distant footsteps. "A man's house is his castle," he began;--but
Doctor Remy stopped the rest of the sentence in his throat, with one
hand, while he thrust the other into his pocket for the key. Dick
uttered a smothered cry. Immediately Doctor Remy heard the door tried
from within; the next moment, the window beside it was flung open, and
the pale, stern face of Bergan Arling met his astonished sight.
At the same instant, he saw several persons emerging from the shadow of
the Oakstead woods. Mr. Bergan, Hubert Arling, and Doctor Gerrish, he
recognized at a glance, and he stayed to recognize no more:--these, in
conjunction with Bergan--alive, and in possession of his
faculties--were enough to show him that his deep-laid scheme had come
to naught, that the prize for which he had thought, labored, and
sinned, was snatched from his hands in the very moment of success.
Some important figure--could it be Providence?--had been overlooked or
changed in his calculations, and made them all come wrong.
Yet he had failed before. Bitterly he acknowledged to himself that,
despite his rich natural endowments of intellect, courage, will, and
resource, his life had been, on the whole, a succession of failures.
The consequences of one early mistake had followed, hampered, modified,
and defeated, every effort that he had made to rise above a certain
level of station, fortune, or reputation. Nevertheless, he had saved
from every wreck, thus far, an unbroken spirit and an inexhaustible
invention. What was there in the present one to cause his heart to
shiver and shrink with so deadly a chill of despair, to smite him with
so heavy an intuition that the measure of his opportunities for good or
evil was full, and that some set time of reckoning was at hand? Nay,
he _would not_ be daunted! There must be some expedient--some bold
stroke or crafty subterfuge--by which he could still wring safety, at
least, from the hands of defeat.
He ran his eye over the scene of his recent operations, as a general
might scan a disastrous battle-field. Instantly, the intercepted
letters, the forged will, the poisoned powder, the attack on Bergan
Arling, set themselves in order before him,--revolted soldiers, once
his obedient servants, now gone over to the enemy. No! the odds were
too great. Nothing was left him but flight;--nay, it was a question if
even that remained,--pursuit was so near! Still, it must be tried.
Giving Dick a final choke, to render him incapable of immediate action,
he flung him on the ground, and fled towards the nearest bank. Once
across the excavation, there was a thick wood beyond, in which he would
quickly be lost to sight; and the present was all he had time to think
of; the future must care for itself. One moment his tall form was
seen, by the approaching party, on the edge of the bank, clearly
defined against the twilight sky; the next, it sank suddenly from view,
both hands raised, apparently in a mocking gesture of farewell, or it
might be, of defiance.
Hubert Arling immediately recognized the fugitive, and hastened after
him. Arrived at the brink of the excavation, he was amazed to find
that Doctor Remy was nowhere in sight, although it seemed incredible
that he could have traversed the sandy chasm so quickly. Nothing
daunted, however, Hubert leaped the precipice, half-burying himself in
the soft sand at the bottom, struggled across, climbed the opposite
bank--taking much more time, it seemed to him, than his predecessor had
done--and plunged into the wood beyond. Here, he soon found that all
the odds were against him; the underbrush was thick, the wood was soon
merged in a dense juniper swamp; the twilight was deepening; a hundred
men might easily elude his single search. It was necessary to go back
and obtain organized assistance.
He was rejoiced to find Bergan in the cabin, though his state was such
as to cause intense anxiety. The great exertion that he had made to
interfere between Doctor Remy and Dick--believing the latter to be in
danger of losing his life in behalf of his guest--had caused his wound
to re-open; and when Dick recovered himself sufficiently to make it
known that Bergan was within, and to unlock the door, he was found on
the floor under the window, in a death-like faint. Doctor Gerrish,
however, at once took him in hand, with great personal good will, and
no small amount of medical efficiency. And no sooner was he pronounced
out of immediate danger--although he had relapsed into fever and
delirium--than Hubert's mind recurred to the intermitted pursuit of
Doctor Remy. From the first, he had shared Doctor Trubie's suspicions,
and having now heard the several stories of Mr. Bergan, Doctor Gerrish,
and Dick, and pretty accurately divined their logical connection and
drift, he was strongly of the opinion that the doctor's evil career
should be brought to a close. No consideration of family, friendship,
or love, he thought, should interfere to save him from richly deserved
punishment, and leave him at large to work new wickedness. So
thinking, he put his thoughts into prompt, resolute, persevering action.
