PART THIRD. THE IN-GATHERING. (continued 3)

Bruno was wholly unprepared for this question. Vainly he racked his brains for a plausible answer, but nothing better rewarded his efforts than,—"I jes' wanted to speak to her, dat's all;"—a reply so little congruous with his frightened face and voice, that Mr. Bergan's suspicions were confirmed. He stepped out on the piazza, and closed the door behind him.

"How, Bruno," said he, sternly, "I want to know what this means. Come, no shuffling; tell the truth."

Bruno's self-possession gave way entirely. "I—I—I—it's only Mr. Arling."

Mr. Bergan started. "My nephew, Bergan Arling, do you mean?"

"Yes, massa."

"What—where?"

"Out dar, under de larches, massa."

"And he—he dared to ask for my daughter?"

Mr. Bergan's voice shook with anger. Bruno tried to explain, not very coherently.

"He didn't mean no harm, massa, I'se sartain. He said her happiness and all you'se happiness, was at de stake."

"Did he!" muttered Mr. Bergan, scornfully. "Hark you, Bruno, not a word of this to anybody—to anybody, mind you! Now, go back to your dance,—I'll see Mr. Arling."

Bergan's impatience had brought him from under the larches to a point commanding a view of the path to the cottage. He was both surprised and disappointed to see his uncle instead of Carice; nevertheless, he came frankly forward to meet him, holding out his hand.

Mr. Bergan took no notice of the friendly offer. "How dare you show yourself here?" he began, his voice quivering with rage. "How dare you insult my daughter with your presence, at this time? Have you not done harm enough already?"

"Uncle," replied Bergan, gently, "I know not what you mean. I have never harmed Carice, that I know of, and now I came here to save her, if it be not too late. Oh! uncle"—and here his calmness began to fail him, and his voice grew eager—"do not, do not let this marriage proceed,—at least, not until you have heard my story, and have satisfied yourself of the real character of this Doctor Remy!"

"What have you to say against his character?" demanded Mr. Bergan, icily.

Bergan felt the full disadvantage of his position. It was a heavy charge that he had to make against a man of Doctor Remy's standing, without documents or witnesses, nothing to substantiate it but his single assertion. Besides, to say truth, there was nothing to allege against Doctor Remy but Doctor Trubie's suspicions. He hesitated, and his hesitation was not lost upon his uncle; neither was the want of assurance with which he finally spoke.

"Uncle, there is great reason to believe—or, at least to suspect—that Doctor Remy is a—murderer,—the murderer of my brother Alec."

Godfrey Bergan stood in silent scorn. The accusation struck him as too extravagant, too baseless, to be seriously discussed. His nephew must be drunk, or mad, to make it. And, now that he looked at him more narrowly, his face was haggard and his dress disordered enough to befit either condition.

Bergan saw the impression that he had made, and a cold, sick despair crept over him. "I beg of you, uncle," he exclaimed, vehemently, "as you value your own future peace of mind, put a stop to this unhappy business, ere it be too late."

"It is too late now," said Mr. Bergan, impatiently, "Carice is already married."

"Must she, therefore, be left in the hands of a murderer? Save her, at least, from further contamination. If you will do nothing else, call her, and let her decide the matter for herself."

"Impossible," answered Mr. Bergan, decidedly. "Carice has already borne and suffered too much; her nerves are in an exceedingly sensitive state; this story would kill her, I verily believe. If you really have her happiness at heart, go away quietly, and leave her to the care of the husband she has chosen."

"Chosen?" repeated Bergan, bitterly,—"has she chosen him, or has she only been forced to wed him?"

Godfrey Bergan's eyes lit. "You forget to whom you are speaking," said he, coldly. "Enough of this, my patience is exhausted. I have listened to your drivel longer than it deserves. The quicker you take your leave, the better."

Bergan drew himself up haughtily, and his eyes flashed back an answering flame. "My patience is also exhausted," said he. "I have begged and pleaded long enough. I tell you now, uncle, that I will not go, until I have seen Carice, if I seek her out among the wedding guests."

