Here, he found the avenue to the house encumbered with teams and
saddle-horses, tied to every tree and post. The every-day aspect of
these sleepy animals was like a bucket of cold water to his excited
imagination. Strains of dancing music, too, came to his ear,--flutes
and violins, none too well played, sent forth the notes of a popular
air. Plainly, he had been a fool to connect the thought of calamity
with anything so exceedingly common-place as an evening party. If
Godfrey Bergan chose to call in his friends and neighbors to dance over
his restoration to health, who should gainsay him? Convalescents had
their fancies, and must be humored.
In this cooler frame of mind, it naturally occurred to Bergan that he
was in no fit condition to face a festal throng. His appearance, thus
way-worn and travel-stained, would be scarcely more timely than that of
the Ancient Mariner to the wedding guest. It would look as if he, too,
had a tale of horror to impart, and Carice might be unpleasantly
startled,--Carice, who little imagined him so near to her! At the
thought, a strange, indefinable thrill and shiver passed over him, hard
to define as either pleasure or pain.
After a moment's consideration, he dismounted, and walked quietly round
to the spot where the negroes still kept up their lively dance. One of
them, Bruno by name, stood a little apart, a smiling spectator of the
merriment that he was too old to join. It was easy to touch him on the
shoulder, without attracting the notice of the rest. The negro turned,
and instantly recognized Bergan; but his exclamation of surprise was
cut short by the young man's significant gesture, and he silently
followed him to a spot equi-distant between the cottage and the dancers.
"All well, Bruno?" was Bergan's first inquiry.
"All bery well, Massa Arling. You's welcome back, sah. But I'se sorry
you's too late for de weddin'."
_The wedding_,--the word fell almost meaninglessly on Bergan's ear, so
intent was he upon satisfying himself that his late anxieties had been
groundless. "And Miss Carice," he went on, "is she quite well, too?"
Bruno smiled. "Yes, massa, I 'spec so, tho' she do look mighty pale
and peaked, dese yere last weeks. But dey mostly look so, at sich
times, I s'pose. She'll be better when de weddin's ober, an' all de
fuss and flurry."
This second mention of "the wedding" penetrated to Bergan's
understanding, and awakened a faint emotion of surprise.
"The wedding!--whose wedding?" he asked.
Bruno opened his eyes wide in astonishment. "Why, don' you know, sah?
I thought you'd come on purpose. Miss Carice's weddin', to be sure."
It was Bergan's turn to look more than astonished, confounded. "Miss
Carice's wedding!" he repeated, as doubting the trustworthiness of his
own ears.
"Yes, sah, to Doctor Remy, sah. Dey had--"
Bruno stopped short in alarm. Bergan's face had grown deadly pale, his
blank stare was that of a man who neither saw nor heard. For a few
merciful moments, he was simply stunned with the suddenness and
severity of the shock. Too soon his benumbed senses began to revive,
he put his hand to his head, where a dull, heavy pain was beginning to
make itself felt; mechanically he sat down on the grass, and his breath
came hard like that of a man stricken with apoplexy.
With a delicacy not uncommon in his race, Bruno turned his eyes away.
A trusted servant of the household, he had seen Bergan and Carice
together enough to be able to divine something of the state of the case.
Slowly, one by one, Bergan's thoughts came out of chaos, and ranged
themselves into something like order. This, then, was the reason why
Doctor Remy had so persistently discouraged his earlier return to
Berganton, and allayed his anxiety with plausible statements respecting
Carice and her father,--that he might supplant him in her affections.
But why? It must be taken as evidence that he had estimated the
doctor's character more correctly than he knew, that it never once
occurred to him as possible that love for Carice had been the doctor's
motive; yet, considered solely as holding the reversion of the Oakstead
estate, her hand was scarcely worth the labor and treachery it had cost.
There was so little to reward investigation in this direction, that
Bergan's thoughts came back to his own blighted hopes, and here he was
pierced with the sharpest pain that he had yet felt. The treachery of
the doctor was as nothing to the faithlessness of Carice. Two
months,--yea, two days ago, he would have staked all his hopes for time
and eternity on her truth. Fair and delicate as was the cast of her
beauty, and sweet and gentle as was her manner, there had always been a
certain quiet steadfastness about her, which was one of her most potent
charms. All hearts felt intuitively that they might safely trust in
her. What subtle or powerful influence could have been brought to bear
upon her, to make her so belie herself!
