point-blank crime, so called,--except as a last resource. Besides, it
is not necessary; I only want to get rid of him until the Major is
dead, and Miss Carice is my wife. There _must_ be some way to dispose
of him, by lawful means, if I could only hit upon it! Really, if there
were a Devil, as some people believe, he would strain a point now in my
favor! At all events, I think I see my way clear with Astra."
He was silent, for an instant; his brow grew sombre with unwonted
regret.
"Poor Astra!" he murmured, as he drove into the cathedral-like gloom of
the far-stretching pine barren,--"I am really loath to give her up!
But her chance of the Hall, I see now, is not worth a picayune. And it
won't do to trust to the possibility of substituting a manufactured
will for the real one, as long as I cannot find out where the latter is
deposited. The Major was very close-mouthed about _that_ matter. No,
Miss Carice is my safest resort. Yet Astra would suit me much better,
on the whole." And once again, looking absently up the long, columned
vista of the narrow road, he murmured regretfully;--
"Poor Astra!"
IV.
A SERMON.
The next day was Sunday. It came to the earth, as it comes always,
with kindly, hallowed hands full of blessings, but found not everywhere
hearts and minds open to receive them. Carice Bergan, to be sure,
knelt in her accustomed place, in the little church of her fathers,
with a face which might almost have rivalled that of an angel in its
bright peacefulness, and with all the windows of her soul plainly open
to the heavenly sunshine. Bergan Arling, too, conscious that each one
of these holy days had its own special gift or grace for him, its own
kind and measure of spiritual food, which he could ill afford to lose,
knelt in his proper place, and reverently lent his full, rich voice to
swell the solemn flow of common prayer, or the harmonious burst of
choral praise. And Mrs. Lyte, in her widow's weeds, looking upward in
spirit, to the long peace of Paradise, and the shining faces of the
redeemed, was glad to believe in "the communion of saints," and
rejoiced in the day that was both a foretaste and a promise of the
"life everlasting." Even Astra Lyte, though suffering from a vague and
nameless depression,--a burden of which, as yet, she felt only the
weight and chill, without comprehending, or daring to try to
comprehend, whence it came or what it meant,--was sensible of a dim
delight, and possibly a latent helpfulness, in the sweet and solemn
influences of the day and the place. Here and there, moreover, a soul
bowed under the weight of recent affliction, or shaken with the terrors
of a newly-awakened conscience, was both awed and glad to be able to
give itself audible expression in words so fit and forcible as those of
the Confession and the Litany, and thankful if it might pick up so much
as a crumb of pardon and peace from the Master's bountiful table.
But, to Doctor Remy, paying an unwilling tribute to public opinion by
showing himself at church, on this morning, after many weeks of
absence, and leaving it to be inferred that, but for his professional
duties, he would be seen there regularly; to Miss Ferrars, mingling
solemn words of confession and penitence with frivolous thoughts of
dress and gossip; to Dick Causton, slinking shame-facedly into the rear
pew, to listen to the conclusion of the sweet, old, familiar hymn, the
first sounds of which had fallen enticingly upon his ear, as he was
staggering up the street;--to these, and many others like them,
doubtless, Sunday brought only present irksomeness and future
condemnation.
The hymn being finished, Mr. Islay ascended the pulpit, and, laying his
manuscript open before him, looked round on the crowded congregation,
with serious, almost melancholy, eyes. Perhaps he sought, amid those
upturned faces, for some sign of human sympathy, to lighten a little
his heavy sense of responsibility; perhaps he wondered to which of
these souls his words were now to prove a savor of life unto life, and
to which, a savor of death unto death. Deep and clear, and full of a
solemn music, his voice broke the silence.
"In the fifth, chapter of Proverbs, and in the twenty-second verse, it
is written:
'HE SHALL BE HOLDEN WITH THE CORDS OF HIS SINS.'"
Three faces were at once alive with interest. Doctor Remy, indeed,
gave a slight and almost imperceptible start, as if his intellect not
only, but his memory or his conscience, had felt an awakening touch.