But it was wholly in vain. If the earth had opened and swallowed him
up, Doctor Remy could not have disappeared more effectually. Far and
near, no trace was found of his course, no clue to his hiding place.
The flight of a bird through the air, the dart of a fish through the
wave, do not leave less visible track behind. Day by day, Hubert had
to acknowledge himself baffled, puzzled, confounded; but he would not
be discouraged. Doctor Trubie having been sent for, had joined him,
and between the two, the search went obstinately on.
VIII.
GIFT AND GIVER.
Carice was in her own room. Her face was pale, her mouth and eyes
deeply serious. At last, she had been put in possession of all the
facts hitherto concealed from her. She knew by what base means she had
been separated from Bergan, and married to a man known to be a forger,
suspected to be a murderer, and now a fugitive from justice. She was
also aware that, so far as her own consciousness went, she had lost a
year out of her life. None the less, she felt in her deep heart that
her soul had not stood still during this suspension of certain of her
faculties, but had accomplished some rapid, sensible growth. She was
not, in all respects, the same Carice who had fallen through the gap in
the foot-bridge. She contemplated her situation with far less dismay
and bewilderment than that immaturer self could have done; in some
mysterious way, her year of unconsciousness had been also a year of
preparation for the difficulties that it had postponed; she now faced
them with a deeper insight, a broader comprehension, and a calmer
courage. She blinded herself with no subtleties nor evasions; she
dimmed the clear medium of her integrity with no selfish breath; but
counted herself what that solemn marriage ceremony had made her--a
wife. She must remain such until the plea of "wilful desertion for a
year," in the courts of law, should secure for her a certain personal
freedom. But even then, she would be only a deserted wife;--in her
opinion, divorce was powerless except as regarded separation. The
virtual relation, she believed, could only be dissolved by death; and
that meant, in this case, perhaps, the arrest, conviction, and
execution of Doctor Remy. She shuddered at the thought. She could not
wish the barrier between Bergan and herself to be thus removed.
Bergan?--She dared not think of him! He was lying so dangerously
ill!--yet she must not go to him;--she could trust neither her thoughts
nor herself by that bedside. She must just leave him, where she left
all her own cares and sorrows, in the hands of God. She waited upon
Him: in His own good time and way, He would make it clear that He
reigned, and that His sceptre was justice, and His crown mercy.
Mrs. Bergan opened the door. "My child," she asked, tenderly, "would
you like to see a visitor?"
"Whom?" asked Carice, with a little wonder;--her mother had been so
careful to spare her all intrusion, during these trying days.
Mrs. Bergan shook her head. "I really don't know; I was so taken with
her face, that I forgot to ask her name. She said that she was a
friend of Astra Lyte's, and of--Bergan's."
"Mamma, could I not be excused?"
"I suppose so,--if you really wish it. But you would never think of
refusing her, if you once saw her; she has such a princess-like way
with her, as if she had never been refused anything in her life--except
happiness. She has the most beautiful face that I ever saw, but there
is a shadow over it, as if she had known great sorrow."
Carice felt a jealous pang. Beautiful! and Bergan's friend? Sad? of
course, since he was in danger!
Mrs. Bergan went on. "She said she had a story to tell you. And when
I hesitated--fearing that it might be some new trouble or
excitement--you have had enough such, of late, dear--she smiled, as if
she knew what I was thinking, and said,--'Have no fear, madam; my story
will do her good, not harm!' Shall I let her come up?"
