know the merits of the quarrel between his two uncles, he nevertheless
felt that the abject submission, the complete surrender of principle
and will, expected of him by Major Bergan, was simply impossible; and
he began to wonder if it were not his wisest course to place himself at
once on tenable ground, by saying that, while he should always be glad
of his uncle's advice, and ready to give all due and respectful
consideration to his wishes, yet, in matters involving questions of
right and duty, the final appeal must needs be to his own conscience.
Something of this sort was upon his lips, when the Major spoke again,
and in a more amiable tone.
"I am really sorry, for your sake, Harry, that things are just as they
are," said he. "Of course, it is not agreeable to you to run thus
unexpectedly against a family feud;--I really ought to have written
Eleanor about it, but I thought to spare her the knowledge of her
half-brother's disgrace. Besides, as Godfrey is our nearest neighbor,
it might be pleasant to be on visiting terms, if he and his were only
the right sort of company to keep."
"I think he has children near my own age," remarked Bergan.
"Not now. His two eldest died a few years ago."
"Ah, yes; I remember hearing of it when I was in college."
"He has but one left--a daughter," pursued the Major. "A pretty,
bright little thing she was, too, as a child; I was really quite fond
of her, and she used to spend half her time here,--that is, in the old
Hall;--and Maumer Rue almost idolized her, because she fancied that she
was something like what Eleanor was at her age. She even used to run
away and come over here, after the trouble began; but I reckon they
must have found it out, and put a stop to it." And the Major ground
his teeth at the recollection, as if he owed his brother an especial
grudge on this very head. "However," he went on, "it is better so; for
though I could never have found it in my heart to be unkind to the
child,--so fond of me as she was, too!--yet I want nothing to do with
anybody, or anything, that belongs to Godfrey; and so I am glad, on the
whole, that she stopped coming. Doubtless, she will soon merge the
name of Bergan into Smith, or Brown, or something equally desirable;
and as Godfrey has no son, to bear his patronymic and carry on his
business, we may hope that there will be an end of _them_."
The last words were spoken with ineffable contempt. Then, suddenly
rising, as if to dismiss the subject, the Major remarked, with an
entire change of tone and manner:--
"But I must not sit here chatting any longer, for I suspect that
Ben--that's my head driver--is waiting for instructions. Will you come
with me, or do you prefer to amuse yourself about home?"
"I will go with you, uncle, if you are willing."
"Both willing and glad. Come on."
Bergan followed his uncle out into the quadrangle,--here called the
"street,"--and found it to be, for the most part, silent and deserted.
The cabins, many of which, on the evening previous, had been brightened
by a little gleam of firelight within, or vivified by moving figures,
were now closed and locked, the occupants being away at work in the
fields. They were all neatly whitewashed; and they stood well apart
from each other, leaving room for little gardens between, where
vegetables, and, occasionally, flowers, were growing. Here and there,
too, a pig rooted and grunted in a rude sty; or hens and chickens
fluttered and cackled, in their busy, enlivening fashion, around the
door.
One of the buildings, of considerable size, and two stories high, where
several women and children, with peculiar haggard, heavy, listless, and
withal resigned faces, were lying or sitting around the porch, Bergan
easily recognized as the infirmary. Another, seemingly stuffed with
babies and young children, under the charge of several half-grown girls
and one superannuated old woman, he knew to be the day-nursery; for the
safe bestowal of the infant population of the quarter, during their
mothers' absence in the fields. Here, Maumer Rue seemed to be making a
visit of inspection; though invisible herself, the slow tones of her
voice, exhorting one of the young nurses to greater watchfulness,
sounded distinctly from within; and becoming quickly aware of the
approach of her master and his guest, she came to the door, and made
them a stately courtesy, as they passed.
Quite apart from the quarter, yet within sight, stood a cabin of
especially rude and forlorn aspect; the open door of which disclosed a
strong stake driven into the ground in its centre, and divers rusty
chains, handcuffs, padlocks, _et cetera_, hanging round its sides.
This was the prison. Human justice being thus provided with a fitting
abode, Bergan involuntarily looked around in search of a corresponding
dwelling for Heaven's mercy, in the shape of a little cross-tipped
church or chapel,--but saw none.