Godfrey Bergan set his teeth hard. "Will not?" he repeated angrily. "Will not! I will have you to understand, young man, that there is neither will, nor will not, on these premises, but mine. On my soul, if you do not go, and quickly, I will call my servants, and have you put off from the place as a drunkard and a vagabond."

At this threat, the hereditary temper, scotched in Bergan's heart, but not yet killed, reared its evil head aloft, and sent its deadly poison burning through all his veins.

"Call them," he retorted, in a voice deep and low as a distant thunder peal, and lifting his clenched hand on high,—"call them, if it so pleases you! Their blood be on your head, not mine."

Godfrey Bergan was no coward, yet he might well stand aghast at the unexpected fury of the tempest that he had evoked. Moreover, to put his threat in execution, he now saw, to court that publicity which he specially desired to avoid. He stood irresolute, questioning within himself how best to deal with the emergency.

He was saved the trouble of a decision. While he still hesitated, Bergan's hand fell by his side, his eyes softened, and a spasm of anguish passed over his face. "God forgive me!" he murmured, shudderingly,—"I, too, was a murderer—in heart!"

He bowed his head on his hands. Woful was the inner conflict. Within his soul, the "black Bergan temper" was gasping out its last venomous breath, with the clutch of a firm hand on its throat. Agonizing were its death-throes. They ceased at last. It would never trouble him more.

Godfrey Bergan, standing by, saw something of the struggle, yet did not understand it in the least. "A drunkard's aimless wrath!" he said to himself,—"quenched in its own fury."

So carelessly does the world construe the deeper soul-conflicts that come under its observation!

Bergan lifted his head, and his face was ashy pale. "I go, uncle," said he, hoarsely, "since that is your wish. In all that I have said, though said never so unwisely, I assure you that I have had only Carice's happiness at heart; and I pray God that you may not have cause to rue it, to your dying day, that you did not listen to me!"

He turned and plunged into the darkness, not knowing whither he went.

XIII. ESCAPED.

Godfrey Bergan stood motionless for some minutes. His nephew's persistency had irritated his nerves, if it had not convinced his understanding. Nor was he altogether unimpressed by the solemnity of the young man's parting words. Though he had not condescended to state the fact to Bergan, it was still true that he had exacted what he considered to be very complete and satisfactory evidence, touching the correctness of Doctor Remy's antecedents, before giving him his daughter. Yet it was only after he had recapitulated this evidence to himself, point by point, and had also taken into account the doctor's late brilliant achievements, present high standing, and promising prospects for the future, that he could rid himself of a certain chill weight of responsibility, which seemed somehow to have been flung upon his shoulders by Bergan's last sentence.

On entering the cottage, he met Carice in the hall, encircled by her bridesmaids. He was half pleased, half startled to see that the singular listlessness, amounting to a degree of apathy, which had characterized her for some weeks, had given place to a certain tremulous agitation. A round red spot burned on either cheek, where of late the bloom had been both rare and faint; and her eyes were bright and wistful almost to wildness. With a sudden impulse of tenderness, he put his arms round her, and pressed her to his heart.

"Father," she whispered, with her lips close to his ear, "am I dreaming or mad? I have heard a voice in the air—Bergan's voice. I was standing by the window, and I heard it distinctly,—no words, only tones,—pleading, pleading, until I thought they would break my heart. Then all at once, they changed to anger,—fierce, bitter anger! And they ended in despair! Father, what could it mean!"

"My child," said Godfrey Bergan, after a pause, and there was a perceptible tremor in his voice, "you are very weak and nervous, and these wedding gayeties have been too much for you. Go to rest, and sleep away your fatigues and your fancies together; joy cometh in the morning. The wife of Felix Remy will hear no voices in the air. Good-night."

He unclasped his arms, and her bridesmaids, again clustering round her, led her upstairs in triumph.

But no sooner had they freed her from her bridal garniture,—the veil's soft mistiness, the robe's heavy, satiny folds, the fragrant orange blossoms, already beginning to fade!—than she put them gently aside.

