and manner of her departure was Carice. Astra, to be sure, had not
failed to send her friend a brief note of farewell; but it was couched
in such vague terms, owing to the confusion and distress of mind in
which it had been written, as to afford little satisfaction to the
reader. She could only gather from it that, in one way or another,
Astra's happiness was very seriously compromised; so much so as to make
a change desirable, though it were only a change of pain. And, in
Carice's present circumstances, this was either too much or too little.
The rumors which had filled Berganton had found their way to Oakstead
also; and, for the first time in their lives, parents and daughter were
divided in sentiment, and alien in sympathy. Mr. and Mrs.
Bergan--terrified that their idolized child should have given her heart
to a man persistently held up to view as a thin mask of outward
morality over an inward rottenness of intemperance, indebtedness, and
unscrupulous trifling with affection--could think of no better way of
correcting the mischief than by continually repeating in her unwilling
ears the various dark rumors in circulation, together with such facts
and theories as tended to confirm them. Carice, on her part, turned
from them all with the instinctive disgust of a pure mind, and the
generous faith and confidence of a true affection. And she was right.
Trust, as long as it is in anywise possible, is the heart's deepest
wisdom, as well as its surest instinct.
Nevertheless, it was hard to find her parents arrayed against her, with
all the rest of the world. Duty, decorum, forbade her to set up her
own opinion in opposition to theirs; often she had but to listen in
silence to statements and inferences which she could neither admit nor
disprove. She would have been glad, therefore, had Astra's note
furnished one scrap of evidence in support of her own convictions; on
the contrary, its testimony went quite the other way. She could only
neutralize its effect upon herself by supposing that Astra had given
her affections to Bergan unsought, and was now suffering from a
disappointment none the less bitter that she had brought it upon
herself. But Carice was too delicate and generous to breathe this
suspicion aloud; at the same time she knew that it would have no weight
with minds so deeply prejudiced as those of her parents.
Carice's worst trial was, however, her growing wonder why nothing was
heard from Bergan. His last words to her had been a promise to write
immediately, both to her father and herself,--to the former by way of
frankly avowing his love, and asking for permission to address his
daughter; to the latter, as a necessary sequence to that brief
interview by the singing river, the thought of which was Carice's one
subject of delightful contemplation. But no letter came, not so much
as a word of regret or excuse for necessary delay. As time dragged its
slow length along, a touching look of wistfulness, mingled with a
sorrowful patience, came into the face that had lately been so serenely
happy,--a look over which Mr. and Mrs. Bergan scarcely knew whether
most to lament or to rejoice, it was grievous to behold it there; and
yet, if Bergan would only keep silent, she must eventually give him up!
Alas for Carice! there was no doubt whatever that Bergan would keep
silent--or seem to do so. Her parents' minds would have been set at
rest on that point, if they could invisibly have followed Doctor Remy
into the Berganton Post Office some weeks previous, and listened to his
conversation with the pale, slight, weak-looking young man in charge.
One month before, he had so obstinately and successfully fought death
at the bedside of this young man's newly wedded wife, as to call forth
an unusual amount of gratitude. To this fact he now alluded.
"Well, Jekyll," said he, "I have come to make trial of that eternal
gratitude which you swore to me, not long ago."
"I am glad of it, sir," responded Jekyll, warmly. "What can I do for
you?"
"The question is rather, what _will_ you do for me?" returned the
doctor, with marked emphasis.
"Anything, anything, that is not wrong," replied Jekyll.
"Right and wrong are relative terms," replied Doctor Remy, quietly.
"If you had understood the nature of the drugs which I gave your wife
the other night, you would have said that I was trying to poison
her;--yet, you see, I saved her life. It is the motive which
determines the character of the act."
"Y-e-s, sir," rejoined Jekyll, considerably bewildered; but,
nevertheless, feeling quite certain that so learned a man as Doctor
Remy must understand these matters a great deal better than he did.
"And so," continued the doctor, suavely, "what I am about to ask you to
do, is not really wrong, though it may seem so at first sight. It is
only a quiet method of averting a great deal of trouble and scandal
from a very worthy family. Should you recognize this handwriting, if
you were to see it again?"