Major Bergan first stopped at the threshing-mill, where Engine (that is
to say "Engineer") Jack, a remarkably intelligent negro,--and an
exceedingly black one as well,--was waiting to bring to his master's
notice certain slight repairs necessary to the machinery. While the
needful discussion was going on, Bergan looked around him, the better
to understand the topography of the place.
He observed that Bergan Hall, the roof of which he saw afar off, rising
among the trees, was situated upon a considerable elevation,--a sort of
bluff, overlooking a small inlet, or arm of the sea. To this
circumstance, Major Bergan owed his ability to live upon his plantation
throughout the year, instead of fleeing therefrom, like most of his
class, at the approach of summer. For, just when the home-scenery
takes on its most tender and fascinating grace,--when the rice-fields
are green as the meadows of paradise,--when the temple-like oak-glades
are most beautiful with gentle gloom and glinting sunshine,--when every
thicket has its garland of bloom, and every tree has its clinging,
flowering vine,--when the sweet-smelling pine-woods are glittering with
the gorgeous coloring, and melodious with the multifarious voice, of
thousands of birds and insects;--Just then, the rice-planter has to
flee for his life from its final, treacherous charm---the soft-shining
mist, the deadly malaria, that creeps up at night from the marshes, and
covers the land like a sea. If he lingers for but one ramble in the
fair, moon-lighted, and moss-festooned avenues, through that silver
haze, fever walks by his side under the grand arches, and death waits
for him at the end of the alluring vistas.
From this terror and this necessity, the owner of Bergan Hall was free.
His vast plantation stretched across the border-line which divides the
pestilential rice-swamps from the healthful sea-islands; one extremity
touching the river, and the other the ocean. At one time, its chief
revenue was derived from the far-famed sea-island cotton, to the
production of which its sea-board portion was well-adapted, but as that
crop declined, and the rice-crop rose, in value, its neglected
swamp-lands were gradually reclaimed and brought under cultivation; and
were now the most valuable portion of the estate. Too remote from
Bergan Hall to poison it, or its vicinity, with their malaria, they
were yet quite near enough for necessary superintendence.
The negro quarter lay somewhat lower than the Hall. On its left, the
ground sloped gradually down to a little creek; where lay several
flat-boats loaded with rice, to show what had been the goal of the
negro procession of the previous evening. Along the opposite bank ran
a dark fringe of pines.
Horses were now brought. The one assigned to Bergan was a superb
blooded filly, full of life and fire. While he stood taking delighted
note of her many fine points, she sniffed round him in half-wild,
half-curious fashion,--now starting quickly back, now timidly drawing
near,--and ended by frankly putting her nose in his hand, as if in
token of amity. Nor had he been long on her back, ere he felt, with an
electric thrill of pleasure, that perfect sympathy between horse and
rider, that singular blending of their identity, which is the purest
delight of horsemanship, and best explains the fable of the Centaur.
"How do you like her?" asked his uncle, at this juncture.
"Exceedingly," replied Bergan, with enthusiastic emphasis. "I think
that I never rode anything more admirable."
"Henceforth, then, she belongs to you. And never mind the thanks,--I
am really glad to hand her over to a fitting master. She is too much
given to dancing and frolicking for my use,---my sober-paced stallion
meets my wants a great deal better;--consequently, Vic--that's her
name, short for Victoria,--Vic stands in the stable, eating her head
and kicking her heels off, for the greater part of the time. She will
be much happier in the hands of a master young enough to sympathize
with her."
Bergan could not fail to be delighted with a gift so generous and so
timely; bestowed, too, with a delicacy of manner, an appearance of
asking a favor instead of conferring one, in strong contrast with his
uncle's wonted bluntness. Visions of long, solitary rides of
exploration rose fascinatingly before him. Nor would he suffer his
pleasure to be alloyed by any insidious doubt lest the gift might some
day take the form of an unpleasant obligation.
The road ran along the bank of the creek, passing divers fields under
cultivation, and divers others long "turned out,"--that is, exhausted,
and left to lapse back into their primitive pine-barrenness. In the
course of an hour, the two gentlemen came upon a second negro quarter,
considerably larger than the first, but with the same general
characteristics, even to the threshing-mill. This one, however, ran by
water power, instead of steam.