He looked up. "Bruno, how long has this been going on?"
The negro did not quite understand, but made shift to guess what was
meant.
"De engagement, sah? since October, I b'lieve."
"And how long has Doctor Remy visited here?"
"Oh, a good while, 'bout eber since you went away. But after massa was
took sick, he come oftener, ob course--ebery day, sometimes two, tree
times a day. Massa got so--'pendent on him, like, he couldn't bear to
have him out ob de house, one time."
Bergan fell into thought again. He began dimly to understand something
of the sort of pressure to which Carice had been subjected, and the
motives that had governed her,--not that he held her exonerated, by any
means--only she was a little less culpable than she had seemed, at
first. But if she had sinned, poor child! how miserably she would be
punished! What a sterile soil, what a chill, unfriendly climate,
awaited this delicate flower, in Doctor Remy's hands! It was as if a
lily should think to root itself in a rock, or a rose expect to bud and
blossom on an iceberg. Besides--why had he not thought of it
before?--to-morrow, perhaps, in two or three days, at farthest, Doctor
Trubie would be here, with authority, if it seemed good to him, to take
this man, _her husband_, into custody as a murderer!
Bergan's was the fine, strong temperament, which rises to the greatness
of a crisis. With the necessity of action, the chaos of his mind began
to clear itself. "Bruno," he asked, suddenly, "does--Miss Carice love
this man?"
Bruno looked surprised, as well he might, at the question; but there
was something in Bergan's tone that made him answer at once, and
frankly; "I don' know,--de servants do say she done it to please her
father."
Bergan laid his hand impressively on the old negro's shoulder. "Bruno,
I must see her at once. Her happiness--more than her happiness, the
honor and peace of the whole family--is at stake. Find some way to let
her know, quietly, that I am here, and that I must see her for one
moment. Hurry! there's no time to waste."
Bruno was so thoroughly mastered by Bergan's earnestness, that he
started swiftly toward the cottage, without a word. As he ascended the
piazza steps, however, he began to be appalled at the difficulty of the
task that he had undertaken. Looking into the window, he saw Carice
standing at the farther end of the long parlor, with her bridesmaids
clustered around her. He could neither get at her, nor she escape,
without challenging a good deal of wondering observation. While he
stood hesitating, Godfrey Bergan came out into the hall, and caught
sight of his troubled face.
"Well, Bruno, what do you want?"
"I--jes' wanted to speak to Miss Carice," stammered the negro.
The request was an odd one, at that moment; still, Mr. Bergan might
have been moved to grant it, as the whim of an old and faithful
servant, if the negro's disturbed face and faltering tone had not
excited his suspicions that something unusual was on foot. "What is
the matter?" he asked. "What do you want to speak to her for?"
Bruno was wholly unprepared for this question. Vainly he racked his
brains for a plausible answer, but nothing better rewarded his efforts
than,--"I jes' wanted to speak to her, dat's all;"--a reply so little
congruous with his frightened face and voice, that Mr. Bergan's
suspicions were confirmed. He stepped out on the piazza, and closed
the door behind him.
"How, Bruno," said he, sternly, "I want to know what this means. Come,
no shuffling; tell the truth."
Bruno's self-possession gave way entirely. "I--I--I--it's only Mr.
Arling."
Mr. Bergan started. "My nephew, Bergan Arling, do you mean?"
"Yes, massa."
"What--where?"
"Out dar, under de larches, massa."
"And he--he dared to ask for my daughter?"
Mr. Bergan's voice shook with anger. Bruno tried to explain, not very
coherently.
"He didn't mean no harm, massa, I'se _sartain_. He said her happiness
and all you'se happiness, was at de stake."
"Did he!" muttered Mr. Bergan, scornfully. "Hark you, Bruno, not a
word of this to anybody--to _anybody_, mind you! Now, go back to your
dance,--I'll see Mr. Arling."
Bergan's impatience had brought him from under the larches to a point
commanding a view of the path to the cottage. He was both surprised
and disappointed to see his uncle instead of Carice; nevertheless, he
came frankly forward to meet him, holding out his hand.
