\nthem, Bruno by name, stood a little apart, a smiling spectator of the\nmerriment that he was too old to join.  It was easy to touch him on the\nshoulder, without attracting the notice of the rest.  The negro turned,\nand instantly recognized Bergan; but his exclamation of surprise was\ncut short by the young man's significant gesture, and he silently\nfollowed him to a spot equi-distant between the cottage and the dancers.\n\n\"All well, Bruno?\" was Bergan's first inquiry.\n\n\"All bery well, Massa Arling.  You's welcome back, sah.  But I'se sorry\nyou's too late for de weddin'.\"\n\n_The wedding_,--the word fell almost meaninglessly on Bergan's ear, so\nintent was he upon satisfying himself that his late anxieties had been\ngroundless.  \"And Miss Carice,\" he went on, \"is she quite well, too?\"\n\nBruno smiled.  \"Yes, massa, I 'spec so, tho' she do look mighty pale\nand peaked, dese yere last weeks.  But dey mostly look so, at sich\ntimes, I s'pose.  She'll be better when de weddin's ober, an' all de\nfuss and flurry.\"\n\nThis second mention of \"the wedding\" penetrated to Bergan's\nunderstanding, and awakened a faint emotion of surprise.\n\n\"The wedding!--whose wedding?\" he asked.\n\nBruno opened his eyes wide in astonishment.  \"Why, don' you know, sah?\nI thought you'd come on purpose.  Miss Carice's weddin', to be sure.\"\n\nIt was Bergan's turn to look more than astonished, confounded.  \"Miss\nCarice's wedding!\" he repeated, as doubting the trustworthiness of his\nown ears.\n\n\"Yes, sah, to Doctor Remy, sah.  Dey had--\"\n\nBruno stopped short in alarm.  Bergan's face had grown deadly pale, his\nblank stare was that of a man who neither saw nor heard.  For a few\nmerciful moments, he was simply stunned with the suddenness and\nseverity of the shock.  Too soon his benumbed senses began to revive,\nhe put his hand to his head, where a dull, heavy pain was beginning to\nmake itself felt; mechanically he sat down on the grass, and his breath\ncame hard like that of a man stricken with apoplexy.\n\nWith a delicacy not uncommon in his race, Bruno turned his eyes away.\nA trusted servant of the household, he had seen Bergan and Carice\ntogether enough to be able to divine something of the state of the case.\n\nSlowly, one by one, Bergan's thoughts came out of chaos, and ranged\nthemselves into something like order.  This, then, was the reason why\nDoctor Remy had so persistently discouraged his earlier return to\nBerganton, and allayed his anxiety with plausible statements respecting\nCarice and her father,--that he might supplant him in her affections.\nBut why?  It must be taken as evidence that he had estimated the\ndoctor's character more correctly than he knew, that it never once\noccurred to him as possible that love for Carice had been the doctor's\nmotive; yet, considered solely as holding the reversion of the Oakstead\nestate, her hand was scarcely worth the labor and treachery it had cost.\n\nThere was so little to reward investigation in this direction, that\nBergan's thoughts came back to his own blighted hopes, and here he was\npierced with the sharpest pain that he had yet felt.  The treachery of\nthe doctor was as nothing to the faithlessness of Carice.  Two\nmonths,--yea, two days ago, he would have staked all his hopes for time\nand eternity on her truth.  Fair and delicate as was the cast of her\nbeauty, and sweet and gentle as was her manner, there had always been a\ncertain quiet steadfastness about her, which was one of her most potent\ncharms.  All hearts felt intuitively that they might safely trust in\nher.  What subtle or powerful influence could have been brought to bear\nupon her, to make her so belie herself!\n\nHe looked up.  \"Bruno, how long has this been going on?\"\n\nThe negro did not quite understand, but made shift to guess what was\nmeant.\n\n\"De engagement, sah? since October, I b'lieve.\"\n\n\"And how long has Doctor Remy visited here?\"\n\n\"Oh, a good while, 'bout eber since you went away.  But after massa was\ntook sick, he come oftener, ob course--ebery day, sometimes two, tree\ntimes a day.  Massa got so--'pendent on him, like, he couldn't bear to\nhave him out ob de house, one time.\"\n\nBergan fell into thought again.  He began dimly to understand something\nof the sort of pressure to which Carice had been subjected, and the\nmotives that had governed her,--not that he held her exonerated, by any\nmeans--only she was a little less culpable than she had seemed, at\nfirst.  But if she had sinned, poor child! how miserably she would be\npunished!  What a sterile soil, what a chill, unfriendly climate,\nawaited this delicate flower, in Doctor Remy's hands!  It was as if a\nlily should think to root itself in a rock, or a rose expect to bud and\nblossom on an iceberg.  Besides--why had he not thought of it\nbefore?--to-morrow, perhaps, in two or three days, at farthest, Doctor\nTrubie would be here, with authority, if it seemed good to him, to take\nthis man, _her husband_, into custody as a murderer!\n\nBergan's was the fine, strong temperament, which rises to the greatness\nof a crisis.  With the necessity of action, the chaos of his mind began\nto clear itself.  \"Bruno,\" he asked, suddenly, \"does--Miss Carice love\nthis man?\"\n\nBruno looked surprised, as well he might, at the question; but there\nwas something in Bergan's tone that made him answer at once, and\nfrankly; \"I don' know,--de servants do say she done it to please her\nfather.\"\n\nBergan laid his hand impressively on the old negro's shoulder.  \"Bruno,\nI must see her at once.  Her happiness--more than her happiness, the\nhonor and peace of the whole family--is at stake.  Find some way to let\nher know, quietly, that I am here, and that I must see her for one\nmoment.  Hurry! there's no time to waste.\"\n\nBruno was so thoroughly mastered by Bergan's earnestness, that he\nstarted swiftly toward the cottage, without a word.  As he ascended the\npiazza steps, however, he began to be appalled at the difficulty of the\ntask that he had undertaken.  Looking into the window, he saw Carice\nstanding at the farther end of the long parlor, with her bridesmaids\nclustered around her.  He could neither get at her, nor she escape,\nwithout challenging a good deal of wondering observation.  While he\nstood hesitating, Godfrey Bergan came out into the hall, and caught\nsight of his troubled face.\n\n\"Well, Bruno, what do you want?\"\n\n\"I--jes' wanted to speak to Miss Carice,\" stammered the negro.\n\nThe request was an odd one, at that moment; still, Mr. Bergan might\nhave been moved to grant it, as the whim of an old and faithful\nservant, if the negro's disturbed face and faltering tone had not\nexcited his suspicions that something unusual was on foot.  \"What is\nthe matter?\" he asked.  \"What do you want to speak to her for?\"\n\nBruno was wholly unprepared for this question.  Vainly he racked his\nbrains for a plausible answer, but nothing better rewarded his efforts\nthan,--\"I jes' wanted to speak to her, dat's all;\"--a reply so little\ncongruous with his frightened face and voice, that Mr. Bergan's\nsuspicions were confirmed.  He stepped out on the piazza, and closed\nthe door behind him.\n\n\"How, Bruno,\" said he, sternly, \"I want to know what this means.  Come,\nno shuffling; tell the truth.\"\n\nBruno's self-possession gave way entirely.  \"I--I--I--it's only Mr.\nArling.\"\n\nMr. Bergan started.  \"My nephew, Bergan Arling, do you mean?\"\n\n\"Yes, massa.\"\n\n\"What--where?\"\n\n\"Out dar, under de larches, massa.\"\n\n\"And he--he dared to ask for my daughter?\"\n\nMr. Bergan's voice shook with anger.  Bruno tried to explain, not very\ncoherently.\n\n\"He didn't mean no harm, massa, I'se _sartain_.  He said her happiness\nand all you'se happiness, was at de stake.\"\n\n\"Did he!\" muttered Mr. Bergan, scornfully.  \"Hark you, Bruno, not a\nword of this to anybody--to _anybody_, mind you!  Now, go back to your\ndance,--I'll see Mr. Arling.\"\n\n\nBergan's impatience had brought him from under the larches to a point\ncommanding a view of the path to the cottage.  He was both surprised\nand disappointed to see his uncle instead of Carice; nevertheless, he\ncame frankly forward to meet him, holding out his hand.\n\nMr. Bergan took no notice of the friendly offer.  \"How dare you show\nyourself here?\" he began, his voice quivering with rage.  \"How dare you\ninsult my daughter with your presence, at this time?  Have you not done\nharm enough already?\"\n\n\"Uncle,\" replied Bergan, gently, \"I know not what you mean.  I have\nnever harmed Carice, that I know of, and now I came here to save her,\nif it be not too late.  Oh! uncle\"--and here his calmness began to fail\nhim, and his voice grew eager--\"do not, _do_ not let this marriage\nproceed,--at least, not until you have heard my story, and have\nsatisfied yourself of the real character of this Doctor Remy!\"\n\n\"What have you to say against his character?\" demanded Mr. Bergan,\nicily.\n\nBergan felt the full disadvantage of his position.  It was a heavy\ncharge that he had to make against a man of Doctor Remy's standing,\nwithout documents or witnesses, nothing to substantiate it but his\nsingle assertion.  Besides, to say truth, there was nothing to allege\nagainst Doctor Remy but Doctor Trubie's suspicions.  He hesitated, and\nhis hesitation was not lost upon his uncle; neither was the want of\nassurance with which he finally spoke.\n\n\"Uncle, there is great reason to believe--or, at least to suspect--that\nDoctor Remy is a--murderer,--the murderer of my brother Alec.\"\n\nGodfrey Bergan stood in silent scorn.  The accusation struck him as too\nextravagant, too baseless, to be seriously discussed.  His nephew must\nbe drunk, or mad, to make it.  And, now that he looked at him more\nnarrowly, his face was haggard and his dress disordered enough to befit\neither condition.\n\nBergan saw the impression that he had made, and a cold, sick despair\ncrept over him.  \"I beg of you, uncle,\" he exclaimed, vehemently, \"as\nyou value your own future peace of mind, put a stop to this unhappy\nbusiness, ere it be too late.\"\n\n\"It is too late now,\" said Mr. Bergan, impatiently, \"Carice is already\nmarried.\"\n\n\"Must she, therefore, be left in the hands of a murderer?  Save her, at\nleast, from further contamination.  If you will do nothing else, call\nher, and let her decide the matter for herself.\"\n\n\"Impossible,\" answered Mr. Bergan, decidedly.  \"Carice has already\nborne and suffered too much; her nerves are in an exceedingly sensitive\nstate; this story would kill her, I verily believe.  If you really have\nher happiness at heart, go away quietly, and leave her to the care of\nthe husband she has chosen.\"\n\n\"Chosen?\" repeated Bergan, bitterly,--\"has she chosen him, or has she\nonly been forced to wed him?\"\n\nGodfrey Bergan's eyes lit.  \"You forget to whom you are speaking,\" said\nhe, coldly.  \"Enough of this, my patience is exhausted.  I have\nlistened to your drivel longer than it deserves.  The quicker you take\nyour leave, the better.\"\n\nBergan drew himself up haughtily, and his eyes flashed back an\nanswering flame.  \"My patience is also exhausted,\" said he.  \"I have\nbegged and pleaded long enough.  I tell you now, uncle, that I will not\ngo, until I have seen Carice, if I seek her out among the wedding\nguests.\"\n\nGodfrey Bergan set his teeth hard.  \"Will not?\" he repeated angrily.\n\"_Will not_!  I will have you to understand, young man, that there is\nneither _will_, nor _will not_, on these premises, but mine.  On my\nsoul, if you do not go, and quickly, I will call my servants, and have\nyou put off from the place as a drunkard and a vagabond.\"\n\nAt this threat, the hereditary temper, scotched in Bergan's heart, but\nnot yet killed, reared its evil head aloft, and sent its deadly poison\nburning through all his veins.\n\n\"Call them,\" he retorted, in a voice deep and low as a distant thunder\npeal, and lifting his clenched hand on high,--\"call them, if it so\npleases you!  Their blood be on your head, not mine.\"\n\nGodfrey Bergan was no coward, yet he might well stand aghast at the\nunexpected fury of the tempest that he had evoked.  Moreover, to put\nhis threat in execution, he now saw, to court that publicity which he\nspecially desired to avoid.  He stood irresolute, questioning within\nhimself how best to deal with the emergency.\n\nHe was saved the trouble of a decision.  While he still hesitated,\nBergan's hand fell by his side, his eyes softened, and a spasm of\nanguish passed over his face.  \"God forgive me!\" he murmured,\nshudderingly,--\"I, too, was a murderer--in heart!\"\n\nHe bowed his head on his hands.  Woful was the inner conflict.  Within\nhis soul, the \"black Bergan temper\" was gasping out its last venomous\nbreath, with the clutch of a firm hand on its throat.  Agonizing were\nits death-throes.  They ceased at last.  It would never trouble him\nmore.\n\nGodfrey Bergan, standing by, saw something of the struggle, yet did not\nunderstand it in the least.  \"A drunkard's aimless wrath!\" he said to\nhimself,--\"quenched in its own fury.\"\n\nSo carelessly does the world construe the deeper soul-conflicts that\ncome under its observation!\n\nBergan lifted his head, and his face was ashy pale.  \"I go, uncle,\"\nsaid he, hoarsely, \"since that is your wish.  In all that I have said,\nthough said never so unwisely, I assure you that I have had only\nCarice's happiness at heart; and I pray God that you may not have cause\nto rue it, to your dying day, that you did not listen to me!\"\n\nHe turned and plunged into the darkness, not knowing whither he went.\n\n\n\n\nXIII.\n\nESCAPED.\n\nGodfrey Bergan stood motionless for some minutes.  His nephew's\npersistency had irritated his nerves, if it had not convinced his\nunderstanding.  Nor was he altogether unimpressed by the solemnity of\nthe young man's parting words.  Though he had not condescended to state\nthe fact to Bergan, it was still true that he had exacted what he\nconsidered to be very complete and satisfactory evidence, touching the\ncorrectness of Doctor Remy's antecedents, before giving him his\ndaughter.  Yet it was only after he had recapitulated this evidence to\nhimself, point by point, and had also taken into account the doctor's\nlate brilliant achievements, present high standing, and promising\nprospects for the future, that he could rid himself of a certain chill\nweight of responsibility, which seemed somehow to have been flung upon\nhis shoulders by Bergan's last sentence.\n\nOn entering the cottage, he met Carice in the hall, encircled by her\nbridesmaids.  He was half pleased, half startled to see that the\nsingular listlessness, amounting to a degree of apathy, which had\ncharacterized her for some weeks, had given place to a certain\ntremulous agitation.  A round red spot burned on either cheek, where of\nlate the bloom had been both rare and faint; and her eyes were bright\nand wistful almost to wildness.  With a sudden impulse of tenderness,\nhe put his arms round her, and pressed her to his heart.\n\n\"Father,\" she whispered, with her lips close to his ear, \"am I dreaming\nor mad?  I have heard a voice in the air--Bergan's voice.  I was\nstanding by the window, and I heard it distinctly,--no words, only\ntones,--pleading, pleading, until I thought they would break my heart.\nThen all at once, they changed to anger,--fierce, bitter anger!  And\nthey ended in despair!  Father, what could it mean!\"\n\n\"My child,\" said Godfrey Bergan, after a pause, and there was a\nperceptible tremor in his voice, \"you are very weak and nervous, and\nthese wedding gayeties have been too much for you.  Go to rest, and\nsleep away your fatigues and your fancies together; joy cometh in the\nmorning.  The wife of Felix Remy will hear no voices in the air.\nGood-night.\"\n\nHe unclasped his arms, and her bridesmaids, again clustering round her,\nled her upstairs in triumph.\n\nBut no sooner had they freed her from her bridal garniture,--the veil's\nsoft mistiness, the robe's heavy, satiny folds, the fragrant orange\nblossoms, already beginning to fade!--than she put them gently aside.\n\n\"Bid me good-night, now,\" she said, with quiet decision.  \"I am very\ntired, and I want to be alone for awhile.  Rosa will do the rest.\"\n\nThere was something in her tone which forbade remonstrance; quickly the\ndoor shut out the fresh, young faces, and snowy, fluttering robes.\n\nWas she, as she had desired to be, alone?\n\nAlas! no.  The image evoked by that \"voice in the air,\" had followed\nher across the threshold, and still faced her with sad, upbraiding\neyes.  Instinctively, she threw herself upon her knees to exorcise it\nby the spell of prayer.  Though no intelligible word might come to her\ntrembling lips, though not a coherent thought might shape itself in her\ndizzy brain, she was, nevertheless, prostrate at the foot of the cross,\nand the Saviour would understand!\n\nAnd so--let us not presume to doubt it--He did, and, moreover,\nanswered.  But the ways of Providence are utterly inscrutable; and the\nanswer came in no shape that would have been likely to present itself\nto her mind, had she been capable of definite thought.  She rose from\nher knees but little comforted.\n\nFor the delirious disquietude that had taken possession of her, had its\nphysical, not less than its mental, side.  The long overstraining of\nthe delicate nerves, the long overburdening of the heart that knew its\nown bitterness, were fast reaching the point beyond which must needs\ncome fever, or insanity, or death.  Nature--often the wisest of\nphysicians, when left to herself--had sought to work restoration by\nmeans of the apathy aforementioned, wrapping her mind and heart as with\nquilted armor; but the events of this night had pierced quite through\nthe soft sheathing, and set every nerve quivering with pain.  Unable to\nremain long in one position, she soon began to pace restlessly up and\ndown the room.  She was dimly aware that Rosa had come in, and was\nwaiting her commands; but she never once looked to see with what a\ndisturbed and doubtful face the young negress was regarding her.\n\nGetting weary, at last, of her monotonous march to and fro, she went to\nthe window, and leaned out to bathe her fevered temples in the cool\nnight air.  Suddenly she cried out;--\n\n\"Rosa, see!  Is not that a light in the old Hall?\"\n\n\"Yes, Miss Carice, it's just that,\" answered Rosa, impressively.  \"It's\nin Mr. Arling's room.  He's here.\"\n\n\"Here!\" Carice started, and turned round with eager, expectant eyes.\n\n\"No, no,\" Rosa hastened to say, \"not here,--at least, not now.\"\n\n\"Not now,\" repeated Carice, wonderingly.  \"When was he here, then?\"\n\nRosa hesitated for an instant, and then flung herself at her mistress's\nfeet.  \"I will tell you,\" she cried, vehemently,--\"master may kill me,\nif he likes, but I _will_ tell you!  Mr. Arling was here not much more\nthan half an hour ago.\"\n\nCarice smiled,--a strange, wan smile, with no spirit of mirthfulness in\nit, but something of gentle triumph, as well as relief.  \"It was no\nfancy, then,\" she murmured, softly.\n\nRosa went on.  \"I was walking down by the river--with Tom, you\nknow--when I thought it must be getting late, and you might want me,\nand so I took the short cut through the larches.  And who should I see\nstanding there but Mr. Arling, and your father coming to meet him!  So\nI slipped back behind the trees, meaning to come round the other way;\nbut I caught a few words, and then I listened;--I couldn't help it,\nMiss Carice, if I'd died for it.  For Mr. Arling began to beg and plead\nthat your father wouldn't let your wedding go on, if he cared anything\nabout your happiness.  He said there was something dreadful against\nDoctor Remy,--oh!  Miss Carice, I don't like to say it, but I think you\nought to know,--he said he was a\"--sinking her voice almost to a\nwhisper--\"a murderer.\"\n\nCarice's eyes dilated with horror.  \"A murderer!\" she gasped,--\"oh! no,\nno, Rosa; you could not have heard him right!\"\n\n\"Indeed I did,\" rejoined Rosa, firmly.  \"That's the very word he\nused,--more than once, too.  At least, he said there was great reason\nto believe so; and he begged your father to wait until he could make\nsure about it.  Oh!  Miss Carice, I never did like Doctor Remy, but I\nalways liked Mr. Arling, and I don't believe he'd say a word that\nwasn't true.  Do pray wait, as he said, until you can find out the\nwhole truth, before you have anything more to say to the doctor.  Lock\nyour door, and say you're sick--I'm sure you look as if you might\nbe--and I'll promise to keep him out, if he were ten Doctor Remys.\"\n\nAnd Rosa set her teeth and clenched her hands, in a way that promised\nmuch for her valor in the cause of her young mistress.\n\nCarice put her hand to her brow, and tried to think, but merely\nsucceeded in bewildering herself with images of horror.  That frightful\nword, murderer, continually sounded in her ears, to the effectual\nhindrance of anything like connected thought.  Only one idea presented\nitself to her confused brain with even tolerable distinctness,--Bergan\nwas near, Bergan was in possession of knowledge that might yet relieve\nher, to some extent, from a burden too heavy to be borne,--a burden\nwhich she ought never to have consented to take upon herself, nor ever\nwould have done, had she not first been bound fast with a torpor that\nbenumbed both feeling and will.  Still, having so consented, she would\nhave tried, but for Rosa's terrible revelation, to endure it patiently.\nNow, it seemed to her, this was no longer possible.\n\nAgain she fixed her eyes upon the gleaming light from the old Hall; the\nonly star of hope or suggestion that had yet risen upon her darkness.\nWhat could she do, in her mortal terror and bewilderment, but follow it?\n\n\"Rosa,\" she said, suddenly, \"I am going to the Hall.  I must see\nBergan, and hear what he has to say; then I can decide what it is right\nto do.\"\n\n\"And so I would,\" rejoined Rosa, approvingly.  \"Just let me slip this\ndark wrapper on you, and wind this scarf round your head, and well over\nyour face,--so;--why, your own father wouldn't know you, if he were to\nmeet you!  Now, we'll be off.\"\n\nCarice hesitated.  \"No, Rosa, that will never do; our absence would be\nquickly discovered.  You must stay and keep the door.\"\n\n\"But, Miss Carice, you can't go alone!\"\n\n\"I can, and must.  It is the only way to prevent discovery.  Remember,\nno one is to be let in, upon any consideration, until I return.\"\n\n\"Let me alone for that,\" responded Rosa, emphatically.  And having seen\nCarice safely down the steps from the upper piazza, and watched her\nlight form till it was lost among the trees, Rosa returned to mount\nguard over the door of the deserted chamber.\n\n\nGodfrey Bergan had been unaccountably shaken by that brief meeting and\nparting with his daughter, in the hall.  Watching her slender form as\nit toiled up the staircase, with the languid step that betrays a heavy\nor a reluctant heart, he sighed to think with what a graceful alacrity\nshe had used to flit upward, as if lifted on invisible wings, her happy\nsmile seeming to make a little illuminated space about her, like the\nlight which is seen irradiating angelic forms, in old pictures.  A\nsudden burden of despondency fell upon his heart, whereof he understood\nneither the purport, nor whether it bore reference to her or himself,\nbut only knew that it quite unfitted him for playing the part of a gay\nand gracious host to his guests.  Seeing Miss Ferrars coming toward\nhim, with her stereotyped smile, an impulse of flight seized him; and\nhastily stepping through one of the long windows, he soon found himself\nonce more under the sighing trees, which were swaying to and fro under\nthe first breathings of a rising wind.\n\nThe night was no longer dark.  Here and there, a star looked through\nthe broken clouds, and lighted him to the river's bank, down which he\nwalked slowly; torturing himself, as he went, with that weary\nafter-birth of doubts and questions, which often follows hard upon the\naccomplishment of a cherished purpose.  Had he done well in wedding\nCarice to the doctor?  Had he not done wrong in refusing to listen to\nBergan, at least with courtesy and calmness?  Was it barely possible\nthat there could have been some small grain of truth at the bottom of\nthe young man's turbid story?  What was the meaning of that odd, wild\nlook in Carice's eyes?  Had he been thrusting himself, as it were, into\nthe awful place of Providence, only, by reason of his human\nshort-sightedness, to work irremediable ruin?\n\nAt that moment, a dark, slender woman's figure hurried past him, toward\nthe ruined foot-bridge, which was near at hand.  \"One of my brother's\nservants, who has stolen over to dance with mine,\" he said to himself,\nturning idly to watch her progress.\n\nTo his utter amazement, at the further end, he seemed to see her cast\nherself deliberately into the water!\n\nGodfrey Bergan was a practised swimmer, and, after the first motionless\nmoment of astonishment, he threw off his coat, plunged into the stream,\nwhich, at this point, was neither rapid nor deep, and swam rapidly\ntoward the spot where he had seen the body disappear.  Here, the water\nwas scarcely up to his armpits; in a few moments, he had caught the\nfloating garments, and borne the lifeless form to land.  The heavy head\nfell back on his arm; the scarf trailed away from the white features;\nhe recognized Carice!\n\nWith a thick, muffled cry of horror, the father sank upon his knees,\nnot so much of devotional intent, as crushed under the double-weight of\nhis physical burden and mental anguish.\n\n\"Oh, God! have mercy upon us!\" he ejaculated, brokenly,--\"I have driven\nmy child to suicide!\"\n\n\n\n\nXIV.\n\nTHE WAY STOPPED.\n\nBergan Arling, on quitting his uncle, had flung himself into the\nsurrounding darkness, without aim, without hope; conscious only of an\nintolerable burden of grief and despair.  Coming to the river, he had\nmechanically strode down its bank.  Mechanically, too, he had crossed\nthe foot-bridge, when it came in his way; and was scarcely aware that\nits last rotten plank, on the Hall end, had given away under his feet,\nand that he had narrowly missed being precipitated into the water.  In\ndue time, he found himself standing before the deserted mansion,\nlooking up to its dark front with eyes just beginning to be capable of\nintelligent vision, and acknowledging to himself that, though his path\nhad been but blindly chosen, it had brought him to a fitting goal.\n\n\"A ruined home, and a ruined life,\" he murmured, with a kind of bitter\nmournfulness,--\"they will suit each other well!\"\n\nThe door was locked, but there was a dilapidated flight of steps\nleading to the rotten upper piazza, and the window of his old room\nyielded readily to pressure.  The lamp, too, was in its remembered\nplace, and, having lighted it, he threw himself into a chair, to sum up\nthe record of his past life, and strike the balance.\n\nNot that he did this consciously.  Although he felt intuitively that he\nhad reached a turning-point in his path, from whence its course and\ncircumstance, if not its aim, might well be changed, it was with the\nfuture only--the consideration of the question what to do next--that he\npurposed to occupy himself.  But the sight of the familiar room, and\nthe ancient furniture and ornaments wherewith he had filled it, having\ninevitably recalled the period of his first occupancy, and the occasion\nof his sudden departure, he could not fail to see how all his life\nsince had seemed to hinge on that one deplorable incident.  Had he\nresisted Major Bergan's will in the single particular of entering that\nvile tavern, or refused, first as well as last, to drink at his\nbidding, doubtless he would have lost _his_ favor all the same, but he\nwould scarcely have been so completely subjugated by his own fierce\ntemper, he would not have commenced his career in Berganton under such\na cloud, he would not have been left to drift in so inauspicious an\nintimacy with Doctor Remy, his Uncle Godfrey would not have become so\ndeeply prejudiced against him,--possibly, even, the course of his love\nmight have run smooth, despite the verdict of the immortal poet, nor\nyet have vitiated its claim to be a \"true\" one.  What a pregnant\ncommentary was all this upon that wonderful text of Mr. Islay's\nmemorable sermon.  How tightly had he been \"holden with the cords of\nhis sins\" to a long and wearisome discipline, and a final mystery of\nretribution,--a retribution involving, alas! the innocent not less than\nthe guilty.  Poor, poor Carice! how much easier would it be to bear his\nown portion, if only hers could be remitted!\n\nHark! was not that a cry from the direction of the river?  He leaned\nout of the window, and listened attentively; but the sound--if sound it\nwere, and not the simple product of his own disordered fancy--was not\nrepeated.  Nothing was to be heard save the low sough of the rising\nwind, and the melancholy voices of the trees, as one solemn old oak-top\nleaned toward another, and talked mysteriously of some woful event that\nit had witnessed--perhaps a century ago, perhaps later--or recounted\ndrearily the long list of human sorrows and sins and retributions\nstored up in its dreamy old memory.  There might have been heard, too,\nin its further talk, if only the ear were fine enough that\nlistened,--something of patience born of sorrow, and blessedness\nwrenched from the hand of suffering; of lofty hopes blossoming out of\nthe ashes of despair, and fair, new temples, vocal with the anthem of\nglory to God and good will to man, built over and out of heaps of\nruins.  A few words, too, might have been added of love--human love--as\nthe crowning grace and gladness of a man's life,--the delicate carving\nbeautifying the arches, capitals, and pinnacles of the temple, the\nthick greenery softening its sharp outlines, and the odorous blossoms\nrooting themselves in its angles and hollows; but neither its strong\nfoundations, its majestic walls, nor the upward spring of its\nspire,--and never, in any sense, the object of its rightful worship.\n\nPerhaps Bergan heard something of all this; at any rate, that cry from\nthe river, whether real or imagined, had broken the thread of his\nreview of the past, and brought back his mind to the question of the\nfuture.  What was to be done?  Leave Berganton, of course.  The place\nwas not wide enough to hold Carice and himself, with comfort to either.\nIf her marriage had been brought about in the way that he suspected,\nthe sight of him would scarce conduce to her peace; while the sight of\nher, in her new relation, could only cause him useless pain.  Moreover,\nhe had seen, from the first, that Berganton afforded little scope for\ntalent; none whatever for ambition.  And, now that his life seemed\nlikely to be limited to its public side, and to have no sweet,\ncompensating domestic one, he felt the necessity of directing its\ncourse to some quarter where there was room for proper expansion.\n\nHappily, the way was open.  Only a short time ago, he had received a\nmost favorable offer, which he still held under consideration,--an\ninvitation to enter into partnership with an eminent lawyer of Savalla,\nbeginning to succumb to the infirmities of old age, and likely, ere\nlong, to surrender to him all the active business of the firm.  Nothing\ncould suit him better.  Here was scope for all his talent, employment\nfor all his energy.  He would be near enough to Berganton, too, for any\ngood name that he might win to reach thither, and clear away whatever\nprejudice against him still lingered there; yet not near enough to be\nnecessarily brought into contact with its inhabitants.\n\nSo much for the future; what of the present?\n\nFirst, he would see Mrs. Lyte and Astra, bid them farewell, and arrange\nfor the removal of his effects.  Then he would hasten to Savalla, to do\nthe last kindness that it was in his power to do for Carice, even\nthough it would seem to justify her father's late incredulity and\ncontemptuous treatment,--namely, meet Doctor Trubie, and dissuade him\nfrom any further proceedings against Doctor Remy.  There was still room\nfor a doubt that the latter was the murderer of Alec Arling;--let it\nremain forever a doubt!  No weapon should be lifted against him, that\nmust needs fall most heavily upon Carice!\n\nIt was gray dawn when this conclusion was reached.  The stars were\nfading from the sky, as a hint that it was time to extinguish his lamp.\nThe East showed a broad rim of light,--only a silver one now, but with\nsome mystic intimation of the gold to which it would soon be\ntransmuted.  Was any similar change beginning to show itself in\nBergan's heart?\n\nIf so, he was in nowise conscious of it.  His mind having attained to a\ncomparative degree of composure, his body began to press its claims\nupon him with some pertinacity.  It was twenty-four hours since he had\ntaken food, and nearly double that time since he had slept; this, too,\non the end of a long, tedious journey, and while undergoing sore\nanxiety and distress of mind.  No wonder that his head was aching\nfuriously at the temples, and seemed to have a ponderous weight on top,\nnor that he had a sensation of dizziness at times, while a blinding\nmist came before his eyes.\n\nHe prepared to leave Bergan Hall.  That, too, was to be henceforth, so\nfar as he was concerned, a thing of the past.  It had given him needful\nsolitude and shelter, in his hour of deep despair; it had been the\nfittest possible place wherein to take leave of the old life and its\nshattered hope; but for the new, it had nothing to offer,--except,\nperhaps, a warning.  The stream of active, expansive, beneficent life\nmust forever flow away from its faded splendor, its crumbling\nmassiveness, its dusty traditions and aristocratic genealogies, and its\ncorrupt feudal laws and customs, as well as from that moral ruin, its\nselfish, tyrannic, besotted master.  Together, they might well be\nlikened to a half-buried, decomposing corpse; showing still, through\nthe overspreading mould and fungi, some faint trace of its former grace\nand nobility of shape and feature, but chiefly impressing the spectator\nwith the carelessness of its exposure and the unsightliness of its\ndecay.\n\nAnd yet, how strong a hold, after all, had both master and mansion upon\nhis heart!  Some time, surely, when he should have won fame and fortune\nenough to be above all suspicion of self-seeking, he might come back to\nvisit them, and see what could be done for both.\n\nWith this thought in his mind, he was about to quit the room as he had\nentered it, by the window, when a light knock on the door arrested his\nattention.  Almost immediately, Rue entered, and bade him good morning.\n\n\"How did you know I was here?\" was Bergan's first startled inquiry.\n\n\"I heard you when you came,\" she answered, quietly, \"and I knew your\nstep.  I always spend this night in the old house; it is the\nanniversary of your mother's wedding; and she comes back to me in all\nher youth and beauty, and the rooms light up, and flowers sweeten the\nair, and there is music and dancing, and the sound of gay young voices;\nand then, all goes out, and I remember that earth grows dim as heaven\ndraws near.  Yes, Master Bergan, I heard you when you came, and I\nshould have come to you at once, only that there was something in your\nstep which told me you came with a heavy heart, and would not like to\nbe disturbed.  It is lighter now?\"\n\n\"A little, maumer; though it is heavy enough yet.\"\n\n\"And nothing will lighten it but time,--and that means the Lord, for\ntime is the Lord's servant, and does His will.\"\n\n\"You know, then,\"--began Bergan, and stopped, unable to finish the\nsentence.\n\n\"I know much, Master Bergan; more than you think.  Many voices come to\nwhisper in the old blind woman's ear.\"\n\n\"Do you know,\" asked Bergan, suddenly, \"why Doctor Remy has married\nCarice?\"\n\n\"Certainly,--to make himself master of Bergan Hall.  The more fool he!\nRue could have told him it was written on the stars that it should have\nanother and a better master; and the stars do not lie.  But I am sorry\nfor Miss Carice; I would have saved her if I could, but there the stars\nwere silent.\"\n\n\"I could have helped the stars in that matter, if I had known,\" thought\nBergan.  But he only asked, doubtfully;--\"How should Doctor Remy expect\nto get the Hall by marrying Carice?\"\n\n\"Because your Uncle Harry has made his will, giving it to her.  Never\ndoubt me, Master Bergan, I know what I am talking of; and when I tell\nyou that you shall yet own Bergan Hall, and all the gold that is hidden\nin it, and every foot of land that belongs to it, you may believe it as\nimplicitly as if it were written in your Bible.\"\n\nBergan shook his head; the Hall had ceased to have any value in his\neyes, as a possession of his own, or any place in the future that he\nproposed to himself.  Apparently, Rue understood his silence as well as\nif he had spoken, for she did not press the subject.\n\nShe next inquired into his plans, and he explained them to her, as far\nas they concerned himself.\n\n\"It is well,\" she said, after a moment of reflection.  \"You could not\nstay here, of course,--you would be eating your heart out in this dull\nplace.  Do your duty in the path that lies so straight before you, and\ntrust God for the rest.\"\n\nAs he quitted the old Hall it occurred to him how strangely events were\nrepeating themselves.  Once more, Rue stood in the doorway, in the gray\nlight of the dawn, and promised him its future ownership; once more, he\ntook the road to Berganton, leaving behind him one phase of his life,\nand entering upon a new one.\n\nArrived at the hotel he learned that the horse, which he had left at\nOakstead on the previous evening, had been sent to the stables, with\nstrict injunctions that he should be notified accordingly, immediately\non his arrival,--the friendly act, no doubt, of old Bruno.\n\nHere, too, he first learned the absence of Mrs. Lyte and her family; a\npiece of information which he received with much unmistakable surprise\nand wonder, that the landlord, who, like most of the Berganton folk,\nhad suspected him of some connection with their departure, was\nconstrained to believe him innocent.\n\nThere being now nothing to detain him in Berganton, he ordered his\nhorse for an immediate return to Savalla.  First, however, he went to\nthe breakfast-room, but found that he was unable to eat; food was like\nashes in his mouth; the most that he could do was to swallow a cup of\ncoffee.\n\nThat ride to Savalla remained always a horrible nightmare in his\nmemory.  Sometimes he was riding through the darkness of infinite\nspace; sometimes through whirling trees, over a road heaving as with\nthe throes of an earthquake, and seemingly interminable.  Now and then,\nhis senses seemed slipping entirely from his grasp, and were only\ndragged back by the convulsive effort of an iron will.  Reaching the\noffice of the Pulaski House, where he was well known, he just managed\nto hold them together long enough to scratch a few lines on a sheet of\npaper, and give directions for its delivery.  Then, with a wan smile of\nrelief, he relaxed his hold, and let them slide swiftly away into\noblivion.\n\n\nTwo days later, Doctor Trubie, arriving at the same hotel, according to\nprevious agreement, was met by the information that Mr. Arling was\nlying dangerously ill with that fever which guards, like a flaming\nsword, the gates of the sunny South; and the letter was put into his\nhands.  Tearing it open, he read:--\n\n\n\"I charge you, by everything that is sacred, to take no further step in\nthe business that brings you here, until I recover, and we can consult\ntogether; and, if I die, I charge you, as you would have me rest\nquietly in my grave, to take none at all.  BERGAN.\"\n\n\nDoctor Trubie flung down the letter with a most disgusted face.  \"To\nthink that Roath should escape me thus!\" he exclaimed, discontentedly.\n\"That is, to be sure, if Bergan does not recover.  He _shall_ recover!\"\n\nUpstairs he sprang, two steps at a time.  But, once in Bergan's\nchamber, his heart failed him.  The patient lay in a stupor that seemed\nvery near of kin to death.  Two physicians stood by the bed, and the\nfirst words that met his ear were,--\"No hope.\"\n\n\n\n\nPART FOURTH.\n\nA NEW FIELD.\n\n\n\nI.\n\nALIVE IN FAMINE.\n\nRarely does a man go down to the verge of the grave, and look into its\nprofound and pregnant depths, without carrying from henceforth traces\nof the journey.  His views of life will be truer, if not sadder,\nforever afterward.  The laws of moral perspective, though they do not\nchange, will be better understood; so that objects at a distance are no\nlonger dwarfed to the understanding, however they may appear to the\neye.  Character becomes the central \"point of sight,\" toward which duty\ncontinually draws converging right lines, by the aid of which\nhappiness, fame, and wealth, fall into their proper places, and assume\ntheir true proportions.\n\nBergan Arling was seated in his office at Savalla.  At first sight, it\nmight seem that he was little changed, but a closer inspection would\nhave awakened some surprise that the lapse of little more than a year\ncould have changed him so much.  