Bergan's unaccountable tardiness, had finally started for home. He
instantly turned back with Doctor Remy, and waited silently, with an
air of deep gravity, while the latter made a brief examination of the
corpse. At first sight of it, he gave a little start; and when he had
finished his inspection, he stood silent and thoughtful. He had
sneeringly committed a certain powder, he remembered, to the disposal
of "Providence;" it struck him as a little odd that it should have been
kept so long, and finally used only to put a merciful end to intense
bodily and mental torture. Was there really a Power overruling the
acts of men, whether good or evil, to His own purposes?
"Well!" said Doctor Gerrish, growing tired of the prolonged silence,
"what do you think of it?"
Doctor Remy raised his eyes, and met the meaning glance of his
colleague. "You suspect--" he began slowly, and then paused, as if not
quite willing to put his thought into words.
"Poison," returned Doctor Gerrish, promptly. "Not a doubt of it. The
question is, where did he get it--who gave it to him? Is it accident,
or suicide, or murder? What are we to do about it?"
Doctor Remy looked down thoughtfully. He was at a loss how to treat
this new complication. He had not expected it; he knew not how best to
weave it into the intricate web of his plans; he wanted time to
consider whether it could be turned to advantage.
"Your last question is the only one that I can answer," he said, at
length,--"let us wait. There are many things to be considered. In the
first place the poison only hastened the death that was certain to come
soon, anyway."
"Are you sure of that?"
"Perfectly so. When I left the Major last night, I knew that he must
be a dead man by morning. He had taken no poison then,--except the
slow one that he has been taking for years."
"Nevertheless," persisted Doctor Gerrish, "it was not _that_ poison
which killed him."
"I suppose there was no one present, when he died, except the
servants," remarked Doctor Remy.
"And Mr. Arling," answered Doctor Gerrish.
Doctor Remy lifted his eyebrows. "That looks bad," said he, gravely.
"He is the heir, I suppose?"
"If you mean that it looks bad for Mr. Arling," returned Doctor
Gerrish, "I do not agree with you. It was he who sent for me; and he
promised to meet me here soon."
"Why is he not here, then?" asked Doctor Remy, pointedly.
"I cannot tell. He must have been unexpectedly detained."
Doctor Remy closed his lips like a man who forbears to argue, but is
not convinced.
Doctor Gerrish went to the door and called Rue, who had been desired to
wait outside during the examination.
"Did you notice anything unusual about your master's death?" he
inquired.
"I thought he died very sudden like," answered Rue; "and so I think did
Mr. Arling, for he immediately said that Doctor Remy, or some one else,
must be sent for, and gave very particular directions that the body
should not be disturbed before he arrived."
Doctor Gerrish shot a triumphant glance at Doctor Remy, who only
smiled, shook his head, and interrogated Rue, in his turn.
"What did your master take last?"
"A powder. He insisted upon having it."
"Where is the glass from which he took it?"
"Here, sir; but it has been washed."
So it had, and so carefully that there was nothing to show what its
contents had been. It also appeared that the paper in which the powder
had been folded, had been used to light a candle, and was burned to
ashes.
Doctor Gerrish took up the examination:--"Are there any more powders
like it?"
"One, sir;--here it is. I think master said he had them from Doctor
Remy."
Doctor Remy bent his head in assent, thankful that no vestige of the
fatal powder was left, to make the admission dangerous. The remaining
one, being examined, was proved to be innocuous. Doctor Gerrish looked
puzzled.
"You see," said Doctor Remy, "that it comes back to what I said
first,--we must wait. That is, until we can consult with the dead
man's brother and nephew. At what hour this afternoon will it be
convenient for you to meet them, and me, here?"
"At any hour you please."
"Say three o'clock, then. I will answer for Mr. Bergan's appearance.
Of course, Mr. Arling will be back--if ever--long before that time."
From the Hall, Doctor Remy hastened to Oakstead. There was an unusual
quietude about the place, and he was met at the door by Mrs. Bergan,
with her finger on her lips, and the low-spoken information that, after
an excessively restless night, causing them all a good deal of trouble
and uneasiness, Carice had fallen into a deep sleep, and must not be
disturbed. Would he be good enough to step noiselessly into the
parlor, and speak low?
