I.
A CLOUD FOR A COVERING.

The twelvemonth gone by had not passed lightly over Godfrey Bergan. He was not the same man who had refused so peremptorily to listen to Bergan, on that memorable eve of Carice's wedding. Not only had he grown grayer and thinner, slower of gait and heavier of step; not only were his shoulders bent and his head drooping; but his face wore an expression of settled gravity, bordering on melancholy, and his manner was gentle, almost to submissiveness. Since the night when he had staggered into the cabin of the trusty Bruno, bending under the weight of his dripping burden, he had never, in one sense, laid it down. The thought that he had forced his daughter into a marriage so abhorrent to her that she had been fain to escape from it through the awful door of suicide, had never ceased to haunt his mind, and burden his heart and his conscience.

It had not occurred to him that the fall from the bridge was accidental, inasmuch as Rosa had deemed it her duty to keep inviolate the secret of her young mistress's errand abroad on that night; he was therefore unable to conjecture why Carice should have sought the river-side at so inopportune an hour, except with a purpose of self-destruction. Nor did it give him any comfort to reflect that her mind must have been set all ajar, before she would have resorted to so desperate an expedient; that only lifted the terrible responsibility from her shoulders to lay it more crushingly on his own. It was he, who, without giving her time to recover from the shock of Bergan's apparent infidelity, or the fatigue and anxiety occasioned by his own illness, had urged her into a union with a man for whom she persistently asserted that she neither had, nor would ever be likely to have, any warmer feeling than respect for his intellectual attainments, and admiration for his professional skill and devotion. To be sure, he had done it solely with a view to her happiness,—doing evil that good might come, and finding too late that "Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he reap."

First, on that woful night, he had carried Carice to Bruno's cabin, partly because it was nearer to the scene of the disaster, and partly because he feared to encounter some lingering guest or indiscreet servant, if he took her to the cottage. Fortunately, Bruno and his wife were both within; and the latter immediately applied herself to the work of restoration according to her lights; while the former was dispatched, with suitable injunctions to be secret and expeditious, to bring more efficient aid in the person of Doctor Remy.

It soon appeared that—thanks to her father's promptness—Carice had sustained little injury from her immersion in the water; but, though heart and lungs were quickly brought to resume their functions, her senses remained fast locked in stupor. Knitting his brows, for a brief space, over this unexpected complication, Doctor Remy betook himself to a careful examination of the patient's head; and shortly announced that he had discovered a severe contusion of the skull, implying more or less serious injury to the brain.

The stupor would last hours—possibly days. Meanwhile, many appliances and comforts which the cabin could not afford, would be demanded; he therefore advised her immediate removal to the cottage. Mr. Bergan hastened to break the distressing news to her mother, and to make sure that the house and grounds were clear; then Carice was carefully placed on a litter, and borne to her own room.

It was long before she showed any sign of consciousness, longer still before she was free from the supervening fever and delirium, and capable of coherent thought and expression. When that time came, it was found that her memory of the past five months was a blank. Bergan's unaccountable silence, her father's trying illness, Doctor Remy's unacceptable suit, and the ill-starred marriage ceremony—everything which had distressed her mind or wounded her heart, had been completely wiped out of her recollection as by some friendly, pitying hand; and she was carried back, all unconscious of the transit, to the tender joy and blissful content with which she had parted from Bergan. To her thought it was only a few days since he went; yet, with a pleasant inconsequence, she was already beginning to watch for his return. At first, she had seemed a little bewildered by the change of season; it was amidst the flower and foliage of early summer that Bergan had said good-bye; now, the deciduous trees stood bare against the sky, and the flower-beds were shorn of their glory. But her mind was too feeble to reason, and she soon accepted the fact, as she did many another, without trying to account for it. Enough to know that, winter being near, Bergan must be near also.

It may be noted as a curiously ironical turn of that blind Chance, or Fate, in which Doctor Remy believed, that he was compelled, in his professional capacity, to give orders that Carice should be carefully humored, for the present, in this or any other delusion. There was something at stake of far more importance, to him, than his personal feelings as a man or a bridegroom—namely, the ownership of Bergan Hall. In consideration of that, Carice must be spared everything tending to excite or distress her, and indulged in whatever was soothing to her mind, or pleasing to her fancy.

Meanwhile, he addressed himself, with renewed ardor and determination, to the study of brain diseases. His attention had already been engaged by the recently promulged theory of Gall, that each faculty of the mind had its distinct location in the brain; and he was quick to see the fine field thereby opened to pathological investigation. It was in this direction that he hoped, some day, to make his name famous; and it was chiefly as a means to this end that Bergan Hall was valuable in his eyes. He wanted wealth in order to be able to devote himself exclusively to the study of this branch of medical science, and to pursue it, unhampered by considerations of expense, throughout the books and manuscripts, the practitioners and patients, the hospitals and asylums, the morgues and the dissecting-rooms, of the whole world. Till he could do that, he must content himself with the one patient whom circumstance had thrown into his hands.

But here, he was unexpectedly disappointed, in a measure. Whether it were that enough of her recollection revived to associate him dimly with anxiety and distress; or whether, her reason being in abeyance, she was more controlled by her pure and delicate instincts; certain it is, that Carice's fever no sooner left her, than she developed the most unconquerable aversion to him, amounting in time to a degree of terror. At his approach, she either hid her face, and trembled like an aspen leaf, or she fled with cries of fright. And these moments of excitement were followed by such alarming prostration, that Doctor Remy was reluctantly compelled to admit the necessity of keeping out of her sight. His investigations had thenceforth to be conducted through the agency of her parents or of Rosa. Now and then, when she slept,—and her sleep was always singularly profound, the very twin brother of death,—he stole into her room, to acquaint himself with some particular of the location, depth, or progress in healing, of the injury to her head, and to satisfy himself of the state of her general health.

To every one but Doctor Remy, Carice was gentleness itself. She was happiness, too, in a touchingly quiet, dreamy, illogical form. She was content to spend hours at the window, watching for the first glimpse of Bergan, with a smile on her lips, and her eyes bright with eager expectation; and though she sometimes sighed, when the day ended, and he did not come, she was ready to begin the same hopeful watch on the morrow, and never seemed to know how long it had lasted. As she grew stronger, she resumed, in some measure, her old pursuits;—she busied herself with light household tasks; she wrought dainty embroidery with silks and worsteds; she read, chiefly poetry, the music of which seemed to please her ear, without fatiguing her mind; she even noticed the cloud on her father's brow, and made gentle war upon it,—conquering, of course, as long as he was in her sight, and never suspecting how heavily it settled back afterward. But all this time, the veil over the past never lifted, nor was the eager watch for Bergan ever abandoned.

The few intimate friends, or the servants not of the household, who saw her occasionally, noticed nothing unusual about her, except the delicacy and languor consequent upon a severe illness; Mrs. Bergan being always present to turn the conversation away from every dangerous point, and guide it through safe channels. To the rest of the world, it was simply known that Carice had suddenly been stricken down, on her wedding night, by a fever, supposed to be of the same nature as the one which had lately prostrated her father; and that she was not yet sufficiently strong to show herself abroad, or see much company at home. Doctor Remy, meanwhile, came and went, and spent as much time at the cottage as could reasonably be expected of a physician with a large area of practice, and an office three miles away from his nominal home. Not a person, outside of the limited household, supposed that he never saw Carice, except when she was fast asleep, and totally unconscious of his presence.

