parting with his daughter, in the hall. Watching her slender form as
it toiled up the staircase, with the languid step that betrays a heavy
or a reluctant heart, he sighed to think with what a graceful alacrity
she had used to flit upward, as if lifted on invisible wings, her happy
smile seeming to make a little illuminated space about her, like the
light which is seen irradiating angelic forms, in old pictures. A
sudden burden of despondency fell upon his heart, whereof he understood
neither the purport, nor whether it bore reference to her or himself,
but only knew that it quite unfitted him for playing the part of a gay
and gracious host to his guests. Seeing Miss Ferrars coming toward
him, with her stereotyped smile, an impulse of flight seized him; and
hastily stepping through one of the long windows, he soon found himself
once more under the sighing trees, which were swaying to and fro under
the first breathings of a rising wind.
The night was no longer dark. Here and there, a star looked through
the broken clouds, and lighted him to the river's bank, down which he
walked slowly; torturing himself, as he went, with that weary
after-birth of doubts and questions, which often follows hard upon the
accomplishment of a cherished purpose. Had he done well in wedding
Carice to the doctor? Had he not done wrong in refusing to listen to
Bergan, at least with courtesy and calmness? Was it barely possible
that there could have been some small grain of truth at the bottom of
the young man's turbid story? What was the meaning of that odd, wild
look in Carice's eyes? Had he been thrusting himself, as it were, into
the awful place of Providence, only, by reason of his human
short-sightedness, to work irremediable ruin?
At that moment, a dark, slender woman's figure hurried past him, toward
the ruined foot-bridge, which was near at hand. "One of my brother's
servants, who has stolen over to dance with mine," he said to himself,
turning idly to watch her progress.
To his utter amazement, at the further end, he seemed to see her cast
herself deliberately into the water!
Godfrey Bergan was a practised swimmer, and, after the first motionless
moment of astonishment, he threw off his coat, plunged into the stream,
which, at this point, was neither rapid nor deep, and swam rapidly
toward the spot where he had seen the body disappear. Here, the water
was scarcely up to his armpits; in a few moments, he had caught the
floating garments, and borne the lifeless form to land. The heavy head
fell back on his arm; the scarf trailed away from the white features;
he recognized Carice!
With a thick, muffled cry of horror, the father sank upon his knees,
not so much of devotional intent, as crushed under the double-weight of
his physical burden and mental anguish.
"Oh, God! have mercy upon us!" he ejaculated, brokenly,--"I have driven
my child to suicide!"
XIV.
THE WAY STOPPED.
Bergan Arling, on quitting his uncle, had flung himself into the
surrounding darkness, without aim, without hope; conscious only of an
intolerable burden of grief and despair. Coming to the river, he had
mechanically strode down its bank. Mechanically, too, he had crossed
the foot-bridge, when it came in his way; and was scarcely aware that
its last rotten plank, on the Hall end, had given away under his feet,
and that he had narrowly missed being precipitated into the water. In
due time, he found himself standing before the deserted mansion,
looking up to its dark front with eyes just beginning to be capable of
intelligent vision, and acknowledging to himself that, though his path
had been but blindly chosen, it had brought him to a fitting goal.
"A ruined home, and a ruined life," he murmured, with a kind of bitter
mournfulness,--"they will suit each other well!"
The door was locked, but there was a dilapidated flight of steps
leading to the rotten upper piazza, and the window of his old room
yielded readily to pressure. The lamp, too, was in its remembered
place, and, having lighted it, he threw himself into a chair, to sum up
the record of his past life, and strike the balance.