Jekyll looked at the paper held towards him, and answered,--"Yes,
certainly; it is--"
"Never mind whose it is," interrupted the doctor; "it is just as well
not to know anything about that. Well, Jekyll, what I want you to do,
is simply to keep a sharp lookout for any letters, in that handwriting,
which may come to Godfrey Bergan, or his daughter, or his wife, and
hand them over to me."
Jekyll opened his eyes wide with surprise and terror. "Good gracious!"
he exclaimed, "it's a penitentiary business!"
"Not at all," replied Doctor Remy, calmly. "In the first place, no one
will know anything about it but you and me. In the second, you are not
doing this thing for your own advantage, but just to help me to save
certain excellent people from sore sorrow and trouble."
Jekyll did not answer, but he still looked dismayed and unconvinced.
"If it will ease your scruples any," pursued the doctor, after a pause,
"I don't mind telling you, in confidence, that Mr. Godfrey Bergan very
much desires the suppression of these letters, though he does not want
to appear in the matter himself. And you must admit that he has a
right to control the correspondence of his own household.
"But why does he want his own letters stopped?" asked Jekyll.
"For the best of reasons,--he does not want to receive them. He
prefers to be able to say that he hears nothing, and knows nothing.
Therefore, you will readily understand that nothing is to be said, or
even hinted, to him. He puts the matter in my hands, and you are
responsible to me only."
It is unnecessary to trace the conversation to the end. Its results
are already patent to the reader. Doctor Remy was specious and
plausible; Jekyll was weak and grateful; the yielding of the pliant
nature of the former to the stronger one of the latter, could only be a
question of time.
IX.
SMOOTHER THAN BUTTER.
No sooner was the way made clear, by the removal of Bergan and Astra,
than Doctor Remy began to visit assiduously at Oakstead; taking good
care, at first, that the object of these visits should seem to be
anything but Carice. He came to discuss local politics or town hygiene
with Mr. Bergan; or he sought to interest his wife in some newly
discovered object of charity. By and by, it was a mere matter of
pleasant habit, apparently, that he stopped at Oakstead four or five
times a week, as he came and went on his professional rounds.
If Carice was absent, on these occasions, he never asked for her; if
she was present, he rarely addressed his conversation to her;
nevertheless he weighed every word, and shaped every sentence, with
artful reference to its effect upon her ear and mind. Every resource
of his tact and skill was exhausted, in his effort to attract and keep
the attention of the fair, silent girl, sitting in the shadow, with the
drooping head, and the patient, preoccupied face.
It was long ere he could congratulate himself upon any measure of
success. The little that Carice had hitherto known of Doctor Remy, she
had intuitively disliked. She now acknowledged that she had scarcely
done him justice in her thought; or he had changed since then.
Occasionally, in his mention of his poorer patients, there peeped out
traits of thoughtful kindness and generosity,--or something that looked
like them,--for which she would never have given him credit. She was
glad to know that he was better than he had seemed. But here the
matter ended, so far as she was concerned. She did not care for him,
personally; she shunned his visits, as much as possible; when compelled
to be present, she oftenest sat a little apart, thinking her own
thoughts over her embroidery or her drawing, and letting the brightest
flow of his conversation pass by her unheeded.
But so consummate a social strategist as Doctor Remy was not thus to be
baffled. One day, he took fitting occasion to bring Bergan's name into
his talk,--speaking of him quietly and unconcernedly, as it was natural
to speak of a man with whom he had been intimately associated for some
months,--and speaking of him kindly, too, as of one for whom he
entertained a real regard. Carice turned away her head, and tears
sprang to her eyes. It was so long since she had heard Bergan's name
spoken in a friendly tone, and unaccompanied by a disparaging
commentary! When she ventured to look at Doctor Remy, it was with a
soft, grateful expression, which he did not fail to detect and
understand. There was a certain wistfulness, also, as of a flower
which, having been refreshed by one little drop of unexpected dew,
opens its petals for more. This, too, the doctor understood, and was
too wise to disappoint.
"By the way," said he, turning to Mr. Bergan, "perhaps I can give you
the latest news from your sister,--I had a letter from Mr. Arling this
morning."
Carice's heart gave a great leap, of mingled pleasure and pain. At
last she was to hear something;--yet, certainly, it ought not to be in
this roundabout way.