So the months rolled away, and the year drew near to its close. Doctor Remy had prosecuted his abstruse study, by the dim light of the science of that day, with characteristic energy and acuteness. He had slowly felt his way, from the premise that each faculty of the mind had its appropriate seat in the brain, to the conclusion that every local injury or disease would affect mainly the faculty corresponding to the injured or diseased portion, thereby not only indicating the seat of the impaired faculty, but suggesting the possibility of a local remedy for the local disturbance,—probably a delicate and difficult surgical operation, to remove pus, slivers of bone, or other foreign matter pressing upon, piercing, or otherwise irritating the sensitive cellular tissue of the brain. Now, he only longed for an opportunity to test his conclusions by experiment, and would certainly have attempted to use Carice for this purpose, except that on her slender thread of life hung his only chance of Bergan Hall. It would not do to sacrifice the immense future advantage to the small immediate gain.

Nature, meanwhile, was laboring in her slow, gentle way, to effect the same end contemplated by the doctor's science. With the beginning of November, a change was observable in Carice. Her sweet face lost its look of happy anticipation, and grew weary and anxious. There were tokens that she was beginning to reason again, in a fitful, fragmentary way, and to notice some of the many discrepancies between the facts and the theories of her life; sometimes she put her hand to her head with a piteous expression of doubt and bewilderment. By and by, she became possessed of a spirit of restlessness by day, and of sleeplessness by night; making the care of her—hitherto an easy and a pleasant task—a sufficiently onerous charge. Thus it happened that she had made her escape to the Hall, as heretofore narrated. Her night had been restless, beyond all previous precedent, keeping Rosa constantly on the watch. Toward dawn, she had fallen into a light slumber, during which the weary attendant, sitting quietly by the bedside, had suddenly been overcome by a profound sleep. Waking ere long, and not wishing to disturb her tired maid, Carice stole softly to the window, to look out, as usual, for Bergan's coming, and saw the light shining again from the window of his room in the old Hall. The broken links in the chain of association were stirred, if not reunited,—perhaps a dim reminiscence of her former attempt to reach him woke within her,—she wrapped herself in the first shawl that came to hand, thrust her feet into a pair of slippers, and noiselessly made her way out of the house and down to the river, exactly as she had done a year before. At the gap in the foot-bridge, through which she had fallen, she stopped and put her hand to her brow, in a momentary perplexity. Here, her memory of the former expedition, which had led her thus far on her way, failed her;—what was she to do next?

Lifting her eyes, she again caught sight of the light from the Hall, which had recently been hidden by the trees. Her lips parted in a smile; her hesitation was at an end. Clinging to the hand-rail of the bridge, and sliding her feet carefully along the great beam underneath, she safely passed the gap,—though she lost a slipper in the transit,—and then hurried to the Hall, to meet with the accident lately described.

All of the foregoing history—or at least as much of it as was known to him—Mr. Bergan recounted to his nephew, in a long conversation held in the parlor, after Carice had been soothed by her father's promise that she should be compelled to do nothing but what was right and agreeable in her own eyes, and left to the care of her mother and Rosa. Now, too, the loss of Bergan's letters to his uncle and Carice was discovered; the false or distorted statements in those of Doctor Remy to himself were brought to light and discussed; finally, Mr. Bergan was glad to listen to a succinct recital of Doctor Trubie's reasons for believing Felix Remy to be identical with Edmund Roath.

In the course of the conversation, all reserve between the uncle and nephew insensibly melted away, and the last topic was discussed upon terms of the most cordial confidence and sympathy. Bergan's high reputation in Savalla had not failed to reach his uncle's ears, and sometimes to make him doubt if all his old prejudice was well founded; and now, there was so much dignity and gentleness in his bearing, his words were so full of unselfish consideration for others, he showed himself so ready still, as heretofore, to sacrifice every merely personal feeling to Carice's welfare, that Mr. Bergan's heart, softened and humbled as it had been by adversity, was irresistibly won. He was glad to feel that he had so dispassionate a judgment, so wise a counsellor, and so kind a friend, to lean upon, in this moment of perplexity.

The talk was broken in upon by a message from Mrs. Bergan. Carice, after her manifold questions in regard to the circumstances in which she found herself had been answered or evaded, had sunk into a deep, but apparently natural sleep. Still, her mother could not but be extremely anxious about her; and she suggested that Doctor Remy, or some one else, should be immediately sent for, to provide against the contingency of her waking.

Mr. Bergan looked anxiously at his nephew. "After what you have told me," said he, "I do not feel that I can allow that man to enter Carice's room again, even when she is sleeping. Yet, be he what or whom he may, his professional skill is undeniable, and her life or reason may turn on those waking moments. What is to be done?"

"Do you know where he is to be found?" asked Bergan.

"No. He merely told me that he had a critical case on hand, which would keep him out all night, and perhaps we should not see him before noon to-day. I suppose he can be heard of at his office."

Bergan reflected for a moment. "By this time," said he, "Doctor Gerrish must be on his way to the Hall. From what I have known and heard of him, I believe him to be both a promising physician and an honorable man. Send Bruno to intercept him, on the plea that the dead can wait for his services better than the living. Then tell him, in strict confidence, enough of Carice's condition to make him understand the case; but you need say nothing of Doctor Remy, except that he is not at hand, and you feared to wait. Finally, ask, as a special favor, that he will not mention his visit to Doctor Remy, lest the latter be annoyed. He will think you weak and overscrupulous, but he will promise."

This advice was acted upon. Doctor Gerrish, after listening to Mr. Bergan's statement and examining Carice as she lay asleep, decided that the recent wound, which was in the neighborhood of the former one, had, in some mysterious way, relieved the inflammation, or counteracted the injury, caused by that—in short, had done precisely what Doctor Remy proposed to do by means of an operation. He furthermore believed that Nature was making her final effort at restoration through the deep sleep which held Carice in bonds so gentle and so firm; and he gave strict orders that nothing should be suffered to break it. It would doubtless last some hours, perhaps the whole day; or if she woke, it would be merely to swallow a little nourishment, which should be given her, and then to fall asleep again.

Bergan had waited to hear this decision, and he now requested Doctor Gerrish to ride on to the Hall, where he would join him almost immediately, by the shorter way of the foot-bridge. His uncle detained him longer than he expected, however, for a final consultation about several important matters; and he was conscious that Doctor Gerrish must have been kept waiting for a considerable time, when he finally quitted the house. Hurrying to the foot-bridge, he saw two rough-looking men crossing it from the direction of the Hall. At sight of him, they interchanged a few words, and then came to meet him.

"Mr. Arling, I believe," said one, touching his hat. "We have been asking at the Hall for you, and a doctor that we saw there told us that you were coming this way, and asked us to say, if we met you, that he begged you would hurry."

"Thank you," said Bergan. "That is what I am doing."

"Not so fast," interrupted the other, who was a tall, muscular fellow with a sinister countenance. "You are that Lawyer Arling, I reckon, who got my brother sentenced to state prison last month for burglary."

"I did my duty as prosecuting attorney for the State, if that is what you mean," replied Bergan, coolly.

"You did, did you? Well, I'm going to do mine, which is to knock you down for it."

With these words, the man raised his powerful fist. Bergan instinctively threw himself into the attitude of defence; but the ruffian's companion, who had edged behind him, caught hold of both his arms; and the unparried blow felled him senseless to the ground.