She did her best not to seem less cordial than usual; nevertheless, it
did not escape the doctor's lynx-eyed observation that her tone and
manner were forced. He pondered briefly within himself what this might
mean; but finally set it down to motherly anxiety for Carice, and a
consequent desire to get rid of him as quickly and quietly as possible.
He was willing to gratify the wish; he had too much upon his mind and
hands, just now, to bestow much thought or time upon Carice. He could
safely leave her case to run its own course until after she had been
declared the owner of Bergan Hall; then it would be for his interest to
hasten her return to reason, since it was to her reason only--her
strict notions of right, and her devotion to duty--that he must look
for an acknowledgment of his claims as a husband, his right to control
herself and her property. He did not flatter himself that he had any
strong hold upon her affections.
"Certainly, she must not be disturbed," he replied to Mrs. Bergan,
after a brief pause. "Sleep, in her condition, poor child! is the best
of restoratives; it also shows a decided change for the better. My
present business is with her father; is he in?"
"No; he went out a short time since. He may be in the grounds, or he
may have gone to the Hall."
"Then he has heard of his brother's death?"
"Yes, the news came early this morning."
"It is not necessary for me to stop, then. Please say to him that I
have engaged that he shall meet Doctor Gerrish, Mr. Arling, and myself,
at the Hall this afternoon, at three o'clock, for an important
consultation; I beg that he will not fail us. Good morning. Let me
know if any change takes place in Carice; for I am likely to be so very
busy for a day or two, that I may not present myself unless sent for.
I was not in bed at all last night, and probably shall not be to-night.
A physician's life is a slavish one."
"Yet you like it," replied Mrs. Bergan, feeling that she must say
something.
"Not the general practice; I like the science. Good morning, again."
IV.
BLIND.
Mr. Bergan, meanwhile, had gone over to the Hall, partly to give a
regretful look at his brother's dead face, and partly to have some
further talk with Bergan. Thick-growing memories beset him, at every
step of the way; and, the goal being reached, he had ample opportunity
to reflect upon the sin and folly of family feuds, the miserably thin
barriers which suffice to keep apart those who ought to be one in
affection and interest, as in blood. He had not been very much to
blame for their erection between him and his brother, but he regretted
none the less that he had not wrought more perseveringly and lovingly
to break them down. There had always been a generous side to Harry's
character, which might have been successfully appealed to, at least in
the earlier stages of the quarrel; his own influence might have been
exerted for good; the dreary, empty Hall might still have been a
pleasant home; this lonely death-couch might have been sweetened by the
tender touch and tears of kindred hands and hearts, and sanctified by
the gentle benedictions of religion. It all might have been--it could
never be now! Death had closed every door to reconciliation and
amendment, and written over each the mournful legend, "Too Late!"
He turned from the corpse to ask for Bergan, and was surprised to learn
that nothing was known of him at the Hall since he had retired to his
room just before day-break, further than that Doctor Gerrish had
mentioned meeting him at Oakstead. However, being informed that two
men had inquired for him, and been sent to meet him, he took it for
granted that some unexpected emergency had compelled him to hasten back
to Savalla, at a moment's notice; he would be sure to return by
afternoon, or send some explanation of his absence.
Meantime, Mr. Bergan was forced to fill the gap created by his
departure; indeed, until his brother's will should be made known, he
was both his natural and legal representative, he appointed the time,
and decided the manner, of the funeral; he sent for a lawyer, and had
seals affixed to all drawers and boxes likely to contain papers of
value; he gave orders for the lower rooms to be cleaned and fitted, as
far as might be, for the lying in state, and the reception of
guests;--in short, he was kept busy until long past noon, when he was
fain to go home for rest and refreshment, as well as to satisfy himself
of the state of Carice. She was still sleeping peacefully, and there
was no cause for alarm.
Returning to the Hall, at a few minutes past three, he found the two
physicians waiting in the library, but no sign or tidings of Bergan.
"Where can my nephew be?" he exclaimed in perplexity and even
displeasure.
"It is certainly very strange," replied Doctor Gerrish, gravely.
Doctor Remy said nothing; but he shrugged his shoulders in a manner
sufficiently expressive of disapprobation.