"Bid me good-night, now," she said, with quiet decision. "I am very tired, and I want to be alone for awhile. Rosa will do the rest."

There was something in her tone which forbade remonstrance; quickly the door shut out the fresh, young faces, and snowy, fluttering robes.

Was she, as she had desired to be, alone?

Alas! no. The image evoked by that "voice in the air," had followed her across the threshold, and still faced her with sad, upbraiding eyes. Instinctively, she threw herself upon her knees to exorcise it by the spell of prayer. Though no intelligible word might come to her trembling lips, though not a coherent thought might shape itself in her dizzy brain, she was, nevertheless, prostrate at the foot of the cross, and the Saviour would understand!

And so—let us not presume to doubt it—He did, and, moreover, answered. But the ways of Providence are utterly inscrutable; and the answer came in no shape that would have been likely to present itself to her mind, had she been capable of definite thought. She rose from her knees but little comforted.

For the delirious disquietude that had taken possession of her, had its physical, not less than its mental, side. The long overstraining of the delicate nerves, the long overburdening of the heart that knew its own bitterness, were fast reaching the point beyond which must needs come fever, or insanity, or death. Nature—often the wisest of physicians, when left to herself—had sought to work restoration by means of the apathy aforementioned, wrapping her mind and heart as with quilted armor; but the events of this night had pierced quite through the soft sheathing, and set every nerve quivering with pain. Unable to remain long in one position, she soon began to pace restlessly up and down the room. She was dimly aware that Rosa had come in, and was waiting her commands; but she never once looked to see with what a disturbed and doubtful face the young negress was regarding her.

Getting weary, at last, of her monotonous march to and fro, she went to the window, and leaned out to bathe her fevered temples in the cool night air. Suddenly she cried out;—

"Rosa, see! Is not that a light in the old Hall?"

"Yes, Miss Carice, it's just that," answered Rosa, impressively. "It's in Mr. Arling's room. He's here."

"Here!" Carice started, and turned round with eager, expectant eyes.

"No, no," Rosa hastened to say, "not here,—at least, not now."

"Not now," repeated Carice, wonderingly. "When was he here, then?"

Rosa hesitated for an instant, and then flung herself at her mistress's feet. "I will tell you," she cried, vehemently,—"master may kill me, if he likes, but I will tell you! Mr. Arling was here not much more than half an hour ago."

Carice smiled,—a strange, wan smile, with no spirit of mirthfulness in it, but something of gentle triumph, as well as relief. "It was no fancy, then," she murmured, softly.

Rosa went on. "I was walking down by the river—with Tom, you know—when I thought it must be getting late, and you might want me, and so I took the short cut through the larches. And who should I see standing there but Mr. Arling, and your father coming to meet him! So I slipped back behind the trees, meaning to come round the other way; but I caught a few words, and then I listened;—I couldn't help it, Miss Carice, if I'd died for it. For Mr. Arling began to beg and plead that your father wouldn't let your wedding go on, if he cared anything about your happiness. He said there was something dreadful against Doctor Remy,—oh! Miss Carice, I don't like to say it, but I think you ought to know,—he said he was a"—sinking her voice almost to a whisper—"a murderer."

Carice's eyes dilated with horror. "A murderer!" she gasped,—"oh! no, no, Rosa; you could not have heard him right!"

"Indeed I did," rejoined Rosa, firmly. "That's the very word he used,—more than once, too. At least, he said there was great reason to believe so; and he begged your father to wait until he could make sure about it. Oh! Miss Carice, I never did like Doctor Remy, but I always liked Mr. Arling, and I don't believe he'd say a word that wasn't true. Do pray wait, as he said, until you can find out the whole truth, before you have anything more to say to the doctor. Lock your door, and say you're sick—I'm sure you look as if you might be—and I'll promise to keep him out, if he were ten Doctor Remys."

And Rosa set her teeth and clenched her hands, in a way that promised much for her valor in the cause of her young mistress.