An hour after, the door of Bergan's sick-room opened gently. His eyes
were closed; he, too, had been thinking, as deeply as his weak, half
unconscious state permitted; and his thoughts had been strangely like
those of Carice. The tangled web left behind by Doctor Remy would be
hard to unravel, he felt; and in the process, there would be much pain,
loss, anxiety, and disgrace,--especially for Carice. His heart ached
for her;--and a little also--for he was very weak and weary--for
himself. Would it not be well to have done with it all,--to let
thought, care, and life drift away together, as they seemed so ready to
do, if only he ceased to hold them back? It would be so much easier to
let them go!--was there really any good reason why he should try to
live?
Hearing the door close, and the sound of light footsteps, he languidly
opened his eyes. Diva Thane was standing at his bedside, holding the
blushing Carice by the hand, and smiling down upon him with eyes
deep-lit by a mysterious radiance. There was a lofty beauty in her
face, a look of victory after conflict, that he had never seen there
before.
His heart gave a great bound. He remembered his strange, repeated
intuition that that fair, firm hand would some day bestow upon him an
inestimable blessing. Was the time come?
"I bring you a gift," said she, in low, rich tones, full of feeling as
of melody. "This little, maiden hand--free from every claim as from
every stain--is the best return that I can make for what you have done
for me." And, placing Carice's hand in his, she added, solemnly:--"I
give it to you, for I have the right: I am the wife of Edmund Roath."
The rush of joy was almost too great. It swept over Bergan's senses
like a great whelming wave; speech and sound were lost in it; sight was
gone, except for Carice's sweet, fair face, the one point of light in a
vast ocean of blackness; feeling was annihilated, save that he clung to
that dear hand as to the one treasure that he would not be parted from,
let him be carried whither he might. Firmly and tenderly it closed
upon his, too,--seeming to be the only thing which kept him from
drifting out into that wide obscurity, and brought him back to the
steady standing-ground of consciousness. There he was met by a rush of
gratitude and sympathy only a little less overpowering. He knew so
well what that avowal had cost Diva's pride! He understood so clearly
whence came that solemn light of sacrifice in her eyes, that exalted
beauty in her face, and how dearly it had been won! Still holding
Carice fast with one hand, he held out the other to her, with emotion
too deep for aught but a benediction.
"God bless you," he murmured, fervently. And he added, in a tone of
entire conviction;--"I am sure He will."
She bent her graceful head,--no longer haughty in its pose,--gave his
hand an earnest, heartening pressure, and glided from the room.
All gentle, delicate souls, all sympathetic hearts, go with her;
curiosity, coldness, rudeness, must needs follow after. In that
sick-room, Love only may remain,--Love which, by its long patience of
sorrow, its steady conscientiousness, its freedom from all
self-seeking, has won at last its blessed right to be,--and to be happy!
At a little distance from the cabin was a huge ilex tree, in the broad,
low shade of which Dick had once been moved to set up a rude bench.
Thither Diva betook herself to wait for Carice. There was a pleasant
enough prospect before her, beyond the gulf of sand,--the creek on its
sunshiny way to the sea, the pines and water oaks mingling their
moss-hung boughs and diverse verdure,--but it is doubtful if she was
aware of it. Her eyes--whether bent on the ground at her feet, or
lifted to some far point of the blue horizon--spoke plainly of a mind
too busy with its own reflections to be anywise cognizant of outward
objects. She was reviewing the main events of her life by the new
light recently shed on them, discovering a connection, a harmony, and a
meaning in them unsuspected before, and gaining thereby a deeper sense
of the might and wisdom of that overruling Providence in whom she had
come so lately to believe.