The youthfulness had gone out of his\nface,--that half-eager, half-wistful look which says so plainly, \"The\nworld is all before me, where to choose;\"--it was now the face of a man\namong men, who had found his place and his work, who had grappled with\nmany hard problems, and solved some, who was accustomed to deal with\nserious subjects in a serious way, and who had withal, a definite rule\nand object of life.  In short, it was informed with a positive and\nnoble individuality, born out of suffering, and not yet wholly\noblivious of the pangs that had given it birth, but certain, in good\ntime, to attain to the fulness of an inward joy, which, having a deep\nwellspring of its own, would be little dependent upon the ebb and flow\nof outward circumstance.\n\nNor had the year been fruitless of exterior results.  Scarcely had\nBergan mastered the details of his new office, when his partner, Mr.\nYoule, was taken sick, and he was left to conduct its affairs pretty\nmuch alone.  Several cases of importance being in hand, he was thus\nafforded a rare opportunity to achieve a rapid fame.  His reputation\nalready overshadowed that of many of his legal brethren who had greatly\nthe advantage of him in years and experience.\n\nFrom the first, he had made it an invariable rule never to speak\nagainst his clear convictions of right; and it was curious to observe\nwhat an influence the knowledge of this fact was beginning to have upon\nthe community.  The cause which he embraced, however hopeless its\naspect, always commanded a degree of respect, and was watched with a\ncertain reservation of judgment, in consideration of his acknowledged\nintegrity of purpose; while, as a necessary sequence (from which\nBergan, in his humility, would have been glad to escape), the cause\nwhich he was understood to have declined was apt to be pronounced\nsuspicious in the popular judgment, however it might go in the courts.\nSo certain is the talent which is known to be conjoined with a pure aim\nand an upright life, to win, soon or late, high place and strong\ninfluence, even in a world that disallows its very principle of being!\nThe visible fruits of righteousness commend themselves to all lips,\nwhatever is thought of the root from whence they spring.\n\nBergan's desk was littered with papers, but his eyes were studying only\nthe opposite wall, half in abstraction, half in perplexity.  Nor did\ntheir expression alter much when the door opened, and he rose to greet\nMr. Youle, who came in slowly and feebly, leaning on a cane.  He was of\nmedium height, with gray hair, a thin face, and a kindly blue eye; and\nit was easy to see, was on the best of terms with his talented young\npartner.  No room in that ripe intellect and gentle nature for so\nignoble a passion as jealousy!\n\n\"There, that will do, Arling,\" he said, humorously, when Bergan had\nhelped him carefully to a chair; \"the old gentleman is as comfortable\nas he's likely to be,--or deserves to be, for that matter.  Well, how\ngoes on our case?\"\n\nBergan shook his head, with a faint smile.  \"Very badly, I should\nsay,--if anything can be said to go badly, which is so entirely in the\nhands of Providence.  I confess that I can make nothing of it.\"\n\nMr. Youle looked grave.  \"I warned you in the beginning,\" said he,\n\"that there was not a reasonable peg to hang a line of defence on.\"\n\n\"But I believe the man to be innocent,\" rejoined Bergan.  \"And,\" he\nadded, smiling, \"'I warned you, in the beginning,' that I should never\nadvocate a cause which seemed to be unrighteous, nor refuse one that\nseemed to be just, though the one should offer me a fortune in fees,\nand the other not a cent.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, I know,\" replied Mr. Youle.  \"And I must admit that your two\nrules have worked miraculously well thus far; we have lost but one\ncase, I believe, since you came into the office.  Well, well, such a\nvein of good luck cannot be expected to last forever,--after the\nnugget, the rock or the sand.  But I don't see how it is that you are\nso strongly persuaded of Unwick's innocence.\"\n\n\"You would easily understand, if you had looked into his face once; it\nis a clean passport to confidence.  Besides, there is the unvarying\ntestimony of his past life, as set forth by everybody that knows\nhim.--sober, honest, frank, kind, religious, everything that is\ndesirable.  A man does not become a murderer in cold blood, all at\nonce; he has to prepare himself for it by vice, or intemperance, or a\ncourse of hard, cold, selfish living.  There is always a downward\nslope, before the final plunge.\"\n\n\"Granted; but I doubt if you can make the jury see it clearly enough to\nground a verdict of acquittal upon it, in the face of all that terribly\nstrong circumstantial evidence.\"\n\nBergan mused for a little time without answering.  \"I cannot rid\nmyself,\" he said, at length, \"of a conviction that that son of the\nmurdered man could throw some light on the subject, if he chose.\"\n\nMr. Youle stared.  \"I did not know that he had been suspected, for a\nmoment,\" said he.\n\n\"Nor has he.  But he is the one who profits most by the murder, since\nhe is heir-at-law.  And what a reckless and disobedient youth he has\nbeen!--always on bad terms with his father, when he was at home, and\ndoing nothing but write letters for money, while he was in Europe.  By\nthe way, I can't help wondering if he _was_ in Europe, all this past\nyear; though really, I don't know why I should doubt it.\nWell,\"--rising and looking at his watch,--\"it is time to go to court.\"\n\n\"And, as I am feeling better to-day, I think I'll go along,\" said Mr.\nYoule.  \"Since you seem to think that Providence has the case very\nspecially in His hands,--indeed, I don't mean it irreverently,--I'd\nlike to see how He conducts it.\"\n\n\"I am glad to think that He _is_ conducting it,\" said Bergan, in a low\nvoice; \"else I should be utterly discouraged.\"\n\nThe trial dragged its slow length through the greater part of the\nmorning, without any incident of interest.  One witness after another\ncame upon the stand, was examined, and dismissed; each adding something\nto the weight of evidence against the prisoner, Unwick.  The son of the\nmurdered man, Varley by name, sat nearly opposite to Bergan, by the\nside of the prosecuting attorney; and being of a restless temperament,\nas well as gifted with extraordinary facility in the use of a pencil,\nhe busied himself, as he listened to the monotonous drone of a witness,\nwith mechanically sketching the faces of the witnesses or the\nspectators, or scenes and places that he had visited, recalled to his\nmind by the evidence, or by his own roving thoughts.  One of these\ncaught Bergan's eye, and he furtively watched its progress, while\nseeming to be occupied with his papers.  When finished, it was\ncarelessly dropped on the floor, like those which had preceded it; and\nthe skilful pencil quickly set to work on a new subject.  In a moment\nor two, Bergan dropped one of his papers, in a way to take it well\nunder the table, and immediately stooped to get it.  When he\nreappeared, a close observer might have noticed that the look of\npatient watchfulness, which his face had worn so long, was gone; but\nthe keenest eyes would have been puzzled to read his present\nexpression.  Was it triumph, or thankfulness, or perplexity, or a\nmixture of all?\n\nMr. Varley was now put upon the stand, to furnish some small link in\nthe chain of evidence that the prosecution was drawing so skilfully\naround the prisoner.  The little that he was desired to say being said,\nthe opposing counsel politely inquired if Mr. Arling had any questions\nto ask.\n\n\"One or two, if you please,\" answered Bergan, quietly; and rising, and\nturning toward the witness, he said:--\n\n\"I believe you stated, Mr. Varley, that you had never seen the place\nwhere your father died?\"\n\n\"No; he bought it, and removed to it after I went abroad.\"\n\n\"Have you visited it, since your return?\"\n\n\"I have not.  I only got here just before the commencement of this\ntrial, and I have been kept too busy since to find time for the trip.\"\n\n\"Then you have never seen the room where your father came to his death?\"\n\n\"No, certainly not,\" returned the witness, beginning to look a little\nstartled by this unaccountable persistency.\n\n\"Has it ever been very minutely described to you?\"\n\nVarley hesitated;--more, it was evident, to consider what could be the\npossible drift of the question, than to search his memory for a correct\nanswer.  He finally ventured to say that to the best of his\nrecollection he had been favored with no such description.\n\n\"According to my notes of the evidence taken during this trial,\"\npursued Bergan, \"the only facts about the room brought out with much\ndistinctness, were the positions of the bedstead and the window near\nit;--does your memory serve you with any additional particulars?\"\n\n\"N--o,\" faltered the witness, with symptoms of growing uneasiness.\n\n\"Then,\" said Bergan, with very distinct and deliberate emphasis, \"if,\nas you say, you never have seen this room, nor heard it minutely\ndescribed, how is it that you have been able to make so accurate a\nrepresentation of it as this which I hold in my hand?\"\n\nThere was a breathless silence, while Bergan held up a small, but\ndistinct, pencil sketch to the view of the pale and trembling witness.\n\n\"This sketch,\" continued Bergan, after waiting a few moments for the\nanswer that did not come, \"as I can vouch, and as many of these\nwitnesses can testify, is an exact representation of the room in\nquestion, as it would appear from the head of the bedstead;--the very\nspot in which, it will be remembered, the prosecution has assumed that\nthe murderer must have been concealed; and where, doubtless, he\nremained long enough to fix all the details of this sketch in his\nmemory.  Here is the peculiar double window, facing the east, and\nwreathed round with vines, which is so marked a feature of the room,\nyet which there has been no need to mention, during this trial, except\nin the most casual way; and here, on the right, are the round table and\nlarge armchair, where Mr. Varley wrote, and, on the left, an\nold-fashioned chest of drawers, with a plaster cast of Shakespeare on\ntop;--all in their proper places, just as I saw them when I visited the\nroom, after undertaking the defence of this case.  How is it, I ask\nagain,\" he went on, turning to the witness, \"how is it that you could\nmake this sketch, if you never saw the room?\"\n\n\"Who says he made it?\" demanded the opposing counsel, sharply.\n\n\"I say it,\" calmly replied Bergan.  \"I saw him draw it, not half an\nhour ago, on a piece of the same paper that you are using for your\nnotes, as you can satisfy yourself, if you choose to compare them.\nBesides,\" he added, looking keenly at the witness, \"Mr. Varley will not\ndeny that he made it.\"\n\nNo, plainly he would not, for he was physically incapable of speech.\nHe was shivering as with an ague fit, his knees knocked together, his\nlips trembled convulsively, but no articulate sound came forth.  In\nanother moment, he fell forward heavily on the rail that divided the\nwitness-stand from the lawyers' table.\n\n\"Carry him out!  Give him air!\" cried a dozen voices; \"he has fainted.\"\n\n\"Yes, carry him out,\" said Bergan gravely, and not without a touch of\ncompassion in his voice; \"since he is not on trial, we have no further\nneed of him.  But let me recommend that he be not lost sight of, till\nthis present trial is over.\"\n\nAnd it was over very quickly.  The influence of the scene just\nwitnessed was not to be ignored nor overcome.  Prosecution and defence\nwere alike glad to waste no time on the road to a foregone conclusion.\nThe summing up, on both sides, was brief almost beyond precedent, the\njudge's charge was correspondingly so, and the jury returned a verdict\nof \"Not Guilty,\" without leaving their seats.\n\n\n\"Well,\" exclaimed Mr. Youle, when he and Bergan had finally succeeded\nin escaping from the gratitude of Unwick, and the congratulations of\nfriends.  \"I must say, I never saw such a sudden turn of events as\nthat, in all my legal experience.\"  And after a moment, he added, with\nunusual gravity, \"It does seem as if the blessing of God were with you,\nand your two rules, Arling.\"\n\n\"I hope so,\" rejoined Bergan, quietly, \"for I have learned that I can\ndo nothing worth doing, without it.\"\n\n\"I really think,\" mused Mr. Youle, \"if I were to live my life over\nagain, I would adopt your plan.  I am afraid that I have helped to save\nmany a scoundrel from deserved punishment, as well as to rob an honest\nman, now and then, of his just rights; and when one comes to look back\non it all, from the stand-point of my age, it does seem as if one might\nhave been in better business.  Yes, I believe you are right, Arling;\nand you have my cordial consent from this time forth, to keep on as you\nhave begun.  I confess I thought it was a freak, a whim at first, that\nwould soon give way to the temptations--what we usually call the\nnecessities--of actual, steady practice; but I see that you have a\nsolid principle at the bottom which there's no shaking.  Nevertheless,\nArling, you can't expect that your judgment is going to be\ninfallible,--that you will never mistake the guilty man for the\ninnocent one, and _vice versa_.\"\n\n\"I do not expect it,\" answered Bergan, seriously.  \"Errors in judgment,\nI take it for granted that I shall make, being mortal; but errors in\nwill, I mean to do my best, with God's help, to avoid.\"\n\nA plain carriage, with a trim African on the box, was in waiting when\nthe two gentlemen descended the courthouse steps.\n\n\"Come, Arling,\" said Mr. Youle, in a tone of command rather than\ninvitation, \"go home and dine with me; there are several things I want\nto talk to you about.\"\n\nBergan hesitated; it was easy to see that the plan did not commend\nitself to his taste.\n\n\"Never rack your brain for excuses; they won't serve,\" pursued Mr.\nYoule, with good-natured peremptoriness; \"I mean to take you with me,\nwhether you will or no.  It is time for you to overcome your morbid\ndislike of society; besides, you will see no one but my own family.\"\n\nThus urged, Bergan could only take a seat in the carriage, and be\ndriven off; albeit, in direct contravention of his inclinations and\nhabits.  For, although, on coming back to life and health from the\nborders of death, he had been quick to hear, and to heed, the plain,\nstern call of Duty to work while it is yet day, there had been no\ngracious response in his heart, as yet, to that softer voice wherewith\nshe enjoins brotherly kindness, as well in gentle, social courtesies\nand amenities as in deeds of benevolence.  Life had become too serious\na thing, he thought, to be wasted in trifles such as these.  Busy at\nthe centre of the circle, he had lost sight of the circumference;\nintent upon the weightier matters of the law, he forgot the tithes of\nmint, anise and cummin, which yet, said the Master, ought not to be\nleft undone.  But it was a natural mistake, under the circumstances;\nand there was still time for him to learn that, in every well-ordered\nlife, there is a place for little things,--little courtesies, little\nduties, little friends.\n\n\n\n\nII.\n\nNEW ACQUAINTANCES.\n\n\"Well, Coralie,\" said Mr. Youle, an hour later, as he preceded Bergan\ninto the drawing-room of the fine old family mansion that had been the\nhome of the Youles for many years, \"bring out your laurels, I have\nbrought you a conquering hero.\"\n\n\"Oh! it is Mr. Arling; he is very welcome.\"  And Coralie, who had seen\nBergan two or three times in her father's office, greeted him with\nmarked cordiality, and gave him her small, soft hand.\n\nIt is odd how strong a resemblance can co-exist with perfect\ndissimilarity of features and complexion.  Though she was very\nlovely--this Coralie Youle--and with a blithesome and bewitching\nloveliness all her own, Bergan had never been able to look upon her,\nnor could he see her now, without some deep, keen pain, as from an\nunhealed wound.  There were tones in her voice which reminded him of\none that he would hear no more; and she had ways and gestures which\ncontinually awakened memories not yet softened by distance into lines\nand tints of perfect purity and peace.  And yet, what an irresistible,\nsubtle charm in her was this very power to pain him!\n\n\"You said that Mr. Arling was a _conquering_ hero, papa,\" she went on,\nturning to Mr. Youle.  \"Have you gained the case, then, after all?\nThat is wonderful indeed!  How did it happen?  Tell me all about it.\"\n\nNothing loath, Mr. Youle gave a sufficiently graphic account of the\nscene in the court-room, taking occasion to lavish no small amount of\nhearty encomium upon Bergan's share in it.\n\n\"How I wish I could have been there to see!\" exclaimed Coralie, when\nthe recital was ended, her cheeks glowing with sympathetic excitement;\n\"it sounds like a chapter out of a novel, rather than a bit of real\nlife.  Mr. Arling does, in truth, deserve the laurels of victory; and,\nby the way--Diva! where are you?--here is some one who is worthy to\ngive them to him.\"\n\nNo one had noticed, until now, that a lady was standing in the window,\nhalf concealed by the curtain.  But, as she came forward everything\nelse seemed to fade out of sight, for the moment, and leave only her,\nstanding there alone in the clear, cold light of her marvellous beauty.\n\nBefore this, Bergan's ideal of proud and queenly beauty had been\npainted with dark hair and eyes; he now saw reason to change it at once\nand forever.  The lady was the most perfect blonde that he had ever\nseen.  Her hair was of the palest brown, with only a faint gold light\nin it; her eyes were blue or gray, he could not tell which, at the\nmoment, nor would he have been less puzzled after a much longer\nacquaintance; and her complexion was fair and colorless, almost, as\nmarble; yet never had he beheld anything so stately, so proud, so calm,\nand--it must needs be said--so cold.  She came forth from the shadow of\nthe curtain as Galatea might have done, had she been endowed with life\nonly, not with love.\n\nWorthy she might be to crown a victor, in right of her queenliness, but\nthe laurels from her hands, Bergan thought, would be very chill!\n\n\"Miss Thane!\" exclaimed Mr. Youle, \"why this _is_ a surprise, and a\nmost pleasant one.  It is seldom that you allow any of us to see you\nhere, except Coralie.\"\n\n\"Because my visits are usually morning visits,\" replied Miss Thane, in\na low, yet singularly musical monotone, that harmonized perfectly with\nher face, \"when I know that you are sure to be better engaged than in\ngossipping with me.\"\n\nMr. Youle slightly raised his eyebrows, in good-humored recognition of\nthe possibly careless, possibly studied, ambiguity of this explanation;\nbut he let it pass without comment, as Coralie hastened to present her\nguests to each other.\n\nBergan bowed low, with the graceful deference which always marked his\nbearing toward women; but Miss Thane was guilty of no waste of\ncivility.  She slightly inclined her head, vouchsafed him a single\nglance out of her wondrous eyes, and coolly turned back to the window,\nto lose herself, a moment after, in a fit of abstraction.\n\nMiss Youle--Mr. Youle's maiden sister, and the mistress of his\nhousehold since his wife's death, many years ago--now appeared, clad in\na thick, black silk that rustled like a field of corn in the wind, and\ndropped Bergan her stately, old-time courtesy.  And Coralie immediately\nbegan to repeat the story of the trial to her, aided and abetted by Mr.\nYoule; from which embarrassing iteration Bergan would have been glad to\nescape, by joining Miss Thane at her window, had not her manner seemed\nto indicate so clearly that she was amply sufficient to herself, and\ndid not care to be anything to anybody else.  But the eloquence of\nCoralie and Mr. Youle finally came to a pause, if not to an end; Miss\nThane roused from her abstraction; and the party went down to dinner.\n\nBergan was inclined to be somewhat silent, at first.  Lonely dweller in\noffices, hotels, and restaurants, that he had been, for the year past,\nhe had half lost the habit of conversation; besides, Coralie's tones\ncontinually swept the chords of association in a way to thrill him with\na sombre mixture of pain and pleasure, and keep his mind confusedly\nvibrating between the present and the past.  But he was too\nconscientiously courteous to allow himself long to remain a dead weight\nupon his hosts; and, though it cost him an effort, he was soon talking\nwith the old ease and fluency, enriched by a profounder thoughtfulness,\nand a subtler play of imagination.  In his hands, commonplace subjects\ndiscovered hidden treasures; while loftier themes gleamed and glowed\nlike stained windows seen against a golden western sky.  Miss Thane\nlost something of her apathetic manner, after awhile, and paid him the\ncompliment of listening with attention, if not with interest.  And\nopposite to him was Coralie's listening, speaking face, full of such\nquick comprehension and sympathy, that he could scarcely help being\nbeguiled into a fuller, freer expression of thought, opinion, and\nfeeling, than he would have believed possible, an hour before.\n\nBut was it not Miss Thane's subtle management, rather than Coralie's\nsympathy, which finally led the talk into the sombre channels dug by\nhuman disappointments, losses, and failures, and kept it there until\nthey had returned to the drawing-room?  Then Bergan said, by way of\ndismissing the subject:--\"But all these things are to be looked at as\nmaterials, not results.  Happy the prophetic vision which sees the\nperfect form of the Future rising from the chaos of past and\npresent!--as a sculptor sees before him, not a rough block of marble,\nbut the finished statue,--an architect, not shapeless heaps of stone\nand mortar, but the grand completed temple.\"\n\n\"Let him but look far enough,\" rejoined Miss Thane, \"and he can behold\na sadder phase,--the statue broken and defaced, the temple overthrown\nand prostrate; once more a rough block of marble, and shapeless heaps\nof stone.\"\n\n\"Nay,\" replied Bergan, \"it is at that very point that Prophecy should\nspread her whitest wings, and soar to the temple not made with hands,\nand the jewelled walls of the city let down from the clouds.  Miss\nCoralie,\" he continued, glancing at the open piano, \"do you sing?\"\n\n\"Not much; I play mostly.  But Miss Thane does.  Dear Diva, won't you\nsing for us?\"\n\nMiss Thane looked at Bergan, but he said nothing.  If he had added a\nword to Coralie's entreaty, the chances are that she would not have\nsung.  But since she had only Coralie to oblige--Coralie, who alone\nseemed to have found the deep way to her heart, and to whom she rarely\nrefused anything--she went straight to the piano, took the first music\nthat presented itself, which happened to be Rossini's \"Cujus Animam,\"\nand began to sing, not only with perfect method--that might have been\nexpected--but with exquisite feeling.  Her voice was a rich contralto,\ndeep and broad as a river flowing to the sea, and bearing the listener\nwhither it pleased.  There were tears in the eyes of her auditors, when\nshe had finished, and would have been, doubtless, had she sung anything\nelse, for the quality of her voice touched that point of perfection,\nwhich, in this world, gives a pleasure closely akin to pain.\n\nShe waited a moment, but no one spoke; then she put her fingers again\non the keys, and, looking far out into the evening dusk, sang a dismal,\nhopeless dirge, which Bergan felt intuitively to be her own; and which\nwrung his heart with passionate longing and pain.  She would sing no\nmore.\n\nYet no one could talk after those heartbreaking strains.  So Bergan\nquietly took his leave.\n\nCoralie wound her arm round her friend's waist, and drew her to the\nwindow, to watch him down the street.  \"What do you think of him?\" she\nasked.\n\n\"I think--that he has a genius for conversation,\" replied Miss Thane,\ncoolly.\n\n\"Oh, Diva, you know that is not what I mean!  How do you like him?\"\n\n\"I like no one--but you.  I think I might respect him in time.  As for\nyou, little one, take care you do not like him too well.\"\n\n\"Why?\" asked Coralie, blushing.\n\n\"Because he has buried his heart--the best part of it--in somebody's\ngrave.\"\n\n\n\n\nIII.\n\nFARVIEW.\n\nDiva Thane, it is perhaps needless to say, was a child of the North.\nHer peculiar type of beauty blossoms only out of soil, which, for half\nthe year, withdraws its warmth into its deep heart, and wraps itself in\na chill, white robe of snow.  She had made her appearance in Savalla,\nabout a twelvemonth before, unheralded and unknown, had rented the\nparlor of a decayed aristocratic mansion as a studio, and had tacked on\nthe door a card signifying to the public that she was a painter in\noils.  She had thenceforth been an example of that freedom and\nindependence of life which Art makes possible for its votaries, of\neither sex, as a compensation, in some sort, for the sacrifices that\nthey are bound to make to her.\n\nIt soon became known that the Youles endorsed Miss Thane to the fullest\nextent, both socially and financially; else society might have given\nher a cool reception.  But it could scarcely, in its haughtiest mood,\nhave meted out to her a fuller measure of scornful indifference than\nshe accorded to it, when, in due time, it made up its mind to hold out\na condescending hand to her.  She declined its invitations, she took no\nnotice of its calls, she would none of its patronage.  Just in\nproportion as it grew more eager, piqued by her indifference, and\ncurious to penetrate the mystery which surrounded her, she became\ncolder and more distant.  Finally, society was compelled to understand\nthat the sole favor which she would accept at its hands, was\nforgetfulness of her existence.\n\nNor was the public treated much better, in her capacity of artist.\nVisitors at her studio found free admission, and opportunity to\nexamine, at their leisure, the pictures, sketches, and studies, which\ncrowded the walls; but rarely did she turn from her easel, to give them\nmore than the briefest glimpse of her statuesque beauty, or the most\nconcise of answers to their questions.  Generally, she found some\nreason for declining their orders; and fully one half of the pictures\non her walls were labelled, \"Not to be Sold,\" while the sale of the\nremainder was plainly a matter of the profoundest indifference to her.\nIt must needs be inferred that she had means of subsistence other than\nher art, amply sufficient for her quiet, inexpensive mode of life.\n\nNevertheless, she worked with indefatigable industry, as well as\nundeniable talent.  If her pictures evinced some lack of technical\nskill, they were endued with a force and feeling which more than atoned\nfor its absence; since the one would address itself chiefly to\nconnoisseurs, while the other went straight to the universal heart.\nThey covered a wide range of subjects, yet a profound observer would\nhave traced a certain connection and sequence in them all.  The earlier\nand cruder efforts of her pencil were pleasant outdoor\nscenes,--children wading in a sunshine brook, farm youths and maidens\ntossing about new-mown hay, and village girls dancing under\nwide-spreading boughs,--scenes so perfect in their idealization as to\nseem familiar to every eye, yet never without that inestimable\nsomething added or eliminated, which constitutes the difference between\nthe picturesque and the commonplace.  After these came works not only\nmarked by greater skill of design and felicity of color, but informed\nwith a deeper feeling;--yet so delicately indicated that none but the\nfinest instinct would have perceived how softly Love illumined the\nlandscape, or shone in the smile of the youth, or looked up to the\nmaiden from her own downcast eyes reflected in the water.  Then came a\nsudden change,--pictures and sketches wherein the artist's pencil must\nhave been driven by some terrible intensity of feeling, to have wrought\nwith such sombre power;--such as an illimitable desert, with a man\nriding fast toward a wan, setting sun, and his long, backward shadow\nfalling upon a woman's outstretched, yearning hands,--or the black\nsilhouette of a drifting and dismantled ship, seen against a blood-red\nmoon, setting in a dun and angry sea,--or a deep and dismal cavern,\nwith a female figure lying bruised and broken at the bottom of a\nfissure, and a man, also torn and bleeding, seen at the end of a long\nvista, searching for what he will not find.  These pictures affected\nthe spectator like a nightmare; there was such a fell shadow of\nimmitigable fate in them all, and so notable an absence of anything\nlike hope or faith, that while he acknowledged their power, he\nshuddered at their spirit.\n\nOf course, Rumor could not help busying herself with a subject so\ninviting as the artist, though so bare of definite results.  She was\nvariously reported to be an escaped nun, a bride that had nearly lost\nher life at the hands of an insane bridegroom, a widow--barely one\nmonth a wife--seeking to throw off an intolerable burden of grief by\nthe help of new scenes, new faces, and a new manner of life, and an\nheiress, fled from the importunities of harsh guardians and an\nunwelcome suitor.  It will serve as an indication of the occasional\ncorrectness of the popular instinct, that not one of these conjectures\ncast any shadow upon the whiteness of her fame.  Not more inevitably\ndid her face suggest snow, marble, and whatever was at once white and\ncold, than her demeanor suggested their chill purity.  Moreover,\nnotwithstanding that she led so unfettered and independent a life, as\ncompared with the majority of her sex--dwelling under her own\nguardianship, and ordering her day's routine to her own liking--the\nclosest scrutiny could not detect anything therein, that was not\naustere, lonely, and laborious enough to suit the cell of an anchorite.\n\nYet, though there was so little in her way of living to suggest\naffluence, it soon became known that her hands were open, and her purse\ndeep, to any claim upon her benevolence.  While it never appeared that\nshe set herself to seek out objects of charity, to such as came to her,\neither in person or by proxy, her bounty was generally far in excess of\nthe demand.  The only grace which it lacked, was that subtle element of\nthe giver in the gift, which imparts a sympathetic warmth to the silver\nor the gold, as it is dropped in the outstretched hand; augmenting, to\na degree incalculable by any known arithmetic, its power of relieving\nthe distressed heart.  Though Miss Thane gave generously, she gave none\nthe less carelessly and coldly.\n\nThe only person whom she distinguished by any mark of affection, or\nmeasure of confidence, was Coralie Youle.  The two had been classmates\nat a Northern boarding-school, where the native girl had first soothed\nand petted the stranger through a severe attack of homesickness, and\nthen had been devotedly nursed, in her turn, during a trying\ndispensation of scarlet fever; in consequence of which a friendship of\nmore than ordinary warmth and tenacity had grown up between them;\nmanifesting itself on Coralie's part, by a half worshipping admiration,\nand on Diva's, by the strong, yearning clasp of a nature that puts\nforth no slender, fragile tendrils, but clings only in virtue of a bend\nor coil of its own tough fibre.  To Coralie she was never cold, never\nunresponsive; the girl knew that there was no veiled, inner chamber of\nher friend's heart to which she had not some time penetrated, and which\nshe would be allowed to enter again, whenever her presence could throw\none ray of light across its dusk.  With that she was satisfied.  One\nthing the two possessed in common--the most absolute trust in each\nother.\n\nStill, though Diva always received Coralie at her studio with deep-lit\neyes of welcome, and a hand-clasp into which she had the power of\nputting more tenderness than ordinary women would express by a close\nembrace, and though she often joined her in long walks through the city\nand suburbs, it was rarely that she could be persuaded to visit her in\nher own home.  If she did so, it was usually at an hour when she would\nbe little likely to meet the other members of the family.  It was as a\ngreat favor, therefore, that she had consented to stay to dinner, on\nthe day when Bergan had met her.  Nevertheless, when Coralie really set\nher heart upon anything in her friend's power to give, she always\ngained her point.  And so it came to pass that, a few weeks later, when\nthe family left for their summer residence of Farview, in the\nhill-region of the State, she carried Diva with her, for a visit of a\nfortnight.\n\nThither, also, after awhile, came Bergan; yielding to Mr. Youle's\nentreaty that he would close the office, for at least a day or two, and\ngive himself a breath of fresh air.  Secure in his dearly bought\nacclimation, he had not purposed to leave the city; anticipating no\nworse effect from its summer atmosphere than a kind of dreamy languor,\nwhich, in his present state of mind, was perhaps more to be desired\nthan any bracing of his energies.  Nevertheless, he had come to feel\nfor Mr. Youle a degree of filial affection; and he would not pain him\nby a churlish disregard of his kindness.\n\nHe reached Farview about sunset.  For the last three or four miles, he\nhad seen the low roof and broad piazzas of his goal looking down upon\nhim from the hill top, as he journeyed up the valley, and when he\nfinally stood on the green and flowery lawn, he felt as if his own\nbeing were suddenly and sympathetically magnified an hundred degrees,\nso wide was the lovely and luxuriant Southern landscape outspread\nbefore him.  Field and forest spotted it with various verdure; a river\ndrew a bright, wavy line across it; here, the yellow sunshine brought\nout clearly every line and tint; there, the clouds dimmed it with\npatches of shadow; and all around was a massive framework of\nsunset-gilded hills.\n\nHalf involuntarily, Bergan took off his hat.  \"How good are the works\nof God, and how harmonious in their relations to one another, when we\nget high enough to command a wide view of them!\" he reverently thought.\n\"So, too, I doubt not, I shall find it with the dealings of His\nprovidence, when once I have climbed to a proper standpoint whence to\nview them as a whole.  Till then, let faith accept the truth which is\nhidden from sight!\"\n\nA larger party than he had expected to see, was gathered in the\ndining-room.  A legal brother, who had received a general invitation\nfrom Mr. Youle to visit him during the Summer, had hit upon this\noccasion; one planter from the neighborhood was present by appointment,\nand another by accident; and there was also a lady friend of Miss\nYoule, with her young daughter, Nina, besides Miss Thane.  The latter\nsignified her remembrance of Bergan by a cool bow; but it was not until\ndinner was over, and the evening tolerably well advanced, that he found\nhimself in her immediate vicinity.  Coralie had been led to the piano,\nleaving him in a somewhat isolated position, near one of the long\nwindows; and, while the notes of a fairy-like waltz seemed to be\ndropping from her slender fingers, as they flitted up and down the\nivory key-board, he thought he might venture to step out on the moonlit\npiazza, for a few moments, without being missed.  Suiting the action to\nthe thought, he discovered that Miss Thane had made her escape before\nhim.  She was leaning against a pillar, looking out over the\nmoon-silvered valley with a weary and wistful expression scarcely in\nkeeping with the calm, icy indifference of her wonted aspect.  With a\nbrief apology for interrupting her, he was about to retire, when she\nspoke, in a tone that seemed to accord him permission to stay if he\nchose.\n\n\"Coralie's music sounds sweeter outside than within.\"\n\nBergan drew near to her, not to let his voice penetrate to the parlor.\n\n\"That is true, I suspect, of many things in life.  To feel their full\nsweetness, one must get a little out of their immediate sphere.\"\n\n\"Is that true of persons, also?\" she asked, with a keen glance.\n\nSome moments elapsed before Bergan could answer.  Compelled by the\nquestion to make a sudden, rapid investigation into the deeper things\nof the heart, he was confounded at the unexpected result.  Too\ntruthful, however, to attempt to hide it, he finally answered,\nthoughtfully;--\n\n\"In some measure, I think it is.  Miss Thane, did you ever experience\nquite that deep delight in the presence of a friend, which you\nsometimes (please remember, I say only, sometimes) derive from the\nthought of him or her in absence?\"\n\nShe did not answer the question.  She only said, in a tone of cool\nirony;--\"You do not flatter your friends, Mr. Arling.\"  But in another\nmoment, she exclaimed, with a sudden, startling intensity of passion\nand longing;--\"Is there, then, _nothing_,--neither love, nor\nfriendship,--absolutely nothing, which answers expectation, and\nsatisfies desire?  Horrible, horrible thought!\"\n\n\"I do not think so,\" replied Bergan, gently; \"though I confess that I\nwas troubled, at first, by the necessity of answering your question as\nI did.  But I now recognize the fact thus revealed to me as very\nsatisfactory evidence that our affections, our friendships, are to know\na richer and lovelier development than they can ever attain to on this\nearth.  In heaven there must be room for every lofty ideal.\"\n\nThen, with a sudden deep intuition of the real necessities of the soul\nbeside him, he went on to say;--\"Yet there, as here, I suppose, the one\nsatisfying, completing thing will be the love of God.  The soul was\nmade to look up, not along a level; it can only find its highest joy in\nsomething superior to itself.\"\n\nShe turned, and looked him intently in the face.\n\n\"Do you believe what you say?\" she asked, doubtfully.\n\nVery solemnly Bergan answered;--\"I do.\"\n\n\"Belief is nothing,\" she rejoined, after a pause, \"action is the test.\nDo you _live_ your belief?\"\n\nBergan drew a deep breath.  \"I try to do so, Miss Thane.\"\n\nShe went on, seemingly so intent upon her own train of thought as to be\nutterly unmindful of the solemn and searching nature of the questions\nthat she was putting;--\n\n\"You feel, then, this all-satisfying love of God in your heart?\"\n\n\"In some measure, I trust I do.\"\n\n\"And when the sun suddenly dropped, or faded, out of your sky, and the\npast became a corpse, and the present a burden, and the future a blank,\nwhat comfort did it give you?\"\n\n\"The comfort of knowing that all things work together for the good of\nthose that love God,\" responded Bergan, not without a momentary wonder\nat the curious appositeness of the question to his recent experiences,\nbut quickly divining that she was looking more into her own heart than\nhis, in asking it.\n\n\"Good,\" she repeated, musingly; \"you did not say, happiness.\"\n\n\"Good is a better word than happiness, in this world.  In the world to\ncome, they will be synonyms.\"\n\nShe gave him another long, penetrating look.  Then she said, quite\nsimply, and evidently with no thought or intention of paying him\ncompliments;--\"You have talents, you have culture, you have a clear and\npowerful intellect (I heard Judge Emly begin an argument with you just\nnow, and you soon cut the very ground from under his feet), you have\nbeen wonderfully successful, too, considering your years,--yet you do\nnot hesitate to bind yourself to these narrow theories.\"\n\n\"Narrow, do you think them?  Broad, rather, since they link eternity to\ntime, and give one the long outlook and overlook which alone reveal\nthings in their true relations.  No one can construe this world aright,\nor even satisfactorily, without doing it by the light of the next.  As\nfor intellect, Miss Thane, some of the most commanding intellects of\nthe world have been defenders of the 'faith once delivered.'  And, if\nsuch had been lacking, there is a certain Book that Time has not been\nable to make obsolete, nor Science to nullify, which tells how,\naforetime, God chose the foolish things of the world to confound the\nwise: and He can do it again, when the necessity arises.\"\n\n\"You are content, then, to feel that your intellect, your learning,\ngive you no advantage, in these matters, over the most ignorant of your\nneighbors?\"\n\n\"I am content to know that, in religion as in most other things, though\nbooks may help, thorough knowledge is of experience.  The man who feels\nmost of the Spirit of God in his heart, and makes it most clearly\nmanifest in his life, is the man most competent, other things being\nequal, to analyze its operations and effects.  Political economy, Miss\nThane, is not the only subject about which men may prate very\nlearnedly, and know very little.\"\n\nCoralie's music ceased suddenly.  There was a little stir in the\nparlor, and a murmur of voices, as if some subject of interest were\nunder discussion.\n\n\"Go,\" commanded Miss Thane, \"they will be looking for you.  I will\nfollow you in a few moments.\"\n\nHe stepped back through the window.  Coralie came toward him.  \"We are\ntalking,\" said she, \"of going down to the negroes' camp-meeting, a\nlittle below here; Mr. Sypher was just telling us that it is a sight\nwell worth seeing, by night.  Will you go?\"\n\n\"I am entirely at your service,\" replied Bergan, courteously.\n\n\"And Diva!--where is she?  Oh, there she comes.\"\n\nBergan turned.  