Carice put her hand to her brow, and tried to think, but merely succeeded in bewildering herself with images of horror. That frightful word, murderer, continually sounded in her ears, to the effectual hindrance of anything like connected thought. Only one idea presented itself to her confused brain with even tolerable distinctness,—Bergan was near, Bergan was in possession of knowledge that might yet relieve her, to some extent, from a burden too heavy to be borne,—a burden which she ought never to have consented to take upon herself, nor ever would have done, had she not first been bound fast with a torpor that benumbed both feeling and will. Still, having so consented, she would have tried, but for Rosa's terrible revelation, to endure it patiently. Now, it seemed to her, this was no longer possible.

Again she fixed her eyes upon the gleaming light from the old Hall; the only star of hope or suggestion that had yet risen upon her darkness. What could she do, in her mortal terror and bewilderment, but follow it?

"Rosa," she said, suddenly, "I am going to the Hall. I must see Bergan, and hear what he has to say; then I can decide what it is right to do."

"And so I would," rejoined Rosa, approvingly. "Just let me slip this dark wrapper on you, and wind this scarf round your head, and well over your face,—so;—why, your own father wouldn't know you, if he were to meet you! Now, we'll be off."

Carice hesitated. "No, Rosa, that will never do; our absence would be quickly discovered. You must stay and keep the door."

"But, Miss Carice, you can't go alone!"

"I can, and must. It is the only way to prevent discovery. Remember, no one is to be let in, upon any consideration, until I return."

"Let me alone for that," responded Rosa, emphatically. And having seen Carice safely down the steps from the upper piazza, and watched her light form till it was lost among the trees, Rosa returned to mount guard over the door of the deserted chamber.

Godfrey Bergan had been unaccountably shaken by that brief meeting and parting with his daughter, in the hall. Watching her slender form as it toiled up the staircase, with the languid step that betrays a heavy or a reluctant heart, he sighed to think with what a graceful alacrity she had used to flit upward, as if lifted on invisible wings, her happy smile seeming to make a little illuminated space about her, like the light which is seen irradiating angelic forms, in old pictures. A sudden burden of despondency fell upon his heart, whereof he understood neither the purport, nor whether it bore reference to her or himself, but only knew that it quite unfitted him for playing the part of a gay and gracious host to his guests. Seeing Miss Ferrars coming toward him, with her stereotyped smile, an impulse of flight seized him; and hastily stepping through one of the long windows, he soon found himself once more under the sighing trees, which were swaying to and fro under the first breathings of a rising wind.

The night was no longer dark. Here and there, a star looked through the broken clouds, and lighted him to the river's bank, down which he walked slowly; torturing himself, as he went, with that weary after-birth of doubts and questions, which often follows hard upon the accomplishment of a cherished purpose. Had he done well in wedding Carice to the doctor? Had he not done wrong in refusing to listen to Bergan, at least with courtesy and calmness? Was it barely possible that there could have been some small grain of truth at the bottom of the young man's turbid story? What was the meaning of that odd, wild look in Carice's eyes? Had he been thrusting himself, as it were, into the awful place of Providence, only, by reason of his human short-sightedness, to work irremediable ruin?

At that moment, a dark, slender woman's figure hurried past him, toward the ruined foot-bridge, which was near at hand. "One of my brother's servants, who has stolen over to dance with mine," he said to himself, turning idly to watch her progress.

To his utter amazement, at the further end, he seemed to see her cast herself deliberately into the water!

Godfrey Bergan was a practised swimmer, and, after the first motionless moment of astonishment, he threw off his coat, plunged into the stream, which, at this point, was neither rapid nor deep, and swam rapidly toward the spot where he had seen the body disappear. Here, the water was scarcely up to his armpits; in a few moments, he had caught the floating garments, and borne the lifeless form to land. The heavy head fell back on his arm; the scarf trailed away from the white features; he recognized Carice!