Yet he would have been glad to be able to answer the question,--at
least to himself. He was completely in the dark as to how Big Ben and
his confederate had prospered in their evil undertaking. He knew that
Bergan had not been found in his room, as was expected; but why he had
gone forth so early, and whether he had encountered the ruffians, was
altogether a mystery. All day, he had been holding himself ready for
whatever might come,--Bergan's sudden appearance in the flesh, or the
bringing in of his dead body, or a summons to go and afford him medical
aid;--he did not mean to be taken off his guard, in any case. But the
suspense was trying. It had not been contemplated in his original
plan; it kept his mind and nerves continually on the stretch; it gave
him an uncomfortable feeling that other hands than his own were busy
with the dark threads of his schemes, weaving them into patterns that
he had not designed. He longed to know precisely what he had to hope
or to dread.
Still, every moment of Bergan's absence was reasonable ground for
belief that Big Ben had not only carried out his purpose of revenge to
the full, but had succeeded wonderfully well in obliterating all trace
of his work. So much the better. Bergan once removed from his path,
it would become tolerably smooth and direct.
"I suppose that we shall have to proceed to business without my nephew,
since he is not come," said Mr. Bergan, after a prolonged pause. "May
I ask what is the object of this meeting?"
The answer to this question, although very gently given by Doctor
Gerrish, was, of course, a severe shock; all the more, because Doctor
Remy took care to throw in a covert insinuation that Bergan's absence
betrayed some guilty connection with the disastrous event; bethinking
himself that, in case the young man should escape Big Ben, he could be
gotten rid of all the same, for the present, by being arrested for
murder.
Doctor Gerrish, however, repelled the insinuation, as he had done
before. "To my mind," said he, "everything points to the opposite
conclusion. If Mr. Arling had anything to gain by poisoning his uncle,
he must have gained it by staying here, and not by flight. Besides, he
is too intelligent a man not to know that such flight would, in itself,
arouse suspicion, and imply guilt. Having given the matter a good deal
of thought, since morning, I have decided that the poisoning must have
been accidental. However, we will, with your permission, call in that
old 'Maumer' and examine her a little more minutely than we did before.
I have thought of several questions that it would be well to ask."
Rue was accordingly summoned from her faithful watch over her dead
master. She declared positively that she had been with him from an
early stage of his attack, until his death; and that he had taken only
the medicines and food ordered by Doctor Remy, except the untimely
drink of brandy, and the afore-mentioned powder. He had swallowed
nothing whatever after the arrival of Mr. Arling,--not even the brandy
for which he had called with almost his last breath.
"That certainly clears Mr. Arling," remarked Doctor Gerrish, in a low
voice.
"H'm--perhaps so," rejoined Doctor Remy, meditatively. "Still, it is
evidence not worth a rush, you know, in a court of law."
"It is evidence perfectly satisfactory to me, nevertheless," interposed
Mr. Bergan, firmly, "and may be so to you. I, as having known Maumer
Rue from my infancy, can vouch for her trustworthiness. Her testimony
is as good as mine, or yours."
"Well, you ought to know best," returned Doctor Remy, carelessly.
"Still, the woman is old and blind, and cannot be expected to know all
that goes on in her presence. Major Bergan might have swallowed
half-a-dozen things without her knowledge."
Rue had fallen into the back-ground, during this discussion; but she
now stepped forward and faced Doctor Remy, drawing herself up, and
smiling scornfully.
"Blind, am I?" she asked; "I am not so blind as those who have eyes,
Doctor Remy. No one _saw_ you open my master's private drawer last
evening, during his worst paroxysm, but I heard you open and shut it,
distinctly, and the rustling of papers, too."
If Doctor Remy was both surprised and startled, he concealed it well,
thanks to the guard that he was keeping over himself. He merely looked
at his companions, and said, disdainfully; "Of course, such a charge,
from such a source, is too ridiculous to be contradicted. The poor old
woman has mistaken one sound for another; that is all."