Miss Thane was standing between the curtains, with her\nusual expression of calm indifference.\n\nCoralie explained what was wanted.  \"Would you like it?\" she inquired,\ntwining her arm round her friend.  \"There will be some fine artistic\neffects.\"\n\nMiss Thane looked down upon her, with a softness that Bergan had never\nbefore seen in her face, and which gave it a marvellous beauty.  \"I\nlike whatever you like, child,\" she answered, evasively.\n\nIn the hall, she stopped, and took a shawl from the rack.\n\n\"Oh, Diva,\" exclaimed Coralie, \"you will not need that, it is so warm.\"\n\nMiss Thane stood doubtful, with the shawl in her hand.  Bergan took it\nfrom her quietly, and threw it across his broad shoulder.  \"It is\nalways safe to carry a shawl, if not to wear it,\" said he, lightly.\n\nThere was no formal arrangement of the party.  The path lay through the\nfields, and was often too narrow to admit more than one person; at\nother times, partnerships of two or three were formed or broken, very\nmuch by chance.  A broad glory of moonshine not only lighted them on\ntheir way, but surrounded them with enchantment,--softening lines, and\ndeepening shadows, and turning the whole earth into a new creation of\nsilver and ebony.\n\n\n\n\nIV.\n\nA WORD IN DUE SEASON.\n\nEre long, the shadowy wood-line was reached, and very soon a red\ntwinkle of light became visible through the trees, broadening and\nbrightening as they advanced.  The sweet and solemn notes of a hymn,\nsung by many voices, next pervaded the air; and in a few minutes more,\nthey were standing on the edge of the camp-ground, interested observers\nof a singularly picturesque scene.\n\nOpposite to them was the speaker's stand, well lighted, covered with\nevergreen boughs, and affording accommodation to a goodly company of\npreachers, but too distant to be unpleasantly prominent.  Between them\nand it, the whole vast space was crowded with negro worshippers; some\nsitting, some kneeling; here, an uncouth figure bowed in an attitude of\nabsorbed meditation (or, it might be, indulging in a peaceful sleep);\nthere, a dusky, upturned face, intent, or agonized, or rapturous,\naccording as the owner was devoutly receptive, torn with conviction of\nsin, or blissfully assured of pardon.  From among them the brown trunks\nof the forest trees rose straight and shapely as the pillars of a vast\ntemple; and overhead, the under surfaces of the leaves showed gray and\nspectral against the sombre night sky.  Here and there, lanterns were\nfastened to the trees, but the place was chiefly illuminated by great\nfires of pitch pine, whence clouds of smoke arose ever and anon, and\nhung trembling in the tree-tops; and the flames of which, as they rose\nand fell, cast alternate glow and gloom upon the upturned faces, and\nseemed to work corresponding changes of expression,--sudden transitions\nof joy and sorrow for which there was no apparent cause.  Outside of\nthese fires, scattered groups of spectators now came out into bold\nrelief, and now lost themselves in shadow; strong profiles caught the\neye, and then vanished; here and there, too, white faces offered an\neffective contrast to their darker neighbors.\n\nAltogether, it was a picture to delight an artist's eye; yet Miss Thane\nseemed scarcely to enjoy it.  On the way hither she had been silent,\nshut up within herself, neither seeking nor giving amusement; and she\nnow stood a little apart, letting her eyes rove absently from point to\npoint, but without appearing to take intelligent cognizance of any!\nYet she seemed to be listening, after awhile, to the voice of the\nwhite-haired negro preacher who occupied the stand, and talked of the\ncomfort of religious faith in a way to argue profound personal\nknowledge of the subject,--albeit, his phraseology was illiterate, and\noccasionally absurd, calling a smile to some faces in the party.  But\nDiva did not smile; her thoughts were evidently far below the surface\nof the subject, in depths where the gleaming ripple of the comic was\nunfelt and unseen.\n\nThe party was considerably scattered.  Miss Youle and her friend, tired\nwith their walk, had found a seat on the outermost of the benches,\nwatched over by Judge Emly; the youthful Miss Nina and one of the\nplanters had gone round to get a view from the other side; Coralie\nstood near a fire, listening to the low comments of Mr. Sypher; and Mr.\nYoule and Bergan were quite in the background, silent spectators, for\nthe most part, of what was going on.\n\nThe white-haired speaker brought his brief address to a close; and a\nnumber of negroes quitted the benches and came up the path.\nMechanically, Coralie stepped back to make way.\n\n\"Take care,\" exclaimed Mr. Sypher, in a warning voice, \"you will catch\nfire.\"\n\nBut he was too late.  She had moved within reach of the draft, and her\nlight muslin robe was wafted into the blaze.  Instantly, she felt the\nheat, saw over her shoulder a rising tongue of flame, and with the\ninsane impulse which usually seizes upon those in like peril, turned to\nflee from the danger which it was so impossible to distance.  But\nscarcely had she taken a step, before Bergan's strong arm caught her,\nand flung her, face downward, on the ground; with a deft movement of\nthe other hand and arm, Miss Thane's shawl was shaken out and thrown\nover her; and, in spite of her frantic struggles, she was held fast by\none knee, while he applied both hands to the task of smothering the\nflames.  Miss Thane was the first to come to his aid; then the rest of\nthe party woke from their momentary stupor of alarm, and joined their\nefforts to hers.  In very brief space of time, the work of\nextinguishment was complete, and Coralie, being lifted to her feet,\nstill enveloped in the friendly shawl, was found to be comparatively\nuninjured.  Her floating curls were singed at the ends, one arm was\nslightly reddened and smarting, and her nerves were considerably\nshaken--that was all;--all I where there might so easily have been\ndeath, or torture and disfigurement worse than death.\n\nThe whole thing had taken place so suddenly and swiftly, that only such\npersons as were in the immediate vicinity had been aware either of the\nperil or the rescue; so that it was by chance, as it were, that the\nwhole vast multitude now burst forth with the solemn old Doxology;--\n\n  \"Praise God from whom all blessings flow.\"\n\n\nThe great wave of sound flowed round and over the little breathless\nparty, and charitably veiled or soothed its emotions.  Mr. Youle,\nstanding with his arm round his daughter, bowed his face on her head,\nand a large tear glistened on her soft curls; Miss Youle sank on her\nknees by the bench where she had been sitting, and wept silently;\nothers of the party bent their heads, or lifted their hats; Diva Thane\nheld one of Coralie's hands close clasped in hers, but her face was\nturned away.  Suddenly, she threw her voice into the last line of the\nDoxology,--\n\n  \"Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,\"\n\nwith a richness and power that were like the swell of an organ.  It\nappeared to pervade and sustain the whole chorus of voices, and\nimpressed them inevitably with its own character; which, to Bergan's\near, seemed not so much an expression of thankfulness, as the\nirresistible outbreak of a feeling that would gladly have given itself\nthe more effectual relief of moaning aloud, had the opportunity been\nafforded it.\n\nA bystander now considerately offered Mr. Youle the loan of his horse\nand buggy, and Coralie and her aunt were swiftly driven homeward.  The\nremainder of the party walked back as they had come, Miss Thane and\nBergan being in the rear.  As they turned into the narrow wood-path,\nshe motioned him to precede her; and he quietly obeyed, understanding,\nbetter than she knew, her desire to feel herself free from observation.\nYet he failed not to listen for the sound of her light footsteps behind\nhim, and to adapt his pace to hers.  Meanwhile, his mind busied itself,\nalmost against his will, with a new and serious question.  In the\nlittle interval before the starting of the buggy, Coralie had taken his\nhands in hers, and thanked him for the service rendered her, with a\nlook that haunted him still.  There had been nothing in that look but\nwhat was most delicate and maidenly,--an involuntary attempt to help\nout with her eyes the broken words which yet expressed her gratitude so\nwell; nevertheless, it had been possessed of some indefinable quality\nwhich had touched him deeply at the time, and now set him gravely to\nquestion within himself whether he had any right to be the object of a\nsecond look of the kind; at least, while the past was still a desolate\ngrave, over which no grass yet grew green, no flowers bloomed.  Trained\nto look difficult questions in the face, stripping them of all\nconfusing or meretricious appendages, it did not take him long to\narrive at an emphatic \"No,\" as the only possible answer to this one.\nFortunately, he had not committed himself to any particular length of\nstay at Farview, and the sudden recollection of an important paper that\nhe had locked up in his desk, instead of committing it to the safer\nguardianship of the fire-proof safe, suggested itself as an excellent\nexcuse for a speedy departure.  He decided that he would take his leave\nearly in the morning, and see Coralie no more until he had determined\nthat the past had become so far a dream as to admit of a new dream of\nthe future.\n\nThis honorable decision being reached, his mind was sufficiently at\nease to allow him to notice that his pace had gradually become a very\nslow one, in half unconscious conformity to the lagging footsteps\nbehind him,--footsteps which spoke so unmistakably of a troubled mind\nor an exhausted frame.  It even appeared that Miss Thane stopped\naltogether, now and then, by reason of absorbing thought, or from the\nnecessity of taking breath.  Bergan hesitated for a moment, divided\nbetween the fear of being intrusive, and the kindly impulse to afford\ntimely help; but the latter prevailed, and, the path having widened\nsomewhat, he turned and offered her his arm.  She shook her head\nabsently, at first; then seemed to become suddenly aware that support\nwas needful, and accepted it.\n\n\"We are privileged to be silent, I believe,\" said Bergan, as they moved\non together, \"only in the presence of strangers or friends.  Count me\nin either category, as you please, and do not trouble yourself to talk.\nI see you are tired.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" returned Miss Thane, in a cool tone of acquiescence.\n\nAcross the next two fields, their own linked shadows, sliding slowly\nover the ground in advance of them, were not more silent than they.\nThe voices of their companions, who had far outstripped them, reached\ntheir ears only in subdued and harmonious murmurs.  The moonlight lay\nover the earth like a visible blessing of peace; and even threw a kind\nof reflected brightness into Miss Thane's heart, by the aid of which\nshe was better able to try to find some pathway out of its shadows.  In\nthat one terrible moment, when she had seemed to see Coralie wrapped in\nflames, a swift vision of herself, left standing alone in the\nworld--without relative, without friend, without human affection, hope,\nor solace--a lonely, empty, unsatisfied heart--had risen before her,\nand left her appalled, even in the midst of her thankfulness that it\nwas only a vision as yet, and not a reality.  For, how easily, through\nthe agency of a boat or an engine, a fever or a chill, a thousand\nevery-day accidents, it might still become a reality!  With what was\nshe then to supply Coralie's place in her heart and life?\n\nAwhile ago, she would have answered confidently, \"With Art.\"  Now, she\nknew better.  For two years she had been testing Art's capacity to fill\nand satisfy an empty human heart, and her soul was exceeding bitter\nwith the unexpected result.  She had painfully experienced the truth\n(though she could hardly be said to understand it as yet) that he who\nembraces Art with a thought of self and not of service, will find it\nturn to ice or to ashes in his arms.  In itself, it has neither balm\nfor affliction, nor skilful surgery for remorse, nor sunshine to throw\nathwart the black gloom of despair.\n\nOut of this bitter knowledge Miss Thane finally spoke, apparently\nrecurring in thought to their previous talk on the piazza;--\n\n\"Mr. Arling, how is one to love God, if one does not?\"\n\nIt was perhaps the most difficult of all questions to answer.  How are\nthe blind eyes to be opened, and the deaf ears unstopped?  How is the\nfrozen heart to be softened, and the slumbering affection to be wakened\ninto leaf and bloom?  How is the Father to be made acceptable to the\nchildren that are insensible of His goodness, and will none of His\nreproof?  And how is the Saviour to be presented unto those to whom He\nhas hitherto been without form or comeliness, in such beauty as that\nthey shall desire Him?\n\n\"I think, where it is not spontaneous,\" Bergan answered, after a\nmoment's consideration, \"that such love is most surely to be attained\nthrough prayer and service;--a frequent lifting up of the heart to Him\nwhom it would fain love; a constant endeavor to do His will, as the\nbest means of developing and manifesting love.\"\n\nMiss Thane looked down thoughtfully.  \"I have known--a man,\"--she began\nslowly, with a shade of irrepressible sadness in her tone,--\"a man not\nless gifted with talent and intellectual power than yourself, and with\na somewhat longer and more varied experience in the use of his gifts,\nwho would have laughed at the idea of any virtue in prayer, except as\naffording a pleasant illusion to a weak mind.\"\n\n\"I, too, have known such a man,\" replied Bergan, the image of Doctor\nRemy rising irresistibly before his mind, and causing a dull ache in\nhis heart; \"but was he--was this man of whom you speak--or had he ever\nbeen, in the devout, habitual use of prayer?\"\n\nShe shook her head.  \"I do not know; probably not.\"\n\n\"Miss Thane, you would scarcely need to have me warn you that no man is\nto be accepted as authority, in law or medicine, who is not thoroughly\nconversant with the subject, both by study and practice.  So those, and\nthose only, who pray themselves, humbly, devoutly, persistently, have\nany right to pronounce upon the efficacy of prayer.\"\n\nShe looked up at him quickly and keenly.  \"Pardon me, but--have you the\nright to speak with authority?\"\n\n\"In some small measure, yes.  I can certify you that the medicine is\ngood, because I have taken it; that the staff is strong, because I have\nleaned upon it; that the weapon is efficient, because I have fought\nwith it.  Allow me to hope that you do not need the certification.\"\n\nHer eyes fell, and her cheek flushed slightly, but she answered with\nher usual straightforward candor:--\"I was never taught to pray;--my\nmother died when I was born, and my father believed none of these\nthings.  I have no habit of prayer.\"\n\n\"Does no one pray for you?\"\n\n\"I don't know--Coralie, perhaps.\"\n\nBergan looked down upon her, and a sudden moisture dimmed his eyes.\nHis heart was taken complete possession of, for the moment, by a vast,\nsorrowful pity for this beautiful and gifted woman, who masked so empty\nand aching a heart with so cold a demeanor, impelling him irresistibly\nto help her, as he could.\n\n\"When you are next asked that question,\" said he, and there was a deep,\nrich melody in his voice, \"do not say that you 'don't know,' for I\npromise to put up a prayer for you daily, from henceforth, until you\nsend me word that you have learned to pray habitually and gladly for\nyourself.  Hereafter, when you lie down to rest, remember that\nanother--claiming no title of friend, but simply that of neighbor--has\nasked forgiveness for your day, protection for your night, and every\nstrength that you need for your morrow.\"\n\nThe proud heart was touched at last.  That is to say, Bergan's words\nwere the effectual \"last drop\" in the full cup of the evening's varied\nemotions,--comparatively insignificant perhaps in itself, but none the\nless inevitably productive of overflow.  Miss Thane's lips parted with\na kind of gasp, scarcely distinguishable as sound, but profoundly\nsuggestive of pain; and a perceptible tremor ran over her from head to\nfoot.  Suddenly releasing Bergan's arm, she sat down on a fallen tree\nby the side of the path, and covered her face with her hands, while\ntears, dripping through her slender fingers, glistened gem-like in the\nmoonlight.\n\nYet it argued much for her power of self-control, that she made no\nsound, nor shook with any sob.  Grief must be content to exercise over\nher limited, not absolute dominion.\n\nBergan withdrew to a little distance, and waited silently, looking out\nover the shadowy valley to the fair, flowing outline of the\nmoon-silvered hills.  Those womanly tears, he was certain, would afford\nmost safe and seasonable relief to whatever pain and excitement,\nwhatever distressful memories or dismal forebodings, had resulted from\nthe evening's events.  For himself, comparative stranger as he was, he\nhad no right to give Miss Thane more than the silent sympathy of a\nheart itself not unacquainted with sorrow.\n\nSuddenly, the deep silence was broken by the soft whirr of wings.  A\nbird, flying as straight over the moonlighted fields as if let loose by\nan unseen hand for that purpose, alighted in the boughs over the two\nmotionless figures, and shook down upon them a shower of liquid\nnotes,--sweet, clear, and joyous,--a very prophecy of hope.\n\nThe song being sung, the bird soon spread its wings and flew back to\nits nest and its mate.  Then Diva rose, and held out her hand to Bergan.\n\n\"I accept your offer,\" said she.  \"Something tells me that the time\nwill come when I can repay you in degree, if not in kind.\"\n\nAnd Bergan, as he took the white, cool hand--empty now, except perhaps\nof a half-reluctant gratitude, and a moderate measure of good-will--had\na singular intuition that some day it would be held out to him with an\ninestimable gift in it.\n\n\n\n\nV.\n\nINTERCEPTED.\n\n\"You are up early,\" said Diva Thane, when she entered Coralie's room on\nthe morrow, and found her standing by the window, enjoying the fresh,\nfragrant air, and the innumerable sweet and cheery sounds of the summer\nmorning.  \"I thought that you would sleep late after your accident,--or\nwhat came so near to being one.\"\n\n\"How could I sleep late, when I was ordered off to bed so early?\"\nrejoined Coralie, smiling brightly, and turning her clear brown eyes on\nher friend.  \"Besides, I had so much to think about,\" she added, softly\nand gravely, letting her glance go back to the flower-beds on the lawn.\n\nBut it was evident that her reflections, though possibly not without an\noccasional deep bass note of solemnity, had for the most part sung her\na very siren's song of pleasantness and hope; none the less entrancing\nbecause a song without words of definite purport.  The smile and the\nflush, with which she had listened, still brightened her face; and a\ncorresponding light was seen shining from what seemed an interminable\ndepth in her eyes,--eyes never so deeply illumined till now.  Indeed,\nit struck Diva with a kind of vague amaze and sadness, that she had\nnever seen this Coralie before!  There was an unfamiliar freshness and\nsoftness about her, as if she were newly created.  The brightness of\nher face, too, was such as to make her seem more nearly akin to the\nsummer sunshine falling on her through the window, than to mortal\nshadows and sorrows.  In truth, Diva found herself fancying that the\nsunshine was a good deal the brighter for the happy glow that it caught\nfrom her features.\n\nSurprised, ere long, at Diva's silence, Coralie lifted her eyes, and\nencountered her friend's intent gaze.  Immediately she seemed to become\naware that a wonderfully subtle and delicate insight was making, not\nher face only, but her heart, the subject of its deep regard.  The\nmoment before, she did not know that there was anything in either which\nshe cared to hide.  Now, as if the existence of some secret were\nsuddenly suggested to her by the fear of another's perception of it,\nshe let her eyes fall, and a deep flush overspread her features.\n\nDiva turned away with a sigh.  She felt scarcely less lonely than she\nhad seen herself in the vision of the preceding evening, when Coralie\nhad seemed to be passing swiftly beyond her reach and ken, in a chariot\nof flame.\n\nNor was her sadness wholly for herself.  She was gifted with a singular\nclearness of intuition, in regard to the relations of others; and\nCoralie's face affected her much as it would have done to find a rose\nsuddenly budding out on a sunny winter's day, and mistaking it for the\nbeginning of summer.  Still, as is often the case with persons thus\nendowed, she did not fully trust her own intuitions, for the reason\nthat they could give no clear account of themselves to her intellect.\nShe now told herself, therefore, that her impressions were doubtless\nwrong, inasmuch as they were destitute of solid basis; she was even\nglad to believe so, quickly losing the thought of herself in that of\nher friend.  Or it might be that she was seized with a diviner\nselfishness,--the certainty that, if any winter's night of frost and\ndusk were in store for Coralie, she herself must needs partake largely,\nthrough sympathy, of its chill and gloom.\n\nAs the friends stood thus silent, each busy with her own impressions\n(for they were of much too thin a consistency to be called thoughts),\ncertain sounds from below, coming up to the window, attracted their\nnotice.  A horse was brought round to the side door, and, soon after,\nBergan's voice was distinctly heard, speaking to Mr. Youle.\n\n\"That will do, thank you.  I shall quite enjoy my ride through the\nvalley, this lovely morning.  Present my adieux to Miss Coralie; I\ntrust that her night's rest has obliterated every trace of her last\nevening's experience.  Good-bye.\"\n\n\"Why, that is Mr. Arling!\" exclaimed Coralie, in sudden consternation.\n\"What can have happened to take him away so suddenly?\"\n\n\"I heard him telling your father, last night,\" answered Diva, calmly,\n\"that he would be forced to return to town early this morning on\nbusiness of importance.\"\n\n\"And he did not bid me good-bye!\" murmured Coralie, discontentedly.\n\"Besides, I have not half thanked him for saving me from those dreadful\nflames,\"--and she shuddered at the recollection.  \"Oh, I _must_ speak\nto him, before he goes.\"\n\nShe leaned out of the window, apparently with the intention of calling\nto him, but it was too late; he was already trotting down the avenue,\nfollowed by the groom who was to bring back the horse.  She looked\nafter him with a wistful gaze, and her eyes filled with tears.\n\nDiva watched her thoughtfully,--intent, it would seem, upon some deeper\nand more perplexing phase of the matter than that immediately presented\nto her.  Finally, she said, as if struck by a sudden thought:--\n\n\"If you want to speak to him so much, there is a way.  You know the\nshorter path through the shrubbery to the entrance gate; we can\nintercept him.\"\n\n\"Oh, no!  I could not do that,\" exclaimed Coralie, shrinking back and\nblushing deeply, \"he would think--that is, it would look like thrusting\nmyself in his way.\"\n\n\"He would think nothing,\" affirmed Diva, coolly, \"except that we are\nout for a morning walk, as we have a good right to be; there never was\na lovelier sky or earth to tempt one forth.  Come, we must be quick.\"\n\nAnd, without waiting for consent, or listening to remonstrance, Diva\nseized Coralie's hand, and hurried her down the stairs, and out through\na different door from that by which Bergan had taken his\ndeparture,--where Mr. Youle still lingered,--so that they reached the\nshrubbery unobserved.  Here, Diva slackened her pace a little, though\nshe still kept hold of her half reluctant, and nearly breathless\ncompanion.  They reached the gate before Bergan came in sight.\n\n\"Let us go back a little way,\" pleaded Coralie; \"I don't want to be\nfound waiting here.\"\n\n\"Why not?\" asked Diva, composedly, seating herself on a low, broad\nstump by the way-side.  \"Mr. Arling is not a vain man, he will never\nsuspect us of waiting for _him_.  But if you must have an excuse for\nlingering here,--why, there are some exquisite ferns yonder,--gather\nthem for your parlor vases.\"\n\nCoralie hesitated, doubtful whether to stay or flee.  Diva plucked a\ndainty leaf of wood-sorrel, and put it between the perfect curves of\nher own lips.\n\n\"Coralie,\" she suddenly asked, \"how old am I?\"\n\nDespite her perplexity, Coralie could not help smiling at the absurdity\nof the question.  \"Are you losing your memory?\" she inquired; \"you are\ntwo years older than I.\"\n\n\"Oh, is that all?  I thought I must have been at least a hundred,--it\nseemed such an age since I used to eat this green stuff with relish.\nBut you are certainly young yet, though you do look a year or two older\nthan you did yesterday.\"\n\nCoralie quickly stooped over the ferns to hide her deeply-diffused\ncheeks.  Diva continued, apparently without noticing her confusion:--\n\n\"However, if the little plant has lost much to the taste, it has gained\nmore to the eye.  I never noticed, in those days, what a delicately\noutlined leaf, and slender, translucent stem it had, nor how fresh was\nits tint of green.  If Mr. Arling were here, now, he would turn that\ninto a simile,--something about a spiritual sense developed out of an\nearthly one, or a refined enjoyment only to be attained through some\nloss of the capacity for commoner pleasures;--isn't that a little in\nhis style?  Ah! there he is.\"\n\nBergan was looking straight before him, so much absorbed in his own\nthoughts that he did not see the friends until he was close at hand.\nHe immediately dismounted, flung his bridle to the groom, and came\ntoward them with extended hand.\n\n\"So you were going to leave without bidding us good-bye,\" said Miss\nThane, coolly, ignoring the offered hand, but looking him searchingly\nin the eyes.\n\nIf Bergan felt a little embarrassment under that look, he did not\nbetray it.\n\n\"I supposed that you were not up,\" he answered, with perfect composure.\n\"And whoever travels at this season of the year, had best do it betimes\nin the morning, before the sunbeams are hot as well as bright.  Miss\nCoralie, I am glad to see you looking so fully yourself.\"\n\nHis sentence ended a little abruptly, as if whatever else he had\nintended to say was suddenly put out of his head.  He, too, had become\ndimly aware of some subtle change or development in Coralie, since the\nevening before,--a more womanly grace, a new character of beauty;\nwhich, however, only served to bring the image of Carice vividly before\nhim--Carice, as he had seen her last, and would never see her again,\nunder the shadowy pines, by the dreaming river, with the newborn\nlove-light in her eyes, and the dawn-rose of love in her cheeks.\nScarce knowing what he did, he lifted his hand, to see if, haply, he\nmight shut out both images together.\n\nCoralie's eyes fell on that hand, which was carefully bandaged from\nwrist to knuckles; and the unconquerable shyness which had seized her,\non Bergan's appearance, was instantly dissipated.\n\n\"What is that?\" she asked;--\"oh, Mr. Arling, were you burned last night\nin trying to save me?\"\n\nBergan looked at Diva and smiled.  \"It is nothing,\" said he,\nlightly,--\"only your aunt and Miss Thane insisted upon binding it up\nafter I got home; and the least that I can do is to wear their kindly\nhandiwork for a day or two.\"\n\n\"Oh, Diva,\" exclaimed Coralie reproachfully, the quick moisture coming\ninto her eyes, \"why did you not tell me?\"\n\n\"Why should I?\" replied Diva, with somewhat bitter emphasis; \"_hands_\nheal quickly.\"\n\n\"Miss Thane is quite right,\" said Bergan; \"the matter was not worth\nmentioning.  Certainly, it was not worth one of those tears, Miss\nCoralie; you will make me too proud of having gotten a small scratch in\nthe fray.  If it were ten times as much, it would in nowise offset what\nI owe your father.  Now I must bid you farewell, or I shall miss the\ntrain.\"\n\n\"Will you not come up again soon?\" asked Coralie, coloring a little,\nbut strong in the certainty that she could not err in showing her\npreserver the most cordial courtesy.  \"It must be good for you to leave\nthe city as often as you can.  And you have certainly earned the right\nto consider Farview as your home, whenever it suits you to do so.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" said Bergan, bowing in acknowledgment of the kind and\nthoughtful invitation.  \"But I am necessarily a busy and homeless man,\nand it is the truest wisdom for me not to stray too far out of my\nproper orbit, lest I get dissatisfied with it.  When I become more\nfully and firmly settled therein, a day's absence may not matter so\nmuch; and then, if your invitation still holds good, I shall be only\ntoo happy to avail myself of it.\"\n\n\"It must always hold good, just as a kindness once done is done\nforever,\" replied Coralie warmly, turning a deaf ear to the\nunseasonable inner voice that cried out against the coolness and\nreserve of Bergan's response, and holding out a tremulous little hand,\nby way of signature and seal to her promise.\n\nBergan gave the hand a friendly pressure, and bowed low to Miss Thane.\n\"A pleasant summer to you both,\" said he, \"full of flowers and\nsunshine, both material and metaphorical.  Farewell.\"\n\nHe lifted his hat as he rode through the gate; very soon a turn of the\nroad hid him from sight.  Coralie stood looking somewhat wistfully at\nthe point where he had disappeared.\n\n\"Peace go with him!\" said Diva lightly.  \"He was in a great hurry to\nleave us, but he said 'Farewell' in a way to indicate that he should\nnot be in a hurry to return.  Fortunately, we are not the sort of\ndamsels to pine after an unwilling knight.\"\n\nCoralie turned instantly, and, with heightened color, signified her\nreadiness to go home.\n\nFor some days her spirits were fitful and changeable; nothing now so\ngay, nothing now so sad, as her smile.  During this time Diva watched\nover her with a silent, patient, careful devotion that surrounded her\nlike the atmosphere, viewless, but beneficent.  She saved her from\nannoyance; she shielded her from observation; she stood between her and\nher guests, taking up the burden of their entertainment in a way that\nwould have seemed incredible to those accustomed to see her only\nlanguidly indifferent or coldly haughty.  Though her heart might be\nnarrow, it was certainly deep.\n\nBy and by, Coralie began to smile naturally once more, and Diva was\nsatisfied that, though the rose could not \"shut and be a bud again,\" it\nhad received no lasting blight.  If it could be kept from further harm,\nit might be expected to develop naturally into perfection of bloom and\nbeauty,--not the hasty and one-sided maturity that comes of a worm at\nthe heart.\n\nShe could now think of herself.  Unselfish anxiety and effort had been\nvery good for her thus far, there was not a doubt of that.\nNevertheless, she was beginning to feel urgent need of\nquiet,--opportunity to commune with her own heart, and be still,--time\nto deal justly and thoroughly with questions seething in her mind ever\nsince her talks with Bergan.  But it was vain to look for quiet at\nFarview; the house was fast filling up with gay guests; and having once\ndropped her ice-mantle of reserve, she could not resume it without\ngiving pain to her hosts.  So, as Coralie was now quite capable of\ntaking her rightful place as queen of the festivities, and as she had\nalready stayed twice as long as had been contemplated at first, Diva\nwent back to her studio.\n\n\n\n\nVI.\n\nAN AIMLESS STROLL.\n\nLate one afternoon, about a month after Bergan's return to Savalla, he\nquitted the office, which seemed to have grown unaccountably barren and\ndreary of aspect, and set out for an aimless stroll through the city.\nThe air was fresh and moist from a recent shower, and the slanting\nsunbeams were working alchemic wonders in the streets and squares;\nturning the polished leaves of the oak and olive trees to silver, and\nhanging them with prismatic jewels, enriching the grass with a vivider\ngreen, and the earth with a rich golden brown, and imprinting the\nsensitive surface of every tiny rain-pool with a lovely picture of blue\nsky, fleecy clouds, and pendent sprays of foliage.\n\nThrough all these pleasant sights Bergan moved slowly and half\nabsently, occupying himself less with their beauty than with the sober\nmonologue of his own thoughts.  Yet his gaze was not without occasional\nmoments of intelligence, and in one of these he noticed a child,\nattended by a large dog, standing with a curiously doubtful, undecided\nair, in the midst of the square that he was crossing.  Suddenly making\nup her mind, it would seem, she held out her hand to a gentleman coming\nfrom the opposite direction, who took no further notice of the mute\nappeal than was implied by a shake of the head.  The sight was a\ncomparatively strange one in those days, when begging was resorted to\nas an occasional resource, rather than followed as a regular trade; and\nBergan continued to observe the child with a certain degree of\ninterest, though not with a wholly unpreoccupied mind, as he advanced\ntoward her.\n\nAll at once, it struck him that there was something oddly familiar\nabout her slender little figure.  As for the dog, he was certainly an\nold acquaintance, as could easily be proven; and Bergan's lips emitted\na low, peculiar whistle.  There was an instant pricking up of the\ncanine ears, and an inquisitive turning sidewise of the canine head,\nbut the faithful animal would not leave his young mistress until he was\nabsolutely certain that he recognized a friend.  She, meanwhile, seemed\nto notice neither the whistle nor its effect; nor could she distinctly\nsee what manner of man drew near, her eyes being dazzled by the level\nsun-rays, but she again mutely held out her hand.\n\nIt was instantly taken possession of.  \"Cathie,\" said Bergan,\nwonderingly, \"what does this mean?\"\n\nShe looked at him a moment in blank bewilderment, but ended by\nrecognizing him and flinging herself into his arms exactly as the\nCathie of a year before would have done; but with a deep, long-drawn,\nrepressed sob, implying a profounder sorrow than had ever darkened the\nhorizon of even that child of many and incomprehensible moods.\n\nYet Bergan was considerably relieved by her first words;--\"Oh, Mr.\nArling, don't tell mamma--don't tell Astra--please don't!\"  It seemed\nprobable that the episode of the begging was simply one of the child's\nstrange freaks.\n\n\"Did you do it for fun, then?\" he asked.\n\n\"Fun?\" repeated Cathie, with indignant emphasis, \"do you think it's fun\nto beg, Mr. Arling?  I don't.  I was so ashamed that I wanted to hide\nmy face with both hands.\"\n\n\"Then why did you do it?\" asked Bergan, gravely.\n\nThe child's lip assumed its most sorrowful curve.  \"To get some money\nto give Astra,\" she answered. \"We are very poor now; the Bank went and\ngot broke, with all mamma's money in it; and she was taken sick, and\nAstra couldn't get much to do, and we've had to move into a little mean\nhouse, in a dirty little street, where there are no flowers, nor trees,\nnor anything that's nice.  And this morning I saw Astra take the last\nmoney out of her purse, to pay the rent, and she looked--oh! I can't\ntell how she looked,--something like that big gray man, with the little\nboy on his back, that she made so long ago; and I did so wish that I\ncould do something to help her, just a little bit.  So, when she sent\nme out to take a walk with Nix, it came into my head that I could beg\nfor her, if I couldn't do anything else, and I thought I'd try it.  Was\nit doing wrong?\"\n\nBergan did not answer except by stooping to kiss the child's upturned\nface.  His eyes grew moist.\n\n\"I know it must be wrong,\" pursued Cathie, innocently, \"if it makes you\ncry, Mr. Arling.\"\n\n\"No, Cathie,\" replied Bergan, smiling reassuringly.  \"I do not think it\nwas wrong,--at least, you did not mean to do wrong, and that makes a\ngreat difference.  But I don't think that you will need to try it\nagain.  Now, certainly you can do something better; that is, take me\nhome with you.\"\n\nOn the way, Cathie, secure in the sympathy of this trusted friend of\nbetter days, gave a more detailed account of the misfortunes that had\nbefallen the little family, since it left Berganton.  His heart ached\nas he pictured to himself the weary and wasting struggle with poverty\nthat Astra had maintained so bravely, yet so hopelessly; heavily\nweighted, on the one hand, with the burden of disappointed affection,\nand, on the other, with the anxiety caused by her mother's severe\nillness.  For works of art, there had been no demand; for portrait\nbusts and medallions, there had been only a scanty and fitful one.  Her\nlast resource had been pupils in drawing, but these had now failed her,\nin consequence of the usual summer exodus of the city's wealthier\npopulation; by reason of which she was reduced to the bitter straits\nshadowed forth by Cathie's earlier communications.  It was touching,\ntoo, to see what real nobleness of character had all along been hidden\nunder the child's caprice and waywardness, as evinced by the fact that\nshe said little of the privations that had fallen to her own lot, but\ndwelt chiefly on her mother's lack of accustomed comforts, and the\nforlorn face that Astra wore, when out of that mother's sight.\n\nThe house was reached before the story had come to an end.  It was a\nlittle better than Bergan's fears, but far worse than his hopes.  It\nsmote him to the heart to contrast it with the comfortable and spacious\nmansion that had opened its doors so readily to him at Berganton, and\nwherein he had come to feel himself so pleasantly at home.\n\nCathie ushered Bergan into the dingy little room that served both for\nparlor and studio, and then rushed through the opposite door, full of\nthe importance of the news that she had to impart.  There was a\nsmothered exclamation of surprise from the adjoining room, followed by\na murmured consultation; and then Astra appeared in the doorway.\n\nBut it was by no means the Astra of Bergan's remembrance.  The features\nwere the same, to be sure, but the light, the hope, the energy, that\nhad animated them, and informed them with such rich and varied\nexpression, was utterly lacking.  There was a perceptible line between\nthe eyebrows, as if the brow were wont to be knit over difficult\nproblems; and the mouth expressed a settled melancholy, which a smile\nseemed only to vary slightly, not to displace.  Nor could Bergan help\ndetecting a little hardness in it,--the look of a defeated general,\nforced to lay down his weapons, but still unsubdued in will.\n\nWhat he most marvelled at, however, was that it immediately brought\nDiva Thane's face before him, as if there were some subtle relation\nbetween them, though there was not the slightest resemblance.\n\nAstra's manner to him was scarcely less altered than her face.  It was\nnot exactly cold, but it lacked much of the old warmth and heartiness.\nBergan took no notice of it; he readily divined what chords of painful\nassociation were thrilled at the sight of him, and how inevitably her\npride revolted against being seen in her present surroundings.  Her\nhand was so cold, when he took it in his, that he pressed it between\nboth his own, with a vague idea of warming it; then, stirred by a\nsympathy too deep for ordinary expression, he bent over and touched it\nwith his lips.\n\n\"You are not wise,\" said Astra, with a faint smile; \"you should not do\nhomage to a fallen princess.\"\n\n\"Neither do I,\" rejoined Bergan, with a deep music in his voice.  \"She\nis not fallen, but holding out most bravely against the time when she\nmay expect succor.\"\n\n\"Succor?\" responded Astra, with a mixture of pride and\nmournfulness,--\"from what or whom could acceptable succor come?\"\n\nBergan smiled, and pointed upward.  \"From the Source of all succor,\nwhatever be the channel.\"\n\nAstra shook her head, and the lines of her mouth grew set and hard.\n\"Acceptable succor comes in season,\" said she, \"and through legitimate\nchannels.\"\n\nBergan was confounded.  This lack of faith, this arraignment of\nProvidence, argued a more amazing change in Astra than he had yet\nsuspected.  At the same time it afforded him a clue to that mysterious\nconnection, in his mind, between her face and Miss Thane's.  Under the\nhardness of the one and the coldness of the other, the same scepticism\nlay hidden,--possibly engendered by similar causes.  In Astra's case,\nhe had no hesitation in attributing it to Doctor Remy's influence; and\nhe could not but wonder at the singular and fatal power of the man over\nthe minds of those who were brought into close contact with him.  Was\nthis deadly poison to be also instilled into the pure mind of Carice?\nHe shuddered at the thought.  Better for her to lie dead at the bottom\nof the river, by which he had last seen her soft, rapt face.\n\nFeeling that this was no time to argue with Astra, Bergan turned to the\ntable, which was littered with drawings and sketches, plaster reliefs,\nand small clay models, to a degree that implied no lack of patient\nindustry, despite the want of encouragement, and the absence of faith.