The horses were here left in charge of a negro, while the gentlemen
walked over to the rice fields. They soon came into view, stretching,
almost as far as the eye could reach, along the bank of a broad, turbid
river. Bergan speedily became much interested in their complicated
system of dykes, ditches, canals, and gates; as well as in watching the
dusky laborers, both men and women, that were busy therein. Leaving
details for results, however, he could not but be impressed with the
fact that a vast amount of hard work was annually done, and a rich and
remunerative crop annually reaped. Plainly, Major Bergan was an
energetic, skilful manager.
On his part, the Major was greatly pleased with his nephew's
intelligent interest, and predicted, more than once, that he would make
a rice-planter of him, in due time, who would show his neighbors "what
was what."
The sun was half way down the western slope, when the uncle and nephew
returned to the cottage. Dinner over, the Major civilly expressed his
regret that he was unexpectedly called to another part of the
plantation. Bergan could accompany him; or--not to disappoint him of
his promised visit to the old Hall--he could get the keys of Maumer
Rue, and explore it by himself.
Bergan eagerly caught at the latter alternative. Nor, to do him
justice, was the Major at all displeased thereby. Without troubling
himself to analyze his own emotions, he yet felt an unconquerable
aversion to the task of showing his nephew through the deserted home of
his forefathers. Though little accustomed to care for the opinions or
the feelings of others, he foresaw an inevitable mortification in
looking with Bergan upon the ruin and desolation for which he knew
himself to be so largely responsible; since, if he had not invited the
ravages of time, he had put forth no hand to stay them. Perhaps this
feeling was strong enough, even, to lend to the business that called
him away, an imperative aspect which it might otherwise have lacked.
Bergan, on his part, was well content to dispense with his uncle's
guidance. Not only would his presence be a constraint upon his own
irrepressible emotions of sadness, regret, and, possibly, indignation;
but there would be a rare, subtile charm in wandering alone through
precincts at once so familiar and so strange, in finding out for
himself (or led only by the shadowy image of his maiden mother), spots
hallowed by the tender touch of oldtime joys and sorrows, and nooks and
corners darkened not more by mould and cobwebs than by the clinging
dust of immemorial family tradition.
First, however, Major Bergan requested his companionship as far as the
stable. There they found a bright looking boy, somewhat older than
Jip, who had just finished rubbing down the filly of which Bergan had
so lately become the master, and now stood regarding the result with
great apparent satisfaction.
"Well, Brick," said the Major, sternly, "I hope you've done better than
you did last time."
"Yes, massa, she done berry fine, I'se sure,--spec' I put a right smart
hour on her. Look a dar, now, don' she shine?"
The Major examined her carefully, and finding nothing to fault, silent.
It was not his way to waste words in commendation. He merely turned
from the horse to the negro, and asked, pointing to Bergan,--
"You see that young gentleman?"
"Yis, massa; sartin, massa." And Brick made an embarrassed bow,
uncertain whither this conversation might tend.
"Well, that's Vic's master, and yours. It's your business to take care
of her, and wait on him,--that is, do everything he tells you.
Hereafter, you are to go to him for orders."
And quickly mounting his own horse, the Major rode off, without waiting
for thanks or comments.
Bergan stood looking doubtfully at his new acquisition. Property of
this kind gave him a novel sensation; he could not tell, on the
instant, whether he liked it or no. Nevertheless, he recognized the
inexpediency of discussing the matter with the dusky chattel himself;
who, to represent him fairly, seemed in nowise displeased with his
change of owners. He had opened his eyes a trifle wider at his sudden
transfer, and uttered a mechanical, "Yis, massa,"--that was all. He
now stood, tattered hat in hand, waiting for orders. Bergan was
somewhat disconcerted to find that he had none to give. Finally, he
asked,--
"What is your name?"
"Rubric, sah. But dey mos'ly calls me Brick."
"Ah, yes, I see. And your family name?"
"Hain't got no family, sah."
"Your father's name, I mean."
"Nebber had any fader, sah. He sold down souf, fore I's born."
"Your second name, then."
"Same's yours, massa, I s'pose."
"Hum--How old are you?"
Brick scratched his head reflectively. "Don' _jes'_ know, massa,
'zactly. Spec' bout--bout--fifteen or--twenty, sah; jess 's massa
likes."
Bergan bit his lip. Never had he met with such a spirit of
accommodation.
"Well, Brick," he asked, after a moment, "if you had a half-holiday,
now, what would you do with it?"
