To Bergan, Mr. Islay's sermon had been interesting and effective, not only for what it contained, but for what it suggested. Naturally, therefore, his mind was now busy in following out those suggestions to the point where they bore upon his own experience, and unfolded their lessons for his own soul.
But Dr. Remy's thoughts had long since strayed away from any channel into which the sermon was calculated to lead them. There had been some brief moments, during its delivery, to be sure, when he had shrunken inwardly, iron-nerved though he were, from the deep, sharp probing of certain of its sentences; and there had been a single instant, perhaps, wherein he had been made dimly to see, or to suspect, that his own life and character—much as he had prided himself upon being the independent artificer of them both—were really the results to which he had been holden by the cords of former, half-forgotten sins. But he had made haste to shake himself free from both the idea and its effect, with one smile of scorn at his own folly5, and another at what he chose to consider the weak superstition6 of the clergyman and his awed7, interested flock. He thanked God—using the phrase in a vague, general sense which, perhaps, was only equivalent to thanking himself—that he was not as these men were. And no sooner was he in the open air than he set his busy mind to the consideration of his own projects. Some clue to its workings may perhaps be afforded by the question with which he finally broke the silence.
"Have you ever had the yellow fever, Arling?"
"No; it does not visit our western villages."
"Then, I advise you to take refuge in one of them, for the next three months. It is certain to visit Berganton ere long."
"Indeed!" said Bergan, with more curiosity than alarm. "Why do you think so?"
"From the weather, the atmosphere, the present type of disease,—a dozen indications patent to the eye of experience. Besides, I am informed by a private letter that it has already appeared in New Orleans. Its arrival here is but a question of time. And I assure you that its acquaintance is to be avoided."
"Doubtless. And I shall do my best to avoid it—except by running away."
"You might as well say," answered Doctor Remy, dryly, "that you will take every precaution against drowning—except to keep your head above water. Don't be fool-hardy, Arling. Yellow Jack8 has a keen appetite for strangers,—that is to say, for all who are not native born. If he spares any, it is usually the sickly and feeble, not the strong and vigorous. He would consider you a toothsome morsel9. Take my advice, and go home, or go North, or take a sea-voyage,—do anything rather than remain here during the last of summer and the beginning of autumn. It will be no loss to you. After the first of next month, there will be absolutely nothing for a lawyer to do here but try to keep cool."
"And you?" asked Bergan.
"Oh, I stay, of course. An epidemic10 is a physician's harvest time. Besides, I have had the yellow fever."
"Then the native-born do not all escape?"
"By no means. Besides, I lost my birthright by many years' absence in Europe. It was immediately after my return that I was taken. Now I may consider myself acclimated11."
"As I must be," replied Bergan, "if, as is likely, I am to spend the remainder of my life at the South. Thank you for your friendly warning, but I think I must stay."
Doctor Remy shrugged12 his shoulders, and said no more. He had merely tried the first and simplest expedient13 which occurred to him, for removing Bergan from the neighborhood. He was not surprised nor troubled that it had failed. He had expected as much. But there were other and surer means to his end, he believed, at his command.
However, he was not obliged to resort to them. Early next morning Bergan came into his office, with an open letter in his hand, and a most anxious face.
"Read that," said he, huskily, "and tell me if there is any hope."
Doctor Remy obeyed, reading the letter not once only, but twice, and looking long and meditatively14 at the signature. Then he lifted his eyes to Bergan's face.
"Plenty of hope, in my opinion," said he; "I do not attach as much importance as this Doctor Trubie does to your mother's fancy that she is going to die. It only argues a depressed15 state of mind, corresponding to a low state of body. Nevertheless, it is well to do whatever can be done to raise her spirits; and I suspect that your presence at her bedside will avail much to that end. Of course, you set out at once?"
"Certainly. Can you tell me at what hour the next train leaves Savalla?"
Doctor Remy glanced at his watch. "In an hour and a half. That gives you ample time;—fifteen minutes to throw a few things into a portmanteau, and tell me what I can do for you while you are away; five minutes for adieux, and an hour and ten minutes to reach Savalla, in the saddle, with a swift horse."
"If I can find one at such short notice," said Bergan, doubtfully.
Doctor Remy pulled a bell-wire, and Scipio's black head appeared as instantaneously as if he had been attached to the other end of it.
"Saddle the roan, and take him round to the front gate," said Doctor Remy. "Mr. Arling will ride him to Savalla, You will go after him, by the stage, this afternoon. Quick now!"
The head ducked, and disappeared.
"How can I thank you!" exclaimed Bergan, wringing16 the doctor's hand.
"By attending to the portmanteau business at once. I will come with you; we can talk while you work. I want to ask something about this Doctor Trubie. Does he keep up with the times,—in medicine, that is?"
"I don't know—I believe so."
"H'm; there have been some recent discoveries of great value in the treatment of typhoids, when they run long and low, as they are apt to do. Suppose I write down a few suggestions, which, if there is grave need, you can commend to Doctor Trubie's favorable consideration. Otherwise, don't interfere17."
Bergan tried once more to express his gratitude18, as the folded paper was put in his hand; but Doctor Remy cut him short.
"If you really want to thank me," said he, "do it by staying away until the sickly season is over; I shall have yellow fever patients enough without you. Indeed, you must; having left, it would be suicidal to come back before the first of November. Tell your mother that I said so, when she is convalescent."
"When she is convalescent," repeated Bergan, quickly. "Then you do hope!"