\n\n\"What are you doing?\" he asked.\n\n\"Nothing, just now,\" she answered, mournfully.  \"I believe my hands\nhave lost their cunning,--if ever they had any.  That is the last.\"\nShe pointed to a small bas-relief.\n\nIt represented a child, skipping lightly down a flowery slope, trailing\na vine behind her.  The face was turned so far away from the beholder,\nas to show only the rounded outline of the youthful cheek and brow, but\nthe figure expressed a wonderful joyousness.  In more senses than one,\nit was plainly, \"In the Sunshine;\" which title was lightly scratched in\nthe plaster.\n\nBergan studied it attentively.  \"It is as fresh as a rose,\" said he,\n\"and as sweet.\"\n\n\"The analogy, if there be any, goes deeper than that,\" rejoined Astra,\nbitterly.  \"A rose is born out of darkness and dampness and decay, and\nthis is the offspring of pain and discouragement, and all that makes\nthe hand weak and the heart sick.\"\n\n\"And that is probably the secret of its perfection,\" remarked Bergan,\nmeditatively.  \"The loveliest graces of character--such as charity that\nthinketh no evil, and hope that lives by faith, not by sight--are the\nlegitimate children of suffering.  Then why not the finer works of art?\"\n\nAstra's eyes fell, and she did not answer.\n\n\"At any rate,\" pursued Bergan, \"this 'Sunshine' is just what I want to\nbrighten my office.  I was thinking, this very day, that something must\nbe done to make it less dismal.  I suppose it is for sale?\"\n\nAstra bent her head a little stiffly.  She doubted the reality of this\nnew-born desire for office decorations.\n\nHe took out his purse, and laid a folded bank-note on the table.  He\nexpected that she would not look at it, until after he had gone, but\nshe immediately took it up, opened it, and tendered it back to him.\n\n\"It is too much,\" said she proudly.  And her look added, \"I am no\nbeggar.\"\n\n\"Is it?\" inquired Bergan, with apparent surprise.  \"I thought it agreed\ntolerably well with the prices that you used to mention as the least\nyou would receive for your works, in the future.\"\n\n\"I have lived to grow wiser,\" replied Astra,\n\n\"It is all the same,\" rejoined Bergan composedly, \"I was about to say\nthat, as my mother has long been entreating me to send her some sort of\na portrait, it occurs to me that I cannot do better than to get you to\nmake a medallion or a bust of me, whichever you please.  The balance of\nthe note can go toward the first payment.  We will arrange for the\nsittings, as soon as you are at leisure.\"\n\nAstra's lip trembled.  Put in this way, the note might be retained; and\nno one knew so well as herself what an amount of relief to her, and of\ncomfort to her mother, it ensured.  But her pride was very sore,\nnevertheless, and her face was little grateful, as she dropped the note\non the table, somewhat as if it had burned her fingers.\n\nBergan hastened to change the subject.  \"I am sorry not to see your\nmother,\" he began; but Astra interrupted him.\n\n\"She would like to see you very much,\" said she, \"if you don't mind\ncoming to her room.  It is several days since she has left it; though I\nreally think that she is better to-day.\"\n\n\"Why should I mind?\" asked Bergan, smiling.  \"She used to call me her\nson sometimes; though you do take such pains to give me to understand\nthat you utterly repudiate me as a brother.\"\n\nAstra turned her face aside, to conceal the sudden unbending of the set\nmouth.  \"Indeed, I do not,\" she faltered.\n\nBergan drew her toward him, just as a brother would have done.  \"Then\nyou will help me to persuade her to move into more comfortable\nquarters, at once.  I promise you that it shall be arranged so\ncarefully as to give her the least possible fatigue.\"\n\nAstra shook her head.  \"It cannot be; it would excite her too much.\nHer disease is of the heart; and joy kills as surely as sorrow.  When I\nmoved her here,--being imperatively forced to do so, because I could\nnot afford to stay where we were,--I determined that, let come what\nwould, she should not be stirred again, until she is a great deal\nbetter or--worse.  Thank you for the kind thought, but indeed she is\nbest off here, for the present,--now that I have the means of making\nher tolerably comfortable.\"\n\nIn the last sentence, there was some trace of Astra's old self; and,\nglad to have gained thus much, Bergan followed her to Mrs. Lyte's\nbedside.\n\nIf he still cherished any belief in the feasibility of removing her, it\nvanished with the first sight of her face.  He wondered what could have\nled Astra to think her better.  Even to his inexperienced eyes, the\nstruggling breath, the beaded forehead, the ashy pallor, indicated but\ntoo plainly that the thread of her life was wellnigh spun.\n\nYet she was less changed, in some respects, than Astra.  Her smile had\nthe old sweetness; her face--when the excitement caused by his\nunexpected visit was calmed a little, and she could breathe easier--had\nthe old expression of gentle resignation.  It lighted up, too, at sight\nof him;--as he had reminded Astra, she had come to regard him with a\nhalf-motherly affection, during his residence in her house.\n\n\"It is very good of you to come to us,\" she said, gratefully; \"it seems\na great while since I have seen any friendly face.\"\n\n\"If I had only known that you were in Savalla, I should have come much\nsooner,\" answered Bergan.\n\n\"And if I had known that you were here,\" she responded, \"I should\ncertainly have sent for you.  It is strange, Astra, that we never\nhappened to hear of him.\"\n\nAstra's face flushed a little.  \"We are not in the way of hearing\nnews,\" she replied, evasively.  \"But now that he is here, to sit with\nyou a few minutes, I will run out and get that prescription filled,\nwhich the doctor left this morning.\"\n\nBergan rose instantly.  \"Let me go, rather,\" said he.\n\n\"N-o, no,\" said Mrs. Lyte, \"it will do her good to have a little run.\nBesides, I want to talk with you.\"\n\nBergan sat down again, and Cathie nestled to his side.  Nix, too, came\nand lay down at his feet, quite in the old Berganton fashion.\n\n\"I am very glad to see you,\" continued Mrs. Lyte, when Astra had left\nthe room, \"but I am afraid it is largely a selfish gladness.  I am so\ncertain that you will see what can be done for my children after I am\ngone.\"\n\nBergan opened his lips to speak, but she lifted her hand with a\ndeprecating gesture, and went on:--\n\n\"Let me say what I want to say; I shall be so much easier in my mind.\nDo you know how we came to leave Berganton?\"\n\n\"I do not; I only heard of it when I went back there, in the Fall.\"\n\nMrs. Lyte briefly explained the circumstances which had led to the\nremoval.  She stated, furthermore, that she had written to Major\nBergan, upon the failure of the Bank where her money was invested, and\ninquired if he had sold the house, and whether there was any balance in\nher favor.  To which he replied that he had done nothing about the\nmatter, and proposed to do nothing, at present; he only wished that she\nwould come back, and live in it, as before.  But this was impossible,\nshe had now no means of maintaining so large and expensive a place.\nShe had, therefore, written again, to the effect that she asked nothing\nbetter than the immediate foreclosure of the mortgage, and the sale of\nthe property.  Would he attend to it at his earliest convenience, and\nforward her the balance?  To this letter there had been no reply; she\ntook it for granted that a purchaser had not been found.  What she\ndesired of Bergan, in the event of her death, which she believed to be\nnear at hand, was to hurry forward the sale of the place, and secure\nsomething for Astra, if possible.  This he promised to do; and he\nadded, in a tone that brought instant conviction to her mind, and tears\nof gratitude to her eyes, that, however this matter terminated, neither\nAstra nor Cathie should lack friendly aid, at need.\n\nWhen he finally took his leave, Bergan beckoned Astra to the door.\n\"Are you alone here?\" he inquired.  \"Is there no one to share your\nlabors and your cares?\"\n\n\"We brought our old Chloe with us,\" replied Astra; \"she would not be\nleft behind, and indeed, I do not know what we should have done without\nher.  But lately the good old creature has insisted upon going out to\ndo a day's washing, now and then, to bring something into the family\npurse; she is out to-day.  When she is home, she does all she can.\"\n\nBergan recollected the old slave, and doubted nothing of her fidelity.\nBut, in the woful event that he foresaw, Astra would need other help,\nother sympathy, he thought.\n\n\"Is there no one you can send for,--no relative, no friend, in\nBerganton, or elsewhere?\" he persisted.\n\n\"None,\" replied Astra.  \"And what accommodations have we for such a\nfriend, if we had one?\"\n\nThere was nothing more to be said.  He shook her hand warmly, told her\nthat he had promised her mother to come again on the morrow, lifted his\nhat, with his usual courtesy, and went down the street, in such a maze\nof pity and perplexity, that he forgot to notice which way he went.\n\nWhen he became cognizant of his whereabouts, he was standing before a\nlarge, old-fashioned mansion fronting on one of the principal squares\nof the city.  On the door was a silver plate, bearing the name of \"DIVA\nTHANE, ARTIST.\"\n\n\n\n\nVII.\n\nORDERED STEPS.\n\nBergan was much struck with the fact that his aimless walk--aimless, at\nleast, so far as his own intention was concerned--had first led him, in\nvirtue of his meeting with Cathie, to Mrs. Lyte's bedside, and next to\nthe studio of Miss Thane.  Accepting both these leadings as parts of\nthe same providential plan, though he could discern but the slightest\npossible relation between them, he knocked at the studio door.\n\n\"Come in!\" was the immediate response, in Miss Thane's clear, cold\nmonotone.\n\nBergan pushed open the door, which was a little ajar, and found himself\nin the presence of the artist.  She was standing at her easel, palette\nand brushes in hand; and she waited to give several touches to her\nwork, before turning toward her visitor.\n\nIf she felt any surprise at sight of him, her face betrayed none.  Yet\nit seemed to Bergan that some change had come over that face since he\nbeheld it last--a certain suggestion of weariness under its languor, of\ndissatisfaction under its chill pride--which he accepted as a good\naugury for the task that he had in hand.\n\nMiss Thane seemed to divine, at once, that his visit had some object\nother than the pleasure of seeing either herself or her pictures.\nAfter a few quiet words of greeting, she rested one hand upon her\neasel, and stood waiting, calm, proud, and exceeding beautiful, to be\ninformed of its nature.\n\nBergan was scarcely prepared to make known his errand so abruptly.  He\nhad promptly entered the studio, in obedience to his first impulse; but\nhe had counted upon some little time thereafter to arrange his thoughts\nand feel his way, some flow of conversation to be duly turned to his\nadvantage, or some clue to the deep mystery of Miss Thane's\nsympathies,--possibly, too, some further light upon the inscrutable\ndesign of Providence, in sending him hither.\n\nAfter all, was not the most straightforward course likely to be the\nbest one?\n\n\"Miss Thane,\" said he, gravely, \"my own volition has had so little to\ndo with bringing me here, that I scarcely know why I am come.  But I\nbelieve that it is to try to interest you in a sister artist--a\nsculptor--who is in sore need of aid that you might give her.\"\n\nMiss Thane put her hand into her pocket, and drew out her purse; but\nbefore she could open it, Bergan stopped her with a deprecating gesture.\n\n\"Pardon me,\" said he, \"but that sort of aid, I can give myself, if it\nbe necessary.\"\n\n\"What am I to do, then?\" asked Miss Thane, wonderingly.\n\n\"Whatever one delicate, refined, large-hearted woman can do for\nanother, in the way of cheer, encouragement, sympathy, and consolation.\"\n\nMiss Thane gave him a long look out of her deep eyes, partly surprised,\npartly meditative.\n\n\"What put it into your head to come to me on such an errand?\" she\nfinally asked, with a singular, half satirical emphasis.\n\n\"Because when I was wondering to whom I could go,\" answered Bergan, \"I\nfound myself standing before your door.  Because you did me the honor,\ntwo weeks ago, to ask me a certain question, and I thought that this\nmight be the beginning of a better answer than I was able to give you.\"\n\nMiss Thane slowly walked to the other end of the room, and fixed her\neyes on the deep red gold of the western horizon, whence the sun still\nshed a soft posthumous influence over the earth.\n\n\"What does it matter,\" she murmured to Herself, \"if I do surrender\nsomewhat of my freedom?  I have had a fair trial of an isolated\nlife--divested of every irksome bond, burden, and duty, shut up to the\none friend that I trust, and the one occupation that I love--and what\nhas it done for me?  Absolutely nothing; except to make me daily colder\nin heart, and narrower in mind.  Is it not time to try something else?\"\n\nShe turned back to Bergan, and her face, though it was still weary, was\nno longer proud.\n\n\"I am sensible of the honor that you have done me,\" said she, with\nunusual gentleness; \"I will try to deserve your good opinion.  Where am\nI to find the lady of whom you speak, and in what way can I render her\nthe most essential service?\"\n\nBergan quietly placed a chair for her.\n\n\"Sit down,\" said he, \"and let me tell you the whole story; at least, as\nfar as I know it myself.\"\n\nAs he talked, the gold faded out of the sky, and the gray twilight\nshadows crept into the room, turning the pictures on the walls into\npale, vague outlines, and giving a wonderful softness to Miss Thane's\nlistening face.  Nor did the story end until the pictures had become\nindistinguishable masses of shadow, and nothing was left of the face\nbut its deep, lustrous eyes.  Its owner had not once spoken; and it\nquite escaped Bergan's notice, in the dimness, that she gave a sudden,\nviolent start when Mrs. Lyte's full name was mentioned.\n\n\"Thus, you see,\" he concluded, \"it is not only a disappointed,\ndiscouraged, anxious heart (soon, alas! to become a mourning one) that\nI commend to your tender sympathies, but a sorely wounded faith.  If\nyou cannot heal the latter, do not, I charge you, help to destroy it.\"\n\n\"I will not,\" answered she, solemnly; \"I promise you that I will not.\nHow could I, when I am half inclined to believe that such\nfaith--unfounded, illusory though it be--is a better thing than any\nreality that we exchange it for.\"\n\nBergan slightly lifted his eyebrows.  \"May I ask,\" said he, quietly,\n\"to what reality, or realities, you refer?\"\n\n\"You press me hard,\" answered she, bitterly, after a pause; \"none, none\nthat I can think of just now.  Everything seems vague, unreal,\nunsubstantial.\"\n\n\"Fall back on faith,\" returned Bergan, smiling.  \"If it be not a\nreality itself, it works realities.  It fosters real virtues, and\ninspires real heroism; by it men live nobly, and die courageously.\nWhat reality can do more for them,--indeed, what one does so much?\"\n\nHe waited for a moment, expecting an answer.  Seeing that none came, he\nbowed, and left her sitting there, gazing out into the silent night.\n\n\nOn the following morning, Astra was in her studio, busily plying her\nneedle, while her mother slept, when there came a light knock on the\ndoor.  Opening it, she found herself face to face with a lady of such\nrare and remarkable beauty, that she stood motionless, lost in wonder\nand admiration.\n\nThe stranger bent her head with the stately, yet friendly, grace of one\nprincess to another; and a smile just touched her lips, and then seemed\nto sink into her eyes, shining farther and farther down in their clear\ndepths, until it vanished from sight.\n\n\"Will you allow me the pleasure of looking into your studio?\" asked\nshe, in a voice as perfect as her face; \"I have heard so much of its\nmarvels, that I am desirous of seeing them for myself.\"\n\nAstra mutely made way; her visitor glided into the room, cast a quick,\ncomprehensive glance around, and sat down in front of the statue of\nMercury.\n\n\"Do not let me interrupt you,\" she said to Astra, \"but just go on with\nwhatever you are about, and allow me to study this at my leisure.\"\n\nAstra hesitated a moment, and then took up the work that she had\ndropped,--one of Cathie's much-enduring aprons, that she was trying to\ndarn into some semblance of respectability.  But she could not help\nstealing an occasional glance at the clear-cut profile of her guest,\nuntil, all her artistic instincts being thoroughly aroused, she was\nfain to seize upon crayon and cardboard, and make sure of the lovely\noutline, ere it should vanish, as she expected it would soon do,\nutterly and forever from her sight.\n\nThe guest, meanwhile, studied the Mercury in profound silence.  Yet\nAstra soon felt that an uncommonly deep and delicate discernment was\nbrought to bear on her work, capable of accurately measuring both its\nexcellences and its faults.  There was something inspiriting in the\nvery thought,--it was so seldom that her sculpture was favored with a\nreally intelligent glance!  Her eyes brightened, her hands recovered\ntheir cunning, the crayon sketch grew into lifelikeness without effort,\nalmost without consciousness, save when she stopped to marvel, now and\nthen, at its exceeding beauty and delicacy.  Yet it did no more than\njustice to the original,--scarcely that, indeed;--where did she get\nthat face, and who could she be!\n\nShe had left the Mercury now, after a few--a very few words of\ncommendation, yet spoken so cordially and discriminately as to be worth\nvolumes of ordinary praise to Astra; and she was looking gravely into\nthe upturned eyes of the Cherub.  Glancing from, it to its creator, she\nsaid, with a faint smile;--\n\n\"I wish you could put _that_ look into my face.\"\n\nAstra shook her head.  \"I could not put it anywhere _now_,\" she\nanswered, drearily.\n\nThe stranger gave her a compassionate glance.  \"I wonder,\" said she,\nmusingly, \"whether it is better to have had such faith and lost it, or\nnever to have had it at all.\"\n\n\"It is better to have lost it,\" replied Astra quickly, and with a\nslight shudder.  \"One can live in the hope of finding it again.\"\n\nThe visitor sighed, and turned to look at the sketches on the wall.\n\nBy and by, she slid easily into a discourse about various art-matters;\nholding Astra spellbound, for awhile, with the fluent richness of her\ndiction, and the extent of her knowledge.  Nor was Astra allowed to\nlisten only.  A certain graphic portrayal of art-life in Italy having\nstirred her to the depths, and kindled the old fire and energy of\nenthusiasm in her eyes, she was skilfully drawn on to talk of herself\nand her work, her aims, longings, limitations, and needs, as she had\nnever talked before, because she had never before met with so\nunderstanding and sympathetic an auditor.\n\nIn the midst of one of her animated sentences, a low moan was heard\nfrom the inner room.  \"Excuse me,\" said Astra hurriedly, amazed to see\nhow completely she had forgotten her cares, fears, and griefs, in the\nmagic of the stranger's presence,--\"Excuse me, I must go to my mother.\"\n\nMrs. Lyte had waked, as was too often the case, in a spasm of pain.\nAstra hastened to call Cathie from the kitchen to assist the laboring\nbreath with gentle wafts of air from a fan, while she herself measured\nsome drops of a soothing mixture, and lifted her mother's head on her\narm, to enable her to swallow and to breathe more easily.  Several\nanxious moments had passed thus, in silence broken only by the painful\nrespirations of the invalid, when a low, sweet strain of melody stole\nso gently into the room that Astra could not tell, at first, from\nwhence it came.  So soft was it that it melted into the ear without\nmaking any apparent demand upon the attention, yet so clear that not\none liquid note was lost.  The swollen veins of Mrs. Lyte's forehead\nsubsided; her chest ceased its agonized heaving; a peaceful, happy\nsmile broke over her face.\n\n\"What is it?\" she asked, wonderingly, when the strain ended,--not\nabruptly, but gradually growing fainter, until it was impossible to\ntell just at what point sound became silence.\n\nAstra whispered softly that she had left a strange visitor in the\nstudio, who appeared to be singing unconsciously to herself.\n\n\"If she would only sing again!\" murmured Mrs. Lyte, wistfully.\n\nWith her usual impulsiveness, Cathie rushed to the studio door.  \"Mamma\nwishes you would sing--\" she began, and then stopped short, no less\nsurprised and fascinated by the face that met her gaze than her sister\nhad been.\n\nThe stranger reflected for a moment, then her voice again pervaded the\nair, as with the very soul of restful melody.  As she sang, the child\nmoved slowly toward her, drawn as irresistibly as the magnet to the\nloadstone, till she stood close to her side, encircled by her arm, and\ngazing at her with round, wondering eyes.  As the song ceased, she slid\nher hand half-curiously, half-timidly over her shoulder.\n\n\"Have you wings?\" she asked, earnestly.  \"Did you fly down?\"\n\nBefore the visitor could reply, except by a swift expression of\nsomething like pain that flitted across her face, Astra appeared in the\ndoorway.\n\n\"Mother wishes to see you, and thank you,\" she said.  \"Will you step\nthis way?\"\n\nThe lady rose, and moved quietly into the inner room.  At sight of her\nface, Mrs. Lyte gave a violent start; the thanks she was about to speak\ndied on her lips; she could only cry out in amazement;--\"Who are you?\"\n\nThe stranger knelt by the bedside, and took both Mrs. Lyte's hands in\nher soft, cool grasp.  \"I am the daughter of your runaway sister, Aunt\nKatie,\" she answered, \"and my name is Godiva Thane.\"\n\n\"But she died, and she left no child,\" said Mrs. Lyte, incredulously.\n\n\"She died in giving me birth,\" returned Diva, with convincing\npositiveness.  \"I have long suspected that my father did not let you\nknow, he never forgot the opposition to his marriage; besides, he was\njealous of his only child's affections.  You must needs forgive\nhim,--for he is dead.\"\n\nSeveral questions followed, on Mrs. Lyte's part; to which Diva gave\nlong, detailed answers, skilfully contrived to satisfy her aunt's\ncuriosity, tranquillize her emotions, and bring her, in a brief space,\nto a tolerably peaceful and composed state of mind.\n\n\"Can I do anything for you before I go?\" she then asked.\n\n\"Nothing, dear, unless you will sing to me--a hymn; there are tones in\nyour voice which are more soothing than any anodyne.\"\n\nDiva put her hand to her brow, and sent her thoughts back--a long, long\nway, it seemed to her--to a period in her childhood, when she had been\nunder the care of a certain faithful nurse, afterwards discharged by\nher father for putting foolish, superstitious notions--as he\naverred--into her head.  There she found two or three hymns; keeping\ntenacious hold of her memory, in virtue of their early grafting\ntherein; which she sang in such soft, even tones, that Mrs. Lyte was\nfirst calmed, and then irresistibly lulled to sleep.\n\nThe two cousins stole out of the room together.  In the studio, Diva\nput her arms around Astra and kissed her tenderly.\n\n\"Having found you, my little cousin, my art sister,\" said she, smiling,\n\"I shall never let you go!\"\n\n\n\n\nVIII.\n\nTHOUGH HE SLAY.\n\nMiss Thane had all along understood that a meeting with her mother's\nonly and twin sister, either by accident or design, was quite within\nthe scope of possibilities.  She had even regarded it as perhaps the\nbrightest prospect which the future afforded her, in case her present\nexperiment in life should fail to give her satisfaction, or her heart\nshould suddenly utter an importunate cry for that cup of cold water of\nhuman affection, which is only to be tasted in the society of one's own\nkin.  Amid the gray monotony of her existence, she had often pictured\nthat meeting to herself in a variety of pleasant coloring and dramatic\nshapes; but never, it is safe to say, in the solemn lights and sober\nshadows in which it finally took its place among the memorable scenes\nof her life.\n\nYet in no other way could it have operated so powerfully to awaken the\ninstinct of kinship within her, to melt her reserve, to draw out her\ndormant sympathies,--in short, to call forth whatever was deepest,\nrichest, and womanliest in her nature.  And certainly, in no other way\ncould it have brought so strong and subtle an influence to bear upon\nthe sombre doubts and chill infidelities of her mind; setting over\nagainst her cool, speculative belief in a blind Chance or an inflexible\nFate, Mrs. Lyte's calm trust in the goodness of God's providence,\nagainst the blighting, chilling, unbeauteous effects of suffering on\nher own heart, the gracious fruitage of patience, contentment, and\nlove, ripening under its touch in Mrs. Lyte's, against her own dim\noutlook into an unknown future, her aunt's firm expectation of the\neternal weight of glory.  The contrast was too striking not to be\nnoticed, its testimony in favor of faith over unbelief too strong to be\nignored.  Daily, as she watched by her aunt's bedside, questions that\nshe had once settled, or laid aside as incapable of settlement, came up\nagain, to be examined in new and diviner lights.  Daily the good work\nwhich Bergan had been instrumental in beginning in her heart, went\nforward,--not like the work of doubt, tearing down what it could not\nrebuild, and taking away bread to give a stone,--but bringing order out\nof confusion, proportion out of inequality, solidity out of\ndisintegration.\n\nOn the other hand, her advent was no less beneficial, in its way, to\nher aunt and cousins.  Not to speak of the material comforts and\nluxuries which she managed so delicately to introduce into the\nsick-room, as to make them seem much like direct gifts of Providence,\nwithout any intervening hand, she brought into their forlorn, narrow,\nmonotonous life an element of variety and interest, as well as of\npersonal helpfulness, that was sorely needed.  Mrs. Lyte soon grew to\ndepend upon her constant presence and care scarcely less than upon\nAstra's.  She never wearied of searching her beautiful face for fitful\ntouches of resemblance to the darling twin sister, whose runaway\nmarriage and subsequent death had been the great grief of her own\nearlier years, nor of drawing out such facts in relation to that\nsister's short married life, and Diva's birth, as the latter had been\nable to gather from others, and store in her memory.  She was deeply\ninterested, too, in Diva's own history,--her motherless childhood, her\nlong sojourn in Europe, her art studies, her reasons for the isolated\nlife that she had been leading of late.  Especially did she delight in\nhearing her sing.  Diva might busy herself in whatever part of the\nhouse's narrow precinct she pleased, if only her voice floated into the\nsick-room, and sweetened the air with the notes and words of some\nfavorite \"hymn of the ages,\" or the soft Italian melodies that she had\nlearned in their native land.  While the lovely voice kept on, Mrs.\nLyte lay lapped in smiling content, or slept in perfect tranquillity,\nlulled more effectually than by any anodyne.\n\nNor was Astra any less ready to accept her kinswoman as a timely boon\nand blessing.  It was not only an unspeakable relief to feel a part of\nher heavy burden of care lifted from her shoulders by hands so willing,\nso tender, and with so undoubted a right to the privilege; it was also\na rare delight to have such thoroughly congenial companionship.  As for\nCathie, her heart was easily won,--all the more that she never seemed\nto quite rid herself of her first impression that the new-comer was\ncelestial rather than human, and to be adored accordingly.  In short,\nDiva soon found for herself so fit, definite, and essential a place in\nall these hearts and lives as to suggest the idea that it must have\nbeen prepared expressly, and kept waiting for her--she knew not how\nlong.  Nay, more,--_she_ must have been prepared for _it_; carefully\nfitted, by many sad and stern circumstances, for this exchange of\nhelpful influences, for her part in that solemn symphony of events\nwhich was rolling its profound harmonies through Mrs. Lyte's\nsick-chamber.\n\nFor the invalid did not rally.  After one week of apparent pause, her\nlife's lapse went steadily on.  Day by day, she weakened and wasted;\nday by day, the spirit loosened its mortal garments, and made itself\nready to put on immortality; day by day, her mind let go something of\nearthly cares, anxieties, wishes, and fears, and fixed itself more\nfirmly upon the Rock of Ages, and the rest that remaineth.  Nothing of\nlife seemed left, by and by, but love; making manifest, by this true\n\"survival of the fittest,\" its Divine origin and destiny.\n\nOne summer afternoon, when the sun was flooding all the earth and sky\nwith the glory of his departure, Bergan knocked at the door of Astra's\nstudio, according to his daily habit, to inquire if he could be of any\nservice.  No answer being returned to his knock, he let himself in and\nwent softly to the bedroom door.  A scene too beautiful to be called\nsad, though infinitely solemn, met his view.\n\nAstra was seated on the bed, holding her mother in her arms, to afford\nher a grateful change of position.  Cathie lay curled up at the\ninvalid's feet, with her large eyes fixed on the rapt, hushed\nface,--the half-closed eyes and slightly parted lips of which suggested\na soft sinking into that sweet slumber, which is yet not so much\nslumber as a happy dream.  Diva knelt by the bedside, with her aunt's\nhand in hers, singing in tones that thrilled him through and through,\nmuch as he had learned in these days, of the marvellous beauty and\npathos of her voice;--\n\n  \"When I rise to worlds unknown,\n  And behold Thee on Thy Throne,\n  Rock of Ages, cleft for me,\n  Let me hide myself in Thee!\"\n\n\nAs the last note died away, he stepped forward and lifted the\nunconscious form from Astra's arms.  She looked up at him wonderingly.\n\n\"The earthly hymn was very sweet,\" said he gently, \"but the song of the\nredeemed in Paradise is sweeter still.\"\n\nStill she seemed not to understand.  What words were at once tender and\nsolemn enough for the full explanation?  None but those of inspiration;\nat once old and fresh; having poured their balm all along down through\nthe centuries, yet falling on each newly bereaved heart, as if still\nmoist and cool with the dew of their birth.  Reverently he quoted:--\n\n\"'Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord from henceforth: Yea,\nsaith the Spirit, that they may rest from their labors; and their works\ndo follow them.'\"\n\n\nMrs. Lyte was taken to Berganton, and laid in the churchyard by her\nhusband's side, amid much kindred dust.  Bergan accompanied the small\nfuneral train to within two or three miles of the village, and then\nturned back; in obedience to Astra's wish, as expressed to him through\nDiva Thane.  The poor girl remembered in what way her name and his had\nbeen connected, and naturally shrank from anything that might seem to\ngive it confirmation.  But as the train passed the avenue to Bergan\nHall, the Major wheeled into the vacant place behind the carriage of\nthe chief mourners, assisted them out at the gate of the cemetery, and\noffered Astra his arm.\n\n\"I am your father's nearest living relative,\" said he, huskily, \"and\nthough I behaved like a brute to your mother at one time, I have been\nsorry enough for it since, to have a right to follow her to the grave.\"\n\nMany of Mrs. Lyte's old friends and neighbors gathered round to assist\nin the last solemn rites, and some of them came afterward to say a few\nwords of sympathy and regret to Astra.  She was not surprised that\nDoctor Remy was not of the number, but she did wonder a little that she\nsaw nothing of Carice.  She had observed Mrs. Bergan standing near the\nfoot of the grave, looking strangely old and altered; but she seemed to\nhave disappeared as soon as the service was ended.\n\nHaving conducted her back to the carriage, and seated her therein,\nMajor Bergan took a folded paper from her pocket, tore it in pieces,\nand laid the fragments on her lap.\n\n\"There it is,\" said he; \"and I wish that my hand had been sawed off\nbefore I ever wrote to your mother, to tell her of its existence.  The\nplace is yours now, free and unincumbered, to do what you like with.\nGood bye; and don't bear malice, if you can help it.\"\n\nHe gave her no opportunity to reply, but signalled to the coachman to\ndrive on.  Looking back, she saw him standing on the same spot, with\nuncovered head, watching the carriage until it was out of sight.\n\nShe was in nowise disposed to bear malice.  She remembered too well how\nglad she had been, at the time, of an available pretext for leaving\nBerganton; besides, the Major had certainly made all possible amends\nfor his hasty action.\n\nMoreover, Mrs. Lyte's death-bed had not been without its softening and\nsalutary effect upon her mind, also.  Although she had fallen, for a\ntime, into that saddest of all infidelities--a distrust of God's\ngoodness to His children--the last lovely moments of her mother's life,\nthe last grateful, joyous words from her mother's lips, and the still\nbrightness of her mother's dead face, had set her feet--for a little\nwhile at least--on those Heights of Contemplation, whence life is seen\nto be good and valuable, not for what it is, but for what it shapes\nout; not for the materials that it heaps together, or the tools that it\nuses, but for the character which it moulds unto perfection, the soul\nwhich it slowly chisels into beauty and dignity and strength.  So\nviewed, these last months of adversity became but the fine, finishing\ntouches of the Master's hand, to Mrs. Lyte's already lovely spirit, and\nMajor Bergan but one of the blind, necessary instruments, operating\nbetter than he knew or willed.\n\nAnd come what would, Astra could nevermore forget that broad view of\nthe real work and object of life's events; faith would ever after be\neasier for those moments of clear sight.  She came back from her\nmother's grave with a bereaved heart, but with a spirit more at rest\nthan it had been for many months; and her face wore the same expression\nof gentle, sweet resignation, which had been the prevailing\ncharacteristic of her mother's for years.\n\nShe came back--but not to the dingy little house, nor the desolate\nrooms, and certainly not to the straitened circumstances.  Miss Thane\nhad taken Bergan into her confidence, on the day before, and asked the\nfavor of his superintendence of certain final steps toward the\naccomplishment of a plan that she had conceived and partly executed.\nMoney and good-will, working together, usually achieve wonders in\ncomparatively short space of time; as the result of their present\ncooperation, Astra was set down at Miss Thane's door on her return from\nBerganton, late at night, and ushered into a suite of rooms, opposite\nDiva's own, handsomely fitted up for the accommodation of herself and\nCathie.  One was a studio, to which all her own pictures, statues, and\nother artistic belongings had been carefully transferred, and skilfully\narranged to produce an accustomed and home-like effect.  Another was a\npleasant little parlor, with her books and her work-basket on the\ncentre-table, to lend it a familiar grace; and in the bedroom beyond,\nher faithful old Chloe was waiting, with joyful tears in her eyes, to\nwelcome and to attend upon her.\n\nAstra turned to her cousin, and tried to speak; but the too heavily\nfreighted words were slow in coming forth, and Diva anticipated them by\ntaking both her hands in hers, and saying gently;--\n\n\"We are sisters, now, Astra: children of twin mothers, and left alone\nin the world,--I more completely, even, than you; what better thing can\nwe do, at least for the present, than to unite our forces, having one\nhome, and living, loving, and laboring together for the same, or\nkindred ends?  And Cathie shall be our joint charge; that, having two\nwatchful elder sisters, she may never know, even partially, what I know\nso well, the misery of a motherless childhood.  Is it a compact?\"\n\nAstra bowed her head in acquiescence, and her eyes shone bright through\ngrateful tears.  She was relieved beyond measure, to know that she was\nnot to face the world single-handed.  The loneliness that she had so\ndreaded was not to be encountered, the heavy responsibility of her\nlittle sister's care and training was to be, in some degree, shared.\nIn Diva's strength and steadfastness of character, which she felt by\nintuition, and in its sweetness, which she had found out at her\nmother's bedside, as very few had done before her, there would be all\nneedful protection, aid, and comfort; while, in its subtle quality of a\nwise and delicate reserve, there was ample assurance of respect for her\nown individuality, freedom for her own way of thought and work.\nFinally, thanks to Major Bergan's generous action in respect of the\nmortgage, she need not fear to be a burden on her cousin.  Either by\nsale or lease, the place could be made to yield her a fixed moderate\nincome, and her own labor would do the rest.\n\nShe did not suspect the extent of Diva's resources, nor what pleasant\nplans for her own and Cathie's happiness and advantage she was turning\nover in her mind.  Of these things Diva would breathe no word, until\nthe sisterhood of which she had spoken had become so real and firm a\nbond as to preclude any sense of obligation.\n\nMeanwhile, the fact of living no more to herself, of having some one\nelse to think of, to care for, to comfort and cheer, was doing\nwonderfully effective work in clearing and softening Diva's own\ncharacter,--in uprooting the weeds which had chiefly testified to the\nrichness of the underlying soil heretofore, and giving the plants of\ngrace leave to branch out and blossom and bear fruit.  Daily, as Bergan\nmet her, in his visits to Astra's studio, or his walks, he saw that\nsomething was gone from the chill pride and weariness of her old\nexpression, something added of sweetness, softness, and benignity, yet\nwithout any loss of that still and stately grace, in which had\nsubsisted so potent a charm.  Daily, too, he marvelled at her\nincreasingly magnificent beauty; over which, none the less, still\nlingered some faint shadow from the past, like the soft haze hanging\nover an autumn landscape, and constituting its last, consummate grace.\nHe could not help wondering whence that shadow came, and how it was to\ngo, since it always gave him an indefinable impression of being\nconnected with his own destiny.\n\nOne day he met her in the street alone, but, as he never presumed in\nthe least upon the half confidential relations into which circumstances\nhad thrown them, he was passing on with a courteous bow, when she\nstopped him.\n\n\"Mr. Arling,\" she said, flushing slightly, but in very clear, musical\ntones, \"I have much to thank you for, but most of all for the promise\nwhich you made me at Farview, some weeks ago; and which, I doubt not,\nyou have conscientiously performed.  How much that performance has had\nto do with the important events that have taken place since, I cannot\ntell; but it is certain that I discern an order, a sequence, a relation\nof means to an end, during these last weeks, which I have never before\nbeen able to discover in the events of my life,--perhaps because my\ndays have never before been so regularly and earnestly recommended to\nloving Divine guidance.  Be that as it may, the time of which you spoke\nhas come; I have learned to pray for myself--and for others.  Thank you\nagain, and good evening.\"\n\nIt was one of her peculiarities, resulting probably from some years of\nresidence abroad, that she seldom gave her hand to a gentleman.  Now,\nhowever, she offered it to Bergan, for the second time, as he\nremembered; and again, as before, he had a curious presentiment that\nwithin that white hand there lay an invisible, but precious gift for\nhim, waiting its appointed time.\n\n\n\n\nIX.\n\nMISTAKES.\n\nThe summer ran its course, and came to an end.  With the first frost of\nautumn, Hubert Arling arrived in Savalla, to pay a visit of indefinite\nextent to his brother.  A few days after, Coralie, newly returned from\nFarview, called at the office, expecting to find her father there,\naccording to appointment; but found only Bergan, as it appeared,\nwriting in his usual place.  He rose, bowed, and finally took her\noffered hand, with what seemed to her an odd mixture of hesitation and\nembarrassment, while she poured forth greetings, thanks, and questions.\n\n\"You are looking wonderfully well,\" she concluded; \"one would think you\nhad been rusticating in the mountains, instead of spending a hot and\nlonely summer in the city.  But I suppose that you are lonely no\nlonger; you must be very glad to have your brother with you; my father\ntold me of his arrival.\"\n\nHe looked much amused.  \"I suspect that I am my brother,\" said he,\nsmiling.  \"But I am not my brother whom you take me for.  I wish I\nwere,--to have the honor of your acquaintance.\"\n\nIt was Coralie's turn to look embarrassed.  \"I thought--is it not Mr.\nArling?\" she stammered.\n\n\"It is Mr. Arling--Hubert Arling, at your service.  Can I do anything\nfor you?\"\n\nCoralie was so much amazed, that it would have been difficult for her\nto decide, at the moment, whether he could do anything for her or not.\nBut the entrance of Mr. Youle and Bergan relieved her from the\nnecessity of answering, and gave her opportunity to compare the\nbrothers at her leisure.  Unquestionably, they were singularly alike,\nin personal appearance, manner, and somewhat, even, in mind.  Only,\nwhen seen together, Bergan was found to be so much older and graver of\naspect--far more than was justified by his two years of seniority--that\nshe wondered how she could ever have mistaken one for the other.  And,\ncertainly, there was a rare charm about Bergan's gravity, a singular\nfascination in looking into his deep, thoughtful, all-observant eyes,\nand conjecturing what disappointment or sorrow lay darkly underneath.\nStill, Hubert's buoyancy and animation were wonderfully taking, too, in\ntheir way; and her youthfulness sprang involuntarily forward to meet\nhis.  On the whole, she was glad to know that Mr. Arling had a brother\nevery way so worthy of him.\n\nBefore she left, the brothers received and accepted an invitation from\nMr. Youle to dine with him.  But for Hubert's sake, Bergan would gladly\nhave declined it.  Having once introduced his brother into pleasant\nsociety, however, he could leave him to make his own way in it,--as he\nwas fully qualified to do.\n\nWhen the door closed on the father and daughter, Hubert looked at his\nbrother, and smiled meaningly.\n\n\"Why did you not tell me?\" he asked.\n\n\"What should I tell?\" rejoined Bergan, composedly.\n\n\"That your future was likely to atone so prettily and pleasantly for\nyour past.\"\n\nBergan looked grave.  \"Not another word of that, Hubert, if you please.\nThe past is not atoned for, in that sense; in another, I hope it may\nbe.  Miss Coralie is, to me, simply my kind old partner's very\nadmirable and estimable daughter.\"\n\nHubert looked half incredulously into his eyes, but there was no\nresisting the strong confirmation of their quiet, steady, answering\ngaze.\n\n\"But, Bergan, you are a goose!\" he broke out.\n\n\"At your service,\" was the reply, with a bow of mock courtesy.\n\n\"Pshaw!  Then, if I go and trade on your capital, you will never call\nme to account?\"\n\n\"Never.\"\n\nHubert held out his hand; Bergan gave it a firm, strong clasp.  There\nwas not another word; they understood each other.\n\nIn the midst of the desultory chat that followed, there came a knock at\nthe door; and in answer to Bergan's prompt \"Come in,\" his former\nclient, Unwick, entered.\n\n\"My brother,\" explained Bergan, as the new comer looked a little\nhesitatingly at Hubert.  \"Would you like to see me alone?\"\n\n\"As you please,\" replied Unwick.  \"It is your business rather than mine\nthat brings me here; if anything so vague and indefinite can be called\nbusiness.\"\n\n\"Then, proceed.  I have no secrets from my brother.  Will you take a\nchair?\"\n\nUnwick sat down, and cleared his throat.\n\n\"It is a long story; but I will make it as brief as I can.  You know\nthat my cousin Varley is now in prison, under sentence of death for the\nmurder of which I came so near to being convicted myself,--and should\nhave been, but for you.  Well, he sent for me a few days ago, to ask my\npardon, and to beg me to take charge of a certain child of his.  It\nseems that, two or three years ago, he was inveigled into a marriage\nwith a beautiful but unprincipled girl, belonging to one of the worst\nfamilies in this vicinity; her parents keep a low tavern, generally\nknown, I believe, as the 'Rat-Hole,' about a mile out of town, on the\nBerganton road.  Do you know it?\"\n\n\"Yes, it has been pointed out to me,\" replied Bergan.\n\n\"Well, the girl is dead; but there is a child, left in the\ngrandmother's hands, which Varley wants me to get possession of, and\nbring up in a respectable way.  Poor fellow! he has seen what is the\nresult of evil associations, and desires to save his child from a\nsimilar fate.  Still, he wishes the matter to be arranged quietly, if\npossible.  So, yesterday, I went out to see the grandmother--that\nexplains how I came to be in so vile a place.  Well, I was made to wait\nfor a half hour in a dirty little back room; and having nothing else in\nthe world to interest me, my attention was attracted by a conversation\non the other side of the thin board partition which divided the room\nfrom the next one.  Still, I doubt if I should have taken the trouble\nto try to make it out, if I had not heard your name spoken.  Then it\noccurred to me that I might possibly be able to do you a good turn, in\npart payment of what you had done for me.  So, swallowing my scruples\nas best I could, I put my ear to one of the cracks, and listened.\nThere were two men on the other side, but they were wise enough not to\ncall names,--I did not get the least clue to whom or what they were.\nOne talked quite low, but in a clear, though rather thin voice, which\nmade it comparatively easy to catch what he was saying.  The other\ntalked louder, but pretty thick, as if he were a good deal the worse\nfor liquor; and he mixed up everything that he said with such a queer\nmedley of proverbs--\"\n\n\"Proverbs!\" interrupted Bergan, starting, and beginning to look\ninterested.\n\n\"Yes,--proverbs in every language under the sun,--Latin, Greek,\nSpanish, German, and all the rest,--a regular Tower-of-Babel\nperformance.  Do you recognize him?\"\n\n\"I suspect that I do.  Go on.\"\n\n\"Well, his companion,--have I given you any clue to _him_?\"\n\n\"None as yet.  Perhaps I may get one as your story progresses.\"\n\n\"_He_ was persuading this old proverb-spouter to sign some paper,--a\nwill, I think; but it was only after a good deal of arguing, and\nbribing, and threatening, that he succeeded in doing so.  Now comes\nyour part in the matter; the old fellow's great objection seemed to be\nthat he didn't want to injure you.\"\n\n\"Me!\" repeated Bergan, in much astonishment; \"what had I to do with it?\"\n\n\"That is exactly what I couldn't find out; but I thought you might be\nable to tell.  You cannot?\"\n\n\"Not in the least.  What else was there?\"\n\n\"Nothing, only the old bundle of proverbs also wanted to know 'what\nwould be to pay,' if they were found out,--would it be felony, or\ncompounding of felony, or what?\"\n\n\"Why!\" exclaimed Bergan, \"the will was a forgery, then!\"\n\n\"I cannot say as to that.  The man who _didn't_ spout proverbs set the\nother's scruples at rest, first, by asserting that there was not the\nleast danger of detection; and secondly, by declaring that you would\nnot sustain any injury, because the property was certain to come to\nhim, soon or late, anyhow.  Whereupon the drunken Solomon muttered,\nsotto voce, 'Into the mouth of a bad dog, often falls a good bone,' and\nappeared to sign his name as required.  At least, I heard the\nscratching of a pen on paper; and, after that, some money was told out\non the table, as a first instalment of the bribe agreed upon; and\nanother instalment was to be paid at the same place to-morrow.  Do you\nget any light on the transaction yet?\"\n\nBergan looked very grave.  He remembered old Rue's assertion that\nDoctor Remy had wedded Carice simply to get possession of the Hall\nestates, through his uncle's will in her favor.  \"Was the first voice\nthat of an educated man?\" he asked.\n\n\"Thoroughly so; an exceedingly distinct, even intonation, and the\nlanguage was well chosen, too.  It would have been a very pleasant\nvoice to the ear, except that it seemed to lack heart, emotion; it was\njust clear and cold, like ice.  Are you beginning to see your way\nthrough the affair?\"\n\n\"Very dimly, if at all.  But I think that I know the parties.\"\n\n\"Is there anything to be done about it?  Can I help you in any way?\"\n\nBergan shook his head.  He remembered that Doctor Remy was the husband\nof Carice.  He sat silent, his heart swelling with unselfish pain and\npity for the pure, delicate nature thus linked to the dark and vile\none; he hoped that the latter had not lost the art of concealing\nsomewhat of its hideousness.\n\nMr. Unwick rose.  \"I will not detain you any longer.  I am glad--or\nsorry, whichever is proper--that my story proves to be of so little\nimportance.\"\n\n\"Thank you, nevertheless, for taking the trouble to come and tell it to\nme.  By the way, did you get the child you went after?\"\n\n\"Not yet; the grandmother declared that it was not in the house, though\nI did not believe her.  Bad woman as she is, I think she really loves\nit, and would like to keep it.  But I was authorized to offer her a\nconsiderable sum of money to get it quietly out of her hands; and she\nknows that the law gives the father the right to dispose of its future.\nI am going, to-morrow afternoon, to get a final answer from her, after\nshe has consulted with her husband, who was out when I was there.\"\n\n\"Will you let me go with you?  I should like to see if I recognize any\nold acquaintance around the place; and if I do, to give him a friendly\nwarning to take care not to be seen there again.  I happen to know that\nthe premises are now under constant surveillance, as a suspected\ndepository of stolen goods, and that the police are meditating a\ndescent upon them in a day or two.\"\n\n\"I shall be only too happy to have your company,\" replied Unwick,\ncourteously.\n\n\"And I will go along, too, if you don't object,\" remarked Hubert.  \"If\nthe place is of the character you mention, the more the safer, as well\nas merrier, I should say.\"\n\n\"Then, I will call for you to-morrow, at three o'clock,\" said Unwick,\n\"if that suits your convenience.\"\n\n\nThe \"Rat-Hole\" wore an appearance of exceeding quietness, in the sunny\nautumn afternoon.  A half tipsy vagabond or two lounged about the\nstoop, but the greater part of its frequenters were of the owl species,\ncareful not to show their heads in the daytime.\n\nHaving signified to the bar-keeper that his business was with the\nmistress of the house, Unwick was shortly summoned to her presence,\nleaving the brothers waiting in the bar-room.  After a considerable\ntime he reappeared, and beckoned to Bergan.\n\n\"I have persuaded Mrs. Smilt to allow of a witness to our transaction,\"\nsaid he.  And he added, in a low tone, \"The pair that I spoke of, are\non the other side of the partition again; you can hear their voices,\nand satisfy yourself whether you know them or not.\"\n\nMrs. Smilt was a hard, ill-favored woman, of about fifty; she had a\nchild on her lap, and there were tears in her eyes.\n\n\"Mr. Unwick wants a witness to our business,\" she remarked, grimly, to\nBergan.  \"Well, here's the child, and there's the money that he's to\npay me for't.  It's a fair bargain, and I don't mean to shirk it;\nthough I'd rather keep the child, a good deal, myself.  But my husband\n'ud rather have the money; and he's captain.\"\n\nBergan bowed.  He would not speak lest his voice should be heard and\nrecognized in the adjoining apartment.  He drew near the partition, but\nthere was only a sound of footsteps on the other side, and the closing\nof a door; he was too late to get any satisfaction from this quarter.\nHe stood waiting impatiently for Unwick to bring his business to an\nend, and half inclined to excuse himself, and make his escape, when he\nheard a pistol-shot, and a brief struggle, ended by a heavy fall, in\nthe direction of the bar-room.  He opened the door, and ran thither,\nclosely followed by Unwick and Mrs. Smilt.\n\nA singular scene was presented to his eyes.  Prostrate on the floor lay\nDoctor Remy, with an exceedingly black and discomfited face; while\nHubert was standing over him like a young gladiator.  On one side,\nstood Dick Causton pouring forth a volley of utterly incoherent\nproverbs and entreaties, addressed to his \"dear young friend Mr.\nBergan;\" and, on the other, stood the barkeeper, so bewildered,\napparently, by this sudden and unaccountable fracas, as to be undecided\nwhich side or what tone to take.  At sight of Bergan, Dick reeled\nbackward, and looked completely confounded; Doctor Remy set his teeth\nhard, and his face grew blacker than ever.\n\nBergan looked at Hubert.  \"What does this mean?\" he asked.\n\n\"Upon my soul, I wish I knew!\" responded Hubert.\n\"This--gentleman\"--there was a deeply sarcastic emphasis on the\nword--\"did me the honor to point a pistol at me.  I knocked it up, and\nhim down; that is all I know about the matter.\"\n\nBergan motioned him to stand aside, and helped Doctor Remy to his feet.\n\"Thank God--if you ever do such a thing\"--said he solemnly, \"that you\nhave been saved from the commission of another crime.  Go, now; and,\nfor your own sake, as well as for the sake of those connected with you,\ntake care to be seen here no more.  I assure you that it is a dangerous\nplace for persons without legitimate business and fair credentials.\"\n\nDoctor Remy had recovered his composure, in part.  He drew himself up\nhaughtily.  \"Keep your advice for those who need it,\" he rejoined; \"I\nam here simply as a physician, in attendance upon a sick man.  What\nyour business may be, is none of mine: good evening.\"  And he strode\nout of the door.\n\nHubert stood looking on, the picture of astonishment.  \"Was there ever\nsuch a riddle!\" said he.  \"First, an unknown man attempts my life; and\nnext, you bid him go in peace, or something very like it!\"\n\n\"He took you for me,\" said Bergan, quietly.\n\n\"I appreciate the compliment.  But are you in the habit of serving for\na target?\"\n\n\"Hush!  It was Doctor Remy.\"\n\nHubert looked more amazed than ever, for a moment; then his brow\nflushed, and his eyes lit up.  \"Lucky for him that you did not tell me\nthat before,\" said he.  \"He should never have gotten out of my hands,\nexcept into those of a policeman.  Why, Bergan, what are you thinking\nof, to let him escape us thus?\"\n\n\"I will explain all to you, when we get home,\" answered Bergan,\nwearily.  \"Mrs. Smilt, I beg your pardon for having been the\nunintentional cause of such a commotion in your house; I think I can\nassure you that no harm has been done.  Mr. Unwick, are you ready to\ngo?\"\n\nAt the door, Bergan stopped and looked around for Dick Causton; but he\nhad taken advantage of the discussion between the brothers to sneak\nout.  The fact was a suggestive one to Bergan, taken in connection with\nUnwick's story of the preceding day.  Never before, in spite of his bad\nhabits and fallen estate, had Dick Causton been known to flee from\nbefore any man's face.\n\n\n\n\nX.\n\nLIKE A THIEF IN THE NIGHT.\n\nBergan could not help wasting a little wonder on Doctor Remy's choice\nof the \"Rat-Hole\" as a place for transacting business, of whatever\ncharacter.  Yet the explanation was simple.  The doctor was there, as\nhe had stated, professionally.  One of the _habitu\u00e9s_ of the place had\nbeen severely wounded in an encounter with a policeman, some weeks\nbefore; and although he had succeeded in escaping unrecognized, the\naffair had made so much stir that his friends had not deemed it prudent\nto put him into the hands of any of the city physicians, for treatment.\nDoctor Remy had therefore been summoned from Berganton, and had not\nonly conducted the case with his usual skill, but, foreseeing a\npossibility of turning the circumstance to future account, had won the\nruffian's warmest gratitude by keeping his secret and declining any\nfee.  Having thus gotten the run of the place, and the good will of its\ninmates, he had chosen it for the scene of his interviews with Dick\nCauston, because he had his own excellent reasons for not wishing these\ninterviews to be seen or suspected by anybody in Berganton.  And Dick\nmade no objections, inasmuch as various small errands, which he\ndignified with the title of \"business,\" had taken him to Savalla, for\ntwo or three consecutive days; and the \"Rat-Hole\" was a convenient\nstopping-place, and, moreover, furnished liquor which had the two-fold\nmerit of being of a better quality than any to be had at the \"Gregg\nTavern,\" and of being quaffed at Doctor Remy's expense.  Dick was not\nlikely to trouble his head much about the character of any house\npossessing these strong recommendations.\n\nIn regard to the signing of the fraudulent will, he had shown himself a\nlittle more scrupulous; his habit of intoxication had not yet\naccomplished its evil work of obliterating all sense of right, and\nevery consideration of honor.  At the first broaching of the subject,\nhe had indignantly refused to listen to it for a moment.  Later\non--having apparently gotten some new lights on the question in the\nmeantime--he had quietly suffered his objections to give way, one after\nanother, to the doctor's arguments and bribes; to the great\nsatisfaction of the latter, who found his task, on the whole, easier\nthan he had expected.\n\nYet he might have felt some misgivings, if he had followed Dick out of\nthe house, immediately after the signing of the will, and heard the\nlow, satisfied chuckle with which he tumbled into his superannuated\nchaise, and started his horse on a jog-trot toward Berganton.  The\npotent draught just swallowed had as yet taken effect only in\nquickening his sense of the humorous, and putting him on excellent\nterms with his own self-conceit.  His eyes twinkled with amusement, too\nintense to be denied the occasional vent of a loud burst of laughter,\nor an appropriate string of proverbs.\n\n\"_Wer dem Spide zusicht, kann's am besten_, my dear Doctor Remy,\" he\nmuttered; \"or, in other words, the looker-on sees more of the game than\nthe player.  What would you give to know what I know, I wonder!  Just\nwait till the right time comes; then you'll find out that 'He is worst\ncheated, who cheats himself.'\"\n\nA mile further on, his potations beginning to make themselves felt, he\nsuddenly broke out, with a tipsy laugh and leer;--\"'_Man kan ei drage\nhaardt med brudet Reb_,' mine excellent doctor,--you cannot haul hard\nwith a broken rope!  Ha! ha!\"\n\nAnd, although his shamefaced flight from Bergan's presence, on the\nsecond day, may seem to indicate that he was not quite certain of the\nuprightness of all his acts and motives, no sooner was he fairly on the\nroad to Berganton than he began to chuckle again.\n\nBergan, meanwhile, was questioning within himself whether he ought not\nto make known Unwick's story to Major Bergan.  He hesitated only\nbecause he foresaw that the information might possibly be set down to\nhis self-interest, rather than his desire to serve his uncle.\nNevertheless, it did not take him long to decide that he must do what\nhe knew to be the right thing, regardless of consequences.  Nor was it\ncertain that his uncle would misconstrue his motives:--not long since,\nhe had received an intimation from Rue that he was sure to meet with a\ncordial reception whenever he could make it convenient to visit\nBerganton; the Major's anger having so completely wasted away under the\ndouble attrition of time and favorable report,--not to mention her own\nsteady influence in his behalf,--that he had lately expressed a wish to\nsee him.  There was really no good reason, therefore, why he should\nhesitate to present himself at the Hall, except that the whole\nneighborhood was certain to bristle with unpleasant recollections.\nHowever, he must face them some time, and as well now as ever.\n\nStill, as nightfall was at hand, and he knew of no reason for hurry, he\nthought it expedient to postpone the visit till the morrow.  He would\nride over to the Hall, he thought, betimes in the morning.  Having made\nhis arrangements accordingly, and committed his office to Hubert's\ncare, he retired early, and soon forgot the fatigues and excitements of\nthe day in a profound sleep.\n\nHe had not slept long, however, before he woke from a dream--wherein\nDoctor Remy figured as an iconoclast, overthrowing and demolishing the\nancient gods of Bergan Hall--to the consciousness that some one was\nknocking loudly at his door.\n\n\"Who is there?\" he called.\n\n\"It's me, Massa Harry,\" responded a voice, with the unmistakable negro\nintonation; but, nevertheless, a voice too much disconnected with the\npresent to meet with immediate recognition from his but half-awakened\nfaculties.\n\n\"Who is 'me'?\" he demanded again.\n\n\"You's own boy Brick, Massa Harry,\" was the reply.\n\nWith an instant intuition of evil, Bergan sprang out of bed, and opened\nthe door.  \"What is the matter?\" he asked.\n\n\"Oh, Massa Harry! ole massa's dyin',\" replied Brick; \"an' gramma Rue,\nshe sent me for you to come right off'; she say,--'Tell him to ride\nfast, dere's not a minit to lose.'  An' I'se brought Vic 'long for you;\nan' while you's a-dressin', I'll jes' go an' give her a drink, an' rub\nher down a lilly bit, so she'll be right smart and fresh when you's\nready to start.\"\n\n\nIt was one o'clock in the morning when Bergan saw the great dusky pile\nof the Hall, and the dark masses of the live oaks, rise before him, in\nthe pale light of the waning moon.  He knew that its master lay within.\nBrick had narrated how Rue had ordered and superintended his removal\nthither, in one of his moments of comparative quiet and\nexhaustion;--the old woman being of the opinion that it was not fitting\nfor him to die otherwhere than under the ancestral roof, in the same\nroom where one after another of his forefathers had likewise laid down\nthe burden of the flesh, and begun the new life of the spirit.  To this\nroom, Bergan was easily guided by his groans and cries.\n\nNever before had he seen a man in the terrible grasp of delirium\ntremens; and now, after a brief look, he was glad to turn away his eyes.\n\nMajor Bergan was on the bed, but he was only held there by the main\nstrength of two stout negroes.  A frightful spasm contorted his face\nand twisted his limbs.  Great drops of perspiration stood on his brow;\nand from his mouth flowed a mingled stream of oaths, curses, shrieks of\nhorror, threats of defiance, and groans of agony.  His bodily anguish\nwas only less than his mental torture.  His eyes started from his head\nat the phantom-creations of his delirious imagination.  The furniture\nwas alive, watching him with fiery eyes, and threatening him with\nenvenomed teeth and claws; the shadows took mocking shapes and gibed\nand jeered at him; and the pictures were demons setting them all on.\nThe very hairs of his head turned to slimy snakes, and the bed-clothes\nwere now damp winding-sheets, and now devouring flames.\n\n\"Have you had a doctor?\" asked Bergan of Rue, who had met him at the\ndoor.\n\n\"Yes; Doctor Remy has been here twice; he left not much more than half\nan hour ago.  He said he had a critical case on hand, that must be seen\nto; and there was nothing to be done here, except what we could do as\nwell as he.\"\n\n\"What are you doing?\"\n\n\"Giving him soup to keep up his strength, and opium to quiet him.  A\nfew minutes ago, too, in a lucid moment, he called for some powders\nthat he has been in the habit of taking, which, he said, always did him\nmore good than anything else.  There were only two left; we gave him\none, as he was so bent on having it; I thought if it did no good, it\ncouldn't do any harm.\"\n\n\"Did Doctor Remy say that he would call again?\"\n\n\"He did, but, Master Bergan, a blind woman's ears are quick at catching\nmeanings as well as words, and he did not mean to come very soon,--not,\nI reckon, till all is over.\"\n\nBergan meditated.  Though he had long known that his uncle's habits\nwould be likely to bring him, sooner or later, to a drunkard's most\nmiserable end, he could not but think it somewhat suspicious that the\nseizure should have followed so closely upon the completion of the\nfraudulent will.\n\n\"When was my uncle taken?\" he asked.\n\n\"Early this evening.  He had been drinking a good deal for two or three\ndays past; he said he did not feel well, and he would keep at the\nbrandy bottle, in spite of all that I could say to him.  About ten\no'clock this morning, Doctor Remy came in to see him, and I suspect,\ntold him something that made him angry,--for I heard him swearing\nfuriously to himself, after the doctor had gone.  And then, probably,\nhe fell to drinking worse than ever; but it was not until about four\no'clock that I heard him groaning and crying out, and he has kept it up\na good part of the time ever since.  But now, I think, he seems to be\ngetting a little easier.\"\n\nBergan turned to the bed.  The spasm was over, and the Major lay\nexhausted, with his eyes closed.  Opening them, they immediately\nbrightened with a look of recognition.\n\n\"Is that you, Harry?\" he asked, feebly.\n\n\"Yes, uncle,\" replied Bergan, taking his hand; \"Rue sent for me, and I\ncame at once.  I am sorry to see you so ill.\"\n\n\"I think you are, my boy, I think you are,\" responded Major Bergan;\n\"you look like it, and besides, a Bergan never lies.  And I'm sorry,\ntoo,--all the more, because I suspect that it's my own fault.  If ever\nyou learn to drink--and I don't feel quite so sure that it's necessary\nas I did once--don't drink too hard, Harry, don't drink too hard!  If\never I get over this bout, I swear I'll think twice, hereafter, before\nI drink once.  And if I don't, I'm glad you're here, Harry, boy; it's\nwell for the new master to be on before the old one is off.\"\n\n\"I hope that you will live to carry your good resolutions into effect,\"\nsaid Bergan earnestly.\n\n\"Do you?  Well, so do I.\"\n\nHe lay quiet for a moment, busy with his own thoughts.  All at once he\nstarted up, exclaiming;--\n\n\"Fire and fury! what's that?\"\n\nThe negroes caught hold of him, expecting a fresh convulsion of the\nsame nature as the preceding ones; but, though his face was frightfully\ndistorted, and his form writhed with pain, there was no accompaniment\nof phantasmal horrors.\n\n\"Brandy!\" he finally gasped, through his set teeth.\n\nRue motioned to one of the women in waiting to bring some.  Bergan put\nhis hand on her arm.  \"Surely you will not give it to him _now_,\" said\nhe, impressively.\n\n\"The doctor said he must have a little, now and then,\" she answered.\n\nBut before the glass could be put to his lips, he groaned, shuddered\nfrom head to foot, and fell back on the pillow, with his eyes rolled up\nin his head, his hands clenched, and a dark froth issuing from, between\nhis shut teeth.  He was dead.\n\n\n\n\nXI.\n\nAFTER MANY DAYS.\n\nThere was a sudden silence--the shadow of God's hand.  In it the lately\nagonized, writhing body lay at peace, the anxious spectators stood awed\nand motionless.  Yet this silence was more voiceful than any\nsound,--full of solemn questionings and more solemn answers, subtle\nsuggestions, grave warnings, and momentous intimations.  Of the value\nand the valuelessness of life, of the night and the morning of death,\nof the character and the import of the Hereafter,--on all these topics\nit discoursed more eloquently than the most silvery of oratorical\ntongues.\n\nIt had also its more commonplace and definite purport to the\nsimple-minded dependents gathered in the gloom of the broad gallery and\nthe black oaken staircase; which was no sooner fully apprehended, than\nthe sound of weeping was heard among them,--though not noisily\ndemonstrative, according to the African wont, for their awe of their\nlate master had been greater than their affection, and was in nowise\ndiminished by the knowledge of the dread change that had come upon him.\nIt was genuine sorrow, nevertheless, for, though he had been a hard\nmaster, of late, most of them remembered when he had been kinder; and,\nat the worst, he had not been without gleams of good humor and\nleniency, upon which their minds now dwelt willingly and tenderly.\nSome few gray heads, too, there were among them, who recollected the\ngrace and promise of his youth, and how proud they had been of their\ngay, handsome, generous, high-spirited master; and these, striving to\nforget that the promise had not been kept, or to set down its failure\nto adverse fate rather than wilful shortcoming, crowded the doorway, or\nstole in pairs to the foot of the bed, and looked through tears at the\ndead face, and whispered to each other that something of its youth had\ncome back to it;--the soul, as it took its departure, had stamped the\nfeatures with their original nobility and grace.  And then they stole\nout, to prompt each other's memories with anecdotes of that vanished\nyouth, and to dilate the eyes of their juniors with descriptions of the\nancient splendors and hospitalities of the desolate old Hall;--the\nbanquets that had been served in the dusky dining-room, the gay\nmeasures that had been trodden in the long parlor, the wedding-trains\nand the funeral processions that had passed through the great door;\nand, finally, of the ghosts that still walk the empty rooms, and may be\nexpected to be seen stalking through the long passages to-night, or\nholding solemn conclave around the deserted tabernacle of the latest\ncomer among them.\n\nHark! is not that the sound of footsteps, falling airily, yet heavily,\ntoo, in some distant chamber?  And there, in the upper gallery, is\ncertainly the rustle of the supernaturally stiff silk robe of the first\nLady Bergan, who was found dead in her bed, so many years ago!  And now\ncreaks the door at the end of the wing, through which old Sir Harry is\nwont to march majestically forth, sword in hand, to take vengeance on\nany degenerate scion of the house that he encounters in his path!  This\nlast apparition is too much for their nerves.  They shrink together,\nand flee noiselessly to their cabins, hearing the footsteps of the\nangry knight following them all the way, and leaving the old house\nuntenanted save by the-ghosts, and the few faithful watchers in the\ndeath-chamber.\n\nRue is kneeling by the corpse.  She has closed the eyes--sightless as\nher own;--she has smoothed back the disordered hair; she has pressed\nthe lips together over the set teeth; now she is passing her withered\nhand gently over the blind features, thinking more of the baby that she\nnursed, the child that she petted and spoiled, and the youth that she\nadmired and loved, than of the middle-aged man that she had served with\nher best strength, or the elderly one that she had stood by so\nfaithfully, striving in vain to hold him back from his evil ways.\nFinally, she touches the cold lips with her own.\n\n\"I kissed him when he was born,\" she murmurs, half apologetically, to\nBergan, \"and there will be no kiss on his dead lips, unless I leave it\nthere.\"\n\nBergan looks at her wonderingly.  Her face is calm--there are no tears\nin her eyes; she has the satisfied and relieved expression of one who,\nafter long and patient waiting, beholds the expected rest or gladness\nclose at hand, and is already half content.\n\n\"One little trust more to be fulfilled,\" she says softly to herself,\n\"and then my work is done, my long service of the family is over.  My\nGod, have I served Thee as well?\"\n\nAnd although, in her deep humility, she shakes her head, and pronounces\nherself an unprofitable servant, we, who can hear better that voice in\nthe silence, making little of rank, wealth, talent, and culture, and\nmuch of faith, patience, and integrity, may be sure that it utters\nbenignantly,--\"Well done!\"\n\nRising, at last, Rue turned to Bergan, and made him a low, reverential\ncourtesy.\n\n\"Master Bergan,\" she asked, \"have you any orders to give?\"\n\nBergan started.  There was a quiet significance in her tone and manner\nthat made his heart beat fast, for just one moment,--not with elation,\nhowever, so much as with a heavy weight of responsibility; as if the\nchill corpse, the crumbling Hall, the hundreds of negroes, the\nfar-stretching lands, and all the cares and complexities thereto\npertaining, had been suddenly flung on his shoulders.  But the feeling\npassed quickly; he remembered the will in favor of Carice, as well as\nits fraudulent successor (which, he now bethought himself, it might be\nimpossible to nullify, even if he could bring himself to come in\nconflict with Carice's husband); and the weight slid easily from his\nshoulders, though not without leaving some correlative heaviness in his\nheart.\n\nStill there were orders to be given; and, until a more legitimate\nauthority or a closer relationship should supersede him, he, being on\nthe spot, must answer the immediate need of headship.  He despatched\nmessengers, therefore, in various directions,--one to Godfrey Bergan to\napprise him that the long, bitter feud was ended, and between him and\nthe corpse of his brother there might be peace; another to Doctor Remy,\nwith a supplementary direction that if he was not to be found, Doctor\nGerrish should be summoned also; and a third to the undertaker, to\narrange for the sombre funeral paraphernalia.  When all was done, he\nwas glad to retire for awhile to his room, leaving Rue, as she desired,\nalone with her dead.  Yes, hers,--no living person had so strong a\nprescriptive right to that sad and tender vigil; no other love held the\nsufficient warrant of such long and loyal service.\n\nBergan remembered, long afterward, just how she looked as he bade her\ngood night; standing, tall, gaunt, and erect, by the high,\nold-fashioned bedstead, drawing the heavy curtains round the silent\ndead with one hand, and extending the other toward him with a free and\nlofty gesture that suggested the unveiling of a new and golden future.\n\n\"Good night, Master Bergan,\" said she, \"or rather, good morning.  For\nyou, the night is past, and the dawn is near.  For you the Bergan star\nshines bright in the morning sky; for you and the old Hall a new reign\nof peace and prosperity is begun.  Neglect not the warnings of the\npast; rejoice in the promise of the future.  God bless you, now and\nevermore!\"\n\nThe last words were spoken with a solemnity befitting a long farewell.\nAt the moment, a vague apprehension flitted across Bergan's mind; but,\nlooking back, he saw that she had seated herself quietly by the bed,\nlike one whose only purpose was to watch and wait.  Besides, she had\nspoken freely of the morrow's necessities and duties, and of her own\npart in them; it was plain that she had no apprehension for herself,\nand he might dismiss his fears.\n\nIn the hall, he was met by the solemn ticking of the tall old clock,\nwhich some one had set in motion; probably with a vague idea that a\nhuman soul's last minutes of time should be carefully measured, and the\nmoment of its entrance upon eternity definitely marked.  He could not\nhelp shivering at the sound.  His mind involuntarily followed the\ndeparted soul in its journeyings beyond the bounds of time, picturing\nthe heights or depths it had already reached, the scenes opened to its\nawed vision, the momentous truths dawning upon its startled\ncomprehension.  These thoughts not only accompanied him to his room,\nbut would not be shut out by the closing door.\n\nWeary as he was, he had no disposition to sleep.  He sat down by the\ntable, leaned his head on his hand, and gave himself up to sombre\nreflections.  The gloomy deathbed that he had just witnessed, the\nemptiness and decay of the old ancestral home, the tangled questions of\nright and expediency that might present themselves for decision at any\nmoment,--all these weighed heavily on his mind, and depressed his\nspirits.  For one moment he half forgot his rooted trust in an\noverruling Providence, at once wise and tender, in the contemplation of\nthe chill chain of events that appeared to be tightening around him,\nthe seemingly mysterious fate that had twice compelled his return to\nthis dreary old dwelling,--tomb rather,--to experience some new phase\nof sin or sorrow, after he had turned his back upon it, as he believed,\nfor many years, if not forever.  No wonder the negroes thought it\nhaunted; its heavy, musty atmosphere was much better adapted for ghosts\nto float about in than to be breathed into living lungs; it might well\nbe crowded with the spirits of his whole ancestry, to make it so\nstifling!\n\nHe went to the window, to see if it were any better there.  Scarcely.\nThe moon had vanished behind a cloud; the night was dim; the outside\nair seemed not less burdened with woe and mystery than that within; he\neven fancied that he heard light footsteps on the path below.  He flung\nhimself again into his chair, and an almost superstitious awe stole\nover him, a feeling that there was no such thing as emptiness, but only\ninvisibility,--that the air was teeming with mystic shapes, busily\ntying circumstance to circumstance, cause to effect, motive to result,\nand life to life, with cords of terrible strength and indestructibility.\n\n_Cords_:--The word struck lightly on the sensitive chain of\nassociation, and there was an instant response from the past;--\"Holden\nwith the cords of his sins.\"  No doubt that was the essential truth.\nStrictly speaking, a separate act or an individual life was an\nimpossibility; each was bound to each by influence or consequence; sin,\nespecially, entailed its results upon a wide circle of inheritors,--the\nsinner himself, his kindred, friends, neighbors, even his descendants\nunto remote generations.  Doubtless the sins of many old-time Bergans\nhad helped to twist the cords which had held the mansion of their pride\nto so sad a period of desertion and decay, if not their scion to so\nwoful a death.  With how many such cords was he himself holden, and to\nwhat, and for how long?\n\nHe lifted his eyes with a start.  A dim shadow had fallen on the floor;\nsomething was intercepting the gray dawn-rays, which feebly lit the\nroom.  He looked at the open window; it framed a slight graceful\nfigure, a wan, but lovely face,--both so well remembered, so fondly\nloved, so mournfully lost!  Of course, it was an apparition, a creation\nof his own excited fancy, called forth to furnish another illustration\nof the strange ramifications and knottings of those mystical cords, and\nsoon to disappear, and make way for some other sharer of his bonds.\n\nAnd disappear it did; but with a sudden crash, and a startled cry of\n\"Bergan!\"--neither of which had any touch of the supernatural.  The\nunexpected sounds at once his awe; he ran to the window, saw that the\nrotten flooring of the upper piazza had broken down under some recent\nweight, leaped the gap, flew down the steps, and found lying underneath\na motionless form and a lily-pale face, both half hidden in long,\nflowing tresses.  No apparition this, but a living, breathing\nCarice,--or what had lately been such;--she looked deathlike enough now.\n\nIt may well be questioned whether love ever dies.  It disappears from\nsight, no doubt; it ceases to be felt as motive or end; the very heart\nfrom whence it sprang believes that it is no more; perhaps a new--and\ntrue--affection occupies its place and does its work.  But is this\napparent death anything more than a partial decay, analogous to that by\nwhich thousands of perennial plants seem annually to perish from the\nface of the earth, under the frosts of autumn, but the roots of which,\nnevertheless, carefully preserve their life-principle within, ready to\nrespond with swift springing verdure to the tender kisses and tears of\nthe springtime sun and rain?  Is not all death only a sleep?\n\nBergan had striven conscientiously to destroy his love for Carice, as a\nthing which, however innocent in its birth, had grown to be a sin.  And\nhe had measurably succeeded.  His worst heartache was over.  Life had\nceased to look unattractive; if it did not promise happiness, it\noffered plenty of work, and a sober well-being.  He was beginning to\nfeel the beneficent operation of the law of change, to find that sorrow\nwas not meant to be the life-tenant of any human heart.  If he had met\nCarice under other circumstances, less calculated to throw him off his\nguard, he would doubtless have approved himself master of the\nsituation; meeting her with calm cousinly courtesy and kindness, and\nstifling only a momentary pang in his deep heart.  But seeing her\nthus,--pale, motionless, unconscious,--dying, perhaps, if not already\ndead,--flung back at his feet, for sympathy and succor, by some\nmysterious turn of the same tide of circumstance which had borne her\naway,--a lost jewel, restored after many days,--it is scarcely to be\nwondered at that, for one moment, as he knelt by the inanimate form, he\nforgot all the sorrowful past in the anxiety of the present, and\ntouched the mute lips with the warm kiss of a love which, though long\nrepressed and slumbering, seemed now to have neither wasted nor died.\n\nHe soon recollected himself, however; when, seeing that Carice still\nbreathed, and was probably only stunned by her fall, he at once\naddressed himself to the consideration of the serious question what was\nto be done with her.  She had fled suddenly, it would seem, led by some\nwild, uncontrollable impulse; nothing shielded her from chill or from\nobservation but a nightdress and a light shawl; on one foot was a thin\nslipper, the other was bare and bleeding; and her dishevelled hair fell\nround her shoulders, some locks of which, he now noticed, were\nencrimsoned by blood flowing from a deep cut in her head.\n\nHe glanced quickly round; the dawn was yet gray, there was no one astir\nat the Hall, and probably not at Oakstead; unless she had been missed,\nthere was still time to save her from what, he knew, she would feel to\nbe worse than death, when fully restored to consciousness.  