II.
SWIFT FEET.

However cold a man's temperament may be by nature, however complete the subjection of his passions to his reason and his will, he is nearly certain, in the sudden excitement and confusion of detected guilt, to be betrayed into some act instantly condemned by his better judgment. Such had been the case with Doctor Remy, in his encounter with Hubert Arling at the "Rat-Hole." Mistaking Hubert for Bergan, and believing him to be there only to spy out his actions and thwart his designs, it had been his first impulse to draw the pistol, which he habitually carried, according to the custom of the times and locality, and free himself at once and forever from interference that he conceived to be so dangerous. His chagrin at finding that he had mistaken one brother for the other, was only equalled by his surprise at his calm dismissal and friendly warning, at Bergan's hands. It did not take him long to fix upon the hidden motive of this conduct,—to decide, with a bitter smile, that he had been spared for the sake of Carice.

Yet he had no idea of the extent of Bergan's forbearance toward him on this head. It must be remembered that he never received the slightest intimation of Doctor Trubie's suspicions, or of Bergan's visit to Oakstead, on the night of the wedding. Godfrey Bergan had omitted any mention of either; first, because he had been prevented from doing so by the overwhelming distress and anxiety that had come upon him so suddenly; and afterward, because it had seemed wiser, on the whole, to say nothing. Doctor Remy, therefore, had no suspicion of the mine over which he had been standing, on that night, nor how its explosion had been averted. From his point of view, Bergan's sudden removal to Savalla, in consideration of the prospect there opened to him, was the most natural thing in the world. Nor did he know any reason why himself and his former friend should not meet on the old terms, upon occasion, except that the gain of the one had been the loss of the other, in respect to Carice. Even here, however, he held himself to be ostensibly blameless, inasmuch as womankind was proverbially fickle, and Bergan had no reason to suppose that he was aware of any relation between him and Carice other than the outward one. He deeply regretted, therefore, that in a moment of surprise and confusion, he should have put himself in a false position. It would have been far better to have met Bergan with the careless ease of a conscience void of offence. But, since he had not done so, it was well that Carice was his sufficient safeguard against retaliation.

Yet one word had fallen from Bergan's lips, which had startled him at the moment, and haunted him on his way homeward. The young man had seriously bidden him be thankful that he was saved from "another crime." Was the phrase accidental, or did it imply some knowledge of the affair of the will? In the latter case, was it likely that Bergan would submit to the loss of what he had been encouraged, at one time, to consider his lawful inheritance, without a most rigid scrutiny and investigation of the document by which, while the property was apparently given to Carice, it was done in such a way as to place it absolutely in her husband's control. Would Bergan's forbearance toward her and hers be likely to extend as far as this? Judging by himself, and his experience of men in general, and especially of heirs, he did not hesitate to affirm that it would not. For, though Bergan had seemed to be possessed of some unusually Quixotic notions of honor, independence, and disinterestedness, during the period of their intimate association, he had doubtless seen enough of life since then, to grow more sensible. What, then, had he not to dread from his natural acuteness and legal skill, when both of these, sharpened by interest, should be brought to bear on the false will?

Absorbed in these reflections, he had allowed his horse to choose his own pace, which had gradually slackened, from a gallop to a trot, and then into a walk, until, at last, he was easily overtaken by Dick Causton, in whose eyes there still shone a humorous twinkle.

"Those Arlings seem to be pretty much of a piece," said he; "they both give better than they take, when it comes to blows. However, the Italians say, Tutto s'accommoda, eccetto l'osso del collo,—that means, Everything can be mended except the neck-bone. Yours has come safe out of this fray, but there's no telling how long 'twill stay so, if you're so ready with your pistol."

"Pshaw!" exclaimed Doctor Remy, angrily. "I am in no mood for jesting. Do you suppose that Arling got any clue to our business in that den?"

"How should he?—'A man doesn't look behind the door unless he has been there himself.' Besides, Mr. Arling minds his own business,—which I wish I did!—then I shouldn't have run from him like a dog caught stealing. By the way, Doctor, if the Major makes another will, which cuts the throat of this one of ours, I suppose the forgery goes for nothing?"

Doctor Remy looked at him darkly. "What do you mean?" he asked. "Is he thinking of making another?"

"Not that I know of," replied Dick. "But, 'At the game's end, see who wins.' There is time for him to make a dozen before he dies."

"We will see about that!" muttered the doctor.

"And if he does," persisted Dick, "our will goes for naught, of course,—won't even be looked at, I suppose. They'll 'trust to the label of the bag,' seeing there's no necessity for opening it!"

Doctor Remy stopped short, and eyed his companion suspiciously, "See here, Dick," said he, in a low, determined tone, "you had better not venture to try any double dealing with me. I will have you to know that I can put you in prison, any day; and I will do it, too, even though I have to go along with you, if you falter one step in the course I have marked out for you. Having begun with me in this business, you will find it for your interest, in more senses than one, to help me through with it."

"That is to say," muttered Dick, ruefully, "Die met den duivel ingescheept is, moet met hem overvaren,—Having embarked with the Devil, you have got to sail with him."

The sound of that word "prison" was by no means agreeable in his ears. He had all a vagabond's love for open air and sunshine, and liberty to go and come at his own fitful will. He sickened at the bare idea of prison walls between him and the sky, prison bars between him and the fresh, roving air, prison restraints upon his freedom of action.

Doctor Remy saw the impression that he had made, and proceeded:—"Wherefore, if you hear, or have heard, the Major express any intention of making a new will, I need not suggest the propriety of your giving me immediate warning." The form of the sentence was that of an assertion, but the tone was interrogative.

"Dictum sapienti sat est," answered Dick, sulkily, denying himself the pleasure of translating, and immediately closing his lips tight, as if he dared not trust himself to say another word.

In this mood, Doctor Remy thought it better not to press him further. He had been made to see that he was in his power, and had even yielded a reluctant assent to his will; this was gain enough for the present. So, having reached the point where the roads diverged, he bade Dick a smiling "Good-day," turned off toward the Hall; which, it occurred to him, it might be worth while to visit, for the chance of securing useful shreds of information, or of substituting the false will for the true one.

Dick Causton looked after him with a moody, discontented brow. "I am like a leek, a gray head, and all the rest green," he groaned to himself. "I thought I had made a mighty sharp bargain, but it turns out that I've only sold myself to the Devil, to fetch and carry at his bidding. I really gave myself credit for more sense; but, Do entra beber, sale saber, When the drink's in, the wit's out."

With the last words, Dick heaved a deep sigh. It was nothing new to find that his darling sin was an inclined plane, down which he continually slid into the grasp of divers other sins, less to his taste; but never before had it done him so unkind a trick as to fling him into the hands of a man quick to see, and unscrupulous to use, the chance of turning him to account. Yet so completely had all courage and energy of will died out of him, and so thoroughly was he scared at the idea of a prison as a possible termination of his career, that he dared propose to himself only a feeble and covert resistance to Doctor Remy's stern domination. There was present safety in outward submission; and as for the future!—he smiled in spite of his discomfiture.