Mr. Bergan took no notice of the friendly offer. "How dare you show
yourself here?" he began, his voice quivering with rage. "How dare you
insult my daughter with your presence, at this time? Have you not done
harm enough already?"
"Uncle," replied Bergan, gently, "I know not what you mean. I have
never harmed Carice, that I know of, and now I came here to save her,
if it be not too late. Oh! uncle"--and here his calmness began to fail
him, and his voice grew eager--"do not, _do_ not let this marriage
proceed,--at least, not until you have heard my story, and have
satisfied yourself of the real character of this Doctor Remy!"
"What have you to say against his character?" demanded Mr. Bergan,
icily.
Bergan felt the full disadvantage of his position. It was a heavy
charge that he had to make against a man of Doctor Remy's standing,
without documents or witnesses, nothing to substantiate it but his
single assertion. Besides, to say truth, there was nothing to allege
against Doctor Remy but Doctor Trubie's suspicions. He hesitated, and
his hesitation was not lost upon his uncle; neither was the want of
assurance with which he finally spoke.
"Uncle, there is great reason to believe--or, at least to suspect--that
Doctor Remy is a--murderer,--the murderer of my brother Alec."
Godfrey Bergan stood in silent scorn. The accusation struck him as too
extravagant, too baseless, to be seriously discussed. His nephew must
be drunk, or mad, to make it. And, now that he looked at him more
narrowly, his face was haggard and his dress disordered enough to befit
either condition.
Bergan saw the impression that he had made, and a cold, sick despair
crept over him. "I beg of you, uncle," he exclaimed, vehemently, "as
you value your own future peace of mind, put a stop to this unhappy
business, ere it be too late."
"It is too late now," said Mr. Bergan, impatiently, "Carice is already
married."
"Must she, therefore, be left in the hands of a murderer? Save her, at
least, from further contamination. If you will do nothing else, call
her, and let her decide the matter for herself."
"Impossible," answered Mr. Bergan, decidedly. "Carice has already
borne and suffered too much; her nerves are in an exceedingly sensitive
state; this story would kill her, I verily believe. If you really have
her happiness at heart, go away quietly, and leave her to the care of
the husband she has chosen."
"Chosen?" repeated Bergan, bitterly,--"has she chosen him, or has she
only been forced to wed him?"
Godfrey Bergan's eyes lit. "You forget to whom you are speaking," said
he, coldly. "Enough of this, my patience is exhausted. I have
listened to your drivel longer than it deserves. The quicker you take
your leave, the better."
Bergan drew himself up haughtily, and his eyes flashed back an
answering flame. "My patience is also exhausted," said he. "I have
begged and pleaded long enough. I tell you now, uncle, that I will not
go, until I have seen Carice, if I seek her out among the wedding
guests."
Godfrey Bergan set his teeth hard. "Will not?" he repeated angrily.
"_Will not_! I will have you to understand, young man, that there is
neither _will_, nor _will not_, on these premises, but mine. On my
soul, if you do not go, and quickly, I will call my servants, and have
you put off from the place as a drunkard and a vagabond."
At this threat, the hereditary temper, scotched in Bergan's heart, but
not yet killed, reared its evil head aloft, and sent its deadly poison
burning through all his veins.
"Call them," he retorted, in a voice deep and low as a distant thunder
peal, and lifting his clenched hand on high,--"call them, if it so
pleases you! Their blood be on your head, not mine."
Godfrey Bergan was no coward, yet he might well stand aghast at the
unexpected fury of the tempest that he had evoked. Moreover, to put
his threat in execution, he now saw, to court that publicity which he
specially desired to avoid. He stood irresolute, questioning within
himself how best to deal with the emergency.
He was saved the trouble of a decision. While he still hesitated,
Bergan's hand fell by his side, his eyes softened, and a spasm of
anguish passed over his face. "God forgive me!" he murmured,
shudderingly,--"I, too, was a murderer--in heart!"
He bowed his head on his hands. Woful was the inner conflict. Within
his soul, the "black Bergan temper" was gasping out its last venomous
breath, with the clutch of a firm hand on its throat. Agonizing were
its death-throes. They ceased at last. It would never trouble him
more.