She had been reared in almost princely affluence, as well as in
professed scepticism;--every material wish gratified, every material
caprice humored; no spiritual want recognized, no spiritual yearning
indulged. Early accustomed to admiration and adulation, she grew up
proud, imperious, self-reliant, counting herself made of more excellent
clay than often went to the fashioning of human organisms, as she was
certainly endowed with an intellect of no common strength and fineness
of fibre, which her father took care to feed with all his own learned
and labored Philosophy of Doubt. She was taught to scorn faith, to
deride inspiration, to scoff at worship, to acknowledge no law but her
own will, no higher rule of life than "_Noblesse oblige_." Yet she had
generous impulses and strong affections; the very weeds that grew to
such rank luxuriance in her character bore witness to the natural
richness of the soil. Nor was she without a deep, innate reverence,
inherited from the mother that she had never known,--which, being
diverted from its proper objects, fell to deifying human genius and
intellect, and suffered sorely in seeing them betray, soon or late, how
much of their substance was human dust. Disappointed thus in the
concrete, she turned to the abstract; first Song, then Art, became the
idol of her imagination, the object of her devoted worship. Her
father's health failing about this time, both looked to Italy as their
natural goal, the one for healing, the other for culture. There they
met the man whose potent influence was to change the whole current of
her life.
He had everything necessary to recommend him to her favor;--a manly
figure and bearing, regular, clear-cut features, a bold, acute,
powerful intellect, and varied culture. Moreover, there was a mystery
about him which acted as a stimulant to interest. No one knew whence
he came, and he gave no account of himself beyond what was to be
inferred from chance words and phrases, coming by accident, as it were,
to the surface of the stream of conversation,--oracular utterances,
capable of diverse construction;--which, after being long brooded over
in her imagination, were turned into such rich, airy, poetic shapes, as
even he, with all his subtlety, would never have thought of suggesting.
None the less, they did him friendly service. Moreover, he had, in
some way, acquired no small amount of medical science, which he put to
good use in alleviating her father's sufferings, although it had become
evident that his malady was incurable. By this means, he soon acquired
such an ascendancy over the invalid's mind, and so firm a hold upon his
confidence, as to lead him easily to believe that he could do nothing
better for his child's future than to commit it to such strong, kind,
wise hands. Accordingly, she was wedded, in the American Consulate at
Rome, to Earle Roy; under which suggestive name she had no doubt was
hidden a disguised noble, an exiled prince, or some equally exalted
seeker after disinterested love or sufficing consolation.
Descending the staircase, immediately after the ceremony, they met a
travel-stained gentleman coming up, who started at sight of her
husband, and uttered the name of "Edmund Roath." _He_ started in his
turn, and grew deadly pale; nevertheless, he haughtily affirmed that it
was "a mistake," conducted her home, begged to be excused while he
attended to some forgotten formality, and left her with the careless
smile and bow that argues an immediate return. Hours passed,--days
passed,--yet he came not; neither had he left any track, trace, or clue
behind. It was as if he had melted into thin air. There were those
who hinted that a flight so sudden, swift, and effectual, must all
along have been foreseen as a possible necessity, and provided for.
She poured her loftiest scorn on the imputation; she believed him to
have been murdered by robbers or secret political agents.
The shock hastened her father's death. In one week she was both a
deserted bride and an orphan; free--with almost unlimited wealth at
command--to grieve or search, as she chose,--to avenge, if she could.
She threw herself into the work of investigation: the police were
marvellously ready to assist her, they took her money, and followed out
her suggestions; by-and-by, she was amazed to find that her own house
and movements enjoyed no inconsiderable share of their attention. It
looked as if they suspected that her husband would return to her, and
meant to be on the spot! The thought shook her with a sudden terror.
It was possible that he had fled--being warned in time to fly, but not
to explain--from some secret danger, some dark political vengeance, and
that she was only helping to hunt him down!
In this connection, she recalled that casual meeting on the Consulate
staircase, and hailed it as a possible clue. She succeeded in finding
the traveller, and in forcing from him a reluctant
explanation,--reluctant because he had a kind heart, and was unwilling
to give pain. His name was Mark Tracey; he had been a class-mate of
Edmund Roath, knew him well, and believed him to be the murderer of
Alec Arling. He had deemed it his duty, on recognizing him, to inform
the Consul who and what he was; and measures were forthwith taken to
put him under surveillance. Nevertheless, Roath had made good his
escape before the slow Italian officials could be made to comprehend
what was wanted, and set about it. For himself, he had done only what
he thought right; yet, now that he saw what manner of bride had been so
wofully bereaved, he could almost wish that he had held his peace, and
left Roath to the new and better life which he might have led under
such fair auspices. Still, he gently added, the holiest influences did
not always avail to straighten a warped mind and will, while these
often spread around them a fatal infection;--it were better to--
She stopped him there, thanking him for his sympathy, but rejecting his
conclusions. Either the man that he had met was not Edmund Roath, or
Edmund Roath was the unhappy victim of a specious train of
circumstances. One of these alternatives _must_ be true. So she
proudly told him; so she tried to tell herself, turning a deaf ear to
every deep, inner voice that ventured to assail or to question her.