At the Hall, Doctor Remy was a little startled to find Major Bergan in the clutch of so severe an attack of delirium tremens that death was likely to be the speedy result. It did not suit his plans that the Major's decease should follow so quickly upon the completion of the forged will; he wanted a little more time to mark out and make smooth his future course, and obliterate his more recent track. He therefore set to work, with right good will, and science considerably in advance of the times, to strengthen and quiet his patient, and so prolong his life; certain that, whenever the strong hand of medical authority was withdrawn, he would immediately drink himself into a relapse, which could be allowed to prove fatal. His efforts were not without a measure of success; in three hours, he had so far reduced the fever and excitement that he ventured to leave Rue in charge, while he paid a brief visit to another patient, who had sent for him four or five times during the evening. This desertion of his post was fatal to him. In spite of Rue's best endeavors, Major Bergan succeeded in getting possession of the brandy bottle, and draining it to the last drop. When Doctor Remy returned, it was to find him once more a raving maniac, and to learn to his consternation, that Bergan had been sent for. The Major would die, there was no help for that; but something must be done to prevent the arrival of his nephew until after the true will—and all other wills—had been found and destroyed, and the false one put in its place;—even, if possible, until after the funeral was over, the will read, and the property put into his own hands. Once in possession, he had reason to believe that he could not, or would not, be disturbed.

His stay at the Major's bedside was short, and principally spent in profound meditation; which was set down by the lookers-on to the account of his deep solicitude for the patient. His course was soon decided upon. In less than two hours he was back at the Rat-Hole, in deep conversation with the convalescent, who was known as "Big Ben." Its purport may be gathered from the closing remarks.

"You hit pretty hard, I suppose," said the doctor.

"Looks like it, don't it?" returned Big Ben, holding up his great fist for inspection, with a satisfied smile. "Make yourself easy; yonder lawyer won't trouble you with any cross-questions for a month to come, I'll promise you that. He won't know his head from a bread-and-milk poultice to-morrow morning, if he ever does."

"Take care!" replied the doctor, warningly; "you know I don't want him killed,—only laid up for two or three weeks, and indisposed to meddle with other people's affairs."

Big Ben smiled grimly. "I'll take care not to do more than stun him, on your account, doctor," he answered; "but I don't say what I shall do, on my brother's. A fellow don't always weight his blows exactly to suit the skull they hit; and if I should happen to put an end to him, without meaning it, you wouldn't take it much to heart, would ye?"

Doctor Remy did not move a muscle of his face, but his eyes sparkled, in spite of himself. Ben laughed, and nodded his head.

"Don't trouble yerself to answer," said he; "I understand you well enough without."

"But, Ben—" began the doctor, in a tone of remonstrance.

"Enough said," interrupted the ruffian, impatiently. "If it's me you're afeard for, I'll jest let you know that I've got everything fixed to leave these parts, to-morrow morning—I've heard of a better opening for my talents—so I shall be off before this affair leaks out. As for you, who knows that you've got anything to do with it? It's jest our own private squarin' of accounts; that's all. You saved my life; I squelch this lawyer for you. At the same time I settle up with him, for my brother. If I swing for't, I'm not such a scoundrel as to bring you in. Now, I'm off; there's scant time to fix things, and get to the Hall by day-break. It's too late, you think, to stop him on the way?"

"Most certainly; he must have started before this."

"And his room is on the south-east corner, you say?"

"Yes, with windows opening on the second piazza."

However,—thanks to Carice,—the room was empty when Big Ben and his companion looked into it. Determined not to be baffled thus, he prowled around the house, until he was detected by Rue's quick ears in the hall, and asked what was his business; when he truthfully replied that he was seeking for Mr. Arling. Hearing this, Doctor Gerrish came forward, stated where Bergan could probably be found, and entrusted Ben with the message, which, as we have seen, was scrupulously delivered. Bergan was then knocked down; and the inanimate body was dragged by the two ruffians to what seemed to be a remote point of the Oakstead grounds, where it would not be likely to be discovered for some hours, perhaps days. There, Ben debated within himself, for a minute, whether he would leave it its small remaining chance of life; but he remembered that Bergan had seen both himself and his comrade face to face, and would be able to identify them, on occasion. He drew his knife, muttered, "Dead men tell no tales," and sheathed it in the young man's breast.

As he stood upright, his ear caught the faint jar of a closing door, followed by the sound of slow footsteps, and a cracked voice humming a song. Apparently, the spot which he had chosen, lonely as it seemed, was not far from some human dwelling. He and his companion exchanged startled glances, plunged into the underbrush, and fled silently and swiftly.

Doctor Remy, meanwhile, had made all possible speed from the Rat-Hole to the bedside of a third patient; in order that his time, on that night, might seem to be sufficiently accounted for by his professional visits. His horse was swift, and he had not spared it in his recent expedition; it would seem impossible that he should have been at points so wide apart, within so short a time. By this means he expected to secure himself from Justice, in her human shape; of her divine form, he had no thought nor fear. Yet, all the way, a voice from the Past, which sounded curiously like his own, kept echoing in his ears, with a dull, dead intonation,—"Crime is a mistake."

Well, suppose that it was, he had committed no crime. He had merely placed a particular powder, among many others, where a drunken old man, whose life was of no moment to anybody, could take it or not, at pleasure; he had altered a will in such manner as to give him absolute, instead of partial, control of a certain property, which he intended to use for the advance of science and the benefit of the race; and he had provided for the temporary elimination from affairs of a person likely to obstruct their proper sequence. That was all. What was there in it to cause such a chill depression of spirits,—such an unreasoning dread of—he knew not what?

Nothing, we may be sure, that was patent to the doctor's science. Regarding right merely as another term for custom, policy, expediency, and conscience as a softer name for cowardice, he was not likely to discern clearly, nor explain correctly, phenomena by which even a lost soul now and then asserts itself as of another nature than its tabernacle of dust, subject to other laws, responsive to other influences, thrilled with other pangs, fears, and longings. Nevertheless, he sought for an answer to his question, and found a plausible one in the fact that he was physically weary, and therefore mentally ill at ease. The night, too, was cool for the season, no wonder that some of its chill had gotten into his mind as well as his bones! He buttoned his overcoat more closely around him, and spurred on his flagging horse.

Yet he did not shut out the shiver, nor distance the uneasiness. Some importunate Cassandra of the depths still insisted upon its clearness of vision, in respect to impending calamity. Troubled in spite of himself, he passed his recent operations in careful review, to see if he had left any loophole open to invite detection or impediment. None. On the contrary, all seemed safe and propitious. The Major was dying, or dead, in consequence of his own self-will and folly. Bergan Arling would shortly be disabled, or killed,—but by another man's hand, and ostensibly—really, even, in part—to gratify another man's thirst for revenge. The Major's will had been found and destroyed; and another—its exact counterpart, except for the omission of a few absurd conditions and restrictions—had been put in its place. A few days more, and the vast and valuable Bergan estate would be his own, and available to his ends. If his road to its possession had not been what men accounted straight and clean, whose fault was it? Had he not, in virtue of his marked talents and abilities, a better right to wealth and fame than most men?—and was he to blame for the fatality which always placed some other life or heart between them and him? Had he not done his best to escape from it? Had he not tried more legitimate means to gain them, and failed?

If the doctor had been less intent upon special pleading, he might have reminded himself that the records of crime show that a man seldom stops with the commission of a single theft, forgery, murder, or other offence. The first one being the necessary sequence of an evil habit of living or thinking, a second and a third follow as unavoidably as a strict logical inference from admitted premises. Might not the fatality of which he complained be but the inevitable result of indulging a certain kind of thought until it became a settled habit of mind, sure to manifest itself, on occasion, in appropriate action? Had not this fatality first presented itself to him as a temptation, suggesting a swift means to a desired end?—nay, was it not such still, only treading more confidently a familiar track, and finding a readier reception?

He had no time to answer these queries, if it had occurred to him to ask them;—he was already at his destination. With a mighty effort of his will, he tore himself free of his anxieties and doubts, and bent his mind steadily upon the surgical operation which he had come to perform; and he performed it well, with a clear eye and a steady hand. He then went on to his office, where he found Bergan's summons to the death-bed waiting for him; in apparent obedience to which, he soon after presented himself at the Hall.