Godfrey Bergan, standing by, saw something of the struggle, yet did not
understand it in the least. "A drunkard's aimless wrath!" he said to
himself,--"quenched in its own fury."
So carelessly does the world construe the deeper soul-conflicts that
come under its observation!
Bergan lifted his head, and his face was ashy pale. "I go, uncle,"
said he, hoarsely, "since that is your wish. In all that I have said,
though said never so unwisely, I assure you that I have had only
Carice's happiness at heart; and I pray God that you may not have cause
to rue it, to your dying day, that you did not listen to me!"
He turned and plunged into the darkness, not knowing whither he went.
XIII.
ESCAPED.
Godfrey Bergan stood motionless for some minutes. His nephew's
persistency had irritated his nerves, if it had not convinced his
understanding. Nor was he altogether unimpressed by the solemnity of
the young man's parting words. Though he had not condescended to state
the fact to Bergan, it was still true that he had exacted what he
considered to be very complete and satisfactory evidence, touching the
correctness of Doctor Remy's antecedents, before giving him his
daughter. Yet it was only after he had recapitulated this evidence to
himself, point by point, and had also taken into account the doctor's
late brilliant achievements, present high standing, and promising
prospects for the future, that he could rid himself of a certain chill
weight of responsibility, which seemed somehow to have been flung upon
his shoulders by Bergan's last sentence.
On entering the cottage, he met Carice in the hall, encircled by her
bridesmaids. He was half pleased, half startled to see that the
singular listlessness, amounting to a degree of apathy, which had
characterized her for some weeks, had given place to a certain
tremulous agitation. A round red spot burned on either cheek, where of
late the bloom had been both rare and faint; and her eyes were bright
and wistful almost to wildness. With a sudden impulse of tenderness,
he put his arms round her, and pressed her to his heart.
"Father," she whispered, with her lips close to his ear, "am I dreaming
or mad? I have heard a voice in the air--Bergan's voice. I was
standing by the window, and I heard it distinctly,--no words, only
tones,--pleading, pleading, until I thought they would break my heart.
Then all at once, they changed to anger,--fierce, bitter anger! And
they ended in despair! Father, what could it mean!"
"My child," said Godfrey Bergan, after a pause, and there was a
perceptible tremor in his voice, "you are very weak and nervous, and
these wedding gayeties have been too much for you. Go to rest, and
sleep away your fatigues and your fancies together; joy cometh in the
morning. The wife of Felix Remy will hear no voices in the air.
Good-night."
He unclasped his arms, and her bridesmaids, again clustering round her,
led her upstairs in triumph.
But no sooner had they freed her from her bridal garniture,--the veil's
soft mistiness, the robe's heavy, satiny folds, the fragrant orange
blossoms, already beginning to fade!--than she put them gently aside.
"Bid me good-night, now," she said, with quiet decision. "I am very
tired, and I want to be alone for awhile. Rosa will do the rest."
There was something in her tone which forbade remonstrance; quickly the
door shut out the fresh, young faces, and snowy, fluttering robes.
Was she, as she had desired to be, alone?
Alas! no. The image evoked by that "voice in the air," had followed
her across the threshold, and still faced her with sad, upbraiding
eyes. Instinctively, she threw herself upon her knees to exorcise it
by the spell of prayer. Though no intelligible word might come to her
trembling lips, though not a coherent thought might shape itself in her
dizzy brain, she was, nevertheless, prostrate at the foot of the cross,
and the Saviour would understand!
And so--let us not presume to doubt it--He did, and, moreover,
answered. But the ways of Providence are utterly inscrutable; and the
answer came in no shape that would have been likely to present itself
to her mind, had she been capable of definite thought. She rose from
her knees but little comforted.
For the delirious disquietude that had taken possession of her, had its
physical, not less than its mental, side. The long overstraining of
the delicate nerves, the long overburdening of the heart that knew its
own bitterness, were fast reaching the point beyond which must needs
come fever, or insanity, or death. Nature--often the wisest of
physicians, when left to herself--had sought to work restoration by
means of the apathy aforementioned, wrapping her mind and heart as with
quilted armor; but the events of this night had pierced quite through
the soft sheathing, and set every nerve quivering with pain. Unable to
remain long in one position, she soon began to pace restlessly up and
down the room. She was dimly aware that Rosa had come in, and was
waiting her commands; but she never once looked to see with what a
disturbed and doubtful face the young negress was regarding her.