Bergan Arling merely fixed his eyes more intently on the speaker, with
the aspect of a man who was glad to find that the coming discourse was
likely to link into, and carry on, some previous train of thought. As
for Dick Causton, the word "Proverbs" was sufficient to command his
earnest, and even critical, attention. He believed that he knew a good
deal about proverbs himself; he had made a lifelong study of their
characteristics and principles of interpretation; he had often declared
those of Solomon--such as were strictly proverbs--to be of the best; he
would stay and hear what a tyro like Mr. Islay had to say about this
particular one.
This, briefly, was what the clergyman said.
"Many texts are like rosebuds. They have a simple form, and an obvious
signification. But if you steep them in the dew of meditation and the
sunshine of faith, they begin to unfold meaning after meaning, as the
rosebud petal after petal; and in the centre there is a golden
heart,--the gracious blessing of God on the fervent and prayerful
spirit, and the inquiring and teachable mind. Let us pray that the
text which we are considering, may prove such an one to each of us.
"A man's sin is sure to find him out. It may have been committed in
secret, muffled thickly with caution, and finally buried deep under
time and distance and circumstance; it may remain hidden for years; it
may have been forgotten, except for an occasional dark moment, by the
sinner himself; yet, some time, some day, what seems to be a chance,
but is truly a providence, lifts the veil, and takes hold of the
clue,--or death throws the lurid light of his inverted torch over the
dark transaction,--and the liar, the thief, the adulterer, the
murderer, or whatever may be the miserable man's miserable name, is
brought to the bar either of human or divine justice. And there is no
escape. The bands of his iniquity are around him; they bind him hand
and foot; he is holden with the cords of his sins.
"This is perhaps the first and most obvious meaning of the text. It
assures us that, 'though punishment be lame, it arrives.' It warns us
not to make cords which are certain to be used, some day, for our own
binding.
"But men are apt to think lightly of a remote evil. The present
monopolizes their fears, as it does their labors. Moreover (they say),
there are dozens of little, everyday sins, which entail no such fearful
consequences. Let us see how our text bears upon these points.
"Sin is not a simple, but a complex, thing. It is a cord twisted of
many threads, and some of them begin very far back. A man is seldom
taken in the toils of a sudden, single temptation, or bound with the
cords of an utterly unimagined and unpremeditated sin. He has made the
way and work easy to each of them, by yielding to preliminary
temptations, and carelessly allowing the binding of preparatory sins.
He is holden with the cords of the evil thought to the unhallowed
desire and the foul gratification. He is holden with the cords of that
seemingly venial sin to this final burden of guilt and shame, by that
unbridled passion to this startling, terrible crime. The slender cord
draws the stout one after it: at sight of _that_, the man may start and
shrink, but he is already half-bound, and his resistance is feeble.
Having taken the first step, he is committed to the second; having
admitted the premise, he is bound to the logical conclusion. Here, as
before, he is holden with the cords of his sins.
"Moreover, there are few things stronger, for good or ill, than habit.
And every sin, however small, _may_ begin an evil habit, and is _sure_
to confirm one. Round and round goes the slender cord, till it binds
as strongly as a chain of iron. One part after another yields to the
subtle, stealing influence; first, the will succumbs; then, the reason;
finally, the conscience. Day by day, good ceases to attract, and evil
to repel. Day by day, the right becomes more difficult, and the wrong
easier. The habit soon becomes fixed; the man is firmly bound. To the
side of evil, and the service of Satan, he is holden with the cords of
his sins.
"Again: If thought be the spring of action, action is also the spring
of thought. If it be true that, 'as a man thinks, he is,' so it is
true that as he is, he thinks. Thought is by turns cause and effect.
If a man's sins are the result of his evil thoughts, so his evil and
erroneous thoughts are sometimes the result of his sins. He cannot
long continue to think right if he act wrong. After breaking the
Sabbath awhile, he ceases to think of it as a holy day. After
committing murder, he ceases to regard life as sacred. Violating human
law, it becomes a terror instead of a protection. Defying the Divine
law, he soon denies its authority. Sin distorts his views, as well as
his life. The truths of religion lose their clearness to his mind with
their power to influence his action. Doubts, scepticism, infidelity,
find an open door, and an easy road, to his heart. If a man would keep
fast hold of his Christian faith, let him take care to order his
actions, as far as possible, in conformity to its precepts. But, on
the other hand, let him give free rein to his appetites and
ambitions,--yea, even to the commission of absolute crime,--if he
wishes to become a mocker and an infidel, without love of God or man,
without correct views of time or clear ones of eternity. For, to all
these things, he will be sure to be holden with the cords of his sins.