Not that he did this consciously. Although he felt intuitively that he
had reached a turning-point in his path, from whence its course and
circumstance, if not its aim, might well be changed, it was with the
future only--the consideration of the question what to do next--that he
purposed to occupy himself. But the sight of the familiar room, and
the ancient furniture and ornaments wherewith he had filled it, having
inevitably recalled the period of his first occupancy, and the occasion
of his sudden departure, he could not fail to see how all his life
since had seemed to hinge on that one deplorable incident. Had he
resisted Major Bergan's will in the single particular of entering that
vile tavern, or refused, first as well as last, to drink at his
bidding, doubtless he would have lost _his_ favor all the same, but he
would scarcely have been so completely subjugated by his own fierce
temper, he would not have commenced his career in Berganton under such
a cloud, he would not have been left to drift in so inauspicious an
intimacy with Doctor Remy, his Uncle Godfrey would not have become so
deeply prejudiced against him,--possibly, even, the course of his love
might have run smooth, despite the verdict of the immortal poet, nor
yet have vitiated its claim to be a "true" one. What a pregnant
commentary was all this upon that wonderful text of Mr. Islay's
memorable sermon. How tightly had he been "holden with the cords of
his sins" to a long and wearisome discipline, and a final mystery of
retribution,--a retribution involving, alas! the innocent not less than
the guilty. Poor, poor Carice! how much easier would it be to bear his
own portion, if only hers could be remitted!
Hark! was not that a cry from the direction of the river? He leaned
out of the window, and listened attentively; but the sound--if sound it
were, and not the simple product of his own disordered fancy--was not
repeated. Nothing was to be heard save the low sough of the rising
wind, and the melancholy voices of the trees, as one solemn old oak-top
leaned toward another, and talked mysteriously of some woful event that
it had witnessed--perhaps a century ago, perhaps later--or recounted
drearily the long list of human sorrows and sins and retributions
stored up in its dreamy old memory. There might have been heard, too,
in its further talk, if only the ear were fine enough that
listened,--something of patience born of sorrow, and blessedness
wrenched from the hand of suffering; of lofty hopes blossoming out of
the ashes of despair, and fair, new temples, vocal with the anthem of
glory to God and good will to man, built over and out of heaps of
ruins. A few words, too, might have been added of love--human love--as
the crowning grace and gladness of a man's life,--the delicate carving
beautifying the arches, capitals, and pinnacles of the temple, the
thick greenery softening its sharp outlines, and the odorous blossoms
rooting themselves in its angles and hollows; but neither its strong
foundations, its majestic walls, nor the upward spring of its
spire,--and never, in any sense, the object of its rightful worship.
Perhaps Bergan heard something of all this; at any rate, that cry from
the river, whether real or imagined, had broken the thread of his
review of the past, and brought back his mind to the question of the
future. What was to be done? Leave Berganton, of course. The place
was not wide enough to hold Carice and himself, with comfort to either.
If her marriage had been brought about in the way that he suspected,
the sight of him would scarce conduce to her peace; while the sight of
her, in her new relation, could only cause him useless pain. Moreover,
he had seen, from the first, that Berganton afforded little scope for
talent; none whatever for ambition. And, now that his life seemed
likely to be limited to its public side, and to have no sweet,
compensating domestic one, he felt the necessity of directing its
course to some quarter where there was room for proper expansion.
Happily, the way was open. Only a short time ago, he had received a
most favorable offer, which he still held under consideration,--an
invitation to enter into partnership with an eminent lawyer of Savalla,
beginning to succumb to the infirmities of old age, and likely, ere
long, to surrender to him all the active business of the firm. Nothing
could suit him better. Here was scope for all his talent, employment
for all his energy. He would be near enough to Berganton, too, for any
good name that he might win to reach thither, and clear away whatever
prejudice against him still lingered there; yet not near enough to be
necessarily brought into contact with its inhabitants.
So much for the future; what of the present?
First, he would see Mrs. Lyte and Astra, bid them farewell, and arrange
for the removal of his effects. Then he would hasten to Savalla, to do
the last kindness that it was in his power to do for Carice, even
though it would seem to justify her father's late incredulity and
contemptuous treatment,--namely, meet Doctor Trubie, and dissuade him
from any further proceedings against Doctor Remy. There was still room
for a doubt that the latter was the murderer of Alec Arling;--let it
remain forever a doubt! No weapon should be lifted against him, that
must needs fall most heavily upon Carice!
It was gray dawn when this conclusion was reached. The stars were
fading from the sky, as a hint that it was time to extinguish his lamp.