In the avenue, he met Doctor Gerrish, who, having lost all patience at 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—"

He was startled and silenced by a low, pathetic cry of that found an instant way to his heart, despite its armor of prejudice and anger. At the same moment, Carice fell, white and insensible, across the arm of her chair.

"You have killed her," said Mr. Bergan, not resentfully, but with the still resignation of a man who feels that fate has done its worst for him, and there is little left to dread, and to hope.

"Indeed, I trust not," replied Hubert, earnestly, dismayed at the mischief that he had done, as well as softened by the sweet, death-like face, which, he now knew, was not only the one that still kept its place in Bergan's memory, and would not be cast out, but was correlated to a heart not less interested than his own in Bergan's fate. "I think she has only fainted. Let me take her in, while you summon assistance."

And without waiting for either consent or remonstrance, he lifted her in his strong arms, and carried her to the library. Almost immediately, she showed signs of returning animation. He then withdrew to the piazza, where Mr. Bergan shortly joined him; and explanations were mutually given and received.

Hubert had duly received the notice of his uncle's funeral. It had struck him as a little odd at first, that it should be addressed jointly to his brother and himself; but he set it down as an absurd legal formality, and thought no more about it. He had intended to ride over this morning, in time for the funeral; but just as he was about to start, Mr. Youle had slipped and fallen on the office steps, and received several severe cuts and bruises; which had made it necessary for him to take him home, and do what he could to assist him and reassure his family. Thus it happened that he had arrived at the Hall to find the funeral over, and to learn, to his surprise and alarm, that his brother was not there, and that nothing was known of his whereabouts, except that he was last seen at Oakstead. There, also, he was told Doctor Remy might be found. Accordingly he had hastened thither.

He now proposed to commence an immediate, thorough search for his brother.

"Take my advice," said Mr. Bergan, "and wait a little longer. I have had, all along, an expectation—or, at least, a hope—that my brother's will would give some clue to all these mysteries. The time fixed for the reading is now at hand. Go with me, and be present thereat, as you have a right to be. Then, if we get any clue, I will do my utmost to help you follow it out; if we do not, I shall be equally at your service to seek for one elsewhere."

Chafing at the delay, but unable to suggest anything better to be done, Hubert accompanied his uncle to the Hall. In the library they found a considerable party assembled, discussing Bergan's mysterious disappearance.

"I hope," Doctor Remy was just saying, with apparent concern, "that nothing worse is behind it all, than some foolish whim or escapade"—when, hearing a step at the door, he turned and met Hubert Arling's stern, threatening gaze. In spite of his consummate self-control, he could not help giving a violent start. Recollecting himself instantly, however,—inasmuch as he had just heard of Hubert's previous visit,—he came forward and held out his hand.

"You have deceived me twice, Mr. Arling," he said, pleasantly; "your resemblance to your brother is really quite wonderful, and must lead to many entertaining mistakes. I have to beg your pardon," he went on, in a lower tone, "for my absurd conduct at our former meeting; I will explain to you, by and by, what I had been led, by some malicious persons, to believe that I might expect from your brother; which indignity I hastily attempted to forestall. I have since learned my error, and I now beg you to believe that I have the most friendly feelings toward you both. I am scarcely less concerned than yourself at your brother's absence, on this occasion."

Hubert drew back. "I take no man's hand which I have reason to believe is not clean," said he, haughtily. "As to your relations with my brother, he can settle them with you himself, if he still lives. If he does not, I warn you that any man whom I suspect to have been anywise concerned in his death, will meet with little mercy at my hands."

Doctor Remy turned livid with anger. Before he could reply, Mr. Tatum (the lawyer whom Mr. Bergan had summoned) rapped on the table to command attention, and held up the will to view, in order to show that the seals were unbroken. He then read it, slowly and distinctly. After a few minor legacies, it gave the bulk of the Major's property unconditionally to his niece, Carice Bergan.

There was a dead silence after the formal voice had ceased.

"Is that will in due form of law?" asked Mr. Bergan, breaking the pause.

"It seems so," replied Mr. Tatum; "it is clearly worded, and duly signed and witnessed."

"I drew it up myself," observed Doctor Remy, "as you see. It was over a year ago, before the legatee became my wife. But I am surprised to hear it read on this occasion; I supposed that it grew out of a momentary whim, and had long ago been nullified by some other instrument."

"I am equally surprised," remarked Mr. Tatum, "for the excellent reason that I drew up a very different will myself, only about a fortnight since. At that time, Major Bergan mentioned this one, or some other,—for the provisions of this do not quite answer his description,—and I advised him to destroy it, in order to prevent any trouble."

"He may have returned to his first mind, and destroyed the second will instead," suggested Doctor Remy.

"I cannot believe it," returned Mr. Tatum. "Suppose we go in a body, and make a fresh search. Do you know, Mr. Bergan, any other receptacle of papers than those already examined?"

"I do not," replied Mr. Bergan. "Perhaps Maumer Rue might; she knows the house, as well as my brother's habits, much better than I do."

Strange to say, however, when Rue was sought for, she was nowhere to be found. As messenger after messenger returned from the chambers, the quarter, and the grounds, and reported that no trace of her could be discovered, Doctor Remy and Mr. Bergan looked at each other in blank amazement. This new disappearance was equally startling and suspicious to both; each thought that the other must be privy to it; each wondered what it portended.

"So much the more reason to search," finally said Mr. Tatum; "we have two things to look for,—the will and the old woman."

Hubert Arling rose. "I must beg to be excused," said he. "I have neither time nor inclination to search for anybody, or anything, except my brother."

Mr. Bergan laid his hand warningly on his shoulder. "It seems to me," said he, "that you cannot begin your search better than in this house."

The search began. Not a corner was left unexplored, not a shadow left undisturbed. Many strange relics of olden time were unearthed, much venerable dust raised, but it was all unavailing, so far as either the will or the blind woman was concerned.

Tired and disappointed, they returned to the library. Then Doctor Remy stood forth with the light of triumph shining in his eyes. He had schemed and sinned to some purpose; his reward was sure.

"I suppose that nothing remains," said he, "but for me to take possession of the premises, in the name of my wife."

Mr. Bergan looked inquiringly at Mr. Tatum. "I suppose that is the proper thing," said the lawyer,—"at least, as long as the other will is not found."

Hubert's long-repressed impatience here broke forth. "Settle this matter as you like," said he, "I am going to look for my brother."

He strode out of the room. Mr. Bergan hesitated a moment, and then followed him. At the door, he was met by a servant from Oakstead, who delivered a message, in a low tone; of which Doctor Remy, who was standing near, caught the words, "Richard Causton—business of importance." Mr. Bergan listened half-impatiently, gave a brief answer, and hastened after Hubert.

Doctor Remy watched them down the avenue, with a clouded brow. The triumphant light had gone out in his eyes; a chill premonition of evil was at his heart; already he seemed to feel his prize slipping from his hand. "Excuse me," he said, hurriedly, to those who remained, "I have urgent business to attend to." In another moment he was on his horse, galloping swiftly across the fields.