He lifted\nher in his arms--it went to his heart, even at that moment, to feel how\nthin and light she was--and bore her swiftly to the door of her home.\nThere Mr. Bergan and Rosa met him; they had just discovered her\nabsence, but had not given the alarm; they were still too bewildered to\nknow precisely what steps should be taken for her recovery.  Bergan\ncarried her to the library, and laid her on the sofa.  As he did so,\nshe opened her eyes, turned from him to Mr. Bergan, and cried out, in a\nvoice of mingled entreaty and determination;--\n\n\"Father, I _cannot_ be Doctor Remy's wife!\"\n\nBergan looked at his uncle with a mixture of surprise and apprehension.\n\"She is delirious,\" said he.\n\n\"No, thank God!\" answered Mr. Bergan, with a look of ineffable relief\nand gladness; \"she is herself again--clothed and in her right mind.\"\n\n\n\n\nPART FIFTH.\n\nA BITTER HARVEST.\n\n\n\nI.\n\nA CLOUD FOR A COVERING.\n\nThe twelvemonth gone by had not passed lightly over Godfrey Bergan.  He\nwas not the same man who had refused so peremptorily to listen to\nBergan, on that memorable eve of Carice's wedding.  Not only had he\ngrown grayer and thinner, slower of gait and heavier of step; not only\nwere his shoulders bent and his head drooping; but his face wore an\nexpression of settled gravity, bordering on melancholy, and his manner\nwas gentle, almost to submissiveness.  Since the night when he had\nstaggered into the cabin of the trusty Bruno, bending under the weight\nof his dripping burden, he had never, in one sense, laid it down.  The\nthought that he had forced his daughter into a marriage so abhorrent to\nher that she had been fain to escape from it through the awful door of\nsuicide, had never ceased to haunt his mind, and burden his heart and\nhis conscience.\n\nIt had not occurred to him that the fall from the bridge was\naccidental, inasmuch as Rosa had deemed it her duty to keep inviolate\nthe secret of her young mistress's errand abroad on that night; he was\ntherefore unable to conjecture why Carice should have sought the\nriver-side at so inopportune an hour, except with a purpose of\nself-destruction.  Nor did it give him any comfort to reflect that her\nmind must have been set all ajar, before she would have resorted to so\ndesperate an expedient; that only lifted the terrible responsibility\nfrom her shoulders to lay it more crushingly on his own.  It was he,\nwho, without giving her time to recover from the shock of Bergan's\napparent infidelity, or the fatigue and anxiety occasioned by his own\nillness, had urged her into a union with a man for whom she\npersistently asserted that she neither had, nor would ever be likely to\nhave, any warmer feeling than respect for his intellectual attainments,\nand admiration for his professional skill and devotion.  To be sure, he\nhad done it solely with a view to her happiness,--doing evil that good\nmight come, and finding too late that \"Whatsoever a man soweth, that\nshall he reap.\"\n\nFirst, on that woful night, he had carried Carice to Bruno's cabin,\npartly because it was nearer to the scene of the disaster, and partly\nbecause he feared to encounter some lingering guest or indiscreet\nservant, if he took her to the cottage.  Fortunately, Bruno and his\nwife were both within; and the latter immediately applied herself to\nthe work of restoration according to her lights; while the former was\ndispatched, with suitable injunctions to be secret and expeditious, to\nbring more efficient aid in the person of Doctor Remy.\n\nIt soon appeared that--thanks to her father's promptness--Carice had\nsustained little injury from her immersion in the water; but, though\nheart and lungs were quickly brought to resume their functions, her\nsenses remained fast locked in stupor.  Knitting his brows, for a brief\nspace, over this unexpected complication, Doctor Remy betook himself to\na careful examination of the patient's head; and shortly announced that\nhe had discovered a severe contusion of the skull, implying more or\nless serious injury to the brain.\n\nThe stupor would last hours--possibly days.  Meanwhile, many appliances\nand comforts which the cabin could not afford, would be demanded; he\ntherefore advised her immediate removal to the cottage.  Mr. Bergan\nhastened to break the distressing news to her mother, and to make sure\nthat the house and grounds were clear; then Carice was carefully placed\non a litter, and borne to her own room.\n\nIt was long before she showed any sign of consciousness, longer still\nbefore she was free from the supervening fever and delirium, and\ncapable of coherent thought and expression.  When that time came, it\nwas found that her memory of the past five months was a blank.\nBergan's unaccountable silence, her father's trying illness, Doctor\nRemy's unacceptable suit, and the ill-starred marriage\nceremony--everything which had distressed her mind or wounded her\nheart, had been completely wiped out of her recollection as by some\nfriendly, pitying hand; and she was carried back, all unconscious of\nthe transit, to the tender joy and blissful content with which she had\nparted from Bergan.  To her thought it was only a few days since he\nwent; yet, with a pleasant inconsequence, she was already beginning to\nwatch for his return.  At first, she had seemed a little bewildered by\nthe change of season; it was amidst the flower and foliage of early\nsummer that Bergan had said good-bye; now, the deciduous trees stood\nbare against the sky, and the flower-beds were shorn of their glory.\nBut her mind was too feeble to reason, and she soon accepted the fact,\nas she did many another, without trying to account for it.  Enough to\nknow that, winter being near, Bergan must be near also.\n\nIt may be noted as a curiously ironical turn of that blind Chance, or\nFate, in which Doctor Remy believed, that he was compelled, in his\nprofessional capacity, to give orders that Carice should be carefully\nhumored, for the present, in this or any other delusion.  There was\nsomething at stake of far more importance, to him, than his personal\nfeelings as a man or a bridegroom--namely, the ownership of Bergan\nHall.  In consideration of that, Carice must be spared everything\ntending to excite or distress her, and indulged in whatever was\nsoothing to her mind, or pleasing to her fancy.\n\nMeanwhile, he addressed himself, with renewed ardor and determination,\nto the study of brain diseases.  His attention had already been engaged\nby the recently promulged theory of Gall, that each faculty of the mind\nhad its distinct location in the brain; and he was quick to see the\nfine field thereby opened to pathological investigation.  It was in\nthis direction that he hoped, some day, to make his name famous; and it\nwas chiefly as a means to this end that Bergan Hall was valuable in his\neyes.  He wanted wealth in order to be able to devote himself\nexclusively to the study of this branch of medical science, and to\npursue it, unhampered by considerations of expense, throughout the\nbooks and manuscripts, the practitioners and patients, the hospitals\nand asylums, the morgues and the dissecting-rooms, of the whole world.\nTill he could do that, he must content himself with the one patient\nwhom circumstance had thrown into his hands.\n\nBut here, he was unexpectedly disappointed, in a measure.  Whether it\nwere that enough of her recollection revived to associate him dimly\nwith anxiety and distress; or whether, her reason being in abeyance,\nshe was more controlled by her pure and delicate instincts; certain it\nis, that Carice's fever no sooner left her, than she developed the most\nunconquerable aversion to him, amounting in time to a degree of terror.\nAt his approach, she either hid her face, and trembled like an aspen\nleaf, or she fled with cries of fright.  And these moments of\nexcitement were followed by such alarming prostration, that Doctor Remy\nwas reluctantly compelled to admit the necessity of keeping out of her\nsight.  His investigations had thenceforth to be conducted through the\nagency of her parents or of Rosa.  Now and then, when she slept,--and\nher sleep was always singularly profound, the very twin brother of\ndeath,--he stole into her room, to acquaint himself with some\nparticular of the location, depth, or progress in healing, of the\ninjury to her head, and to satisfy himself of the state of her general\nhealth.\n\nTo every one but Doctor Remy, Carice was gentleness itself.  She was\nhappiness, too, in a touchingly quiet, dreamy, illogical form.  She was\ncontent to spend hours at the window, watching for the first glimpse of\nBergan, with a smile on her lips, and her eyes bright with eager\nexpectation; and though she sometimes sighed, when the day ended, and\nhe did not come, she was ready to begin the same hopeful watch on the\nmorrow, and never seemed to know how long it had lasted.  As she grew\nstronger, she resumed, in some measure, her old pursuits;--she busied\nherself with light household tasks; she wrought dainty embroidery with\nsilks and worsteds; she read, chiefly poetry, the music of which seemed\nto please her ear, without fatiguing her mind; she even noticed the\ncloud on her father's brow, and made gentle war upon it,--conquering,\nof course, as long as he was in her sight, and never suspecting how\nheavily it settled back afterward.  But all this time, the veil over\nthe past never lifted, nor was the eager watch for Bergan ever\nabandoned.\n\nThe few intimate friends, or the servants not of the household, who saw\nher occasionally, noticed nothing unusual about her, except the\ndelicacy and languor consequent upon a severe illness; Mrs. Bergan\nbeing always present to turn the conversation away from every dangerous\npoint, and guide it through safe channels.  To the rest of the world,\nit was simply known that Carice had suddenly been stricken down, on her\nwedding night, by a fever, supposed to be of the same nature as the one\nwhich had lately prostrated her father; and that she was not yet\nsufficiently strong to show herself abroad, or see much company at\nhome.  Doctor Remy, meanwhile, came and went, and spent as much time at\nthe cottage as could reasonably be expected of a physician with a large\narea of practice, and an office three miles away from his nominal home.\nNot a person, outside of the limited household, supposed that he never\nsaw Carice, except when she was fast asleep, and totally unconscious of\nhis presence.\n\nSo the months rolled away, and the year drew near to its close.  Doctor\nRemy had prosecuted his abstruse study, by the dim light of the science\nof that day, with characteristic energy and acuteness.  He had slowly\nfelt his way, from the premise that each faculty of the mind had its\nappropriate seat in the brain, to the conclusion that every local\ninjury or disease would affect mainly the faculty corresponding to the\ninjured or diseased portion, thereby not only indicating the seat of\nthe impaired faculty, but suggesting the possibility of a local remedy\nfor the local disturbance,--probably a delicate and difficult surgical\noperation, to remove pus, slivers of bone, or other foreign matter\npressing upon, piercing, or otherwise irritating the sensitive cellular\ntissue of the brain.  Now, he only longed for an opportunity to test\nhis conclusions by experiment, and would certainly have attempted to\nuse Carice for this purpose, except that on her slender thread of life\nhung his only chance of Bergan Hall.  It would not do to sacrifice the\nimmense future advantage to the small immediate gain.\n\nNature, meanwhile, was laboring in her slow, gentle way, to effect the\nsame end contemplated by the doctor's science.  With the beginning of\nNovember, a change was observable in Carice.  Her sweet face lost its\nlook of happy anticipation, and grew weary and anxious.  There were\ntokens that she was beginning to reason again, in a fitful, fragmentary\nway, and to notice some of the many discrepancies between the facts and\nthe theories of her life; sometimes she put her hand to her head with a\npiteous expression of doubt and bewilderment.  By and by, she became\npossessed of a spirit of restlessness by day, and of sleeplessness by\nnight; making the care of her--hitherto an easy and a pleasant task--a\nsufficiently onerous charge.  Thus it happened that she had made her\nescape to the Hall, as heretofore narrated.  Her night had been\nrestless, beyond all previous precedent, keeping Rosa constantly on the\nwatch.  Toward dawn, she had fallen into a light slumber, during which\nthe weary attendant, sitting quietly by the bedside, had suddenly been\novercome by a profound sleep.  Waking ere long, and not wishing to\ndisturb her tired maid, Carice stole softly to the window, to look out,\nas usual, for Bergan's coming, and saw the light shining again from the\nwindow of his room in the old Hall.  The broken links in the chain of\nassociation were stirred, if not reunited,--perhaps a dim reminiscence\nof her former attempt to reach him woke within her,--she wrapped\nherself in the first shawl that came to hand, thrust her feet into a\npair of slippers, and noiselessly made her way out of the house and\ndown to the river, exactly as she had done a year before.  At the gap\nin the foot-bridge, through which she had fallen, she stopped and put\nher hand to her brow, in a momentary perplexity.  Here, her memory of\nthe former expedition, which had led her thus far on her way, failed\nher;--what was she to do next?\n\nLifting her eyes, she again caught sight of the light from the Hall,\nwhich had recently been hidden by the trees.  Her lips parted in a\nsmile; her hesitation was at an end.  Clinging to the hand-rail of the\nbridge, and sliding her feet carefully along the great beam underneath,\nshe safely passed the gap,--though she lost a slipper in the\ntransit,--and then hurried to the Hall, to meet with the accident\nlately described.\n\nAll of the foregoing history--or at least as much of it as was known to\nhim--Mr. Bergan recounted to his nephew, in a long conversation held in\nthe parlor, after Carice had been soothed by her father's promise that\nshe should be compelled to do nothing but what was right and agreeable\nin her own eyes, and left to the care of her mother and Rosa.  Now,\ntoo, the loss of Bergan's letters to his uncle and Carice was\ndiscovered; the false or distorted statements in those of Doctor Remy\nto himself were brought to light and discussed; finally, Mr. Bergan was\nglad to listen to a succinct recital of Doctor Trubie's reasons for\nbelieving Felix Remy to be identical with Edmund Roath.\n\nIn the course of the conversation, all reserve between the uncle and\nnephew insensibly melted away, and the last topic was discussed upon\nterms of the most cordial confidence and sympathy.  Bergan's high\nreputation in Savalla had not failed to reach his uncle's ears, and\nsometimes to make him doubt if all his old prejudice was well founded;\nand now, there was so much dignity and gentleness in his bearing, his\nwords were so full of unselfish consideration for others, he showed\nhimself so ready still, as heretofore, to sacrifice every merely\npersonal feeling to Carice's welfare, that Mr. Bergan's heart, softened\nand humbled as it had been by adversity, was irresistibly won.  He was\nglad to feel that he had so dispassionate a judgment, so wise a\ncounsellor, and so kind a friend, to lean upon, in this moment of\nperplexity.\n\nThe talk was broken in upon by a message from Mrs. Bergan.  Carice,\nafter her manifold questions in regard to the circumstances in which\nshe found herself had been answered or evaded, had sunk into a deep,\nbut apparently natural sleep.  Still, her mother could not but be\nextremely anxious about her; and she suggested that Doctor Remy, or\nsome one else, should be immediately sent for, to provide against the\ncontingency of her waking.\n\nMr. Bergan looked anxiously at his nephew.  \"After what you have told\nme,\" said he, \"I do not feel that I can allow that man to enter\nCarice's room again, even when she is sleeping.  Yet, be he what or\nwhom he may, his professional skill is undeniable, and her life or\nreason may turn on those waking moments.  What is to be done?\"\n\n\"Do you know where he is to be found?\" asked Bergan.\n\n\"No.  He merely told me that he had a critical case on hand, which\nwould keep him out all night, and perhaps we should not see him before\nnoon to-day.  I suppose he can be heard of at his office.\"\n\nBergan reflected for a moment.  \"By this time,\" said he, \"Doctor\nGerrish must be on his way to the Hall.  From what I have known and\nheard of him, I believe him to be both a promising physician and an\nhonorable man.  Send Bruno to intercept him, on the plea that the dead\ncan wait for his services better than the living.  Then tell him, in\nstrict confidence, enough of Carice's condition to make him understand\nthe case; but you need say nothing of Doctor Remy, except that he is\nnot at hand, and you feared to wait.  Finally, ask, as a special favor,\nthat he will not mention his visit to Doctor Remy, lest the latter be\nannoyed.  He will think you weak and overscrupulous, but he will\npromise.\"\n\nThis advice was acted upon.  Doctor Gerrish, after listening to Mr.\nBergan's statement and examining Carice as she lay asleep, decided that\nthe recent wound, which was in the neighborhood of the former one, had,\nin some mysterious way, relieved the inflammation, or counteracted the\ninjury, caused by that--in short, had done precisely what Doctor Remy\nproposed to do by means of an operation.  He furthermore believed that\nNature was making her final effort at restoration through the deep\nsleep which held Carice in bonds so gentle and so firm; and he gave\nstrict orders that nothing should be suffered to break it.  It would\ndoubtless last some hours, perhaps the whole day; or if she woke, it\nwould be merely to swallow a little nourishment, which should be given\nher, and then to fall asleep again.\n\nBergan had waited to hear this decision, and he now requested Doctor\nGerrish to ride on to the Hall, where he would join him almost\nimmediately, by the shorter way of the foot-bridge.  His uncle detained\nhim longer than he expected, however, for a final consultation about\nseveral important matters; and he was conscious that Doctor Gerrish\nmust have been kept waiting for a considerable time, when he finally\nquitted the house.  Hurrying to the foot-bridge, he saw two\nrough-looking men crossing it from the direction of the Hall.  At sight\nof him, they interchanged a few words, and then came to meet him.\n\n\"Mr. Arling, I believe,\" said one, touching his hat.  \"We have been\nasking at the Hall for you, and a doctor that we saw there told us that\nyou were coming this way, and asked us to say, if we met you, that he\nbegged you would hurry.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" said Bergan.  \"That is what I am doing.\"\n\n\"Not so fast,\" interrupted the other, who was a tall, muscular fellow\nwith a sinister countenance.  \"You are that Lawyer Arling, I reckon,\nwho got my brother sentenced to state prison last month for burglary.\"\n\n\"I did my duty as prosecuting attorney for the State, if that is what\nyou mean,\" replied Bergan, coolly.\n\n\"You did, did you?  Well, I'm going to do mine, which is to knock you\ndown for it.\"\n\nWith these words, the man raised his powerful fist.  Bergan\ninstinctively threw himself into the attitude of defence; but the\nruffian's companion, who had edged behind him, caught hold of both his\narms; and the unparried blow felled him senseless to the ground.\n\n\n\n\nII.\n\nSWIFT FEET.\n\nHowever cold a man's temperament may be by nature, however complete the\nsubjection of his passions to his reason and his will, he is nearly\ncertain, in the sudden excitement and confusion of detected guilt, to\nbe betrayed into some act instantly condemned by his better judgment.\nSuch had been the case with Doctor Remy, in his encounter with Hubert\nArling at the \"Rat-Hole.\"  Mistaking Hubert for Bergan, and believing\nhim to be there only to spy out his actions and thwart his designs, it\nhad been his first impulse to draw the pistol, which he habitually\ncarried, according to the custom of the times and locality, and free\nhimself at once and forever from interference that he conceived to be\nso dangerous.  His chagrin at finding that he had mistaken one brother\nfor the other, was only equalled by his surprise at his calm dismissal\nand friendly warning, at Bergan's hands.  It did not take him long to\nfix upon the hidden motive of this conduct,--to decide, with a bitter\nsmile, that he had been spared for the sake of Carice.\n\nYet he had no idea of the extent of Bergan's forbearance toward him on\nthis head.  It must be remembered that he never received the slightest\nintimation of Doctor Trubie's suspicions, or of Bergan's visit to\nOakstead, on the night of the wedding.  Godfrey Bergan had omitted any\nmention of either; first, because he had been prevented from doing so\nby the overwhelming distress and anxiety that had come upon him so\nsuddenly; and afterward, because it had seemed wiser, on the whole, to\nsay nothing.  Doctor Remy, therefore, had no suspicion of the mine over\nwhich he had been standing, on that night, nor how its explosion had\nbeen averted.  From his point of view, Bergan's sudden removal to\nSavalla, in consideration of the prospect there opened to him, was the\nmost natural thing in the world.  Nor did he know any reason why\nhimself and his former friend should not meet on the old terms, upon\noccasion, except that the gain of the one had been the loss of the\nother, in respect to Carice.  Even here, however, he held himself to be\nostensibly blameless, inasmuch as womankind was proverbially fickle,\nand Bergan had no reason to suppose that he was aware of any relation\nbetween him and Carice other than the outward one.  He deeply\nregretted, therefore, that in a moment of surprise and confusion, he\nshould have put himself in a false position.  It would have been far\nbetter to have met Bergan with the careless ease of a conscience void\nof offence.  But, since he had not done so, it was well that Carice was\nhis sufficient safeguard against retaliation.\n\nYet one word had fallen from Bergan's lips, which had startled him at\nthe moment, and haunted him on his way homeward.  The young man had\nseriously bidden him be thankful that he was saved from \"_another_\ncrime.\"  Was the phrase accidental, or did it imply some knowledge of\nthe affair of the will?  In the latter case, was it likely that Bergan\nwould submit to the loss of what he had been encouraged, at one time,\nto consider his lawful inheritance, without a most rigid scrutiny and\ninvestigation of the document by which, while the property was\napparently given to Carice, it was done in such a way as to place it\nabsolutely in her husband's control.  Would Bergan's forbearance toward\nher and hers be likely to extend as far as this?  Judging by himself,\nand his experience of men in general, and especially of heirs, he did\nnot hesitate to affirm that it would not.  For, though Bergan had\nseemed to be possessed of some unusually Quixotic notions of honor,\nindependence, and disinterestedness, during the period of their\nintimate association, he had doubtless seen enough of life since then,\nto grow more sensible.  What, then, had he not to dread from his\nnatural acuteness and legal skill, when both of these, sharpened by\ninterest, should be brought to bear on the false will?\n\nAbsorbed in these reflections, he had allowed his horse to choose his\nown pace, which had gradually slackened, from a gallop to a trot, and\nthen into a walk, until, at last, he was easily overtaken by Dick\nCauston, in whose eyes there still shone a humorous twinkle.\n\n\"Those Arlings seem to be pretty much of a piece,\" said he; \"they both\ngive better than they take, when it comes to blows.  However, the\nItalians say, _Tutto s'accommoda, eccetto l'osso del collo_,--that\nmeans, Everything can be mended except the neck-bone.  Yours has come\nsafe out of this fray, but there's no telling how long 'twill stay so,\nif you're so ready with your pistol.\"\n\n\"Pshaw!\" exclaimed Doctor Remy, angrily.  \"I am in no mood for jesting.\nDo you suppose that Arling got any clue to our business in that den?\"\n\n\"How should he?--'A man doesn't look behind the door unless he has been\nthere himself.'  Besides, Mr. Arling minds his own business,--which I\nwish I did!--then I shouldn't have run from him like a dog caught\nstealing.  By the way, Doctor, if the Major makes another will, which\ncuts the throat of this one of ours, I suppose the forgery goes for\nnothing?\"\n\nDoctor Remy looked at him darkly.  \"What do you mean?\" he asked.  \"Is\nhe thinking of making another?\"\n\n\"Not that I know of,\" replied Dick.  \"But, 'At the game's end, see who\nwins.'  There is time for him to make a dozen before he dies.\"\n\n\"We will see about that!\" muttered the doctor.\n\n\"And if he does,\" persisted Dick, \"our will goes for naught, of\ncourse,--won't even be looked at, I suppose.  They'll 'trust to the\nlabel of the bag,' seeing there's no necessity for opening it!\"\n\nDoctor Remy stopped short, and eyed his companion suspiciously, \"See\nhere, Dick,\" said he, in a low, determined tone, \"you had better not\nventure to try any double dealing with me.  I will have you to know\nthat I can put you in prison, any day; and I will do it, too, even\nthough I have to go along with you, if you falter one step in the\ncourse I have marked out for you.  Having begun with me in this\nbusiness, you will find it for your interest, in more senses than one,\nto help me through with it.\"\n\n\"That is to say,\" muttered Dick, ruefully, \"_Die met den duivel\ningescheept is, moet met hem overvaren_,--Having embarked with the\nDevil, you have got to sail with him.\"\n\nThe sound of that word \"prison\" was by no means agreeable in his ears.\nHe had all a vagabond's love for open air and sunshine, and liberty to\ngo and come at his own fitful will.  He sickened at the bare idea of\nprison walls between him and the sky, prison bars between him and the\nfresh, roving air, prison restraints upon his freedom of action.\n\nDoctor Remy saw the impression that he had made, and\nproceeded:--\"Wherefore, if you hear, or have heard, the Major express\nany intention of making a new will, I need not suggest the propriety of\nyour giving me immediate warning.\"  The form of the sentence was that\nof an assertion, but the tone was interrogative.\n\n\"_Dictum sapienti sat est_,\" answered Dick, sulkily, denying himself\nthe pleasure of translating, and immediately closing his lips tight, as\nif he dared not trust himself to say another word.\n\nIn this mood, Doctor Remy thought it better not to press him further.\nHe had been made to see that he was in his power, and had even yielded\na reluctant assent to his will; this was gain enough for the present.\nSo, having reached the point where the roads diverged, he bade Dick a\nsmiling \"Good-day,\" turned off toward the Hall; which, it occurred to\nhim, it might be worth while to visit, for the chance of securing\nuseful shreds of information, or of substituting the false will for the\ntrue one.\n\nDick Causton looked after him with a moody, discontented brow.  \"I am\nlike a leek, a gray head, and all the rest green,\" he groaned to\nhimself.  \"I thought I had made a mighty sharp bargain, but it turns\nout that I've only sold myself to the Devil, to fetch and carry at his\nbidding.  I really gave myself credit for more sense; but, _Do entra\nbeber, sale saber_, When the drink's in, the wit's out.\"\n\nWith the last words, Dick heaved a deep sigh.  It was nothing new to\nfind that his darling sin was an inclined plane, down which he\ncontinually slid into the grasp of divers other sins, less to his\ntaste; but never before had it done him so unkind a trick as to fling\nhim into the hands of a man quick to see, and unscrupulous to use, the\nchance of turning him to account.  Yet so completely had all courage\nand energy of will died out of him, and so thoroughly was he scared at\nthe idea of a prison as a possible termination of his career, that he\ndared propose to himself only a feeble and covert resistance to Doctor\nRemy's stern domination.  There was present safety in outward\nsubmission; and as for the future!--he smiled in spite of his\ndiscomfiture.\n\nAt the Hall, Doctor Remy was a little startled to find Major Bergan in\nthe clutch of so severe an attack of delirium tremens that death was\nlikely to be the speedy result.  It did not suit his plans that the\nMajor's decease should follow so quickly upon the completion of the\nforged will; he wanted a little more time to mark out and make smooth\nhis future course, and obliterate his more recent track.  He therefore\nset to work, with right good will, and science considerably in advance\nof the times, to strengthen and quiet his patient, and so prolong his\nlife; certain that, whenever the strong hand of medical authority was\nwithdrawn, he would immediately drink himself into a relapse, which\ncould be allowed to prove fatal.  His efforts were not without a\nmeasure of success; in three hours, he had so far reduced the fever and\nexcitement that he ventured to leave Rue in charge, while he paid a\nbrief visit to another patient, who had sent for him four or five times\nduring the evening.  This desertion of his post was fatal to him.  In\nspite of Rue's best endeavors, Major Bergan succeeded in getting\npossession of the brandy bottle, and draining it to the last drop.\nWhen Doctor Remy returned, it was to find him once more a raving\nmaniac, and to learn to his consternation, that Bergan had been sent\nfor.  The Major would die, there was no help for that; but something\nmust be done to prevent the arrival of his nephew until after the true\nwill--and all other wills--had been found and destroyed, and the false\none put in its place;--even, if possible, until after the funeral was\nover, the will read, and the property put into his own hands.  Once in\npossession, he had reason to believe that he could not, or would not,\nbe disturbed.\n\nHis stay at the Major's bedside was short, and principally spent in\nprofound meditation; which was set down by the lookers-on to the\naccount of his deep solicitude for the patient.  His course was soon\ndecided upon.  In less than two hours he was back at the Rat-Hole, in\ndeep conversation with the convalescent, who was known as \"Big Ben.\"\nIts purport may be gathered from the closing remarks.\n\n\"You hit pretty hard, I suppose,\" said the doctor.\n\n\"Looks like it, don't it?\" returned Big Ben, holding up his great fist\nfor inspection, with a satisfied smile.  \"Make yourself easy; yonder\nlawyer won't trouble you with any cross-questions for a month to come,\nI'll promise you that.  He won't know his head from a bread-and-milk\npoultice to-morrow morning, if he ever does.\"\n\n\"Take care!\" replied the doctor, warningly; \"you know I don't want him\nkilled,--only laid up for two or three weeks, and indisposed to meddle\nwith other people's affairs.\"\n\nBig Ben smiled grimly.  \"I'll take care not to do more than stun him,\non your account, doctor,\" he answered; \"but I don't say what I shall\ndo, on my brother's.  A fellow don't always weight his blows exactly to\nsuit the skull they hit; and if I should happen to put an end to him,\nwithout meaning it, you wouldn't take it much to heart, would ye?\"\n\nDoctor Remy did not move a muscle of his face, but his eyes sparkled,\nin spite of himself.  Ben laughed, and nodded his head.\n\n\"Don't trouble yerself to answer,\" said he; \"I understand you well\nenough without.\"\n\n\"But, Ben--\" began the doctor, in a tone of remonstrance.\n\n\"Enough said,\" interrupted the ruffian, impatiently.  \"If it's me\nyou're afeard for, I'll jest let you know that I've got everything\nfixed to leave these parts, to-morrow morning--I've heard of a better\nopening for my talents--so I shall be off before this affair leaks out.\nAs for you, who knows that you've got anything to do with it?  It's\njest our own private squarin' of accounts; that's all.  You saved my\nlife; I squelch this lawyer for you.  At the same time I settle up with\nhim, for my brother.  If I swing for't, I'm not such a scoundrel as to\nbring you in.  Now, I'm off; there's scant time to fix things, and get\nto the Hall by day-break.  It's too late, you think, to stop him on the\nway?\"\n\n\"Most certainly; he must have started before this.\"\n\n\"And his room is on the south-east corner, you say?\"\n\n\"Yes, with windows opening on the second piazza.\"\n\n\nHowever,--thanks to Carice,--the room was empty when Big Ben and his\ncompanion looked into it.  Determined not to be baffled thus, he\nprowled around the house, until he was detected by Rue's quick ears in\nthe hall, and asked what was his business; when he truthfully replied\nthat he was seeking for Mr. Arling.  Hearing this, Doctor Gerrish came\nforward, stated where Bergan could probably be found, and entrusted Ben\nwith the message, which, as we have seen, was scrupulously delivered.\nBergan was then knocked down; and the inanimate body was dragged by the\ntwo ruffians to what seemed to be a remote point of the Oakstead\ngrounds, where it would not be likely to be discovered for some hours,\nperhaps days.  There, Ben debated within himself, for a minute, whether\nhe would leave it its small remaining chance of life; but he remembered\nthat Bergan had seen both himself and his comrade face to face, and\nwould be able to identify them, on occasion.  He drew his knife,\nmuttered, \"Dead men tell no tales,\" and sheathed it in the young man's\nbreast.\n\nAs he stood upright, his ear caught the faint jar of a closing door,\nfollowed by the sound of slow footsteps, and a cracked voice humming a\nsong.  Apparently, the spot which he had chosen, lonely as it seemed,\nwas not far from some human dwelling.  He and his companion exchanged\nstartled glances, plunged into the underbrush, and fled silently and\nswiftly.\n\n\n\n\nIII.\n\nFATALITY OR TEMPTATION?\n\nDoctor Remy, meanwhile, had made all possible speed from the Rat-Hole\nto the bedside of a third patient; in order that his time, on that\nnight, might seem to be sufficiently accounted for by his professional\nvisits.  His horse was swift, and he had not spared it in his recent\nexpedition; it would seem impossible that he should have been at points\nso wide apart, within so short a time.  By this means he expected to\nsecure himself from Justice, in her human shape; of her divine form, he\nhad no thought nor fear.  Yet, all the way, a voice from the Past,\nwhich sounded curiously like his own, kept echoing in his ears, with a\ndull, dead intonation,--\"Crime is a mistake.\"\n\nWell, suppose that it was, he had committed no crime.  He had merely\nplaced a particular powder, among many others, where a drunken old man,\nwhose life was of no moment to anybody, could take it or not, at\npleasure; he had altered a will in such manner as to give him absolute,\ninstead of partial, control of a certain property, which he intended to\nuse for the advance of science and the benefit of the race; and he had\nprovided for the temporary elimination from affairs of a person likely\nto obstruct their proper sequence.  That was all.  What was there in it\nto cause such a chill depression of spirits,--such an unreasoning dread\nof--he knew not what?\n\nNothing, we may be sure, that was patent to the doctor's science.\nRegarding right merely as another term for custom, policy, expediency,\nand conscience as a softer name for cowardice, he was not likely to\ndiscern clearly, nor explain correctly, phenomena by which even a lost\nsoul now and then asserts itself as of another nature than its\ntabernacle of dust, subject to other laws, responsive to other\ninfluences, thrilled with other pangs, fears, and longings.\nNevertheless, he sought for an answer to his question, and found a\nplausible one in the fact that he was physically weary, and therefore\nmentally ill at ease.  The night, too, was cool for the season, no\nwonder that some of its chill had gotten into his mind as well as his\nbones!  He buttoned his overcoat more closely around him, and spurred\non his flagging horse.\n\nYet he did not shut out the shiver, nor distance the uneasiness.  Some\nimportunate Cassandra of the depths still insisted upon its clearness\nof vision, in respect to impending calamity.  Troubled in spite of\nhimself, he passed his recent operations in careful review, to see if\nhe had left any loophole open to invite detection or impediment.  None.\nOn the contrary, all seemed safe and propitious.  The Major was dying,\nor dead, in consequence of his own self-will and folly.  Bergan Arling\nwould shortly be disabled, or killed,--but by another man's hand, and\nostensibly--really, even, in part--to gratify another man's thirst for\nrevenge.  The Major's will had been found and destroyed; and\nanother--its exact counterpart, except for the omission of a few absurd\nconditions and restrictions--had been put in its place.  A few days\nmore, and the vast and valuable Bergan estate would be his own, and\navailable to his ends.  If his road to its possession had not been what\nmen accounted straight and clean, whose fault was it?  Had he not, in\nvirtue of his marked talents and abilities, a better right to wealth\nand fame than most men?--and was he to blame for the fatality which\nalways placed some other life or heart between them and him?  Had he\nnot done his best to escape from it?  Had he not tried more legitimate\nmeans to gain them, and failed?\n\nIf the doctor had been less intent upon special pleading, he might have\nreminded himself that the records of crime show that a man seldom stops\nwith the commission of a single theft, forgery, murder, or other\noffence.  The first one being the necessary sequence of an evil habit\nof living or thinking, a second and a third follow as unavoidably as a\nstrict logical inference from admitted premises.  Might not the\nfatality of which he complained be but the inevitable result of\nindulging a certain kind of thought until it became a settled habit of\nmind, sure to manifest itself, on occasion, in appropriate action?  Had\nnot this fatality first presented itself to him as a temptation,\nsuggesting a swift means to a desired end?--nay, was it not such still,\nonly treading more confidently a familiar track, and finding a readier\nreception?\n\nHe had no time to answer these queries, if it had occurred to him to\nask them;--he was already at his destination.  With a mighty effort of\nhis will, he tore himself free of his anxieties and doubts, and bent\nhis mind steadily upon the surgical operation which he had come to\nperform; and he performed it well, with a clear eye and a steady hand.\nHe then went on to his office, where he found Bergan's summons to the\ndeath-bed waiting for him; in apparent obedience to which, he soon\nafter presented himself at the Hall.\n\nIn the avenue, he met Doctor Gerrish, who, having lost all patience at\nBergan's unaccountable tardiness, had finally started for home.  He\ninstantly turned back with Doctor Remy, and waited silently, with an\nair of deep gravity, while the latter made a brief examination of the\ncorpse.  At first sight of it, he gave a little start; and when he had\nfinished his inspection, he stood silent and thoughtful.  He had\nsneeringly committed a certain powder, he remembered, to the disposal\nof \"Providence;\" it struck him as a little odd that it should have been\nkept so long, and finally used only to put a merciful end to intense\nbodily and mental torture.  Was there really a Power overruling the\nacts of men, whether good or evil, to His own purposes?\n\n\"Well!\" said Doctor Gerrish, growing tired of the prolonged silence,\n\"what do you think of it?\"\n\nDoctor Remy raised his eyes, and met the meaning glance of his\ncolleague.  \"You suspect--\" he began slowly, and then paused, as if not\nquite willing to put his thought into words.\n\n\"Poison,\" returned Doctor Gerrish, promptly.  \"Not a doubt of it.  The\nquestion is, where did he get it--who gave it to him?  Is it accident,\nor suicide, or murder?  What are we to do about it?\"\n\nDoctor Remy looked down thoughtfully.  He was at a loss how to treat\nthis new complication.  He had not expected it; he knew not how best to\nweave it into the intricate web of his plans; he wanted time to\nconsider whether it could be turned to advantage.\n\n\"Your last question is the only one that I can answer,\" he said, at\nlength,--\"let us wait.  There are many things to be considered.  In the\nfirst place the poison only hastened the death that was certain to come\nsoon, anyway.\"\n\n\"Are you sure of that?\"\n\n\"Perfectly so.  When I left the Major last night, I knew that he must\nbe a dead man by morning.  He had taken no poison then,--except the\nslow one that he has been taking for years.\"\n\n\"Nevertheless,\" persisted Doctor Gerrish, \"it was not _that_ poison\nwhich killed him.\"\n\n\"I suppose there was no one present, when he died, except the\nservants,\" remarked Doctor Remy.\n\n\"And Mr. Arling,\" answered Doctor Gerrish.\n\nDoctor Remy lifted his eyebrows.  \"That looks bad,\" said he, gravely.\n\"He is the heir, I suppose?\"\n\n\"If you mean that it looks bad for Mr. Arling,\" returned Doctor\nGerrish, \"I do not agree with you.  It was he who sent for me; and he\npromised to meet me here soon.