With a thick, muffled cry of horror, the father sank upon his knees, not so much of devotional intent, as crushed under the double-weight of his physical burden and mental anguish.

"Oh, God! have mercy upon us!" he ejaculated, brokenly,—"I have driven my child to suicide!"

XIV. THE WAY STOPPED.

Bergan Arling, on quitting his uncle, had flung himself into the surrounding darkness, without aim, without hope; conscious only of an intolerable burden of grief and despair. Coming to the river, he had mechanically strode down its bank. Mechanically, too, he had crossed the foot-bridge, when it came in his way; and was scarcely aware that its last rotten plank, on the Hall end, had given away under his feet, and that he had narrowly missed being precipitated into the water. In due time, he found himself standing before the deserted mansion, looking up to its dark front with eyes just beginning to be capable of intelligent vision, and acknowledging to himself that, though his path had been but blindly chosen, it had brought him to a fitting goal.

"A ruined home, and a ruined life," he murmured, with a kind of bitter mournfulness,—"they will suit each other well!"

The door was locked, but there was a dilapidated flight of steps leading to the rotten upper piazza, and the window of his old room yielded readily to pressure. The lamp, too, was in its remembered place, and, having lighted it, he threw himself into a chair, to sum up the record of his past life, and strike the balance.

Not that he did this consciously. Although he felt intuitively that he had reached a turning-point in his path, from whence its course and circumstance, if not its aim, might well be changed, it was with the future only—the consideration of the question what to do next—that he purposed to occupy himself. But the sight of the familiar room, and the ancient furniture and ornaments wherewith he had filled it, having inevitably recalled the period of his first occupancy, and the occasion of his sudden departure, he could not fail to see how all his life since had seemed to hinge on that one deplorable incident. Had he resisted Major Bergan's will in the single particular of entering that vile tavern, or refused, first as well as last, to drink at his bidding, doubtless he would have lost his favor all the same, but he would scarcely have been so completely subjugated by his own fierce temper, he would not have commenced his career in Berganton under such a cloud, he would not have been left to drift in so inauspicious an intimacy with Doctor Remy, his Uncle Godfrey would not have become so deeply prejudiced against him,—possibly, even, the course of his love might have run smooth, despite the verdict of the immortal poet, nor yet have vitiated its claim to be a "true" one. What a pregnant commentary was all this upon that wonderful text of Mr. Islay's memorable sermon. How tightly had he been "holden with the cords of his sins" to a long and wearisome discipline, and a final mystery of retribution,—a retribution involving, alas! the innocent not less than the guilty. Poor, poor Carice! how much easier would it be to bear his own portion, if only hers could be remitted!

Hark! was not that a cry from the direction of the river? He leaned out of the window, and listened attentively; but the sound—if sound it were, and not the simple product of his own disordered fancy—was not repeated. Nothing was to be heard save the low sough of the rising wind, and the melancholy voices of the trees, as one solemn old oak-top leaned toward another, and talked mysteriously of some woful event that it had witnessed—perhaps a century ago, perhaps later—or recounted drearily the long list of human sorrows and sins and retributions stored up in its dreamy old memory. There might have been heard, too, in its further talk, if only the ear were fine enough that listened,—something of patience born of sorrow, and blessedness wrenched from the hand of suffering; of lofty hopes blossoming out of the ashes of despair, and fair, new temples, vocal with the anthem of glory to God and good will to man, built over and out of heaps of ruins. A few words, too, might have been added of love—human love—as the crowning grace and gladness of a man's life,—the delicate carving beautifying the arches, capitals, and pinnacles of the temple, the thick greenery softening its sharp outlines, and the odorous blossoms rooting themselves in its angles and hollows; but neither its strong foundations, its majestic walls, nor the upward spring of its spire,—and never, in any sense, the object of its rightful worship.