VI.
HELP AT HAND.

Dick Causton's cottage—as it was called by courtesy, being, in truth, only a better sort of cabin—stood on a sandy corner of the estate that he had formerly owned. At first, he had begged to remain there only until he could fix upon some more eligible place of abode; but the owner was good natured, and Dick was indolent to the point not only of letting well enough alone, but bad enough, too; so it gradually came to be understood that he was a life-tenant, by sufferance, of the place. Nor did the owner deem it worth while to interfere, when, in course of time, Dick made the discovery that the sand composing this small domain was of superior quality, and proceeded to convert it into cash, at the rate of two or three pennies a load, and to swallow it a second time, in the shape of alcohol. The process ceased only when the digging threatened to undermine the cottage; which was thus left high and dry upon a triangular sand promontory, with a deep excavation on each side. The base of the triangle—a part of it, at least—touched the boundary line of Oakstead, very near the point where Bergan had been left for dead by "Big Ben."

Dick had risen unusually early on that morning. Owing to his sudden flight from the Rat-Hole, he had failed to replenish his stock of brandy, as he had designed; and the small quantity on hand had been insufficient to blunt the thorns in his pillow, planted partly by Doctor Remy's threats, and partly by the reproaches of his own conscience. He had tossed about on their sharp points for the better part of the night, and was glad when dawn brought such a measure of relief as was to be derived from movement and occupation. In the absence of stronger stimulant, he was fain to brace his nerves with a cup of tea; to which end a fire was unfortunately necessary, and fuel must be sought in the adjoining woods of Oakstead. While engaged in this task, he, caught sight of a prostrate form, half-hidden in the underbrush.

"Quien busca, hallarÁ,—He who seeks will find, but he cannot tell what," he muttered, peevishly. "Is the fellow drunk, or only asleep, I wonder?"

He stole some paces nearer, then gave a start and stopped; he had seen blood stains on the man's clothing. At the same moment, the lines of the figure struck him as familiar, and while he strove to identify them, a light breeze lifted the leaves of an overhanging bush, and revealed an easily recognized profile. Immediately he was kneeling by Bergan, trying his best to discover some sign of life.

He was unsuccessful; yet, thanks to his store of proverbs, he did not quite despair. "No barber shaves so close that another cannot find work," he said, encouragingly, to himself, and bent all his energies to the difficult task of dragging Bergan into his cabin. He dared not wait to call assistance, none being within easy reach; besides, he reasoned that the transit, if not too ungently managed, would tend to restoration rather than, otherwise. Moreover, having at once connected Doctor Remy with Bergan's condition, and being thereby inspired with an inordinate dread of the doctor's power to harm, he fancied that the first necessity was to get the young man into a place of concealment.

"A good heart rids work," he murmured exultingly, when, panting and exhausted, after many a pause for breath, and many a start of fright, he at length dragged Bergan across his threshold, and closed and locked the door.

He next applied himself, with good will and not unskilfully, to the task of restoring animation. The wound, it appeared, had touched no vital part—Big Ben's intention having been better than his aim—and, being helped by the position in which Bergan had lain, it had stanched itself. The blows of Ben's heavy fist had been much more effective. Dick wellnigh gave up in despair before his efforts were rewarded by the faintest sign that the soul had not forever quitted its earthly house. Taking heart then, he worked on till the eyes opened and the lips moved, but not with intelligent sight or coherent speech. The one beheld only the misty phantoms, as the other gave utterance but to the wild fancies, of a fevered and delirious imagination. Now, his uncle's death-bed was the gloomy subject of Bergan's ravings; now, he beheld Carice in danger or distress, and sought to hasten to her relief, making it necessary for Dick to hold him in bed by main strength.

For two nights and three days, Dick had thus been forced to keep watch over him, not daring to leave him for a moment, lest he should do himself irremediable harm, during his absence. Nor was he disinclined to the task. Bergan had won all his heart by the courtesy and consideration with which he had uniformly treated him, no less than his admiration by his fearless, upright character. "Your nephew has all my best proverbs in his life, whereas, I only have them in my head," he had once remarked to the Major, by way of lavishing his choicest encomium upon the rejected heir; and he now did his best for the young man's comfort and cure, with the somewhat meagre appliances at his command. In the way of nourishment, the cabin afforded only a little tea and beef broth; in the way of medicine, nothing but two or three soothing herb-drinks, cold water, pure air, and perfect silence. With the three last, however, nature can work wonders; and, in this case, she wrought so effectively that, on the afternoon of the third day, Bergan sank into a quiet sleep, to awake in great weakness, but fully himself.

"Where am I?" he asked, feebly, glancing wonderingly around him.

"Where charity begins—at home," answered Dick, graciously; "that is, if you will continue to make yourself so, as you have been doing for the last three days."

"Three days!" exclaimed Bergan, trying to spring up, but failing by reason of his weakness;—"what do you mean?"

Dick saw his mistake, but it was too late to retreat. Bergan's mind had at once recurred to the last item in his memory,—namely, Big Ben's uplifted fist,—and had easily connected it with his present condition. Being now made aware of the lapse of time since then by Dick's incautious admission, nothing remained but to give truthful answers to the questions that he rapidly put. Quick at logical inference, the facts that he had disappeared suddenly, and that no trace of him had been found, were soon patent to him. He was filled with dismay. What distress his mysterious absence must have cost his friends! What evil use of it might have been made by his enemy! At the thought, he made another attempt to rise, and partially succeeded, but only to fall back again, half fainting.

"Take care. Quien mas corre, menos vuela,—the more haste the worst speed," said Dick, warningly. "Stay a little, and news will find you."

"Not until it is too late, I fear," returned Bergan. "Since I cannot do it myself, I must beg you to go immediately to my Uncle Godfrey, and let him know that I am here, and ask him to come and see me at once, if possible. Tell him privately, so as not to startle anybody else," he added, with a thought of Carice; "and leave him to extend the information to whomsoever he pleases."

"I would much rather go to your Uncle Harry," objected Dick, loath to present himself at Oakstead, lest he should encounter Doctor Remy.

"He is dead," answered Bergan gravely.

Dick looked astonished, but muttered, resignedly,—"God sends no more than can be borne." Then he bowed low to Bergan. "Dopo un papa, se ne fa un altro," said he,—"The King is dead, long live the King; I congratulate you."

"Upon what?" asked Bergan, with a keen glance;—"Doctor Remy's succession?"

"Of course not," replied Dick, coloring and laughing. "Doctor Remy will find out that Den sviges vaerst, som sviger sig selv,—He is worse cheated who cheats himself. But," he added, with a quick change of countenance, "he must have found it out already."

The thought was a startling one. Much as Dick had enjoyed the certainty of the doctor's final discomfiture, he had not expected that it would come so soon; nor had he known, as now, the extent of the doctor's resources in the way of his interest or his vengeance. As he pondered the matter, he was dismayed to recognize in the false will, the Major's death, and the attempt on Bergan's life, apparent parts of the same plan, and to infer therefrom the subtle and determined character of the man whom he had ventured to try to outwit. Had he succeeded? If so, he had everything to dread from the doctor's resentment; if not—if Doctor Remy had found means to carry out his plans to the end, and cover his tracks, as he seemed to have done thus far—would he dare to open his mouth against him, only to take a share in his punishment? Right and honor were good things, but could they make a prison a pleasant abode?

Here, Bergan broke in upon his troubled reflections. "I must remind you," said he, "that no time should be wasted. My disappearance must have caused much anxiety, and my uncle should be informed where I am, without delay."

"Very well," said Dick, glad, on the whole, to be relieved from further consideration of his difficulties. "I'll be off instanter, if you'll promise not to stir while I'm gone. And if anybody knocks, don't speak, or even breathe loud;—likely enough it will be Doctor Remy, and, in your case, discretion is the better part of valor. I'll make all fast behind me, so that no one can get in. And I'll hurry back, and bring your uncle with me, if I can."