"It will be the earliest news as well as the latest," responded Mr.
Bergan, drily; "I have heard nothing, as yet."
"Is it possible!" exclaimed Doctor Remy, with well-feigned surprise; "I
had no idea of that. Still, severe sickness is an engrossing guest in
a house, as I often have occasion to notice; outside friends are apt to
be forgotten, or rather ignored, except as they can be made useful.
Probably, Arling would not have written to me, if he had not wanted
something supplementary to certain medical suggestions with which I
furnished him, when he left, and which seem to have been of use.
Anyway, I am glad to be able to tell you that the fever has passed the
crisis."
"I am glad to hear it," returned Mr. Bergan, heartily enough, yet with
an evident dislike of the subject. Carice being present, he could not
forget that talking of Mrs. Arling was the next thing to talking of her
son.
Mrs. Bergan, however, was more alive to the demands both of kinship and
of courtesy. "Is our sister out of danger, then?" she asked with
interest.
"Except as there is always danger of a relapse," answered Doctor Remy.
"Still, judging from Mr. Arling's letter, I should say that there is
good reason to hope that his mother's convalescence will be sure and
swift. In that case, we may look for him back among us, ere long."
Mr. Bergan frowned; Carice turned away her face, that her gladness
might not be seen shining in her eyes. This, then, was the reason why
Bergan had not written to Oakstead. At first, there had been
engrossing anxiety and fear; then, finding that he should soon be able
to come and plead his cause in person, he had not thought it wise to
commit it to the colder advocacy of a letter. There were many
advantages in a face-to-face discussion; especially where, as he
doubtless suspected, prejudice was to be met and overcome! And he
could not honorably write to her, until he had written to her father.
Nor would she admit, even to herself, that this explanation did not
quite cover every point, that it hardly excused Bergan for subjecting
her to so long a strain of expectation and suspense. She was so glad,
poor child! to discern even the outline of a reasonable solution of the
mystery that had so oppressed her! And, for the rest, was he not
coming soon, to make everything smooth and plain? Might he not be here
in a few days,--a week,--a fortnight,--at farthest? Or, suppose it
should be a month:--well, no need for her heart to sink thus,--could a
month ever seem long again, in comparison with that which was just past?
Perhaps it may be well to offset the foregoing scene with one or two
veritable paragraphs from Bergan's letter:--
"The crisis of the fever, Doctor Trubie thinks, was passed a week ago.
But my mother does not rally, in the least. We just succeed in keeping
her alive--if anything so like death can be called life--by the means
which you suggested. If she does live, we shall owe it, under God, to
you. The great obstacle to her recovery, now, is the ulceration
mentioned above; Doctor Trubie warns us that it may terminate fatally,
any day. If you have any further suggestions to offer, I need not say
how gratefully we shall accept them.
"Can you tell me if they are all well at Oakstead? I wrote some time
ago, but have heard nothing."
The second of these paragraphs, Doctor Remy had dismissed with a single
reading and a sinister smile; but, over the first, he had knitted his
brows into their sternest, deepest lines of thought,--the look of a man
hurling all his reserved force into the fight, and determined to wring
victory from defeat.
"She must not die!" he muttered to himself,--"that would set Arling
free too soon. The longer and slower her convalescence, the
better,--but she _must not die!_"
And the return mail carried back to Mrs. Arling's bedside--where the
battle seemed wellnigh over--the strong reinforcements of Doctor Remy's
science and experience, to carry on the fight.
From all of which, it will easily be seen that Carice's days of
suspense were not yet over. Doctor Remy had artfully lifted her a
little way into the sunshine, first, as a means of commending himself
to her favor, and next, in order that her lapse into the shadow should
be the more complete.
In the first of these objects, he was measurably successful. Carice no
longer shunned him. He was certain to see her, soon or late, whenever
he came to Oakstead. With the current of feeling setting so strongly
against Bergan, in every other quarter, she could not afford to lose
any kindly mention of him, in this one. Though she still sat a little
apart, it was plain that she lost no word of his conversation. Her
face, as she listened, had the same look of patient interest, with
which a solitary prisoner might watch for the flight of a bird across
the small square of blue sky which is his only prospect.