Perhaps Bergan heard something of all this; at any rate, that cry from the river, whether real or imagined, had broken the thread of his review of the past, and brought back his mind to the question of the future. What was to be done? Leave Berganton, of course. The place was not wide enough to hold Carice and himself, with comfort to either. If her marriage had been brought about in the way that he suspected, the sight of him would scarce conduce to her peace; while the sight of her, in her new relation, could only cause him useless pain. Moreover, he had seen, from the first, that Berganton afforded little scope for talent; none whatever for ambition. And, now that his life seemed likely to be limited to its public side, and to have no sweet, compensating domestic one, he felt the necessity of directing its course to some quarter where there was room for proper expansion.

Happily, the way was open. Only a short time ago, he had received a most favorable offer, which he still held under consideration,—an invitation to enter into partnership with an eminent lawyer of Savalla, beginning to succumb to the infirmities of old age, and likely, ere long, to surrender to him all the active business of the firm. Nothing could suit him better. Here was scope for all his talent, employment for all his energy. He would be near enough to Berganton, too, for any good name that he might win to reach thither, and clear away whatever prejudice against him still lingered there; yet not near enough to be necessarily brought into contact with its inhabitants.

So much for the future; what of the present?

First, he would see Mrs. Lyte and Astra, bid them farewell, and arrange for the removal of his effects. Then he would hasten to Savalla, to do the last kindness that it was in his power to do for Carice, even though it would seem to justify her father's late incredulity and contemptuous treatment,—namely, meet Doctor Trubie, and dissuade him from any further proceedings against Doctor Remy. There was still room for a doubt that the latter was the murderer of Alec Arling;—let it remain forever a doubt! No weapon should be lifted against him, that must needs fall most heavily upon Carice!

It was gray dawn when this conclusion was reached. The stars were fading from the sky, as a hint that it was time to extinguish his lamp. The East showed a broad rim of light,—only a silver one now, but with some mystic intimation of the gold to which it would soon be transmuted. Was any similar change beginning to show itself in Bergan's heart?

If so, he was in nowise conscious of it. His mind having attained to a comparative degree of composure, his body began to press its claims upon him with some pertinacity. It was twenty-four hours since he had taken food, and nearly double that time since he had slept; this, too, on the end of a long, tedious journey, and while undergoing sore anxiety and distress of mind. No wonder that his head was aching furiously at the temples, and seemed to have a ponderous weight on top, nor that he had a sensation of dizziness at times, while a blinding mist came before his eyes.

He prepared to leave Bergan Hall. That, too, was to be henceforth, so far as he was concerned, a thing of the past. It had given him needful solitude and shelter, in his hour of deep despair; it had been the fittest possible place wherein to take leave of the old life and its shattered hope; but for the new, it had nothing to offer,—except, perhaps, a warning. The stream of active, expansive, beneficent life must forever flow away from its faded splendor, its crumbling massiveness, its dusty traditions and aristocratic genealogies, and its corrupt feudal laws and customs, as well as from that moral ruin, its selfish, tyrannic, besotted master. Together, they might well be likened to a half-buried, decomposing corpse; showing still, through the overspreading mould and fungi, some faint trace of its former grace and nobility of shape and feature, but chiefly impressing the spectator with the carelessness of its exposure and the unsightliness of its decay.

And yet, how strong a hold, after all, had both master and mansion upon his heart! Some time, surely, when he should have won fame and fortune enough to be above all suspicion of self-seeking, he might come back to visit them, and see what could be done for both.

With this thought in his mind, he was about to quit the room as he had entered it, by the window, when a light knock on the door arrested his attention. Almost immediately, Rue entered, and bade him good morning.

"How did you know I was here?" was Bergan's first startled inquiry.

"I heard you when you came," she answered, quietly, "and I knew your step. I always spend this night in the old house; it is the anniversary of your mother's wedding; and she comes back to me in all her youth and beauty, and the rooms light up, and flowers sweeten the air, and there is music and dancing, and the sound of gay young voices; and then, all goes out, and I remember that earth grows dim as heaven draws near. Yes, Master Bergan, I heard you when you came, and I should have come to you at once, only that there was something in your step which told me you came with a heavy heart, and would not like to be disturbed. It is lighter now?"