The East showed a broad rim of light,--only a silver one now, but with
some mystic intimation of the gold to which it would soon be
transmuted. Was any similar change beginning to show itself in
Bergan's heart?
If so, he was in nowise conscious of it. His mind having attained to a
comparative degree of composure, his body began to press its claims
upon him with some pertinacity. It was twenty-four hours since he had
taken food, and nearly double that time since he had slept; this, too,
on the end of a long, tedious journey, and while undergoing sore
anxiety and distress of mind. No wonder that his head was aching
furiously at the temples, and seemed to have a ponderous weight on top,
nor that he had a sensation of dizziness at times, while a blinding
mist came before his eyes.
He prepared to leave Bergan Hall. That, too, was to be henceforth, so
far as he was concerned, a thing of the past. It had given him needful
solitude and shelter, in his hour of deep despair; it had been the
fittest possible place wherein to take leave of the old life and its
shattered hope; but for the new, it had nothing to offer,--except,
perhaps, a warning. The stream of active, expansive, beneficent life
must forever flow away from its faded splendor, its crumbling
massiveness, its dusty traditions and aristocratic genealogies, and its
corrupt feudal laws and customs, as well as from that moral ruin, its
selfish, tyrannic, besotted master. Together, they might well be
likened to a half-buried, decomposing corpse; showing still, through
the overspreading mould and fungi, some faint trace of its former grace
and nobility of shape and feature, but chiefly impressing the spectator
with the carelessness of its exposure and the unsightliness of its
decay.
And yet, how strong a hold, after all, had both master and mansion upon
his heart! Some time, surely, when he should have won fame and fortune
enough to be above all suspicion of self-seeking, he might come back to
visit them, and see what could be done for both.
With this thought in his mind, he was about to quit the room as he had
entered it, by the window, when a light knock on the door arrested his
attention. Almost immediately, Rue entered, and bade him good morning.
"How did you know I was here?" was Bergan's first startled inquiry.
"I heard you when you came," she answered, quietly, "and I knew your
step. I always spend this night in the old house; it is the
anniversary of your mother's wedding; and she comes back to me in all
her youth and beauty, and the rooms light up, and flowers sweeten the
air, and there is music and dancing, and the sound of gay young voices;
and then, all goes out, and I remember that earth grows dim as heaven
draws near. Yes, Master Bergan, I heard you when you came, and I
should have come to you at once, only that there was something in your
step which told me you came with a heavy heart, and would not like to
be disturbed. It is lighter now?"
"A little, maumer; though it is heavy enough yet."
"And nothing will lighten it but time,--and that means the Lord, for
time is the Lord's servant, and does His will."
"You know, then,"--began Bergan, and stopped, unable to finish the
sentence.
"I know much, Master Bergan; more than you think. Many voices come to
whisper in the old blind woman's ear."
"Do you know," asked Bergan, suddenly, "why Doctor Remy has married
Carice?"
"Certainly,--to make himself master of Bergan Hall. The more fool he!
Rue could have told him it was written on the stars that it should have
another and a better master; and the stars do not lie. But I am sorry
for Miss Carice; I would have saved her if I could, but there the stars
were silent."
"I could have helped the stars in that matter, if I had known," thought
Bergan. But he only asked, doubtfully;--"How should Doctor Remy expect
to get the Hall by marrying Carice?"
"Because your Uncle Harry has made his will, giving it to her. Never
doubt me, Master Bergan, I know what I am talking of; and when I tell
you that you shall yet own Bergan Hall, and all the gold that is hidden
in it, and every foot of land that belongs to it, you may believe it as
implicitly as if it were written in your Bible."
Bergan shook his head; the Hall had ceased to have any value in his
eyes, as a possession of his own, or any place in the future that he
proposed to himself. Apparently, Rue understood his silence as well as
if he had spoken, for she did not press the subject.
She next inquired into his plans, and he explained them to her, as far
as they concerned himself.
"It is well," she said, after a moment of reflection. "You could not
stay here, of course,--you would be eating your heart out in this dull
place. Do your duty in the path that lies so straight before you, and
trust God for the rest."