"Finally; All men love liberty. But sin, though it may seem, at first,
to be the wildest liberty, soon proves to be the narrowest bondage.
The sinner is the slave of appetites, of habits, of thoughts, that are
hard task-masters; and the wages of which are every kind of death. For
there are many kinds,--social, political, moral, before the final,
everlasting death;--and one, or all, of these, he is sure to taste, as
the reward of his faithful service of Satan. His health is undermined,
or his reputation destroyed; his fortune is dissipated, or his gold
corroded in the using; he is shaken with the terrors of conscience, or
hardened into the semblance of stone; he is without adequate
consolation in the day of trouble, and without strengthening hope in
the day of death; but his slavery is abject and absolute. He neither
will nor can escape. He is holden with the cords of his sins.
"Thus you will see, beloved, that our text has a word of solemn warning
for the present, as well as for the future. The holding of sin is to
be dreaded in life, not less than at death. One sin holds fast to
another. Single sins twist together into the strong cord of habitual
sin. The sinful act draws after it evil thoughts and loose opinions.
Sin is a continual, daily bondage, as well as a final retribution.
"Beware then, oh, ye young! how you bind yourselves with cords of
sinful thoughts, or habits, or opinions, or passions, to the exclusion
of that blessed liberty which is in Christ Jesus. Beware, oh, ye
adults! how you go on adding sin to sin, and cord to cord, till you are
bound hand and foot, thought and will, body and soul; and are finally
cast down to perdition, in bonds of your own industrious
forging--holden with the cords of your sins!
"But,--do you say?--we are all sinners, we are all 'holden,' how are we
to break from the cords of our sins? Go to Christ. At His feet, all
bonds are broken, all slavery ends. He leads captivity captive, and
His service is perfect freedom. He is our righteousness, and the man
that trusteth in Him, shall no more be holden with the cords of His
sins."
Such was the substance of the sermon. But in the delivery, there was a
warmth and an earnestness, a happiness of expression and illustration,
and a deep solemnity, that held the congregation spell-bound with
interest, to the end!
Perhaps no one had listened more attentively, or humbly, than Bergan
Arling. So recently had he felt the irksome holding of the cords of
his sins! And he would still, no doubt, be holden to their
consequences, all the days of his life, if not to their guilt.
As for Doctor Remy, there was an unusual pallor in his face, when he
rose, at the singing of the last hymn. But it was quickly gone; he
came out of the church with much of his usual cold, composed demeanor.
His sins had held him too long to loosen their stricture at one
transient quake of conscience.
Dick Causton had listened for some time with marked attention, and
apparent approval. Then, a kind of haze had slowly bedimmed his sight
and beclouded his brain. When the congregation came down the aisles,
he was fast asleep, with his head drooping heavily on his breast. If
anything could have added to the effect of the sermon, this sight ought
to have done so. Most certainly, poor Dick was "holden with the cords
of his sins."
When the church was empty, he was shaken rudely by the sexton, and
turned out, muttering caustic proverbs by way of retaliation.
V.
PARTINGS.
Bergan and Doctor Remy walked home from the church, as they had gone
thither, side by side; yet, for a considerable time, neither spoke. If
not altogether congenial spirits, they were on sufficiently easy and
familiar terms, in virtue of their almost daily association, to allow
each to pursue his own train of thought, on occasion, without reference
to the other.
To Bergan, Mr. Islay's sermon had been interesting and effective, not
only for what it contained, but for what it suggested. Naturally,
therefore, his mind was now busy in following out those suggestions to
the point where they bore upon his own experience, and unfolded their
lessons for his own soul.
But Dr. Remy's thoughts had long since strayed away from any channel
into which the sermon was calculated to lead them. There had been some
brief moments, during its delivery, to be sure, when he had shrunken
inwardly, iron-nerved though he were, from the deep, sharp probing of
certain of its sentences; and there had been a single instant, perhaps,
wherein he had been made dimly to see, or to suspect, that his own life
and character--much as he had prided himself upon being the independent
artificer of them both--were really the results to which he had been
holden by the cords of former, half-forgotten sins. But he had made
haste to shake himself free from both the idea and its effect, with one
smile of scorn at his own folly, and another at what he chose to
consider the weak superstition of the clergyman and his awed,
interested flock. He thanked God--using the phrase in a vague, general
sense which, perhaps, was only equivalent to thanking himself--that he
was not as these men were. And no sooner was he in the open air than
he set his busy mind to the consideration of his own projects. Some
clue to its workings may perhaps be afforded by the question with which
he finally broke the silence.