\"\n\n\"Why is he not here, then?\" asked Doctor Remy, pointedly.\n\n\"I cannot tell.  He must have been unexpectedly detained.\"\n\nDoctor Remy closed his lips like a man who forbears to argue, but is\nnot convinced.\n\nDoctor Gerrish went to the door and called Rue, who had been desired to\nwait outside during the examination.\n\n\"Did you notice anything unusual about your master's death?\" he\ninquired.\n\n\"I thought he died very sudden like,\" answered Rue; \"and so I think did\nMr. Arling, for he immediately said that Doctor Remy, or some one else,\nmust be sent for, and gave very particular directions that the body\nshould not be disturbed before he arrived.\"\n\nDoctor Gerrish shot a triumphant glance at Doctor Remy, who only\nsmiled, shook his head, and interrogated Rue, in his turn.\n\n\"What did your master take last?\"\n\n\"A powder.  He insisted upon having it.\"\n\n\"Where is the glass from which he took it?\"\n\n\"Here, sir; but it has been washed.\"\n\nSo it had, and so carefully that there was nothing to show what its\ncontents had been.  It also appeared that the paper in which the powder\nhad been folded, had been used to light a candle, and was burned to\nashes.\n\nDoctor Gerrish took up the examination:--\"Are there any more powders\nlike it?\"\n\n\"One, sir;--here it is.  I think master said he had them from Doctor\nRemy.\"\n\nDoctor Remy bent his head in assent, thankful that no vestige of the\nfatal powder was left, to make the admission dangerous.  The remaining\none, being examined, was proved to be innocuous.  Doctor Gerrish looked\npuzzled.\n\n\"You see,\" said Doctor Remy, \"that it comes back to what I said\nfirst,--we must wait.  That is, until we can consult with the dead\nman's brother and nephew.  At what hour this afternoon will it be\nconvenient for you to meet them, and me, here?\"\n\n\"At any hour you please.\"\n\n\"Say three o'clock, then.  I will answer for Mr. Bergan's appearance.\nOf course, Mr. Arling will be back--if ever--long before that time.\"\n\nFrom the Hall, Doctor Remy hastened to Oakstead.  There was an unusual\nquietude about the place, and he was met at the door by Mrs. Bergan,\nwith her finger on her lips, and the low-spoken information that, after\nan excessively restless night, causing them all a good deal of trouble\nand uneasiness, Carice had fallen into a deep sleep, and must not be\ndisturbed.  Would he be good enough to step noiselessly into the\nparlor, and speak low?\n\nShe did her best not to seem less cordial than usual; nevertheless, it\ndid not escape the doctor's lynx-eyed observation that her tone and\nmanner were forced.  He pondered briefly within himself what this might\nmean; but finally set it down to motherly anxiety for Carice, and a\nconsequent desire to get rid of him as quickly and quietly as possible.\nHe was willing to gratify the wish; he had too much upon his mind and\nhands, just now, to bestow much thought or time upon Carice.  He could\nsafely leave her case to run its own course until after she had been\ndeclared the owner of Bergan Hall; then it would be for his interest to\nhasten her return to reason, since it was to her reason only--her\nstrict notions of right, and her devotion to duty--that he must look\nfor an acknowledgment of his claims as a husband, his right to control\nherself and her property.  He did not flatter himself that he had any\nstrong hold upon her affections.\n\n\"Certainly, she must not be disturbed,\" he replied to Mrs. Bergan,\nafter a brief pause.  \"Sleep, in her condition, poor child! is the best\nof restoratives; it also shows a decided change for the better.  My\npresent business is with her father; is he in?\"\n\n\"No; he went out a short time since.  He may be in the grounds, or he\nmay have gone to the Hall.\"\n\n\"Then he has heard of his brother's death?\"\n\n\"Yes, the news came early this morning.\"\n\n\"It is not necessary for me to stop, then.  Please say to him that I\nhave engaged that he shall meet Doctor Gerrish, Mr. Arling, and myself,\nat the Hall this afternoon, at three o'clock, for an important\nconsultation; I beg that he will not fail us.  Good morning.  Let me\nknow if any change takes place in Carice; for I am likely to be so very\nbusy for a day or two, that I may not present myself unless sent for.\nI was not in bed at all last night, and probably shall not be to-night.\nA physician's life is a slavish one.\"\n\n\"Yet you like it,\" replied Mrs. Bergan, feeling that she must say\nsomething.\n\n\"Not the general practice; I like the science.  Good morning, again.\"\n\n\n\n\nIV.\n\nBLIND.\n\nMr. Bergan, meanwhile, had gone over to the Hall, partly to give a\nregretful look at his brother's dead face, and partly to have some\nfurther talk with Bergan.  Thick-growing memories beset him, at every\nstep of the way; and, the goal being reached, he had ample opportunity\nto reflect upon the sin and folly of family feuds, the miserably thin\nbarriers which suffice to keep apart those who ought to be one in\naffection and interest, as in blood.  He had not been very much to\nblame for their erection between him and his brother, but he regretted\nnone the less that he had not wrought more perseveringly and lovingly\nto break them down.  There had always been a generous side to Harry's\ncharacter, which might have been successfully appealed to, at least in\nthe earlier stages of the quarrel; his own influence might have been\nexerted for good; the dreary, empty Hall might still have been a\npleasant home; this lonely death-couch might have been sweetened by the\ntender touch and tears of kindred hands and hearts, and sanctified by\nthe gentle benedictions of religion.  It all might have been--it could\nnever be now!  Death had closed every door to reconciliation and\namendment, and written over each the mournful legend, \"Too Late!\"\n\nHe turned from the corpse to ask for Bergan, and was surprised to learn\nthat nothing was known of him at the Hall since he had retired to his\nroom just before day-break, further than that Doctor Gerrish had\nmentioned meeting him at Oakstead.  However, being informed that two\nmen had inquired for him, and been sent to meet him, he took it for\ngranted that some unexpected emergency had compelled him to hasten back\nto Savalla, at a moment's notice; he would be sure to return by\nafternoon, or send some explanation of his absence.\n\nMeantime, Mr. Bergan was forced to fill the gap created by his\ndeparture; indeed, until his brother's will should be made known, he\nwas both his natural and legal representative, he appointed the time,\nand decided the manner, of the funeral; he sent for a lawyer, and had\nseals affixed to all drawers and boxes likely to contain papers of\nvalue; he gave orders for the lower rooms to be cleaned and fitted, as\nfar as might be, for the lying in state, and the reception of\nguests;--in short, he was kept busy until long past noon, when he was\nfain to go home for rest and refreshment, as well as to satisfy himself\nof the state of Carice.  She was still sleeping peacefully, and there\nwas no cause for alarm.\n\nReturning to the Hall, at a few minutes past three, he found the two\nphysicians waiting in the library, but no sign or tidings of Bergan.\n\n\"Where can my nephew be?\" he exclaimed in perplexity and even\ndispleasure.\n\n\"It is certainly very strange,\" replied Doctor Gerrish, gravely.\n\nDoctor Remy said nothing; but he shrugged his shoulders in a manner\nsufficiently expressive of disapprobation.\n\nYet he would have been glad to be able to answer the question,--at\nleast to himself.  He was completely in the dark as to how Big Ben and\nhis confederate had prospered in their evil undertaking.  He knew that\nBergan had not been found in his room, as was expected; but why he had\ngone forth so early, and whether he had encountered the ruffians, was\naltogether a mystery.  All day, he had been holding himself ready for\nwhatever might come,--Bergan's sudden appearance in the flesh, or the\nbringing in of his dead body, or a summons to go and afford him medical\naid;--he did not mean to be taken off his guard, in any case.  But the\nsuspense was trying.  It had not been contemplated in his original\nplan; it kept his mind and nerves continually on the stretch; it gave\nhim an uncomfortable feeling that other hands than his own were busy\nwith the dark threads of his schemes, weaving them into patterns that\nhe had not designed.  He longed to know precisely what he had to hope\nor to dread.\n\nStill, every moment of Bergan's absence was reasonable ground for\nbelief that Big Ben had not only carried out his purpose of revenge to\nthe full, but had succeeded wonderfully well in obliterating all trace\nof his work.  So much the better.  Bergan once removed from his path,\nit would become tolerably smooth and direct.\n\n\"I suppose that we shall have to proceed to business without my nephew,\nsince he is not come,\" said Mr. Bergan, after a prolonged pause.  \"May\nI ask what is the object of this meeting?\"\n\nThe answer to this question, although very gently given by Doctor\nGerrish, was, of course, a severe shock; all the more, because Doctor\nRemy took care to throw in a covert insinuation that Bergan's absence\nbetrayed some guilty connection with the disastrous event; bethinking\nhimself that, in case the young man should escape Big Ben, he could be\ngotten rid of all the same, for the present, by being arrested for\nmurder.\n\nDoctor Gerrish, however, repelled the insinuation, as he had done\nbefore.  \"To my mind,\" said he, \"everything points to the opposite\nconclusion.  If Mr. Arling had anything to gain by poisoning his uncle,\nhe must have gained it by staying here, and not by flight.  Besides, he\nis too intelligent a man not to know that such flight would, in itself,\narouse suspicion, and imply guilt.  Having given the matter a good deal\nof thought, since morning, I have decided that the poisoning must have\nbeen accidental.  However, we will, with your permission, call in that\nold 'Maumer' and examine her a little more minutely than we did before.\nI have thought of several questions that it would be well to ask.\"\n\nRue was accordingly summoned from her faithful watch over her dead\nmaster.  She declared positively that she had been with him from an\nearly stage of his attack, until his death; and that he had taken only\nthe medicines and food ordered by Doctor Remy, except the untimely\ndrink of brandy, and the afore-mentioned powder.  He had swallowed\nnothing whatever after the arrival of Mr. Arling,--not even the brandy\nfor which he had called with almost his last breath.\n\n\"That certainly clears Mr. Arling,\" remarked Doctor Gerrish, in a low\nvoice.\n\n\"H'm--perhaps so,\" rejoined Doctor Remy, meditatively.  \"Still, it is\nevidence not worth a rush, you know, in a court of law.\"\n\n\"It is evidence perfectly satisfactory to me, nevertheless,\" interposed\nMr. Bergan, firmly, \"and may be so to you.  I, as having known Maumer\nRue from my infancy, can vouch for her trustworthiness.  Her testimony\nis as good as mine, or yours.\"\n\n\"Well, you ought to know best,\" returned Doctor Remy, carelessly.\n\"Still, the woman is old and blind, and cannot be expected to know all\nthat goes on in her presence.  Major Bergan might have swallowed\nhalf-a-dozen things without her knowledge.\"\n\nRue had fallen into the back-ground, during this discussion; but she\nnow stepped forward and faced Doctor Remy, drawing herself up, and\nsmiling scornfully.\n\n\"Blind, am I?\" she asked; \"I am not so blind as those who have eyes,\nDoctor Remy.  No one _saw_ you open my master's private drawer last\nevening, during his worst paroxysm, but I heard you open and shut it,\ndistinctly, and the rustling of papers, too.\"\n\nIf Doctor Remy was both surprised and startled, he concealed it well,\nthanks to the guard that he was keeping over himself.  He merely looked\nat his companions, and said, disdainfully; \"Of course, such a charge,\nfrom such a source, is too ridiculous to be contradicted.  The poor old\nwoman has mistaken one sound for another; that is all.\"\n\n\"It is people who live by sight that mistake sounds, Doctor Remy,\"\nreturned Rue, composedly; \"a woman, who has lived by hearing for over\nsixty years, does not.  Let me give you a proof of it.  These gentlemen\nlisten to your voice, as I do, and they do not hear anything unusual in\nit,--nothing more than the seriousness, or the coldness, or the scorn,\nthat fits the words; but I hear in it anxiety and perplexity and\nsuspense and fear.  Since Mr. Arling has been missing, I have suspected\nthat you could tell us what had become of him, if you would.  But while\nyou have been talking about him here, my ears have been watching your\nvoice, your steps, your very breath; and I know now that you do not\nknow where he is any more than we do.  You are puzzled because he does\nnot come; you are continually expecting--I will not say, dreading--to\nsee him, or hear of him.  Is it not so?\"\n\n\"And if it is,\" answered Doctor Remy, coolly, \"what is there strange\nabout it?  Why should I not be puzzled at his unaccountable\ndisappearance, and anxious for his speedy return?\"\n\n\"Anxious?\" she repeated, with a low laugh; \"yes, you are anxious; but\nit will avail you nothing.  Go your way, rummage drawers and cupboards,\nyou will not find what you seek; plot and sin, you will not get what\nyou covet.  Blinder of understanding than I am of eyes, you dig, and\nknow not that it is a pit for your own feet; you plant and water, and\nnever remember that the expectations of the wicked shall be cut off.\nMaster Bergan will come back, and have his own, in spite of you!\"\n\n\"I am very glad to hear it,\" responded Doctor Remy, with mock\nearnestness.  Then he turned to his companions.  \"Her master's death\nhas set her wits to wool-gathering,\" said he.  \"Have we any more time\nto listen to her maunderings?\"\n\nRue opened her lips for a rejoinder, but Mr. Bergan, thinking that the\nscene had lasted long enough, though he had not been unimpressed by it,\nlaid his hand on her arm.  Instantly acknowledging his authority, as\none of the family, she bent her head, and retired without a word.\n\nDoctor Gerrish took out his watch.  \"I shall soon have to leave,\" said\nhe.  \"Mr. Bergan, what is to be done about this business?  I suppose it\nis our duty to report it to the authorities.\"\n\n\"If you are willing to be guided by my wishes,\" Mr. Bergan replied,\nafter some consideration, \"you will say nothing at present.  I have no\ndisposition to conceal a murder, if one has been committed; but, as you\nhave well remarked, all the circumstances indicate that the poison was\ntaken or administered accidentally.  Nevertheless, there is room for\nevil minded persons to set afloat injurious reports concerning my\nnephew, while he is absent, and unable to defend himself; or these\nfaithful servants of my brother, who, I am convinced, would not have\npoisoned him any sooner than I would, may be subjected to a deal of\ncruelty, from the fact that he was alone with them, much of the time,\nand their evidence, as Doctor Remy has reminded us, is worth nothing in\nlaw.  Let the funeral go on, without hindrance; the body will be laid\nin the family vault, where it can be examined, and the presence of\npoison proved, at any time, if it becomes necessary.  And it just\noccurs to me, as a possible explanation of my nephew's absence, that he\nmay have gotten hold of some clue to this affair, and be following it\nup before it has time to cool.  Let us wait until he appears, before we\nmake any stir that may only thwart his efforts.\"\n\n\"Very well,\" said Doctor Gerrish.  \"My own preference is always for an\nopen, straightforward course; but if you think this one more expedient,\nunder the circumstances, and will take the responsibility of it, I will\nnot interfere.  Good day.\"\n\n\n\n\nV.\n\nMORE MYSTERY.\n\nThe funeral was over.  Major Bergan, with due pomp and circumstance of\nwoe, had been laid in the tomb of his forefathers, and left to mingle\nhis ashes with theirs.  Of all his possessions, he retained for his own\nbehoof simply a shroud and a coffin.  No good work of Church or State\nwould miss his helping hand.  He left no real, aching vacancy in any\nhuman heart.  His imposing funeral train scattered to houses, places of\nbusiness, and street corners, some to forget the event at once, in the\nabsorbing interest of their own affairs; some to talk it over, and\nthen--forget it all the same.  Two or three remote cousins, sniffing\nthe air for legacies, went back to the Hall, to wait for the reading of\nthe will, and, meanwhile, to finish the funeral baked meats.  Mr.\nBergan had bidden them make themselves at home, and excused himself\nfrom accompanying them: being greatly fatigued with the manifold duties\nand emotions of the day, he was fain to spend the intervening time\nquietly at Oakstead.\n\nHe found Carice on the piazza; she had been wheeled out in an easy\nchair, to enjoy the beneficent air and sunshine.  She was pale and\nfeeble, but the light of restored reason shone in her eyes, and gave\nanimation and intelligence to their expression.  Also--light being the\nmother of shadow--it imparted to them a deep seriousness.  She had\ntaken up the problem of life precisely where it had dropped with her\ninto the river, on the night of her wedding,--unconscious, as yet, of\nthe length of the blank between,--and addressed herself to its solution\nwith a clearer brain and a firmer courage.  She reflected that, in the\neyes of the world and the estimation of the law, she was Doctor Remy's\nwife.  She had publicly entered into that relation, without denial or\nprotest; solemnly taking him as her husband, for better for worse, till\ndeath them should part.  Did the fact that he had been accused of a\nterrible crime, absolve her from this vow?  Did it not rather make it\nmore imperatively her duty to stand by him; to help him with her\ncountenance and sympathy, if he were innocent; to influence him to\nrepentance and confession, if he were guilty?  Was she to think only of\nher happiness, not at all of his good?  Had he not a soul that might\nstill be saved, as God had saved the world, by love?\n\nHard questions these,--demanding for their consideration a clear head,\nand a heart at once tender and strong.  Carice, being now fully\nherself, had both; yet she might well delay coming to a decision so\nmomentous.  She was glad when her father's arrival broke the thread of\nher meditations; albeit, it was only to give her a fresh subject of\nanxiety.  He looked so strangely old and worn,--it struck her with new\nwonder, new alarm, at every sight of him!  How was it possible for him\nto change so much in the two or three days that she believed her\nunconsciousness to have lasted, even though weighed down by the anxiety\nconsequent upon his interview with Bergan?--an interview which could\nnot have been without definite result, since she saw nothing of Doctor\nRemy.  Indeed, his name had been mentioned to her but once, and then in\nterms of manifest constraint, though of apparent excuse for his\nabsence.  No doubt her father had taken the thought of his possible\nguilt very sorely to heart; no doubt, too, he blamed himself severely\nfor his advocacy of the marriage.  She must not let him do that!  She\nknew so well that he had meant it for the best,--that he had erred in\njudgment only, never in intention,--that pure, strong, unselfish love\nfor her had been the deep motive of his every act.  Her heart was very\ntender, very pitiful, toward him as he came up the gravel-walk, with\nthat slow, stooping gait, and those sudden gray hairs, which made her\nfeel, every time that she saw him, as if she must have been dreaming\nfor years, or was dreaming now.\n\nHe brightened visibly at sight of her.  He was thankful, with all his\nheart, for her restoration, even though it but served to increase his\nperplexities.  For how was she to be given to understand, without a\nharmful shook, that a year of her life had passed her by, and made no\nsign?  With what face could he break it to her that the man whom he had\nurged upon her as a husband, was likely to prove a murderer?  What\nanswer was he to make when she inquired after Bergan, as he was\nconstantly expecting her to do?\n\nNeedless anxieties, all, as he would duly discover.  Carice was already\nfeeling her way to the truth, as regarded the lapse of time, by means\nof the incomprehensible changes that she saw about her; it would not so\nmuch shock her as satisfy her with a reasonable explanation of them.\nThe accusation against Doctor Remy would be no surprise to her; on the\ncontrary, its dark shadow continually fell athwart her mind, and\nprompted or modified all her thoughts.  Moreover, as long as her duty\nto Doctor Remy was in question, she conscientiously checked every\nthought, every wish, every emotion of curiosity even, that wandered\ntoward Bergan.  Knowing nothing of all this, however, and fearing lest\nshe should seize upon this opportunity to ask for the full explanation\nthat he was so loath to make, Mr. Bergan began a lengthened account of\nthe funeral ceremonies.  He had deemed it wise to tell her of her\nuncle's death, both as affording a good excuse for postponing other\nmatters, and as a reason for his own troubled and abstracted face.\n\nHe was still busy with this theme, doing his best to imitate the\ngold-beater's art of making a little material cover a large space, when\nhe heard a footfall behind him, on the gravel walk.  Looking quickly\nround, he was delighted to behold his nephew coming up the steps, just\nas he had first seen him two years before, with the same half-eager,\nhalf-hesitating expression of one who feels himself at once a relative\nand a stranger; yet mingled in the present instance, with what seemed\nan inappropriate sternness.  The sight of him was none the less a\nrelief to his uncle.\n\n\"Thank Heaven! you are come at last, Bergan!\" he exclaimed, starting up\nto go and meet him.\n\nBut Carice put forth a staying hand,--the eyes of love are not so\neasily deceived.  \"You mistake, father,\" she said, in a low and\nhalf-frightened voice, \"this is not Bergan, though he is like him.\"\n\nThe new comer took off his hat, and bowed low.  \"No, I am not Bergan; I\nam Hubert,\" he said, but with no friendliness of tone or manner.  \"And\nyou, I suppose, are my uncle Godfrey.  I am come to look for my\nbrother.  What have you done with him among you?  Where can I find that\nvillanous Doctor Remy, who, four days ago, made one attempt on his life\n(or on mine, mistaking me for him), and has now probably--\"\n\nHe was startled and silenced by a low, pathetic cry of that found an\ninstant way to his heart, despite its armor of prejudice and anger.  At\nthe same moment, Carice fell, white and insensible, across the arm of\nher chair.\n\n\"You have killed her,\" said Mr. Bergan, not resentfully, but with the\nstill resignation of a man who feels that fate has done its worst for\nhim, and there is little left to dread, and to hope.\n\n\"Indeed, I trust not,\" replied Hubert, earnestly, dismayed at the\nmischief that he had done, as well as softened by the sweet, death-like\nface, which, he now knew, was not only the one that still kept its\nplace in Bergan's memory, and would not be cast out, but was correlated\nto a heart not less interested than his own in Bergan's fate.  \"I think\nshe has only fainted.  Let me take her in, while you summon assistance.\"\n\nAnd without waiting for either consent or remonstrance, he lifted her\nin his strong arms, and carried her to the library.  Almost\nimmediately, she showed signs of returning animation.  He then withdrew\nto the piazza, where Mr. Bergan shortly joined him; and explanations\nwere mutually given and received.\n\nHubert had duly received the notice of his uncle's funeral.  It had\nstruck him as a little odd at first, that it should be addressed\njointly to his brother and himself; but he set it down as an absurd\nlegal formality, and thought no more about it.  He had intended to ride\nover this morning, in time for the funeral; but just as he was about to\nstart, Mr. Youle had slipped and fallen on the office steps, and\nreceived several severe cuts and bruises; which had made it necessary\nfor him to take him home, and do what he could to assist him and\nreassure his family.  Thus it happened that he had arrived at the Hall\nto find the funeral over, and to learn, to his surprise and alarm, that\nhis brother was not there, and that nothing was known of his\nwhereabouts, except that he was last seen at Oakstead.  There, also, he\nwas told Doctor Remy might be found.  Accordingly he had hastened\nthither.\n\nHe now proposed to commence an immediate, thorough search for his\nbrother.\n\n\"Take my advice,\" said Mr. Bergan, \"and wait a little longer.  I have\nhad, all along, an expectation--or, at least, a hope--that my brother's\nwill would give some clue to all these mysteries.  The time fixed for\nthe reading is now at hand.  Go with me, and be present thereat, as you\nhave a right to be.  Then, if we get any clue, I will do my utmost to\nhelp you follow it out; if we do not, I shall be equally at your\nservice to seek for one elsewhere.\"\n\nChafing at the delay, but unable to suggest anything better to be done,\nHubert accompanied his uncle to the Hall.  In the library they found a\nconsiderable party assembled, discussing Bergan's mysterious\ndisappearance.\n\n\"I hope,\" Doctor Remy was just saying, with apparent concern, \"that\nnothing worse is behind it all, than some foolish whim or\nescapade\"--when, hearing a step at the door, he turned and met Hubert\nArling's stern, threatening gaze.  In spite of his consummate\nself-control, he could not help giving a violent start.  Recollecting\nhimself instantly, however,--inasmuch as he had just heard of Hubert's\nprevious visit,--he came forward and held out his hand.\n\n\"You have deceived me twice, Mr. Arling,\" he said, pleasantly; \"your\nresemblance to your brother is really quite wonderful, and must lead to\nmany entertaining mistakes.  I have to beg your pardon,\" he went on, in\na lower tone, \"for my absurd conduct at our former meeting; I will\nexplain to you, by and by, what I had been led, by some malicious\npersons, to believe that I might expect from your brother; which\nindignity I hastily attempted to forestall.  I have since learned my\nerror, and I now beg you to believe that I have the most friendly\nfeelings toward you both.  I am scarcely less concerned than yourself\nat your brother's absence, on this occasion.\"\n\nHubert drew back.  \"I take no man's hand which I have reason to believe\nis not clean,\" said he, haughtily.  \"As to your relations with my\nbrother, he can settle them with you himself, if he still lives.  If he\ndoes not, I warn you that any man whom I suspect to have been anywise\nconcerned in his death, will meet with little mercy at my hands.\"\n\nDoctor Remy turned livid with anger.  Before he could reply, Mr. Tatum\n(the lawyer whom Mr. Bergan had summoned) rapped on the table to\ncommand attention, and held up the will to view, in order to show that\nthe seals were unbroken.  He then read it, slowly and distinctly.\nAfter a few minor legacies, it gave the bulk of the Major's property\nunconditionally to his niece, Carice Bergan.\n\nThere was a dead silence after the formal voice had ceased.\n\n\"Is that will in due form of law?\" asked Mr. Bergan, breaking the pause.\n\n\"It seems so,\" replied Mr. Tatum; \"it is clearly worded, and duly\nsigned and witnessed.\"\n\n\"I drew it up myself,\" observed Doctor Remy, \"as you see.  It was over\na year ago, before the legatee became my wife.  But I am surprised to\nhear it read on this occasion; I supposed that it grew out of a\nmomentary whim, and had long ago been nullified by some other\ninstrument.\"\n\n\"I am equally surprised,\" remarked Mr. Tatum, \"for the excellent reason\nthat I drew up a very different will myself, only about a fortnight\nsince.  At that time, Major Bergan mentioned this one, or some\nother,--for the provisions of this do not quite answer his\ndescription,--and I advised him to destroy it, in order to prevent any\ntrouble.\"\n\n\"He may have returned to his first mind, and destroyed the second will\ninstead,\" suggested Doctor Remy.\n\n\"I cannot believe it,\" returned Mr. Tatum.  \"Suppose we go in a body,\nand make a fresh search.  Do you know, Mr. Bergan, any other receptacle\nof papers than those already examined?\"\n\n\"I do not,\" replied Mr. Bergan.  \"Perhaps Maumer Rue might; she knows\nthe house, as well as my brother's habits, much better than I do.\"\n\nStrange to say, however, when Rue was sought for, she was nowhere to be\nfound.  As messenger after messenger returned from the chambers, the\nquarter, and the grounds, and reported that no trace of her could be\ndiscovered, Doctor Remy and Mr. Bergan looked at each other in blank\namazement.  This new disappearance was equally startling and suspicious\nto both; each thought that the other must be privy to it; each wondered\nwhat it portended.\n\n\"So much the more reason to search,\" finally said Mr. Tatum; \"we have\ntwo things to look for,--the will and the old woman.\"\n\nHubert Arling rose.  \"I must beg to be excused,\" said he.  \"I have\nneither time nor inclination to search for anybody, or anything, except\nmy brother.\"\n\nMr. Bergan laid his hand warningly on his shoulder.  \"It seems to me,\"\nsaid he, \"that you cannot begin your search better than in this house.\"\n\nThe search began.  Not a corner was left unexplored, not a shadow left\nundisturbed.  Many strange relics of olden time were unearthed, much\nvenerable dust raised, but it was all unavailing, so far as either the\nwill or the blind woman was concerned.\n\nTired and disappointed, they returned to the library.  Then Doctor Remy\nstood forth with the light of triumph shining in his eyes.  He had\nschemed and sinned to some purpose; his reward was sure.\n\n\"I suppose that nothing remains,\" said he, \"but for me to take\npossession of the premises, in the name of my wife.\"\n\nMr. Bergan looked inquiringly at Mr. Tatum.  \"I suppose that is the\nproper thing,\" said the lawyer,--\"at least, as long as the other will\nis not found.\"\n\nHubert's long-repressed impatience here broke forth.  \"Settle this\nmatter as you like,\" said he, \"_I_ am going to look for my brother.\"\n\nHe strode out of the room.  Mr. Bergan hesitated a moment, and then\nfollowed him.  At the door, he was met by a servant from Oakstead, who\ndelivered a message, in a low tone; of which Doctor Remy, who was\nstanding near, caught the words, \"Richard Causton--business of\nimportance.\"  Mr. Bergan listened half-impatiently, gave a brief\nanswer, and hastened after Hubert.\n\nDoctor Remy watched them down the avenue, with a clouded brow.  The\ntriumphant light had gone out in his eyes; a chill premonition of evil\nwas at his heart; already he seemed to feel his prize slipping from his\nhand.  \"Excuse me,\" he said, hurriedly, to those who remained, \"I have\nurgent business to attend to.\"  In another moment he was on his horse,\ngalloping swiftly across the fields.\n\n\n\n\nVI.\n\nHELP AT HAND.\n\nDick Causton's cottage--as it was called by courtesy, being, in truth,\nonly a better sort of cabin--stood on a sandy corner of the estate that\nhe had formerly owned.  At first, he had begged to remain there only\nuntil he could fix upon some more eligible place of abode; but the\nowner was good natured, and Dick was indolent to the point not only of\nletting well enough alone, but bad enough, too; so it gradually came to\nbe understood that he was a life-tenant, by sufferance, of the place.\nNor did the owner deem it worth while to interfere, when, in course of\ntime, Dick made the discovery that the sand composing this small domain\nwas of superior quality, and proceeded to convert it into cash, at the\nrate of two or three pennies a load, and to swallow it a second time,\nin the shape of alcohol.  The process ceased only when the digging\nthreatened to undermine the cottage; which was thus left high and dry\nupon a triangular sand promontory, with a deep excavation on each side.\nThe base of the triangle--a part of it, at least--touched the boundary\nline of Oakstead, very near the point where Bergan had been left for\ndead by \"Big Ben.\"\n\nDick had risen unusually early on that morning.  Owing to his sudden\nflight from the Rat-Hole, he had failed to replenish his stock of\nbrandy, as he had designed; and the small quantity on hand had been\ninsufficient to blunt the thorns in his pillow, planted partly by\nDoctor Remy's threats, and partly by the reproaches of his own\nconscience.  He had tossed about on their sharp points for the better\npart of the night, and was glad when dawn brought such a measure of\nrelief as was to be derived from movement and occupation.  In the\nabsence of stronger stimulant, he was fain to brace his nerves with a\ncup of tea; to which end a fire was unfortunately necessary, and fuel\nmust be sought in the adjoining woods of Oakstead.  While engaged in\nthis task, he, caught sight of a prostrate form, half-hidden in the\nunderbrush.\n\n\"_Quien busca, hallar\u00e1_,--He who seeks will find, but he cannot tell\nwhat,\" he muttered, peevishly.  \"Is the fellow drunk, or only asleep, I\nwonder?\"\n\nHe stole some paces nearer, then gave a start and stopped; he had seen\nblood stains on the man's clothing.  At the same moment, the lines of\nthe figure struck him as familiar, and while he strove to identify\nthem, a light breeze lifted the leaves of an overhanging bush, and\nrevealed an easily recognized profile.  Immediately he was kneeling by\nBergan, trying his best to discover some sign of life.\n\nHe was unsuccessful; yet, thanks to his store of proverbs, he did not\nquite despair.  \"No barber shaves so close that another cannot find\nwork,\" he said, encouragingly, to himself, and bent all his energies to\nthe difficult task of dragging Bergan into his cabin.  He dared not\nwait to call assistance, none being within easy reach; besides, he\nreasoned that the transit, if not too ungently managed, would tend to\nrestoration rather than, otherwise.  Moreover, having at once connected\nDoctor Remy with Bergan's condition, and being thereby inspired with an\ninordinate dread of the doctor's power to harm, he fancied that the\nfirst necessity was to get the young man into a place of concealment.\n\n\"A good heart rids work,\" he murmured exultingly, when, panting and\nexhausted, after many a pause for breath, and many a start of fright,\nhe at length dragged Bergan across his threshold, and closed and locked\nthe door.\n\nHe next applied himself, with good will and not unskilfully, to the\ntask of restoring animation.  The wound, it appeared, had touched no\nvital part--Big Ben's intention having been better than his aim--and,\nbeing helped by the position in which Bergan had lain, it had stanched\nitself.  The blows of Ben's heavy fist had been much more effective.\nDick wellnigh gave up in despair before his efforts were rewarded by\nthe faintest sign that the soul had not forever quitted its earthly\nhouse.  Taking heart then, he worked on till the eyes opened and the\nlips moved, but not with intelligent sight or coherent speech.  The one\nbeheld only the misty phantoms, as the other gave utterance but to the\nwild fancies, of a fevered and delirious imagination.  Now, his uncle's\ndeath-bed was the gloomy subject of Bergan's ravings; now, he beheld\nCarice in danger or distress, and sought to hasten to her relief,\nmaking it necessary for Dick to hold him in bed by main strength.\n\nFor two nights and three days, Dick had thus been forced to keep watch\nover him, not daring to leave him for a moment, lest he should do\nhimself irremediable harm, during his absence.  Nor was he disinclined\nto the task.  Bergan had won all his heart by the courtesy and\nconsideration with which he had uniformly treated him, no less than his\nadmiration by his fearless, upright character.  \"Your nephew has all my\nbest proverbs in his life, whereas, I only have them in my head,\" he\nhad once remarked to the Major, by way of lavishing his choicest\nencomium upon the rejected heir; and he now did his best for the young\nman's comfort and cure, with the somewhat meagre appliances at his\ncommand.  In the way of nourishment, the cabin afforded only a little\ntea and beef broth; in the way of medicine, nothing but two or three\nsoothing herb-drinks, cold water, pure air, and perfect silence.  With\nthe three last, however, nature can work wonders; and, in this case,\nshe wrought so effectively that, on the afternoon of the third day,\nBergan sank into a quiet sleep, to awake in great weakness, but fully\nhimself.\n\n\"Where am I?\" he asked, feebly, glancing wonderingly around him.\n\n\"Where charity begins--at home,\" answered Dick, graciously; \"that is,\nif you will continue to make yourself so, as you have been doing for\nthe last three days.\"\n\n\"Three days!\" exclaimed Bergan, trying to spring up, but failing by\nreason of his weakness;--\"what do you mean?\"\n\nDick saw his mistake, but it was too late to retreat.  Bergan's mind\nhad at once recurred to the last item in his memory,--namely, Big Ben's\nuplifted fist,--and had easily connected it with his present condition.\nBeing now made aware of the lapse of time since then by Dick's\nincautious admission, nothing remained but to give truthful answers to\nthe questions that he rapidly put.  Quick at logical inference, the\nfacts that he had disappeared suddenly, and that no trace of him had\nbeen found, were soon patent to him.  He was filled with dismay.  What\ndistress his mysterious absence must have cost his friends!  What evil\nuse of it might have been made by his enemy!  At the thought, he made\nanother attempt to rise, and partially succeeded, but only to fall back\nagain, half fainting.\n\n\"Take care.  _Quien mas corre, menos vuela_,--the more haste the worst\nspeed,\" said Dick, warningly.  \"Stay a little, and news will find you.\"\n\n\"Not until it is too late, I fear,\" returned Bergan.  \"Since I cannot\ndo it myself, I must beg you to go immediately to my Uncle Godfrey, and\nlet him know that I am here, and ask him to come and see me at once, if\npossible.  Tell him privately, so as not to startle anybody else,\" he\nadded, with a thought of Carice; \"and leave him to extend the\ninformation to whomsoever he pleases.\"\n\n\"I would much rather go to your Uncle Harry,\" objected Dick, loath to\npresent himself at Oakstead, lest he should encounter Doctor Remy.\n\n\"He is dead,\" answered Bergan gravely.\n\nDick looked astonished, but muttered, resignedly,--\"God sends no more\nthan can be borne.\"  Then he bowed low to Bergan.  \"_Dopo un papa, se\nne fa un altro_,\" said he,--\"The King is dead, long live the King; I\ncongratulate you.\"\n\n\"Upon what?\" asked Bergan, with a keen glance;--\"Doctor Remy's\nsuccession?\"\n\n\"Of course not,\" replied Dick, coloring and laughing.  \"Doctor Remy\nwill find out that _Den sviges vaerst, som sviger sig selv_,--He is\nworse cheated who cheats himself.  But,\" he added, with a quick change\nof countenance, \"he must have found it out already.\"\n\nThe thought was a startling one.  Much as Dick had enjoyed the\ncertainty of the doctor's final discomfiture, he had not expected that\nit would come so soon; nor had he known, as now, the extent of the\ndoctor's resources in the way of his interest or his vengeance.  As he\npondered the matter, he was dismayed to recognize in the false will,\nthe Major's death, and the attempt on Bergan's life, apparent parts of\nthe same plan, and to infer therefrom the subtle and determined\ncharacter of the man whom he had ventured to try to outwit.  Had he\nsucceeded?  If so, he had everything to dread from the doctor's\nresentment; if not--if Doctor Remy had found means to carry out his\nplans to the end, and cover his tracks, as he seemed to have done thus\nfar--would he dare to open his mouth against him, only to take a share\nin his punishment?  Right and honor were good things, but could they\nmake a prison a pleasant abode?\n\nHere, Bergan broke in upon his troubled reflections.  \"I must remind\nyou,\" said he, \"that no time should be wasted.  My disappearance must\nhave caused much anxiety, and my uncle should be informed where I am,\nwithout delay.\"\n\n\"Very well,\" said Dick, glad, on the whole, to be relieved from further\nconsideration of his difficulties.  \"I'll be off instanter, if you'll\npromise not to stir while I'm gone.  And if anybody knocks, don't\nspeak, or even breathe loud;--likely enough it will be Doctor Remy,\nand, in your case, discretion is the better part of valor.  I'll make\nall fast behind me, so that no one can get in.  And I'll hurry back,\nand bring your uncle with me, if I can.\"\n\nAt Oakstead, Dick was informed that Mr. Bergan was at the Hall, and\nwherefore.  He dared not go after him, knowing that Doctor Remy would\ncertainly be there also.  He debated with himself, for a moment,\nwhether it would not be well to make his errand known to Mrs. Bergan;\nbut murmuring cynically, \"A woman conceals only what she don't know,\"\nhe decided to entrust her with a message simply.  This was so\nmysteriously and solemnly given, however, as necessarily to suggest to\nher, after his departure, that he might possibly have found some clue\nto the mystery of Bergan's absence; whereupon she dispatched a servant\nto the Hall with the message,--though not without a strict injunction\nthat he should deliver it to his master privately.  