"It is people who live by sight that mistake sounds, Doctor Remy,"
returned Rue, composedly; "a woman, who has lived by hearing for over
sixty years, does not. Let me give you a proof of it. These gentlemen
listen to your voice, as I do, and they do not hear anything unusual in
it,--nothing more than the seriousness, or the coldness, or the scorn,
that fits the words; but I hear in it anxiety and perplexity and
suspense and fear. Since Mr. Arling has been missing, I have suspected
that you could tell us what had become of him, if you would. But while
you have been talking about him here, my ears have been watching your
voice, your steps, your very breath; and I know now that you do not
know where he is any more than we do. You are puzzled because he does
not come; you are continually expecting--I will not say, dreading--to
see him, or hear of him. Is it not so?"
"And if it is," answered Doctor Remy, coolly, "what is there strange
about it? Why should I not be puzzled at his unaccountable
disappearance, and anxious for his speedy return?"
"Anxious?" she repeated, with a low laugh; "yes, you are anxious; but
it will avail you nothing. Go your way, rummage drawers and cupboards,
you will not find what you seek; plot and sin, you will not get what
you covet. Blinder of understanding than I am of eyes, you dig, and
know not that it is a pit for your own feet; you plant and water, and
never remember that the expectations of the wicked shall be cut off.
Master Bergan will come back, and have his own, in spite of you!"
"I am very glad to hear it," responded Doctor Remy, with mock
earnestness. Then he turned to his companions. "Her master's death
has set her wits to wool-gathering," said he. "Have we any more time
to listen to her maunderings?"
Rue opened her lips for a rejoinder, but Mr. Bergan, thinking that the
scene had lasted long enough, though he had not been unimpressed by it,
laid his hand on her arm. Instantly acknowledging his authority, as
one of the family, she bent her head, and retired without a word.
Doctor Gerrish took out his watch. "I shall soon have to leave," said
he. "Mr. Bergan, what is to be done about this business? I suppose it
is our duty to report it to the authorities."
"If you are willing to be guided by my wishes," Mr. Bergan replied,
after some consideration, "you will say nothing at present. I have no
disposition to conceal a murder, if one has been committed; but, as you
have well remarked, all the circumstances indicate that the poison was
taken or administered accidentally. Nevertheless, there is room for
evil minded persons to set afloat injurious reports concerning my
nephew, while he is absent, and unable to defend himself; or these
faithful servants of my brother, who, I am convinced, would not have
poisoned him any sooner than I would, may be subjected to a deal of
cruelty, from the fact that he was alone with them, much of the time,
and their evidence, as Doctor Remy has reminded us, is worth nothing in
law. Let the funeral go on, without hindrance; the body will be laid
in the family vault, where it can be examined, and the presence of
poison proved, at any time, if it becomes necessary. And it just
occurs to me, as a possible explanation of my nephew's absence, that he
may have gotten hold of some clue to this affair, and be following it
up before it has time to cool. Let us wait until he appears, before we
make any stir that may only thwart his efforts."
"Very well," said Doctor Gerrish. "My own preference is always for an
open, straightforward course; but if you think this one more expedient,
under the circumstances, and will take the responsibility of it, I will
not interfere. Good day."
V.
MORE MYSTERY.
The funeral was over. Major Bergan, with due pomp and circumstance of
woe, had been laid in the tomb of his forefathers, and left to mingle
his ashes with theirs. Of all his possessions, he retained for his own
behoof simply a shroud and a coffin. No good work of Church or State
would miss his helping hand. He left no real, aching vacancy in any
human heart. His imposing funeral train scattered to houses, places of
business, and street corners, some to forget the event at once, in the
absorbing interest of their own affairs; some to talk it over, and
then--forget it all the same. Two or three remote cousins, sniffing
the air for legacies, went back to the Hall, to wait for the reading of
the will, and, meanwhile, to finish the funeral baked meats. Mr.
Bergan had bidden them make themselves at home, and excused himself
from accompanying them: being greatly fatigued with the manifold duties
and emotions of the day, he was fain to spend the intervening time
quietly at Oakstead.