"Have you ever had the yellow fever, Arling?"
"No; it does not visit our western villages."
"Then, I advise you to take refuge in one of them, for the next three
months. It is certain to visit Berganton ere long."
"Indeed!" said Bergan, with more curiosity than alarm. "Why do you
think so?"
"From the weather, the atmosphere, the present type of disease,--a
dozen indications patent to the eye of experience. Besides, I am
informed by a private letter that it has already appeared in New
Orleans. Its arrival here is but a question of time. And I assure you
that its acquaintance is to be avoided."
"Doubtless. And I shall do my best to avoid it--except by running
away."
"You might as well say," answered Doctor Remy, dryly, "that you will
take every precaution against drowning--except to keep your head above
water. Don't be fool-hardy, Arling. Yellow Jack has a keen appetite
for strangers,--that is to say, for all who are not native born. If he
spares any, it is usually the sickly and feeble, not the strong and
vigorous. He would consider you a toothsome morsel. Take my advice,
and go home, or go North, or take a sea-voyage,--do anything rather
than remain here during the last of summer and the beginning of autumn.
It will be no loss to you. After the first of next month, there will
be absolutely nothing for a lawyer to do here but try to keep cool."
"And you?" asked Bergan.
"Oh, I stay, of course. An epidemic is a physician's harvest time.
Besides, I have had the yellow fever."
"Then the native-born do not all escape?"
"By no means. Besides, I lost my birthright by many years' absence in
Europe. It was immediately after my return that I was taken. Now I
may consider myself acclimated."
"As I must be," replied Bergan, "if, as is likely, I am to spend the
remainder of my life at the South. Thank you for your friendly
warning, but I think I must stay."
Doctor Remy shrugged his shoulders, and said no more. He had merely
tried the first and simplest expedient which occurred to him, for
removing Bergan from the neighborhood. He was not surprised nor
troubled that it had failed. He had expected as much. But there were
other and surer means to his end, he believed, at his command.
However, he was not obliged to resort to them. Early next morning
Bergan came into his office, with an open letter in his hand, and a
most anxious face.
"Read that," said he, huskily, "and tell me if there is any hope."
Doctor Remy obeyed, reading the letter not once only, but twice, and
looking long and meditatively at the signature. Then he lifted his
eyes to Bergan's face.
"Plenty of hope, in my opinion," said he; "I do not attach as much
importance as this Doctor Trubie does to your mother's fancy that she
is going to die. It only argues a depressed state of mind,
corresponding to a low state of body. Nevertheless, it is well to do
whatever can be done to raise her spirits; and I suspect that your
presence at her bedside will avail much to that end. Of course, you
set out at once?"
"Certainly. Can you tell me at what hour the next train leaves
Savalla?"
Doctor Remy glanced at his watch. "In an hour and a half. That gives
you ample time;--fifteen minutes to throw a few things into a
portmanteau, and tell me what I can do for you while you are away; five
minutes for _adieux_, and an hour and ten minutes to reach Savalla, in
the saddle, with a swift horse."
"If I can find one at such short notice," said Bergan, doubtfully.
Doctor Remy pulled a bell-wire, and Scipio's black head appeared as
instantaneously as if he had been attached to the other end of it.
"Saddle the roan, and take him round to the front gate," said Doctor
Remy. "Mr. Arling will ride him to Savalla, You will go after him, by
the stage, this afternoon. Quick now!"
The head ducked, and disappeared.
"How can I thank you!" exclaimed Bergan, wringing the doctor's hand.
"By attending to the portmanteau business at once. I will come with
you; we can talk while you work. I want to ask something about this
Doctor Trubie. Does he keep up with the times,--in medicine, that is?"
"I don't know--I believe so."
"H'm; there have been some recent discoveries of great value in the
treatment of typhoids, when they run long and low, as they are apt to
do. Suppose I write down a few suggestions, which, if there is grave
need, you can commend to Doctor Trubie's favorable consideration.