Her parents noticed the change, and rejoiced in it, inasmuch as they
did not suspect its cause. For it must be confessed that Doctor Remy
acquitted himself marvellously well of the delicate task of mentioning
Bergan in terms at once pleasant to the daughter's ears, and void of
offence to those of the parents. He understood perfectly the art of
constructing two-sided sentences, which gave Carice the impression that
he was the young man's stanch, if undemonstrative, friend, at the same
time that Mr. and Mrs. Bergan found in them abundant confirmation of
their prejudices.
Of course, neither party discussed these impressions with the other.
Carice, feeling the uselessness of the task, had long since ceased to
defend Bergan; her parents, believing that his silence was operating
more powerfully against him than any arguments of theirs could do, had
ceased to attack him. Nor will it seem any paradox to say that, while
they were unspeakably glad of his omission to write, it was, on the
whole, his worst fault, in their eyes. They resented the slight to
their daughter none the less, because it hastened the end which they
ardently desired. To have sought her love was bad enough, but to have
flung it aside so quickly, as a thing of no value, was a thousand times
worse. Godfrey Bergan gnashed his teeth, whenever he thought of it,
with an indignation for which he had no words.
One day, Doctor Remy, to his great gratification, found Carice alone in
the library; and at once seized upon the opportunity to speak of
Bergan, in kinder and fuller strain than he had ever yet ventured to
do,--though not in a way to suggest that he was aware of any special
bond between his listener and his subject. He described his first
meeting with the young man, and its immediate results; he sketched
various pleasant scenes and incidents that had come to pass under Mrs.
Lyte's kindly roof; and he dwelt with hearty admiration upon Bergan's
oratorical and intellectual gifts. Carice listened like one entranced.
Her joy was too perfect to admit of any alloy, even when Doctor Remy
went on to speak of Bergan as a young man whose character was still in
process of formation, whose talents were, as yet, far in advance of his
judgment, and whose kindly impulses often led him into error. Yet
these few words, of all that had ever been spoken disparagingly of
Bergan, in her hearing, were the only ones that had yet effected any
lodgment in her mind. So artfully thrown in, among much that was
friendly and encomiastic, as to be scarcely noticed at the moment, the
time came when these words shot up, in Carice's memory, into manifold
thorn-branches of suggestion.
At present, however, she was inexpressibly cheered by this hour's talk
on the subject that lay nearest her heart. She greeted her parents,
upon their return, with a face so much more like that which had once
been the sunshine of their hearts, that they exchanged looks of
surprise and delight. They were looks of questioning too. Was this
pleasant change owing to Doctor Remy's influence? Was he beginning to
think of Carice, in lover's wise? Was she beginning to turn
unconsciously from the love that had failed her, to the calm and mature
affection that was certain to stand by her? Then, by all means, let
the matter so arrange itself. Though Doctor Remy was not quite the man
whom they would have chosen for Carice, he was infinitely better and
safer than their nephew. His reputation was fair, his talents
undeniable; he was certain to win eminence in his profession; and
possibly, fame beyond it, as a man of science. If he had seemed a
little cold and hard, hitherto, love would soften him. Who could be
otherwise than soft to Carice!
And so, Doctor Remy came and went, and unlimited opportunities were
given him to talk to Carice,--of Bergan, or of anything else,--of which
he failed not to make artful use, with reference both to the present
and the future. In due time, she came to look upon him somewhat as
Astra had once done,--as a man more wise and calm than tender, more
just than genial, but a man to be greatly esteemed and trusted,
nevertheless; and, certainly a true, if not an enthusiastic, friend of
Bergan. Yet she never thought of him, strange to say, as a friend to
herself. Her instincts were far too fine and clear for that. If ever,
for a moment, she felt inclined to turn to him for sympathy, she
immediately shrank back from him, as powerless to give her what she
sought. It was precisely the same feeling--though she did not
recognize it as such--with which she would have turned away from an
image in a mirror, which, during a single illusive moment of twilight,
she had mistaken for a living form.
And the days came and went, and another month drew nigh its close.
X.
A WICKED DEVICE.