As he quitted the old Hall it occurred to him how strangely events were
repeating themselves. Once more, Rue stood in the doorway, in the gray
light of the dawn, and promised him its future ownership; once more, he
took the road to Berganton, leaving behind him one phase of his life,
and entering upon a new one.
Arrived at the hotel he learned that the horse, which he had left at
Oakstead on the previous evening, had been sent to the stables, with
strict injunctions that he should be notified accordingly, immediately
on his arrival,--the friendly act, no doubt, of old Bruno.
Here, too, he first learned the absence of Mrs. Lyte and her family; a
piece of information which he received with much unmistakable surprise
and wonder, that the landlord, who, like most of the Berganton folk,
had suspected him of some connection with their departure, was
constrained to believe him innocent.
There being now nothing to detain him in Berganton, he ordered his
horse for an immediate return to Savalla. First, however, he went to
the breakfast-room, but found that he was unable to eat; food was like
ashes in his mouth; the most that he could do was to swallow a cup of
coffee.
That ride to Savalla remained always a horrible nightmare in his
memory. Sometimes he was riding through the darkness of infinite
space; sometimes through whirling trees, over a road heaving as with
the throes of an earthquake, and seemingly interminable. Now and then,
his senses seemed slipping entirely from his grasp, and were only
dragged back by the convulsive effort of an iron will. Reaching the
office of the Pulaski House, where he was well known, he just managed
to hold them together long enough to scratch a few lines on a sheet of
paper, and give directions for its delivery. Then, with a wan smile of
relief, he relaxed his hold, and let them slide swiftly away into
oblivion.
Two days later, Doctor Trubie, arriving at the same hotel, according to
previous agreement, was met by the information that Mr. Arling was
lying dangerously ill with that fever which guards, like a flaming
sword, the gates of the sunny South; and the letter was put into his
hands. Tearing it open, he read:--
"I charge you, by everything that is sacred, to take no further step in
the business that brings you here, until I recover, and we can consult
together; and, if I die, I charge you, as you would have me rest
quietly in my grave, to take none at all. BERGAN."
Doctor Trubie flung down the letter with a most disgusted face. "To
think that Roath should escape me thus!" he exclaimed, discontentedly.
"That is, to be sure, if Bergan does not recover. He _shall_ recover!"
Upstairs he sprang, two steps at a time. But, once in Bergan's
chamber, his heart failed him. The patient lay in a stupor that seemed
very near of kin to death. Two physicians stood by the bed, and the
first words that met his ear were,--"No hope."
PART FOURTH.
A NEW FIELD.
I.
ALIVE IN FAMINE.
Rarely does a man go down to the verge of the grave, and look into its
profound and pregnant depths, without carrying from henceforth traces
of the journey. His views of life will be truer, if not sadder,
forever afterward. The laws of moral perspective, though they do not
change, will be better understood; so that objects at a distance are no
longer dwarfed to the understanding, however they may appear to the
eye. Character becomes the central "point of sight," toward which duty
continually draws converging right lines, by the aid of which
happiness, fame, and wealth, fall into their proper places, and assume
their true proportions.
Bergan Arling was seated in his office at Savalla. At first sight, it
might seem that he was little changed, but a closer inspection would
have awakened some surprise that the lapse of little more than a year
could have changed him so much. The youthfulness had gone out of his
face,--that half-eager, half-wistful look which says so plainly, "The
world is all before me, where to choose;"--it was now the face of a man
among men, who had found his place and his work, who had grappled with
many hard problems, and solved some, who was accustomed to deal with
serious subjects in a serious way, and who had withal, a definite rule
and object of life. In short, it was informed with a positive and
noble individuality, born out of suffering, and not yet wholly
oblivious of the pangs that had given it birth, but certain, in good
time, to attain to the fulness of an inward joy, which, having a deep
wellspring of its own, would be little dependent upon the ebb and flow
of outward circumstance.
Nor had the year been fruitless of exterior results. Scarcely had
Bergan mastered the details of his new office, when his partner, Mr.