But this, as has\nbeen seen, was not so well observed as to prevent some portion of the\nmessage from reaching Doctor Remy's ears, and exciting his suspicions.\n\n\n\n\nVII.\n\nTHE SET TIME.\n\nDick Causton trudged back to his cabin in no tranquil frame of mind.\nHe had his own excellent reasons for believing that a more disappointed\nand angry man than Doctor Remy, at that moment, was not to be found\nunder the sun.  Not only had he lost the coveted Bergan estate, but he\nhad been fooled and cheated by the very man whom he had taken to be his\nmost willing and despicable tool.  Nor would it be long, Dick foresaw,\nbefore the doctor would seek to mitigate the bitterness of his chagrin\nwith whatever sweetness was to be derived from the thought and purpose\nof revenge.  In that case, he would be the first point of attack.  What\na fool he had been to meddle or make with any of the doctor's affairs!\nAs if he did not know at least a dozen different proverbs in as many\nlanguages, to the effect that prudence was better than repentance,\nsafety preferable to sorrow!  Of what use was it to have his head\nstuffed with the consummate wisdom of all nations, if he only acted\nlike a consummate idiot!\n\nA pertinent question, Richard Causton!  Showing the good results, too,\nof your period of forced abstinence from strong drink, and your lonely\nwatch over the sick-bed--wellnigh the death-bed--of Bergan Arling.  Up\nto this point, we have deemed your case hopeless; now, truly, we think\nbetter of it.  To recognize one's folly is the first step toward\nbreaking from its bondage.  To have learned that the fruits of\nrighteousness do not ripen on the tree of worldly wisdom, is, perhaps,\nto feel the first faint hunger for the saving fruitage of the tree of\nlife.  There may be the making of a man--a contrite, humbled, subdued,\nscarred, but free man--in you yet!\n\nIgnoring, or unconscious of, these grounds of hope for the future,\nhowever, Dick continued to busy himself with his fears for the present.\nNor did they prove to be causeless; he was not yet in sight of his\ndoor, when he heard the sound of impatient knocking thereat.  Stealing\nto a point where he could see without being seen, his worst fears were\nrealized,--the unwelcome visitor was Doctor Remy.\n\n\"_De puerta cerrada el diablo se torna_,--From a locked door, the devil\nturns away,\" he muttered, settling himself in his hiding place, with\nthe intention of remaining there until the anticipated departure.\n\nBut the doctor was not to be thus balked.  After repeated knockings,\nwith short intervals of waiting, he finally drew back from the door\nwith the evident intention of bursting it in; whereupon Dick hastened\nto make his appearance, doing his best to assume an air of easy\nnonchalance.\n\n\"He who brings good news, knocks hard,\" he called out, by way of\narresting the doctor's attention, and saving the door.  \"Or, as the\nGermans say, He who brings, is welcome; I suppose you have come to\nsettle our little account.\"\n\n\"Yes, I have come to settle accounts with you,\" replied Doctor Remy,\nwith grim irony.  \"Why didn't you tell me about this other will?\"\n\n\"What other will?\" asked Dick, innocently.\n\n\"I am in no humor for trifling,\" returned Doctor Remy;--\"Major Bergan's\nwill, that you witnessed a fortnight ago.\"\n\n\"_C'est la glose d' Orleans_,--that is to say, the commentary is more\nobscure than the text,\" answered Dick, shaking his head, as if he could\nmake nothing of it.\n\n\"Don't try my patience too far,\" rejoined the doctor, menacingly.  \"I\nhave just seen Mr. Tatum, and he told me of the will, and named you as\none of the witnesses.\"\n\n\"Did he?\" asked Dick, shrugging his shoulders.  \"Then I must be like\n'_el escudero de Guadalaxara, que de lo que dice de noche, no hay nada\n\u00e2 la ma\u00f1ana_.'  Do you understand Spanish?\"\n\n\"Do you understand English?\" growled Doctor Remy.  \"I asked you if you\nhad witnessed a will; and I want to know what was in it.\"\n\n\"And I gave you to understand that if I had, it must have been when I\nwas too drunk to remember anything about it,\" responded Dick.\n\nDoctor Remy's eyes flashed ominously.  \"I shall find a way to refresh\nyour memory,\" said he.  \"One question more, and I warn you that you had\nbetter give me a straightforward answer, and not try to put me off with\na proverb;--what was done with the will after it was made?\"\n\n\"Why, hasn't it been found?\" asked Dick, with surprise that was plainly\ngenuine.\n\n\"No, it has not,\" replied Doctor Remy, curtly.  \"See here, Dick,\" he\nadded, after a pause, quitting his threatening tone for one of\npersuasion; \"I'll make it well worth your while to tell me all you know\nabout that will.  Open the door--I'm tired of standing--and we'll go in\nand talk it over.\"\n\n\"I--I--it's pleasanter outside,\" stammered Dick, fairly driven to his\nwit's end by this proposal.  \"Besides, 'walls have ears;' no place like\nthe open air for your business--and mine.\"\n\n\"Your walls should be deaf,\" answered the doctor, looking at him\nsuspiciously; \"you live alone, do you not?\"\n\n\"Yes, certainly; but no walls are to be trusted; _m\u00e8fiance est m\u00e9re de\ns\u00fbret\u00e8_.\"\n\n\"Very true,\" replied Doctor Remy; \"and I distrust you.  Open that door\nat once, and let me see what or whom it is, that you are so anxious to\nconceal.\"\n\nDick's consternation was extreme.  Still, he did what he could to gain\ntime; assistance might be on the road.  He began to fumble in his\npockets.  \"Very happy to oblige you, I'm sure,\" he faltered, with a\npoor assumption of graciousness.  \"But, 'He that will be served must be\npatient.'  I declare!  I believe I've lost that key!  Still, _Mais val\nperder, que mais perd_--\"\n\n\"Will you open that door?\" interrupted Doctor Remy, fiercely, \"or shall\nI do it myself?\"\n\nDick lifted his head boldly; his straining ears had caught the sound of\ndistant footsteps.  \"A man's house is his castle,\" he began;--but\nDoctor Remy stopped the rest of the sentence in his throat, with one\nhand, while he thrust the other into his pocket for the key.  Dick\nuttered a smothered cry.  Immediately Doctor Remy heard the door tried\nfrom within; the next moment, the window beside it was flung open, and\nthe pale, stern face of Bergan Arling met his astonished sight.\n\nAt the same instant, he saw several persons emerging from the shadow of\nthe Oakstead woods.  Mr. Bergan, Hubert Arling, and Doctor Gerrish, he\nrecognized at a glance, and he stayed to recognize no more:--these, in\nconjunction with Bergan--alive, and in possession of his\nfaculties--were enough to show him that his deep-laid scheme had come\nto naught, that the prize for which he had thought, labored, and\nsinned, was snatched from his hands in the very moment of success.\nSome important figure--could it be Providence?--had been overlooked or\nchanged in his calculations, and made them all come wrong.\n\nYet he had failed before.  Bitterly he acknowledged to himself that,\ndespite his rich natural endowments of intellect, courage, will, and\nresource, his life had been, on the whole, a succession of failures.\nThe consequences of one early mistake had followed, hampered, modified,\nand defeated, every effort that he had made to rise above a certain\nlevel of station, fortune, or reputation.  Nevertheless, he had saved\nfrom every wreck, thus far, an unbroken spirit and an inexhaustible\ninvention.  What was there in the present one to cause his heart to\nshiver and shrink with so deadly a chill of despair, to smite him with\nso heavy an intuition that the measure of his opportunities for good or\nevil was full, and that some set time of reckoning was at hand?  Nay,\nhe _would not_ be daunted!  There must be some expedient--some bold\nstroke or crafty subterfuge--by which he could still wring safety, at\nleast, from the hands of defeat.\n\nHe ran his eye over the scene of his recent operations, as a general\nmight scan a disastrous battle-field.  Instantly, the intercepted\nletters, the forged will, the poisoned powder, the attack on Bergan\nArling, set themselves in order before him,--revolted soldiers, once\nhis obedient servants, now gone over to the enemy.  No! the odds were\ntoo great.  Nothing was left him but flight;--nay, it was a question if\neven that remained,--pursuit was so near!  Still, it must be tried.\n\nGiving Dick a final choke, to render him incapable of immediate action,\nhe flung him on the ground, and fled towards the nearest bank.  Once\nacross the excavation, there was a thick wood beyond, in which he would\nquickly be lost to sight; and the present was all he had time to think\nof; the future must care for itself.  One moment his tall form was\nseen, by the approaching party, on the edge of the bank, clearly\ndefined against the twilight sky; the next, it sank suddenly from view,\nboth hands raised, apparently in a mocking gesture of farewell, or it\nmight be, of defiance.\n\nHubert Arling immediately recognized the fugitive, and hastened after\nhim.  Arrived at the brink of the excavation, he was amazed to find\nthat Doctor Remy was nowhere in sight, although it seemed incredible\nthat he could have traversed the sandy chasm so quickly.  Nothing\ndaunted, however, Hubert leaped the precipice, half-burying himself in\nthe soft sand at the bottom, struggled across, climbed the opposite\nbank--taking much more time, it seemed to him, than his predecessor had\ndone--and plunged into the wood beyond.  Here, he soon found that all\nthe odds were against him; the underbrush was thick, the wood was soon\nmerged in a dense juniper swamp; the twilight was deepening; a hundred\nmen might easily elude his single search.  It was necessary to go back\nand obtain organized assistance.\n\nHe was rejoiced to find Bergan in the cabin, though his state was such\nas to cause intense anxiety.  The great exertion that he had made to\ninterfere between Doctor Remy and Dick--believing the latter to be in\ndanger of losing his life in behalf of his guest--had caused his wound\nto re-open; and when Dick recovered himself sufficiently to make it\nknown that Bergan was within, and to unlock the door, he was found on\nthe floor under the window, in a death-like faint.  Doctor Gerrish,\nhowever, at once took him in hand, with great personal good will, and\nno small amount of medical efficiency.  And no sooner was he pronounced\nout of immediate danger--although he had relapsed into fever and\ndelirium--than Hubert's mind recurred to the intermitted pursuit of\nDoctor Remy.  From the first, he had shared Doctor Trubie's suspicions,\nand having now heard the several stories of Mr. Bergan, Doctor Gerrish,\nand Dick, and pretty accurately divined their logical connection and\ndrift, he was strongly of the opinion that the doctor's evil career\nshould be brought to a close.  No consideration of family, friendship,\nor love, he thought, should interfere to save him from richly deserved\npunishment, and leave him at large to work new wickedness.  So\nthinking, he put his thoughts into prompt, resolute, persevering action.\n\nBut it was wholly in vain.  If the earth had opened and swallowed him\nup, Doctor Remy could not have disappeared more effectually.  Far and\nnear, no trace was found of his course, no clue to his hiding place.\nThe flight of a bird through the air, the dart of a fish through the\nwave, do not leave less visible track behind.  Day by day, Hubert had\nto acknowledge himself baffled, puzzled, confounded; but he would not\nbe discouraged.  Doctor Trubie having been sent for, had joined him,\nand between the two, the search went obstinately on.\n\n\n\n\nVIII.\n\nGIFT AND GIVER.\n\nCarice was in her own room.  Her face was pale, her mouth and eyes\ndeeply serious.  At last, she had been put in possession of all the\nfacts hitherto concealed from her.  She knew by what base means she had\nbeen separated from Bergan, and married to a man known to be a forger,\nsuspected to be a murderer, and now a fugitive from justice.  She was\nalso aware that, so far as her own consciousness went, she had lost a\nyear out of her life.  None the less, she felt in her deep heart that\nher soul had not stood still during this suspension of certain of her\nfaculties, but had accomplished some rapid, sensible growth.  She was\nnot, in all respects, the same Carice who had fallen through the gap in\nthe foot-bridge.  She contemplated her situation with far less dismay\nand bewilderment than that immaturer self could have done; in some\nmysterious way, her year of unconsciousness had been also a year of\npreparation for the difficulties that it had postponed; she now faced\nthem with a deeper insight, a broader comprehension, and a calmer\ncourage.  She blinded herself with no subtleties nor evasions; she\ndimmed the clear medium of her integrity with no selfish breath; but\ncounted herself what that solemn marriage ceremony had made her--a\nwife.  She must remain such until the plea of \"wilful desertion for a\nyear,\" in the courts of law, should secure for her a certain personal\nfreedom.  But even then, she would be only a deserted wife;--in her\nopinion, divorce was powerless except as regarded separation.  The\nvirtual relation, she believed, could only be dissolved by death; and\nthat meant, in this case, perhaps, the arrest, conviction, and\nexecution of Doctor Remy.  She shuddered at the thought.  She could not\nwish the barrier between Bergan and herself to be thus removed.\n\nBergan?--She dared not think of him!  He was lying so dangerously\nill!--yet she must not go to him;--she could trust neither her thoughts\nnor herself by that bedside.  She must just leave him, where she left\nall her own cares and sorrows, in the hands of God.  She waited upon\nHim: in His own good time and way, He would make it clear that He\nreigned, and that His sceptre was justice, and His crown mercy.\n\nMrs. Bergan opened the door.  \"My child,\" she asked, tenderly, \"would\nyou like to see a visitor?\"\n\n\"Whom?\" asked Carice, with a little wonder;--her mother had been so\ncareful to spare her all intrusion, during these trying days.\n\nMrs. Bergan shook her head.  \"I really don't know; I was so taken with\nher face, that I forgot to ask her name.  She said that she was a\nfriend of Astra Lyte's, and of--Bergan's.\"\n\n\"Mamma, could I not be excused?\"\n\n\"I suppose so,--if you really wish it.  But you would never think of\nrefusing her, if you once saw her; she has such a princess-like way\nwith her, as if she had never been refused anything in her life--except\nhappiness.  She has the most beautiful face that I ever saw, but there\nis a shadow over it, as if she had known great sorrow.\"\n\nCarice felt a jealous pang.  Beautiful! and Bergan's friend?  Sad? of\ncourse, since he was in danger!\n\nMrs. Bergan went on.  \"She said she had a story to tell you.  And when\nI hesitated--fearing that it might be some new trouble or\nexcitement--you have had enough such, of late, dear--she smiled, as if\nshe knew what I was thinking, and said,--'Have no fear, madam; my story\nwill do her good, not harm!'  Shall I let her come up?\"\n\nAn hour after, the door of Bergan's sick-room opened gently.  His eyes\nwere closed; he, too, had been thinking, as deeply as his weak, half\nunconscious state permitted; and his thoughts had been strangely like\nthose of Carice.  The tangled web left behind by Doctor Remy would be\nhard to unravel, he felt; and in the process, there would be much pain,\nloss, anxiety, and disgrace,--especially for Carice.  His heart ached\nfor her;--and a little also--for he was very weak and weary--for\nhimself.  Would it not be well to have done with it all,--to let\nthought, care, and life drift away together, as they seemed so ready to\ndo, if only he ceased to hold them back?  It would be so much easier to\nlet them go!--was there really any good reason why he should try to\nlive?\n\nHearing the door close, and the sound of light footsteps, he languidly\nopened his eyes.  Diva Thane was standing at his bedside, holding the\nblushing Carice by the hand, and smiling down upon him with eyes\ndeep-lit by a mysterious radiance.  There was a lofty beauty in her\nface, a look of victory after conflict, that he had never seen there\nbefore.\n\nHis heart gave a great bound.  He remembered his strange, repeated\nintuition that that fair, firm hand would some day bestow upon him an\ninestimable blessing.  Was the time come?\n\n\"I bring you a gift,\" said she, in low, rich tones, full of feeling as\nof melody.  \"This little, maiden hand--free from every claim as from\nevery stain--is the best return that I can make for what you have done\nfor me.\"  And, placing Carice's hand in his, she added, solemnly:--\"I\ngive it to you, for I have the right: I am the wife of Edmund Roath.\"\n\nThe rush of joy was almost too great.  It swept over Bergan's senses\nlike a great whelming wave; speech and sound were lost in it; sight was\ngone, except for Carice's sweet, fair face, the one point of light in a\nvast ocean of blackness; feeling was annihilated, save that he clung to\nthat dear hand as to the one treasure that he would not be parted from,\nlet him be carried whither he might.  Firmly and tenderly it closed\nupon his, too,--seeming to be the only thing which kept him from\ndrifting out into that wide obscurity, and brought him back to the\nsteady standing-ground of consciousness.  There he was met by a rush of\ngratitude and sympathy only a little less overpowering.  He knew so\nwell what that avowal had cost Diva's pride!  He understood so clearly\nwhence came that solemn light of sacrifice in her eyes, that exalted\nbeauty in her face, and how dearly it had been won!  Still holding\nCarice fast with one hand, he held out the other to her, with emotion\ntoo deep for aught but a benediction.\n\n\"God bless you,\" he murmured, fervently.  And he added, in a tone of\nentire conviction;--\"I am sure He will.\"\n\nShe bent her graceful head,--no longer haughty in its pose,--gave his\nhand an earnest, heartening pressure, and glided from the room.\n\nAll gentle, delicate souls, all sympathetic hearts, go with her;\ncuriosity, coldness, rudeness, must needs follow after.  In that\nsick-room, Love only may remain,--Love which, by its long patience of\nsorrow, its steady conscientiousness, its freedom from all\nself-seeking, has won at last its blessed right to be,--and to be happy!\n\n\nAt a little distance from the cabin was a huge ilex tree, in the broad,\nlow shade of which Dick had once been moved to set up a rude bench.\nThither Diva betook herself to wait for Carice.  There was a pleasant\nenough prospect before her, beyond the gulf of sand,--the creek on its\nsunshiny way to the sea, the pines and water oaks mingling their\nmoss-hung boughs and diverse verdure,--but it is doubtful if she was\naware of it.  Her eyes--whether bent on the ground at her feet, or\nlifted to some far point of the blue horizon--spoke plainly of a mind\ntoo busy with its own reflections to be anywise cognizant of outward\nobjects.  She was reviewing the main events of her life by the new\nlight recently shed on them, discovering a connection, a harmony, and a\nmeaning in them unsuspected before, and gaining thereby a deeper sense\nof the might and wisdom of that overruling Providence in whom she had\ncome so lately to believe.\n\nShe had been reared in almost princely affluence, as well as in\nprofessed scepticism;--every material wish gratified, every material\ncaprice humored; no spiritual want recognized, no spiritual yearning\nindulged.  Early accustomed to admiration and adulation, she grew up\nproud, imperious, self-reliant, counting herself made of more excellent\nclay than often went to the fashioning of human organisms, as she was\ncertainly endowed with an intellect of no common strength and fineness\nof fibre, which her father took care to feed with all his own learned\nand labored Philosophy of Doubt.  She was taught to scorn faith, to\nderide inspiration, to scoff at worship, to acknowledge no law but her\nown will, no higher rule of life than \"_Noblesse oblige_.\"  Yet she had\ngenerous impulses and strong affections; the very weeds that grew to\nsuch rank luxuriance in her character bore witness to the natural\nrichness of the soil.  Nor was she without a deep, innate reverence,\ninherited from the mother that she had never known,--which, being\ndiverted from its proper objects, fell to deifying human genius and\nintellect, and suffered sorely in seeing them betray, soon or late, how\nmuch of their substance was human dust.  Disappointed thus in the\nconcrete, she turned to the abstract; first Song, then Art, became the\nidol of her imagination, the object of her devoted worship.  Her\nfather's health failing about this time, both looked to Italy as their\nnatural goal, the one for healing, the other for culture.  There they\nmet the man whose potent influence was to change the whole current of\nher life.\n\nHe had everything necessary to recommend him to her favor;--a manly\nfigure and bearing, regular, clear-cut features, a bold, acute,\npowerful intellect, and varied culture.  Moreover, there was a mystery\nabout him which acted as a stimulant to interest.  No one knew whence\nhe came, and he gave no account of himself beyond what was to be\ninferred from chance words and phrases, coming by accident, as it were,\nto the surface of the stream of conversation,--oracular utterances,\ncapable of diverse construction;--which, after being long brooded over\nin her imagination, were turned into such rich, airy, poetic shapes, as\neven he, with all his subtlety, would never have thought of suggesting.\nNone the less, they did him friendly service.  Moreover, he had, in\nsome way, acquired no small amount of medical science, which he put to\ngood use in alleviating her father's sufferings, although it had become\nevident that his malady was incurable.  By this means, he soon acquired\nsuch an ascendancy over the invalid's mind, and so firm a hold upon his\nconfidence, as to lead him easily to believe that he could do nothing\nbetter for his child's future than to commit it to such strong, kind,\nwise hands.  Accordingly, she was wedded, in the American Consulate at\nRome, to Earle Roy; under which suggestive name she had no doubt was\nhidden a disguised noble, an exiled prince, or some equally exalted\nseeker after disinterested love or sufficing consolation.\n\nDescending the staircase, immediately after the ceremony, they met a\ntravel-stained gentleman coming up, who started at sight of her\nhusband, and uttered the name of \"Edmund Roath.\"  _He_ started in his\nturn, and grew deadly pale; nevertheless, he haughtily affirmed that it\nwas \"a mistake,\" conducted her home, begged to be excused while he\nattended to some forgotten formality, and left her with the careless\nsmile and bow that argues an immediate return.  Hours passed,--days\npassed,--yet he came not; neither had he left any track, trace, or clue\nbehind.  It was as if he had melted into thin air.  There were those\nwho hinted that a flight so sudden, swift, and effectual, must all\nalong have been foreseen as a possible necessity, and provided for.\nShe poured her loftiest scorn on the imputation; she believed him to\nhave been murdered by robbers or secret political agents.\n\nThe shock hastened her father's death.  In one week she was both a\ndeserted bride and an orphan; free--with almost unlimited wealth at\ncommand--to grieve or search, as she chose,--to avenge, if she could.\nShe threw herself into the work of investigation: the police were\nmarvellously ready to assist her, they took her money, and followed out\nher suggestions; by-and-by, she was amazed to find that her own house\nand movements enjoyed no inconsiderable share of their attention.  It\nlooked as if they suspected that her husband would return to her, and\nmeant to be on the spot!  The thought shook her with a sudden terror.\nIt was possible that he had fled--being warned in time to fly, but not\nto explain--from some secret danger, some dark political vengeance, and\nthat she was only helping to hunt him down!\n\nIn this connection, she recalled that casual meeting on the Consulate\nstaircase, and hailed it as a possible clue.  She succeeded in finding\nthe traveller, and in forcing from him a reluctant\nexplanation,--reluctant because he had a kind heart, and was unwilling\nto give pain.  His name was Mark Tracey; he had been a class-mate of\nEdmund Roath, knew him well, and believed him to be the murderer of\nAlec Arling.  He had deemed it his duty, on recognizing him, to inform\nthe Consul who and what he was; and measures were forthwith taken to\nput him under surveillance.  Nevertheless, Roath had made good his\nescape before the slow Italian officials could be made to comprehend\nwhat was wanted, and set about it.  For himself, he had done only what\nhe thought right; yet, now that he saw what manner of bride had been so\nwofully bereaved, he could almost wish that he had held his peace, and\nleft Roath to the new and better life which he might have led under\nsuch fair auspices.  Still, he gently added, the holiest influences did\nnot always avail to straighten a warped mind and will, while these\noften spread around them a fatal infection;--it were better to--\n\nShe stopped him there, thanking him for his sympathy, but rejecting his\nconclusions.  Either the man that he had met was not Edmund Roath, or\nEdmund Roath was the unhappy victim of a specious train of\ncircumstances.  One of these alternatives _must_ be true.  So she\nproudly told him; so she tried to tell herself, turning a deaf ear to\nevery deep, inner voice that ventured to assail or to question her.\nNone the less, she had lost all heart for the search which, it now\nappeared, she had not so much instituted as joined in.  On her part, it\nwas quietly allowed to drop.  All the same, news finally reached her\nthat Edmund Roath had died, and was buried, in a small, distant seaport\ntown.  Two men had been landed there from a foreign vessel, one an\ninvalid far gone with pneumonia, the other his faithful friend and\nnurse.  The invalid had died in a day or two; the friend had reared a\nstone \"In memory of Edmund Roath\" over his grave, and sailed away in\nanother ship.  His name was an unpronounceable foreign one; as to the\ninvalid's, they had never heard it until after his death, his friend\nhad always called him by some familiar sobriquet.\n\nThere was a suggestion in this last bit of history, which Diva was\nquick to notice.  She had the coffin disinterred, and satisfied herself\nthat the body therein contained was not that of the man whom she had\nmarried,--albeit, she found on its chill finger a ring which she had\ngiven him, and saw that there were some striking similarities of\nheight, complexion, and color of hair and eyes.  She needed no further\nproof that Earle Roy and Edmund Roath were one and the same, and she\nbelieved that he still lived, answering to the dead man's name, and\nplaying his part, on some distant stage.  However, she took care that\nher actions should express quite the contrary conviction; she caused\nthe re-interment to be so arranged as to suggest an intended removal;\nshe generously requited every kindness shown to the invalid; finally,\nshe put on deep widow's weeds, and sickened to feel them so\nappropriate.  She had a sombre intuition that Edmund Roath was dead to\nher.  Nothing remained of him but his backward shadow on her heart and\nlife.  The places that had known him grew dim and tomb-like.  The\nwealth which had doubtless been his main object, became worthless in\nher eyes.  The chill materialism with which he had imbued her mind, in\nplace of the more rationalistic creed of her father, made all things\nring hollow to her touch.  The charm of Italy was gone; its sky had\nfaded, its atmosphere was as heavy with the weight of a dead Past as\nher own heart.  She longed for a new sky above, new earth below, new\nair to breathe, a new life to live.  She longed, too,--poor, empty\nheart! poor, hungry soul!--for something to love and to reverence,\nthough she was scarcely conscious of it; she knew only that she had a\ndeep thirst which nothing quenched.\n\nTo settle herself near her one intimate friend, Coralie Youle; to\nreassume her maiden name, since she had no right to that of Roy, and\nonly wanted to forget that of Roath; to lead the simple, free,\nindependent life of an artist, without hampering ties, duties, or\nresponsibilities;--this was the shape into which her longing finally\ncrystallized.  Art had been her idol when Love came to dethrone it; she\nhad not had time to tire of it, to learn how inevitably it, also,\nresolves itself into dust, unless breathed upon by a spirit Divine.  So\nshe came to Savalla, and was brought into contact with Bergan and his\nfirm, frank Christian faith,--which it was impossible to contemn, being\njoined to an intellect so strong and fine, and a life so noble.  So she\nfound her aunt, and saw how even the Valley of Shadow was made radiant\nby the gladness of her Christian hope.  Thus her scepticism was at\nfirst melted by the sunshine, rather than worsted by force of arms.  By\nand by, however, she dared Bergan to controversy, and found that she\nhad met her master.  Not for nothing had he been beaten in many of his\nbattles with Doctor Remy; he had since made it his business to be able\nto give good reasons for the hope that was in him.  He could now make\nit manifest that Christian Faith had quite as much to say for herself\nas infidel doubt, and could say it quite as clearly, logically, and\ncogently.  Mind and heart opened, at last, to receive the heavenly\nguest, under whose fair, white garments, Diva now knew, was sometimes\nhidden a coat of wrought mail that no sword could pierce, and who,\nalthough she had wings to soar beyond the stars, had also feet to plant\nfirmly on the rock of truth.\n\nFinally, she had learned the identity of Edmund Roath and Felix Remy by\nmeans of a sketch accidentally discovered in Astra's portfolio; she\nwondered that she had not suspected it before, seeing how plainly he\nhad left his evil mark on Astra's mind.  She was glad to think that she\nhad been instrumental in obliterating it; he himself having helped to\nfit her for the work.  Meanwhile, he had married Astra's friend.  What\nwas her duty in this case; to speak, or to be silent?  Silence was the\npleasanter thing, speech might be the only right thing.  Sharp was the\nconflict, puzzling the controversy.  It was not decided until she\nhappened to meet Hubert Arling, and learned in what search he was\nengaged, and what state of things existed in Berganton.  Then, moved by\ngratitude to Bergan, she had sought Carice.\n\nBut what was the meaning of it all?  Reared in faithlessness, she had\nbeen led to faith.  Proud, she had been humbled.  Wedded to Edmund\nRoath, she had been made to follow in his track, and undo, in some\ndegree, his wicked work.  So much was plain, even now; the rest would\nbe read, in time.  But oh! the mystery, the wonder, of that overruling\nProvidence, who caught up man's wilful designs, ere they were out of\nhis hands, and turned them to His own vast purposes!\n\nA light footstep fell behind her.  Turning, she beheld Carice's soft\neyes,--eyes which, she thought half-enviously, showed so plainly that\nthey had never looked upward through the smoked glass of doubt, to\ndivest the sun of his glory, the sky of its blue, and call it seeing\nmore clear.\n\n\"We have been talking of you,\" said Carice, with gentle directness.\n\nDiva smiled faintly.  \"I thought you would have pleasanter topics,\" she\nanswered, half-absently, half-sadly.\n\n\"Where could we have found them?\" asked Carice, earnestly.  \"Oh, Diva,\nyou will never know--we shall never be able to tell you--what we think\nof you!  But, Bergan says this search after the doctor must be stopped\nat once.\"\n\n\"He is very kind,\" replied Diva, quietly; \"I understand what he would\nspare me.  Tell him to give himself no disquietude on that head.  I\ndare not lift a finger to stay the feet of justice, if I could; I can\nbear whatever Providence sends.  But my dread is not the expiation of\nthe scaffold, but the finding of no space for repentance.  My\nconviction is strong that--my husband will never be taken alive.\"\n\nThe quick tears came into Carice's sympathetic eyes; but Diva only\nfixed her sad, calm gaze on the shining river, and saw in it, perhaps,\nthe River of Life, \"proceeding out of the throne of God.\"  After\nvictory is peace.\n\n\n\n\nXI.\n\nFAITHFUL UNTO DEATH.\n\nBergan now mended rapidly; a mind and heart at ease are excellent\nmedicines.  In a few days it was pronounced safe to remove him to\nOakstead.  Here he was informed of the strange disappearance of Maumer\nRue.\n\n\"Her grandson, Brick, was at the cabin two or three times,\" said Mr.\nBergan, \"when you were too ill to allow his admittance.  He is here\nnow, and very anxious to see you.  May he come in?\"\n\nBrick, being admitted, burst into tears.  He was glad to see his\nbeloved master, but his heart and mind were heavily burdened.  When he\nhad last seen his grandmother, she had told him that she was going on a\nlong journey, and should not return; but she had charged him solemnly\nto say nothing of this communication to anybody but Bergan; who, she\naverred, would return in good time.  Then he was to bid him, in her\nname, to \"seek and find;\" she had added, that he would know where to\nlook.\n\nBergan started up with a face of alarm.  \"I must go at once,\" he ex\nclaimed; \"I am afraid it is already too late!\"\n\n\"But you are not strong enough,\" remonstrated Mr. Bergan.  \"Tell us\nwhere to look, we will go in your stead.\"\n\n\"I would gladly do so, if I knew how,\" answered Bergan, \"but I am not\ncertain that I can find the place myself; I never saw it but once, and\nthen it was in the night.  At the worst, however, we can cut a way into\nit.  Come, uncle; come, Hubert, you will both be needed; and we ought\nto have a doctor, too.  The secret--for there is one--has long been\nkept, but it must needs out now; and it is as well that it should, the\nday of such things is over.\"\n\nThe carriage was ordered, and having set down the three gentlemen at\nthe Hall, went after Doctor Gerrish.\n\nBergan, meanwhile, sought for the hidden spring.  It required some time\nand thought before he found and pressed it.  The secret chamber being\nthen exposed to view, Rue was discovered sitting at the massive\nsecretary, in a large arm-chair, with her head bowed on her folded\nhands.  She was dead; Doctor Gerrish affirmed that she had been so for\nsome days.  Ample provision of food and water was near; she had died a\nperfectly natural and peaceful death, from the infirmities of old age.\nIt was apparent that she had deliberately chosen this spot for her\ndeath-chamber.  But why?  That was a mystery.\n\nIt was soon solved.  As they gently raised the body to lay it on the\nsame bed where her master, and so many of his race had slept their last\nsleep before her, a folded paper dropped from her clasped hands, and\nfell at Bergan's feet.  He picked it up, glanced at it, and laid it on\nthe desk without a word.  There was that in his face, however, which\nmade Hubert also look at it; and straightway he held it up to view with\nthe triumphant exclamation:\n\n\"The lost will, gentlemen, the lost will!  Bergan, let me be the first\nto congratulate you.\"\n\nIt was easy to understand now, that, feeling her last hour at hand, and\nknowing that no will left anywhere in the Hall, or in her own cabin,\nwould be likely to escape Doctor Remy's destructive touch, she had\ntaken this method of fulfilling her master's last command:\n\n\"See that Harry has Bergan Hall.  Give this will into his own hands,\nand no one's else.  I trust none of them but you.\"\n\nWell might he trust her!  Almost a century of loyal service had she\ngiven to him and his house, ready at any time, if need be, to lay down\nher life for their sake.  Well might Bergan give her tender, honorable\nburial, and cause to be graven deep on her tombstone:\n\nFAITHFUL UNTO DEATH.\n\n      *      *      *      *      *\n\nHubert Arling wooed and won Coralie Youle.  His strong likeness to his\nbrother first found him favor in her eyes; by and by, she would have\nbeen amazed to be told that she had ever cared for him, except on his\nown sufficient account.\n\nDiva Thane and Astra Lyte went to Italy, for some years, to give\nAstra's genius fit food and training.  The direction of its future\nlabors was settled.  She would spend her life and strength in the\nservice of Christian art, trying to lose all thought of self in that of\nconsecration, and counting her work successful, though it never left\nher studio, nor brought her either money or fame, if only it lifted the\nminds of those who contemplated it to a point above itself, to a\nloftier standard of living, a clearer conception of the beauty of\nholiness, a more earnest aspiration after the glory that \"shall be.\"\nOn her return, she brought with her a Saint Christopher that satisfied\neven Carice.  The giant was kneeling before the Wondrous Child, who had\nat once so burdened him, and so strengthened him to bear; his face was\nfull of awe and love; he recognized his Lord; he had found the King who\nalone was worthy of his service, and whom alone he was content to serve.\n\nAs for Diva, there are sisters of charity, who wear no distinctive\ngarments, save patience and faith.  A gentleman once said to Bergan,\nadmiring her stately beauty, \"She should be a queen.\"  \"She is a\nqueen,\" was the quick reply, \"a queen according to the Gospel pattern,\n'Whosoever will be chief among you, let him be your servant.'\"\n\nIn due time, Bergan restored the old Hall, although not without\nreducing somewhat of its ostentatious size by cutting down the long\nwings, and with no extravagant outlay.  He had learned that the\ninevitable, and probably healthful, tendency of property in this\ncountry, is to division.  The larger and costlier the dwelling, beyond\na certain extent, the more sure it is to prove too heavy a burden for\nsome inheritor, and the less likely to go down in a direct line.  The\nman who would have his name live, must link it with some institution\nmore imperishable than a family home.  First of all, therefore, Bergan\ntook care to embody in carven stone and jewelled glass that fair vision\nwhich he had seen on his first visit to the Berganton church.  This\nbeing done, we may be sure that his more personal dreams of happiness\nand honor came true, also.\n\nA fair and gracious wife and mother was Carice!  She never lost the\nflower-like grace and purity of her girlhood, nor her rare power of\nseeing straight to the central truth of things.  \"It is said that I\nhave lost a year of my life,\" he once remarked; \"it is the year that I\ncount most truly saved.\"\n\nRichard Causton, having learned, through his forced abstinence during\nhis long, lonely watch over Bergan, that existence was possible without\nalcoholic stimulant, and being helped by Bergan's steady friendship and\ncountenance, made a determined effort at reformation, and succeeded,\nthough not without a sore struggle, and many lapses.  The last of his\nbackslidings was made memorable by the following incident.\n\nGoing too near the edge of the excavation aforementioned, he slipped\nand fell over, displacing some of the sand at the foot of the bank by\nhis weight, which had also been much washed by a recent heavy rain.\nStruggling to his feet, he was horrified to see a skeleton hand\npointing at him from the base of the precipice.  He fled, without\nstopping to look behind him; but his story set other and acuter minds\nto work, as well as, a little later, two or three careful spades; and\nthe body of Edmund Roath was exhumed, and the mystery of his\ndisappearance was explained.  The sand had suddenly caved in, under his\nweight, and buried him, as he fell.  His flight had been short, in one\nsense; far, very far, in another.  Had he witnessed such a termination\nto another's career, he would, doubtless, have termed it Chance, or\nFate; but those who stood around his dead, shrunken body, with its\nsunken eyes and its uplifted hands, looked awe-stricken in each other's\nfaces, and solemnly whispered, \"Providence.\"  Nevertheless, some simple\nsouls murmured that he had escaped just punishment.  \"Do you think so?\"\nasked Mr. Islay.  \"So would not he who said 'It is a fearful thing to\nfall into the hands of the living God.'  Be thankful, rather, that\njustice to the guilty is so tempered with mercy to the innocent.  An\nearthly scaffold would not have added one straw's weight to the despair\nof that miserable soul, when he stood on the brink of death, and knew\nthat his failure was complete for time and eternity, but it would have\nbeen a heavy burden to certain gentle hearts.  It is they who have\nescaped, not he.  Where the cords of his sins do not hold a man to a\ngodly sorrow, they must needs hold him to a righteous retribution.\"\n\nRichard Causton's old age had something of the mellow sweetness of a\nlate, frost-bitten apple, such as is occasionally plucked from the tree\nin midwinter.  He lived to teach Bergan's eldest son many of his\nfavorite proverbs, in their many tongues, but he constantly impressed\nupon him that the truest, most significant, most solemn of them all was\none from Holy Writ:\n\n\"HE SHALL BE HOLDEN WITH THE CORDS OF HIS SINS.\"\n\n\n\nTHE END.","title":"Holden with the Cords","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":159775}