PART FIFTH. A BITTER HARVEST. (continued 2)

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.