At Oakstead, Dick was informed that Mr. Bergan was at the Hall, and wherefore. He dared not go after him, knowing that Doctor Remy would certainly be there also. He debated with himself, for a moment, whether it would not be well to make his errand known to Mrs. Bergan; but murmuring cynically, "A woman conceals only what she don't know," he decided to entrust her with a message simply. This was so mysteriously and solemnly given, however, as necessarily to suggest to her, after his departure, that he might possibly have found some clue to the mystery of Bergan's absence; whereupon she dispatched a servant to the Hall with the message,—though not without a strict injunction that he should deliver it to his master privately. But this, as has been seen, was not so well observed as to prevent some portion of the message from reaching Doctor Remy's ears, and exciting his suspicions.

VII.
THE SET TIME.

Dick Causton trudged back to his cabin in no tranquil frame of mind. He had his own excellent reasons for believing that a more disappointed and angry man than Doctor Remy, at that moment, was not to be found under the sun. Not only had he lost the coveted Bergan estate, but he had been fooled and cheated by the very man whom he had taken to be his most willing and despicable tool. Nor would it be long, Dick foresaw, before the doctor would seek to mitigate the bitterness of his chagrin with whatever sweetness was to be derived from the thought and purpose of revenge. In that case, he would be the first point of attack. What a fool he had been to meddle or make with any of the doctor's affairs! As if he did not know at least a dozen different proverbs in as many languages, to the effect that prudence was better than repentance, safety preferable to sorrow! Of what use was it to have his head stuffed with the consummate wisdom of all nations, if he only acted like a consummate idiot!

A pertinent question, Richard Causton! Showing the good results, too, of your period of forced abstinence from strong drink, and your lonely watch over the sick-bed—wellnigh the death-bed—of Bergan Arling. Up to this point, we have deemed your case hopeless; now, truly, we think better of it. To recognize one's folly is the first step toward breaking from its bondage. To have learned that the fruits of righteousness do not ripen on the tree of worldly wisdom, is, perhaps, to feel the first faint hunger for the saving fruitage of the tree of life. There may be the making of a man—a contrite, humbled, subdued, scarred, but free man—in you yet!

Ignoring, or unconscious of, these grounds of hope for the future, however, Dick continued to busy himself with his fears for the present. Nor did they prove to be causeless; he was not yet in sight of his door, when he heard the sound of impatient knocking thereat. Stealing to a point where he could see without being seen, his worst fears were realized,—the unwelcome visitor was Doctor Remy.

"De puerta cerrada el diablo se torna,—From a locked door, the devil turns away," he muttered, settling himself in his hiding place, with the intention of remaining there until the anticipated departure.

But the doctor was not to be thus balked. After repeated knockings, with short intervals of waiting, he finally drew back from the door with the evident intention of bursting it in; whereupon Dick hastened to make his appearance, doing his best to assume an air of easy nonchalance.

"He who brings good news, knocks hard," he called out, by way of arresting the doctor's attention, and saving the door. "Or, as the Germans say, He who brings, is welcome; I suppose you have come to settle our little account."

"Yes, I have come to settle accounts with you," replied Doctor Remy, with grim irony. "Why didn't you tell me about this other will?"

"What other will?" asked Dick, innocently.

"I am in no humor for trifling," returned Doctor Remy;—"Major Bergan's will, that you witnessed a fortnight ago."

"C'est la glose d' Orleans,—that is to say, the commentary is more obscure than the text," answered Dick, shaking his head, as if he could make nothing of it.

"Don't try my patience too far," rejoined the doctor, menacingly. "I have just seen Mr. Tatum, and he told me of the will, and named you as one of the witnesses."

"Did he?" asked Dick, shrugging his shoulders. "Then I must be like 'el escudero de Guadalaxara, que de lo que dice de noche, no hay nada  la maÑana.' Do you understand Spanish?"

"Do you understand English?" growled Doctor Remy. "I asked you if you had witnessed a will; and I want to know what was in it."

"And I gave you to understand that if I had, it must have been when I was too drunk to remember anything about it," responded Dick.

Doctor Remy's eyes flashed ominously. "I shall find a way to refresh your memory," said he. "One question more, and I warn you that you had better give me a straightforward answer, and not try to put me off with a proverb;—what was done with the will after it was made?"

"Why, hasn't it been found?" asked Dick, with surprise that was plainly genuine.

"No, it has not," replied Doctor Remy, curtly. "See here, Dick," he added, after a pause, quitting his threatening tone for one of persuasion; "I'll make it well worth your while to tell me all you know about that will. Open the door—I'm tired of standing—and we'll go in and talk it over."

"I—I—it's pleasanter outside," stammered Dick, fairly driven to his wit's end by this proposal. "Besides, 'walls have ears;' no place like the open air for your business—and mine."

"Your walls should be deaf," answered the doctor, looking at him suspiciously; "you live alone, do you not?"

"Yes, certainly; but no walls are to be trusted; mÈfiance est mÉre de sÛretÈ."

"Very true," replied Doctor Remy; "and I distrust you. Open that door at once, and let me see what or whom it is, that you are so anxious to conceal."

Dick's consternation was extreme. Still, he did what he could to gain time; assistance might be on the road. He began to fumble in his pockets. "Very happy to oblige you, I'm sure," he faltered, with a poor assumption of graciousness. "But, 'He that will be served must be patient.' I declare! I believe I've lost that key! Still, Mais val perder, que mais perd—"

"Will you open that door?" interrupted Doctor Remy, fiercely, "or shall I do it myself?"

Dick lifted his head boldly; his straining ears had caught the sound of 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.

Finally, she had learned the identity of Edmund Roath and Felix Remy by means of a sketch accidentally discovered in Astra's portfolio; she wondered that she had not suspected it before, seeing how plainly he had left his evil mark on Astra's mind. She was glad to think that she had been instrumental in obliterating it; he himself having helped to fit her for the work. Meanwhile, he had married Astra's friend. What was her duty in this case; to speak, or to be silent? Silence was the pleasanter thing, speech might be the only right thing. Sharp was the conflict, puzzling the controversy. It was not decided until she happened to meet Hubert Arling, and learned in what search he was engaged, and what state of things existed in Berganton. Then, moved by gratitude to Bergan, she had sought Carice.

But what was the meaning of it all? Reared in faithlessness, she had been led to faith. Proud, she had been humbled. Wedded to Edmund Roath, she had been made to follow in his track, and undo, in some degree, his wicked work. So much was plain, even now; the rest would be read, in time. But oh! the mystery, the wonder, of that overruling Providence, who caught up man's wilful designs, ere they were out of his hands, and turned them to His own vast purposes!

A light footstep fell behind her. Turning, she beheld Carice's soft eyes,—eyes which, she thought half-enviously, showed so plainly that they had never looked upward through the smoked glass of doubt, to divest the sun of his glory, the sky of its blue, and call it seeing more clear.

"We have been talking of you," said Carice, with gentle directness.

Diva smiled faintly. "I thought you would have pleasanter topics," she answered, half-absently, half-sadly.

"Where could we have found them?" asked Carice, earnestly. "Oh, Diva, you will never know—we shall never be able to tell you—what we think of you! But, Bergan says this search after the doctor must be stopped at once."