Getting weary, at last, of her monotonous march to and fro, she went to
the window, and leaned out to bathe her fevered temples in the cool
night air. Suddenly she cried out;--
"Rosa, see! Is not that a light in the old Hall?"
"Yes, Miss Carice, it's just that," answered Rosa, impressively. "It's
in Mr. Arling's room. He's here."
"Here!" Carice started, and turned round with eager, expectant eyes.
"No, no," Rosa hastened to say, "not here,--at least, not now."
"Not now," repeated Carice, wonderingly. "When was he here, then?"
Rosa hesitated for an instant, and then flung herself at her mistress's
feet. "I will tell you," she cried, vehemently,--"master may kill me,
if he likes, but I _will_ tell you! Mr. Arling was here not much more
than half an hour ago."
Carice smiled,--a strange, wan smile, with no spirit of mirthfulness in
it, but something of gentle triumph, as well as relief. "It was no
fancy, then," she murmured, softly.
Rosa went on. "I was walking down by the river--with Tom, you
know--when I thought it must be getting late, and you might want me,
and so I took the short cut through the larches. And who should I see
standing there but Mr. Arling, and your father coming to meet him! So
I slipped back behind the trees, meaning to come round the other way;
but I caught a few words, and then I listened;--I couldn't help it,
Miss Carice, if I'd died for it. For Mr. Arling began to beg and plead
that your father wouldn't let your wedding go on, if he cared anything
about your happiness. He said there was something dreadful against
Doctor Remy,--oh! Miss Carice, I don't like to say it, but I think you
ought to know,--he said he was a"--sinking her voice almost to a
whisper--"a murderer."
Carice's eyes dilated with horror. "A murderer!" she gasped,--"oh! no,
no, Rosa; you could not have heard him right!"
"Indeed I did," rejoined Rosa, firmly. "That's the very word he
used,--more than once, too. At least, he said there was great reason
to believe so; and he begged your father to wait until he could make
sure about it. Oh! Miss Carice, I never did like Doctor Remy, but I
always liked Mr. Arling, and I don't believe he'd say a word that
wasn't true. Do pray wait, as he said, until you can find out the
whole truth, before you have anything more to say to the doctor. Lock
your door, and say you're sick--I'm sure you look as if you might
be--and I'll promise to keep him out, if he were ten Doctor Remys."
And Rosa set her teeth and clenched her hands, in a way that promised
much for her valor in the cause of her young mistress.
Carice put her hand to her brow, and tried to think, but merely
succeeded in bewildering herself with images of horror. That frightful
word, murderer, continually sounded in her ears, to the effectual
hindrance of anything like connected thought. Only one idea presented
itself to her confused brain with even tolerable distinctness,--Bergan
was near, Bergan was in possession of knowledge that might yet relieve
her, to some extent, from a burden too heavy to be borne,--a burden
which she ought never to have consented to take upon herself, nor ever
would have done, had she not first been bound fast with a torpor that
benumbed both feeling and will. Still, having so consented, she would
have tried, but for Rosa's terrible revelation, to endure it patiently.
Now, it seemed to her, this was no longer possible.
Again she fixed her eyes upon the gleaming light from the old Hall; the
only star of hope or suggestion that had yet risen upon her darkness.
What could she do, in her mortal terror and bewilderment, but follow it?
"Rosa," she said, suddenly, "I am going to the Hall. I must see
Bergan, and hear what he has to say; then I can decide what it is right
to do."
"And so I would," rejoined Rosa, approvingly. "Just let me slip this
dark wrapper on you, and wind this scarf round your head, and well over
your face,--so;--why, your own father wouldn't know you, if he were to
meet you! Now, we'll be off."
Carice hesitated. "No, Rosa, that will never do; our absence would be
quickly discovered. You must stay and keep the door."
"But, Miss Carice, you can't go alone!"
"I can, and must. It is the only way to prevent discovery. Remember,
no one is to be let in, upon any consideration, until I return."
"Let me alone for that," responded Rosa, emphatically. And having seen
Carice safely down the steps from the upper piazza, and watched her
light form till it was lost among the trees, Rosa returned to mount
guard over the door of the deserted chamber.