Youle, was taken sick, and he was left to conduct its affairs pretty
much alone. Several cases of importance being in hand, he was thus
afforded a rare opportunity to achieve a rapid fame. His reputation
already overshadowed that of many of his legal brethren who had greatly
the advantage of him in years and experience.
From the first, he had made it an invariable rule never to speak
against his clear convictions of right; and it was curious to observe
what an influence the knowledge of this fact was beginning to have upon
the community. The cause which he embraced, however hopeless its
aspect, always commanded a degree of respect, and was watched with a
certain reservation of judgment, in consideration of his acknowledged
integrity of purpose; while, as a necessary sequence (from which
Bergan, in his humility, would have been glad to escape), the cause
which he was understood to have declined was apt to be pronounced
suspicious in the popular judgment, however it might go in the courts.
So certain is the talent which is known to be conjoined with a pure aim
and an upright life, to win, soon or late, high place and strong
influence, even in a world that disallows its very principle of being!
The visible fruits of righteousness commend themselves to all lips,
whatever is thought of the root from whence they spring.
Bergan's desk was littered with papers, but his eyes were studying only
the opposite wall, half in abstraction, half in perplexity. Nor did
their expression alter much when the door opened, and he rose to greet
Mr. Youle, who came in slowly and feebly, leaning on a cane. He was of
medium height, with gray hair, a thin face, and a kindly blue eye; and
it was easy to see, was on the best of terms with his talented young
partner. No room in that ripe intellect and gentle nature for so
ignoble a passion as jealousy!
"There, that will do, Arling," he said, humorously, when Bergan had
helped him carefully to a chair; "the old gentleman is as comfortable
as he's likely to be,--or deserves to be, for that matter. Well, how
goes on our case?"
Bergan shook his head, with a faint smile. "Very badly, I should
say,--if anything can be said to go badly, which is so entirely in the
hands of Providence. I confess that I can make nothing of it."
Mr. Youle looked grave. "I warned you in the beginning," said he,
"that there was not a reasonable peg to hang a line of defence on."
"But I believe the man to be innocent," rejoined Bergan. "And," he
added, smiling, "'I warned you, in the beginning,' that I should never
advocate a cause which seemed to be unrighteous, nor refuse one that
seemed to be just, though the one should offer me a fortune in fees,
and the other not a cent."
"Yes, yes, I know," replied Mr. Youle. "And I must admit that your two
rules have worked miraculously well thus far; we have lost but one
case, I believe, since you came into the office. Well, well, such a
vein of good luck cannot be expected to last forever,--after the
nugget, the rock or the sand. But I don't see how it is that you are
so strongly persuaded of Unwick's innocence."
"You would easily understand, if you had looked into his face once; it
is a clean passport to confidence. Besides, there is the unvarying
testimony of his past life, as set forth by everybody that knows
him.--sober, honest, frank, kind, religious, everything that is
desirable. A man does not become a murderer in cold blood, all at
once; he has to prepare himself for it by vice, or intemperance, or a
course of hard, cold, selfish living. There is always a downward
slope, before the final plunge."
"Granted; but I doubt if you can make the jury see it clearly enough to
ground a verdict of acquittal upon it, in the face of all that terribly
strong circumstantial evidence."
Bergan mused for a little time without answering. "I cannot rid
myself," he said, at length, "of a conviction that that son of the
murdered man could throw some light on the subject, if he chose."
Mr. Youle stared. "I did not know that he had been suspected, for a
moment," said he.
"Nor has he. But he is the one who profits most by the murder, since
he is heir-at-law. And what a reckless and disobedient youth he has
been!--always on bad terms with his father, when he was at home, and
doing nothing but write letters for money, while he was in Europe. By
the way, I can't help wondering if he _was_ in Europe, all this past
year; though really, I don't know why I should doubt it.
Well,"--rising and looking at his watch,--"it is time to go to court."
"And, as I am feeling better to-day, I think I'll go along," said Mr.
Youle. "Since you seem to think that Providence has the case very
specially in His hands,--indeed, I don't mean it irreverently,--I'd
like to see how He conducts it."
"I am glad to think that He _is_ conducting it," said Bergan, in a low
voice; "else I should be utterly discouraged."