"He is very kind," replied Diva, quietly; "I understand what he would spare me. Tell him to give himself no disquietude on that head. I dare not lift a finger to stay the feet of justice, if I could; I can bear whatever Providence sends. But my dread is not the expiation of the scaffold, but the finding of no space for repentance. My conviction is strong that—my husband will never be taken alive."

The quick tears came into Carice's sympathetic eyes; but Diva only fixed her sad, calm gaze on the shining river, and saw in it, perhaps, the River of Life, "proceeding out of the throne of God." After victory is peace.

XI.
FAITHFUL UNTO DEATH.

Bergan now mended rapidly; a mind and heart at ease are excellent medicines. In a few days it was pronounced safe to remove him to Oakstead. Here he was informed of the strange disappearance of Maumer Rue.

"Her grandson, Brick, was at the cabin two or three times," said Mr. Bergan, "when you were too ill to allow his admittance. He is here now, and very anxious to see you. May he come in?"

Brick, being admitted, burst into tears. He was glad to see his beloved master, but his heart and mind were heavily burdened. When he had last seen his grandmother, she had told him that she was going on a long journey, and should not return; but she had charged him solemnly to say nothing of this communication to anybody but Bergan; who, she averred, would return in good time. Then he was to bid him, in her name, to "seek and find;" she had added, that he would know where to look.

Bergan started up with a face of alarm. "I must go at once," he ex claimed; "I am afraid it is already too late!"

"But you are not strong enough," remonstrated Mr. Bergan. "Tell us where to look, we will go in your stead."

"I would gladly do so, if I knew how," answered Bergan, "but I am not certain that I can find the place myself; I never saw it but once, and then it was in the night. At the worst, however, we can cut a way into it. Come, uncle; come, Hubert, you will both be needed; and we ought to have a doctor, too. The secret—for there is one—has long been kept, but it must needs out now; and it is as well that it should, the day of such things is over."

The carriage was ordered, and having set down the three gentlemen at the Hall, went after Doctor Gerrish.

Bergan, meanwhile, sought for the hidden spring. It required some time and thought before he found and pressed it. The secret chamber being then exposed to view, Rue was discovered sitting at the massive secretary, in a large arm-chair, with her head bowed on her folded hands. She was dead; Doctor Gerrish affirmed that she had been so for some days. Ample provision of food and water was near; she had died a perfectly natural and peaceful death, from the infirmities of old age. It was apparent that she had deliberately chosen this spot for her death-chamber. But why? That was a mystery.

It was soon solved. As they gently raised the body to lay it on the same bed where her master, and so many of his race had slept their last sleep before her, a folded paper dropped from her clasped hands, and fell at Bergan's feet. He picked it up, glanced at it, and laid it on the desk without a word. There was that in his face, however, which made Hubert also look at it; and straightway he held it up to view with the triumphant exclamation:

"The lost will, gentlemen, the lost will! Bergan, let me be the first to congratulate you."

It was easy to understand now, that, feeling her last hour at hand, and knowing that no will left anywhere in the Hall, or in her own cabin, would be likely to escape Doctor Remy's destructive touch, she had taken this method of fulfilling her master's last command:

"See that Harry has Bergan Hall. Give this will into his own hands, and no one's else. I trust none of them but you."

Well might he trust her! Almost a century of loyal service had she given to him and his house, ready at any time, if need be, to lay down her life for their sake. Well might Bergan give her tender, honorable burial, and cause to be graven deep on her tombstone:

FAITHFUL UNTO DEATH.

*****

Hubert Arling wooed and won Coralie Youle. His strong likeness to his brother first found him favor in her eyes; by and by, she would have been amazed to be told that she had ever cared for him, except on his own sufficient account.

Diva Thane and Astra Lyte went to Italy, for some years, to give Astra's genius fit food and training. The direction of its future labors was settled. She would spend her life and strength in the service of Christian art, trying to lose all thought of self in that of consecration, and counting her work successful, though it never left her studio, nor brought her either money or fame, if only it lifted the minds of those who contemplated it to a point above itself, to a loftier standard of living, a clearer conception of the beauty of holiness, a more earnest aspiration after the glory that "shall be." On her return, she brought with her a Saint Christopher that satisfied even Carice. The giant was kneeling before the Wondrous Child, who had at once so burdened him, and so strengthened him to bear; his face was full of awe and love; he recognized his Lord; he had found the King who alone was worthy of his service, and whom alone he was content to serve.

As for Diva, there are sisters of charity, who wear no distinctive garments, save patience and faith. A gentleman once said to Bergan, admiring her stately beauty, "She should be a queen." "She is a queen," was the quick reply, "a queen according to the Gospel pattern, 'Whosoever will be chief among you, let him be your servant.'"

In due time, Bergan restored the old Hall, although not without reducing somewhat of its ostentatious size by cutting down the long wings, and with no extravagant outlay. He had learned that the inevitable, and probably healthful, tendency of property in this country, is to division. The larger and costlier the dwelling, beyond a certain extent, the more sure it is to prove too heavy a burden for some inheritor, and the less likely to go down in a direct line. The man who would have his name live, must link it with some institution more imperishable than a family home. First of all, therefore, Bergan took care to embody in carven stone and jewelled glass that fair vision which he had seen on his first visit to the Berganton church. This being done, we may be sure that his more personal dreams of happiness and honor came true, also.

A fair and gracious wife and mother was Carice! She never lost the flower-like grace and purity of her girlhood, nor her rare power of seeing straight to the central truth of things. "It is said that I have lost a year of my life," he once remarked; "it is the year that I count most truly saved."

Richard Causton, having learned, through his forced abstinence during his long, lonely watch over Bergan, that existence was possible without alcoholic stimulant, and being helped by Bergan's steady friendship and countenance, made a determined effort at reformation, and succeeded, though not without a sore struggle, and many lapses. The last of his backslidings was made memorable by the following incident.

Going too near the edge of the excavation aforementioned, he slipped and fell over, displacing some of the sand at the foot of the bank by his weight, which had also been much washed by a recent heavy rain. Struggling to his feet, he was horrified to see a skeleton hand pointing at him from the base of the precipice. He fled, without stopping to look behind him; but his story set other and acuter minds to work, as well as, a little later, two or three careful spades; and the body of Edmund Roath was exhumed, and the mystery of his disappearance was explained. The sand had suddenly caved in, under his weight, and buried him, as he fell. His flight had been short, in one sense; far, very far, in another. Had he witnessed such a termination to another's career, he would, doubtless, have termed it Chance, or Fate; but those who stood around his dead, shrunken body, with its sunken eyes and its uplifted hands, looked awe-stricken in each other's faces, and solemnly whispered, "Providence." Nevertheless, some simple souls murmured that he had escaped just punishment. "Do you think so?" asked Mr. Islay. "So would not he who said 'It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God.' Be thankful, rather, that justice to the guilty is so tempered with mercy to the innocent. An earthly scaffold would not have added one straw's weight to the despair of that miserable soul, when he stood on the brink of death, and knew that his failure was complete for time and eternity, but it would have been a heavy burden to certain gentle hearts. It is they who have escaped, not he. Where the cords of his sins do not hold a man to a godly sorrow, they must needs hold him to a righteous retribution."

Richard Causton's old age had something of the mellow sweetness of a late, frost-bitten apple, such as is occasionally plucked from the tree in midwinter. He lived to teach Bergan's eldest son many of his favorite proverbs, in their many tongues, but he constantly impressed upon him that the truest, most significant, most solemn of them all was one from Holy Writ:

"HE SHALL BE HOLDEN WITH THE CORDS OF HIS SINS."

THE END.