"A little, maumer; though it is heavy enough yet."

"And nothing will lighten it but time,—and that means the Lord, for time is the Lord's servant, and does His will."

"You know, then,"—began Bergan, and stopped, unable to finish the sentence.

"I know much, Master Bergan; more than you think. Many voices come to whisper in the old blind woman's ear."

"Do you know," asked Bergan, suddenly, "why Doctor Remy has married Carice?"

"Certainly,—to make himself master of Bergan Hall. The more fool he! Rue could have told him it was written on the stars that it should have another and a better master; and the stars do not lie. But I am sorry for Miss Carice; I would have saved her if I could, but there the stars were silent."

"I could have helped the stars in that matter, if I had known," thought Bergan. But he only asked, doubtfully;—"How should Doctor Remy expect to get the Hall by marrying Carice?"

"Because your Uncle Harry has made his will, giving it to her. Never doubt me, Master Bergan, I know what I am talking of; and when I tell you that you shall yet own Bergan Hall, and all the gold that is hidden in it, and every foot of land that belongs to it, you may believe it as implicitly as if it were written in your Bible."

Bergan shook his head; the Hall had ceased to have any value in his eyes, as a possession of his own, or any place in the future that he proposed to himself. Apparently, Rue understood his silence as well as if he had spoken, for she did not press the subject.

She next inquired into his plans, and he explained them to her, as far as they concerned himself.

"It is well," she said, after a moment of reflection. "You could not stay here, of course,—you would be eating your heart out in this dull place. Do your duty in the path that lies so straight before you, and trust God for the rest."

As he quitted the old Hall it occurred to him how strangely events were repeating themselves. Once more, Rue stood in the doorway, in the gray light of the dawn, and promised him its future ownership; once more, he took the road to Berganton, leaving behind him one phase of his life, and entering upon a new one.

Arrived at the hotel he learned that the horse, which he had left at Oakstead on the previous evening, had been sent to the stables, with strict injunctions that he should be notified accordingly, immediately on his arrival,—the friendly act, no doubt, of old Bruno.

Here, too, he first learned the absence of Mrs. Lyte and her family; a piece of information which he received with much unmistakable surprise and wonder, that the landlord, who, like most of the Berganton folk, had suspected him of some connection with their departure, was constrained to believe him innocent.

There being now nothing to detain him in Berganton, he ordered his horse for an immediate return to Savalla. First, however, he went to the breakfast-room, but found that he was unable to eat; food was like ashes in his mouth; the most that he could do was to swallow a cup of coffee.

That ride to Savalla remained always a horrible nightmare in his memory. Sometimes he was riding through the darkness of infinite space; sometimes through whirling trees, over a road heaving as with the throes of an earthquake, and seemingly interminable. Now and then, his senses seemed slipping entirely from his grasp, and were only dragged back by the convulsive effort of an iron will. Reaching the office of the Pulaski House, where he was well known, he just managed to hold them together long enough to scratch a few lines on a sheet of paper, and give directions for its delivery. Then, with a wan smile of relief, he relaxed his hold, and let them slide swiftly away into oblivion.

Two days later, Doctor Trubie, arriving at the same hotel, according to previous agreement, was met by the information that Mr. Arling was lying dangerously ill with that fever which guards, like a flaming sword, the gates of the sunny South; and the letter was put into his hands. Tearing it open, he read:—

"I charge you, by everything that is sacred, to take no further step in the business that brings you here, until I recover, and we can consult together; and, if I die, I charge you, as you would have me rest quietly in my grave, to take none at all. BERGAN."

Doctor Trubie flung down the letter with a most disgusted face. "To think that Roath should escape me thus!" he exclaimed, discontentedly. "That is, to be sure, if Bergan does not recover. He shall recover!"

Upstairs he sprang, two steps at a time. But, once in Bergan's chamber, his heart failed him. The patient lay in a stupor that seemed very near of kin to death. Two physicians stood by the bed, and the first words that met his ear were,—"No hope."