None the less, she had lost all heart for the search which, it now
appeared, she had not so much instituted as joined in. On her part, it
was quietly allowed to drop. All the same, news finally reached her
that Edmund Roath had died, and was buried, in a small, distant seaport
town. Two men had been landed there from a foreign vessel, one an
invalid far gone with pneumonia, the other his faithful friend and
nurse. The invalid had died in a day or two; the friend had reared a
stone "In memory of Edmund Roath" over his grave, and sailed away in
another ship. His name was an unpronounceable foreign one; as to the
invalid's, they had never heard it until after his death, his friend
had always called him by some familiar sobriquet.
There was a suggestion in this last bit of history, which Diva was
quick to notice. She had the coffin disinterred, and satisfied herself
that the body therein contained was not that of the man whom she had
married,--albeit, she found on its chill finger a ring which she had
given him, and saw that there were some striking similarities of
height, complexion, and color of hair and eyes. She needed no further
proof that Earle Roy and Edmund Roath were one and the same, and she
believed that he still lived, answering to the dead man's name, and
playing his part, on some distant stage. However, she took care that
her actions should express quite the contrary conviction; she caused
the re-interment to be so arranged as to suggest an intended removal;
she generously requited every kindness shown to the invalid; finally,
she put on deep widow's weeds, and sickened to feel them so
appropriate. She had a sombre intuition that Edmund Roath was dead to
her. Nothing remained of him but his backward shadow on her heart and
life. The places that had known him grew dim and tomb-like. The
wealth which had doubtless been his main object, became worthless in
her eyes. The chill materialism with which he had imbued her mind, in
place of the more rationalistic creed of her father, made all things
ring hollow to her touch. The charm of Italy was gone; its sky had
faded, its atmosphere was as heavy with the weight of a dead Past as
her own heart. She longed for a new sky above, new earth below, new
air to breathe, a new life to live. She longed, too,--poor, empty
heart! poor, hungry soul!--for something to love and to reverence,
though she was scarcely conscious of it; she knew only that she had a
deep thirst which nothing quenched.
To settle herself near her one intimate friend, Coralie Youle; to
reassume her maiden name, since she had no right to that of Roy, and
only wanted to forget that of Roath; to lead the simple, free,
independent life of an artist, without hampering ties, duties, or
responsibilities;--this was the shape into which her longing finally
crystallized. Art had been her idol when Love came to dethrone it; she
had not had time to tire of it, to learn how inevitably it, also,
resolves itself into dust, unless breathed upon by a spirit Divine. So
she came to Savalla, and was brought into contact with Bergan and his
firm, frank Christian faith,--which it was impossible to contemn, being
joined to an intellect so strong and fine, and a life so noble. So she
found her aunt, and saw how even the Valley of Shadow was made radiant
by the gladness of her Christian hope. Thus her scepticism was at
first melted by the sunshine, rather than worsted by force of arms. By
and by, however, she dared Bergan to controversy, and found that she
had met her master. Not for nothing had he been beaten in many of his
battles with Doctor Remy; he had since made it his business to be able
to give good reasons for the hope that was in him. He could now make
it manifest that Christian Faith had quite as much to say for herself
as infidel doubt, and could say it quite as clearly, logically, and
cogently. Mind and heart opened, at last, to receive the heavenly
guest, under whose fair, white garments, Diva now knew, was sometimes
hidden a coat of wrought mail that no sword could pierce, and who,
although she had wings to soar beyond the stars, had also feet to plant
firmly on the rock of truth.