Otherwise, don't interfere."
Bergan tried once more to express his gratitude, as the folded paper
was put in his hand; but Doctor Remy cut him short.
"If you really want to thank me," said he, "do it by staying away until
the sickly season is over; I shall have yellow fever patients enough
without you. Indeed, you _must_; having left, it would be suicidal to
come back before the first of November. Tell your mother that I said
so, when she is convalescent."
"When she is convalescent," repeated Bergan, quickly. "Then you _do_
hope!"
"Of course I do. There is every reason for it. Your mother, being a
Bergan, has a sound constitution, and an almost indomitable vitality;
and she is not yet old. If Trubie makes a good fight, he is sure to
win. At any rate, never despair till the breath is out of the body;
nor even then, till you are certain that it cannot be brought back."
Bergan could not but feel a pang of self-reproach for his
long-smothered dislike and distrust of the man who was thus loading him
with obligations,--help on his way to his mother, ready encouragement,
and valuable professional advice. It did not occur to him that there
is such a thing as doing good that evil may come!
Doctor Remy looked after him with a triumphant smile. "One out of my
way already!" he exclaimed. "It would seem that the Devil (another
name for Fate or Chance) _has_ helped me!"
Bergan next sought Mrs. Lyte and Astra, for a parting word. He found
the latter in her studio, sitting idly by a window, with her hands
folded listlessly in her lap, and a weary, dejected face that went to
his heart. Never before had he seen her otherwise than busy, bright,
and earnest; never had she met his look with so faint and transient a
smile.
"I am sorry that you are going," said she, sombrely; "sorrier, perhaps,
than the occasion may seem to warrant. But I cannot rid myself of a
suspicion that this phase of our life and friendship is finished; and
who can tell what the next may be! Do you remember our first meeting
under the oaks, and the red sunset light, and the dark sunset cloud?
You interpreted them to mean that we were to know sunshine and shade
together, did you not? Well, we have had the sunshine; now, it is time
for the shade."
"You forget," said Bergan, kindly, "that the cloud was but for a
moment, and the sunshine returned."
"No, I remember it well. But the cloud was very dark while it lasted,
and the shine was not quite so bright afterward. It was nearer to its
setting."
Bergan could scarcely believe that it was Astra who spoke. Hitherto,
she had been the moral sunshine of the house, felt even where it did
not directly fall. Her spirit, in its potency of cheer, resembled the
sunbeam which, though it kindle but one little spot on the floor into
actual brightness, diffuses its light and cheerfulness throughout a
whole room. As every article of furniture, every picture, every face,
in the room, is the brighter for the sunbeam, so every inmate of Mrs.
Lyte's rambling old dwelling had been the happier for Astra's presence
and influence. The sound of her clear, buoyant voice, the thought of
her light, busy figure, just across the hall, had always served to
quicken and brighten his own energies. It had been very much his wont
to bring all his shadows, discouragements, and despondencies, to be
dissipated by contact with her breezy activity and cheery hopefulness.
What had come over her, that she met him now with such dreary
premonition of ill, such persistent dwelling upon the dark side? He
looked down upon her with the question in his eyes, if not on his lips.
She understood and answered it.
"It is only a dark mood," said she, passing her hand over her brow,
"not an actual trouble,--at least, not yet. But forgive me for
afflicting you with it now, when you are under the shadow of a real
cloud. Let us hope that it will pass quickly. When you reach home,
may the sunshine be already there!"
"Thank you. I shall expect to hear from you through Doctor Remy--all
of you, I mean. He has promised to let me know how everything goes on
here."
Astra lifted her eyes searchingly to his face. Her fine perceptions
had not failed to take note of his inadvertent linking together of
Doctor Remy and herself, and his quick attempt to conceal it. She
divined that he knew her secret. Her eyes fell, and her face flushed.
Bergan took her hand, and lifted it, in gentle, chivalrous fashion, to
his lips. "I wish you every happiness," said he, in a tone that said
more than the words,--"every sunshine, and few clouds. Good-bye."
"Good-bye," she answered, withdrawing her hand, yet not without a
certain lingering pressure, that seemed even sadder than her face, and
that Bergan felt long afterwards. And he left her sitting where he
found her.