Brick's face grew radiant through all its dusk. "Go a-fishin', massa,"
he burst out, eagerly; "I jes' should!"
"Well, go fishing, then,--if you think you can be back by supper-time."
"Yis, massa. Tank you, massa." And Brick was off like an arrow from
the string.
Bergan immediately sought out old Rue's cabin. Outwardly, it differed
little from its neighbors; but its interior was not without evidences
of thoughtful provision for the faithful old nurse's comfort. Having
kindly answered all the questions that she chose to ask, in reference
to "Miss Eleanor" and her western life, he made known his errand. She
instantly took a key from her pocket, and was about to put it in his
hand, when she suddenly drew back, exclaiming:--
"No, no, that will never do! I forgot. That is the key of the back
door. You see, sir, I sometimes look into the Hall, and that way is
most convenient."
"I assure you that it will serve me very well, too," replied Bergan.
"It does not matter how I make my entrance."
Rue shook her head. "It is not fitting," said she, "that the son and
heir of the house should first enter at the back, like a servant."
"The son, but not the heir," replied Bergan, smiling.
Rue turned quickly toward him. "Not the heir!" she exclaimed, as if
greatly surprised. "And why not?"
The question was not easy to answer. Bergan could not say frankly,
"Because such heirship must be bought at too high a price,--even the
surrender of my profession, will, conscience, individuality." Nor did
the answer present itself to his own mind in this definite form. He
was conscious, at the moment, of nothing but a confused, hazy throng of
doubts, fears, possibilities, and wishes.
Rue seemed quite satisfied with his silence. She turned to a bureau
near by, and, after a little search, drew forth a large, rusty key,
which she handed him with a kind of solemnity.
"It has waited long," said she, "for the hand that should rightfully
put it into the lock, and let light and hope once more into the old
house. I thank the Lord that I live to see the day."
Bergan was too much touched to answer. He walked quickly to the front
of the deserted mansion, cut the vines from the door, and put the key
in the lock. At first, it opposed a stubborn resistance to his
efforts; then, suddenly, the bolt yielded, the door turned slowly on
its long-unused hinges, and he stood, with a beating heart, in his
ancestral hall.
V.
WASTE PLACES.
He was met by a swift gust of wind, so chill and vault-like, and
hurrying past him with so woful a sigh, that it seemed like the rush of
innumerable imprisoned ghosts, eagerly seizing upon the opportunity for
escape. Involuntarily letting go the door, it fell to behind him with
a clangor that reverberated loudly, for a moment, through the house,
and then suddenly ceased, as if smothered in some remote corner by a
lurking hand. The silence which followed was dreary and
oppressive,--all the more, because Bergan, coming so suddenly from the
outward sunshine, was altogether bedimmed by such density of gloom as
brooded within, most of the windows being either darkened by blinds, or
closed with heavy opaque shutters. For a single instant, he felt a
thrill of unreasoning horror. The impenetrable gloom, the oppressive
stillness, the damp, dead air (which might have come straight from the
open mouth of a tomb), gave him a chill impression that he had
committed sacrilege.
Quickly recovering himself, however, he again flung wide open the door,
and fastened it back. By the light thus admitted, he easily found his
way to a window at the other end of the hall, which he also opened.
There was an immediate inward rush, not only of the sunny daylight, but
of the sweet, warm air of the autumn afternoon, with its inevitable
suggestions of tranquil sea, and tender sky, and slow-waving forest;
quickly penetrating, he felt sure, to the uppermost corner of the
long-deserted dwelling, and scattering everywhere some healthful,
purifying, enlivening influence.
He could now see that he stood in a wide and lofty entrance-hall,
decorated with a profusion of carved woodwork; panels, cornices, and
casements, being ornamented with garlands of oaken roses, or quaint
heads of animals, stiff as petrifactions, and almost ebon-black with
time and rubbing. The furniture consisted of a small table, a cumbrous
cabinet, and ponderous, high-backed chairs, of the Elizabethan age, or
perhaps earlier, brought from England, as heir-looms, by the first
emigrant Bergan. There was also a tall, spectral clock, which, to
Bergan's intense astonishment, suddenly began to fill the hall with a
loud, monotonous tick, as if the march of time, long ago arrested in
the deserted mansion, was now duly resumed:--doubtless the rusty wheels
had been jarred into spasmodic motion by the violent closing of the
door. By way of decoration, there were a few dingy pictures, in dark,
carved frames; and in two of the oaken panels hung complete suits of
armor,--helmets, cuirasses, gorgets, greaves, and
gauntlets,--memorials, not only of long-buried Bergans, but of
long-vanished days.