He found Carice on the piazza; she had been wheeled out in an easy
chair, to enjoy the beneficent air and sunshine. She was pale and
feeble, but the light of restored reason shone in her eyes, and gave
animation and intelligence to their expression. Also--light being the
mother of shadow--it imparted to them a deep seriousness. She had
taken up the problem of life precisely where it had dropped with her
into the river, on the night of her wedding,--unconscious, as yet, of
the length of the blank between,--and addressed herself to its solution
with a clearer brain and a firmer courage. She reflected that, in the
eyes of the world and the estimation of the law, she was Doctor Remy's
wife. She had publicly entered into that relation, without denial or
protest; solemnly taking him as her husband, for better for worse, till
death them should part. Did the fact that he had been accused of a
terrible crime, absolve her from this vow? Did it not rather make it
more imperatively her duty to stand by him; to help him with her
countenance and sympathy, if he were innocent; to influence him to
repentance and confession, if he were guilty? Was she to think only of
her happiness, not at all of his good? Had he not a soul that might
still be saved, as God had saved the world, by love?
Hard questions these,--demanding for their consideration a clear head,
and a heart at once tender and strong. Carice, being now fully
herself, had both; yet she might well delay coming to a decision so
momentous. She was glad when her father's arrival broke the thread of
her meditations; albeit, it was only to give her a fresh subject of
anxiety. He looked so strangely old and worn,--it struck her with new
wonder, new alarm, at every sight of him! How was it possible for him
to change so much in the two or three days that she believed her
unconsciousness to have lasted, even though weighed down by the anxiety
consequent upon his interview with Bergan?--an interview which could
not have been without definite result, since she saw nothing of Doctor
Remy. Indeed, his name had been mentioned to her but once, and then in
terms of manifest constraint, though of apparent excuse for his
absence. No doubt her father had taken the thought of his possible
guilt very sorely to heart; no doubt, too, he blamed himself severely
for his advocacy of the marriage. She must not let him do that! She
knew so well that he had meant it for the best,--that he had erred in
judgment only, never in intention,--that pure, strong, unselfish love
for her had been the deep motive of his every act. Her heart was very
tender, very pitiful, toward him as he came up the gravel-walk, with
that slow, stooping gait, and those sudden gray hairs, which made her
feel, every time that she saw him, as if she must have been dreaming
for years, or was dreaming now.
He brightened visibly at sight of her. He was thankful, with all his
heart, for her restoration, even though it but served to increase his
perplexities. For how was she to be given to understand, without a
harmful shook, that a year of her life had passed her by, and made no
sign? With what face could he break it to her that the man whom he had
urged upon her as a husband, was likely to prove a murderer? What
answer was he to make when she inquired after Bergan, as he was
constantly expecting her to do?
Needless anxieties, all, as he would duly discover. Carice was already
feeling her way to the truth, as regarded the lapse of time, by means
of the incomprehensible changes that she saw about her; it would not so
much shock her as satisfy her with a reasonable explanation of them.
The accusation against Doctor Remy would be no surprise to her; on the
contrary, its dark shadow continually fell athwart her mind, and
prompted or modified all her thoughts. Moreover, as long as her duty
to Doctor Remy was in question, she conscientiously checked every
thought, every wish, every emotion of curiosity even, that wandered
toward Bergan. Knowing nothing of all this, however, and fearing lest
she should seize upon this opportunity to ask for the full explanation
that he was so loath to make, Mr. Bergan began a lengthened account of
the funeral ceremonies. He had deemed it wise to tell her of her
uncle's death, both as affording a good excuse for postponing other
matters, and as a reason for his own troubled and abstracted face.
He was still busy with this theme, doing his best to imitate the
gold-beater's art of making a little material cover a large space, when
he heard a footfall behind him, on the gravel walk. Looking quickly
round, he was delighted to behold his nephew coming up the steps, just
as he had first seen him two years before, with the same half-eager,
half-hesitating expression of one who feels himself at once a relative
and a stranger; yet mingled in the present instance, with what seemed
an inappropriate sternness. The sight of him was none the less a
relief to his uncle.
"Thank Heaven! you are come at last, Bergan!" he exclaimed, starting up
to go and meet him.
But Carice put forth a staying hand,--the eyes of love are not so
easily deceived. "You mistake, father," she said, in a low and
half-frightened voice, "this is not Bergan, though he is like him."
The new comer took off his hat, and bowed low. "No, I am not Bergan; I
am Hubert," he said, but with no friendliness of tone or manner. "And
you, I suppose, are my uncle Godfrey. I am come to look for my
brother. What have you done with him among you? Where can I find that
villanous Doctor Remy, who, four days ago, made one attempt on his life
(or on mine, mistaking me for him), and has now probably--"