Carice was strolling languidly along the bank of the creek, the
heaviness of her heart easily discoverable in her absent face and
languid step. Her eyes rested on the same stream, her ears were filled
with the murmur of the same leaves, which had witnessed her parting
with Bergan, nearly two months before, yet neither made any distinct
impression on her mind; she saw and heard but the flow and murmur of
her own troubled thoughts. She had noticed a singular change of tone
in Doctor Remy, of late, with respect to Bergan. He no longer made the
young man the subject of free and frank conversation; if obliged to
mention him at all, he did it with a certain reserve and caution, an
air of picking and choosing his phrases, which at first puzzled, and
was now beginning to alarm, the poor girl, already worn and nervous
with the long sickness of hope deferred.
Her fears, however, took a different direction from what Doctor Remy
had anticipated. He had intended his alteration of manner to suggest
the grave, stern reserve of a man, who, though he had himself lost
confidence in his friend, is still honorably reluctant to injure him in
the estimation of another. But from any such suggestion, Carice's mind
was shielded by her loyal faith in her lover, as by an armor of proof.
Dr. Remy's change of manner only served to strengthen her growing
conviction that Bergan's failure either to write, or to appear in
person, could be caused by nothing short of some great and unexpected
calamity. As her eyes followed a swift cloud-shadow from object to
object of the summer landscape, so her mind followed the dark shade of
her fears from point to point of possible ill. Perhaps the fever,
quitting his mother, had fastened upon Bergan himself; perhaps he was
ill, suffering, unconscious, dying, even, or--the thought shook her
like a sudden blow--dead! Gasping for breath, she leaned against a
friendly tree, and closed her eyes, as if to shut out the agonizing
vision, which, nevertheless, rose but the more vividly before her.
Quickly opening them again, she saw Doctor Remy coming toward her from
the direction of the cottage. He had espied her from the piazza, as he
was taking his leave, after having spent a half-hour with her mother.
She was glad to see him. He could set her free from the intolerable
chafing of suspense, though it were but to hand her over to the chill
bondage of despair. He would doubtless have done so, ere this, but for
some request or warning of her parents to the contrary. How far this
might have let him into the secret of her relations with Bergan, she
know not,--neither did she care much, just now; how far it might avail
to close his lips was a much more important consideration,--still she
believed that she could gather something from the expression of his
face, even though he should think it right to evade her questions.
She seized upon the first opportunity, therefore, to look him, steadily
in the face, though her own flushed a little, as she did so; and to
ask, quietly,--"Have you heard anything from my cousin Bergan lately?"
Doctor Remy's face underwent a quick change of expression, none the
less effective that it was obedient to his will. "Yes," replied he,
sombrely, "I had a letter from him two or three days ago."
Carice could scarcely restrain a cry of joy; it was such a relief to
know that Bergan was alive, and able to write. But her immediate
perception that something was kept back, saved her self-possession.
"And my aunt," she went on, as soon as she could, command her voice,
"is she quite recovered?"
"Yes,--that is, I inferred so."
Carice looked a little surprised. It would seem that Bergan's letter
had made no mention of his mother. "Has the fever attacked any of the
others?" she continued.
"None."
"And Bergan is quite well himself?"
"He says nothing to the contrary."
Satisfactory as were these replies, in substance, there was a degree of
dryness and brevity about them which was far otherwise. Unwilling to
quit the subject thus, Carice ventured another query:--"Then, I suppose
he may be expected back very soon?"
Doctor Remy looked grave even to sternness. "No, I think not."
Carice's heart sank. "Did he not say when he should come?" asked she,
anxiously.
Doctor Remy seemed to become suddenly aware that she really had
something more than a conventional interest in the subject, and to be
willing to gratify it, to the best of his ability.
"I forget exactly what he said about it," replied he, "but I think I
have his letter in my pocket-book." He drew forth a closely written
sheet, and glanced rapidly over it, but seemed not to find what he
sought. Applying again to the envelope, he produced a separate bit of
paper. "Ah, yes, here we have it, in this slip of a postscript," he
went on,--"'In order to'--um--um--'I think I shall postpone my return
until after Christmas.' That is all."
Carice stood as in a dream. Bergan well! Bergan silent only to her!
Bergan not coming back for three months yet!--her mind utterly refused
to receive three such incongruous ideas. There must be some miserable
mistake,--but where? She put her hand to her brow with a piteous
gesture of perplexity and bewilderment.