Hesitating, for a moment, between two half-open doors, Bergan finally
chose to enter the main parlor, a room full of a dusky, old-time
grandeur. A piano stood between the windows, over the keys of which he
ran his fingers, but found that its music had been imprisoned so long
as to have grown hoarse and melancholy. So, doubtless, had that of the
harp, which showed skeleton-like through its torn baize cover, and was
flanked by a pile of music-books, the leaves of which were yellow with
age. Odd, unwieldy chairs, covered with faded silk damask and a rich
coat of dust, kept solemn state in the dim corners; ottomans and
footstools, elaborately embroidered by forgotten fingers with birds,
flowers, and other once cheerful devices, stood under the windows, or
were scattered around the floor. On the walls, in frames of tarnished
magnificence, hung two or three pictures in worsted, the designs of
which, like the hands that had wrought them, were now faded beyond
recognition. Just in proportion as these things had once helped to
brighten the room, they helped to make it more sombre now. Like the
images of vanished joys, they were all the gloomier because once so
glad. Looking upon them, Bergan was painfully impressed with the
latent identity of gayety and grief. Only give them time enough, and
they merge into the same dull neutral tint!
Bergan next glanced into a second parlor, a dusky ante-room, and a
dining-room, but leaving these places undisturbed in their dim and
dusty sanctity, as not of pressing interest, he made his way to the
library, on the other side of the hall. It was a large and lofty room,
set round with ancient book-cases, above and between which hung rows of
portraits, in frames of oak and gilt. These represented the early
forefathers and later worthies of the Bergan lineage,--some in knightly
armor, with mailed hands clasping a gleaming sword-hilt; some in the
rich array of the Tudor or the Stuart court, with laced and plumed hats
under their arms; some in the red coats and top-boots of English
squires, with a favorite horse or hound looking out from one corner of
the picture; some in the huge horsehair wigs and ermined robes of the
judge's bench; and others in the cocked hats and knee-breeches of the
Revolution, or in the modern black coat and pantaloons, seated in
arm-chairs, with their backs to a crimson curtain. There were also
dames to match, with towers of lace and curls upon their heads, ruffs,
farthingales, and all manner of obsolete finery.
Most of the faces had the austerity of aspect common to old portraits,
as if time had delighted to bring into clearer view the hard, stern
traits of character which the painter had dared but faintly to
delineate, and had even then done his best to cover up with pleasant
coloring, and a final coat of lustrous varnish. Nowhere was this
effect more striking than in the portrait of Sir Harry Bergan, earliest
emigrant of the name, and father of the American line. The younger son
of a noble English house, he had early fallen under the displeasure of
a stern father, by reason of careless and spendthrift habits; and had
finally been banished, in disgrace, to a small continental town, upon
an allowance barely sufficient to keep body and soul together. Under
this severe discipline,--smarting, too, with a rankling sense of
injustice in the treatment that he had received,--his character
underwent a complete transformation. His carelessness and
extravagance, as well as the generosity and frankness of which they had
been the rank, ill-trained outgrowth, fell from him like worn-out
garments; he became bitter, morose, and dogged.
At this crisis, the sudden death of his mother placed him in possession
of her own large fortune and family estate. Life once more opened
before him; but no gentle affection called him back to the paternal
neighborhood. On the contrary, he emigrated to Georgia, just then
luminous with the career and the fame of General Oglethorpe; with the
ambitious design of founding a Bergan lineage in the new world, which
should equal, if not surpass, that of the old one. He bought a vast
tract of land, and vigorously commenced the work of bringing it under
cultivation; he distinguished himself both as soldier and citizen in
the Spanish war and the colonial trials, and was knighted for his
services; finally, he imported men and materials, and built Bergan Hall
as nearly as was possible in the style of his early English home, and
called it by the same name. The bricks, the tiles, the elaborate oak
carvings, the door and window-frames, the furniture and decorations,
the copies of ancestral portraits, were all brought from England, and
put in their places by English artisans.