"Of course I do. There is every reason for it. Your mother, being a Bergan, has a sound constitution, and an almost indomitable vitality19; and she is not yet old. If Trubie makes a good fight, he is sure to win. At any rate, never despair till the breath is out of the body; nor even then, till you are certain that it cannot be brought back."
Bergan could not but feel a pang20 of self-reproach for his long-smothered dislike and distrust of the man who was thus loading him with obligations,—help on his way to his mother, ready encouragement, and valuable professional advice. It did not occur to him that there is such a thing as doing good that evil may come!
Doctor Remy looked after him with a triumphant21 smile. "One out of my way already!" he exclaimed. "It would seem that the Devil (another name for Fate or Chance) has helped me!"
Bergan next sought Mrs. Lyte and Astra, for a parting word. He found the latter in her studio, sitting idly by a window, with her hands folded listlessly in her lap, and a weary, dejected face that went to his heart. Never before had he seen her otherwise than busy, bright, and earnest; never had she met his look with so faint and transient a smile.
"I am sorry that you are going," said she, sombrely; "sorrier, perhaps, than the occasion may seem to warrant. But I cannot rid myself of a suspicion that this phase of our life and friendship is finished; and who can tell what the next may be! Do you remember our first meeting under the oaks, and the red sunset light, and the dark sunset cloud? You interpreted them to mean that we were to know sunshine and shade together, did you not? Well, we have had the sunshine; now, it is time for the shade."
"You forget," said Bergan, kindly22, "that the cloud was but for a moment, and the sunshine returned."
"No, I remember it well. But the cloud was very dark while it lasted, and the shine was not quite so bright afterward23. It was nearer to its setting."
Bergan could scarcely believe that it was Astra who spoke. Hitherto, she had been the moral sunshine of the house, felt even where it did not directly fall. Her spirit, in its potency24 of cheer, resembled the sunbeam which, though it kindle25 but one little spot on the floor into actual brightness, diffuses26 its light and cheerfulness throughout a whole room. As every article of furniture, every picture, every face, in the room, is the brighter for the sunbeam, so every inmate27 of Mrs. Lyte's rambling28 old dwelling29 had been the happier for Astra's presence and influence. The sound of her clear, buoyant voice, the thought of her light, busy figure, just across the hall, had always served to quicken and brighten his own energies. It had been very much his wont30 to bring all his shadows, discouragements, and despondencies, to be dissipated by contact with her breezy activity and cheery hopefulness. What had come over her, that she met him now with such dreary32 premonition of ill, such persistent33 dwelling upon the dark side? He looked down upon her with the question in his eyes, if not on his lips.
She understood and answered it.
"It is only a dark mood," said she, passing her hand over her brow, "not an actual trouble,—at least, not yet. But forgive me for afflicting34 you with it now, when you are under the shadow of a real cloud. Let us hope that it will pass quickly. When you reach home, may the sunshine be already there!"
"Thank you. I shall expect to hear from you through Doctor Remy—all of you, I mean. He has promised to let me know how everything goes on here."
Astra lifted her eyes searchingly to his face. Her fine perceptions had not failed to take note of his inadvertent linking together of Doctor Remy and herself, and his quick attempt to conceal35 it. She divined that he knew her secret. Her eyes fell, and her face flushed.
Bergan took her hand, and lifted it, in gentle, chivalrous36 fashion, to his lips. "I wish you every happiness," said he, in a tone that said more than the words,—"every sunshine, and few clouds. Good-bye."
"Good-bye," she answered, withdrawing her hand, yet not without a certain lingering pressure, that seemed even sadder than her face, and that Bergan felt long afterwards. And he left her sitting where he found her.
Mrs. Lyte and Cathie followed him to the door, the one with much quiet sympathy and regret, the other with passionate37 tears and lamentations.
"He will not come back! He will not come back!" she screamed, wringing her hands, as he rode away; and the mournful cry followed him down the street, like a prophecy of woe38.
A little farther on, he discovered that Nix was trotting39 quietly alongside of his horse. And so intimately had the dog been connected with all his sojourn40 under Mrs. Lyte's roof, that, in sending him back, he seemed to close the final page of this whole epoch41 of his life.
His road skirted a retired42 portion of the grounds of Oakstead. Suddenly, he espied43 Carice, standing44 on the bank of the creek45, with her eyes thoughtfully fixed46 upon its rippling47 flow. His sad heart yearned48 towards her with irresistible49 force. Glancing at his watch, he saw that there was yet time for a brief, parting word. He flung himself from his horse, threw the bridle50 over a gatepost, and ran quickly towards her.
"I am so glad to find you here!" he exclaimed, as he drew near. "Otherwise, I must have gone without saying good-bye. I am sent for, in great haste; my mother is very ill, and—"
He stopped; his grave face said the rest.
"I am very, very sorry!" putting her hand in his, with quick, earnest sympathy. "When did you hear?"
"This morning. She insisted that I should be sent for, as soon as she was taken ill; she believed that she could not recover. It is the typhoid fever."
Carice's face blanched51 suddenly. "Ah! that has a fearful sound," she said, shiveringly. "My two brothers"—
Her voice failed, and her slight frame shook with sudden emotion. It was the first time that Bergan had heard her allude52 to the only sorrow which she had yet known; but the effect of which had been all the more keenly felt, doubtless, because, for her parents' sake, she had shut it resolutely53 into the depths of her heart, never allowing its shadow to be seen for a moment on the face wherein they now looked for consolation54 and cheer.
Much moved, Bergan put his arm round the slender, tremulous form. At first, it was only the blind, manly55 instinct of help and support that prompted him; but with the act there came a swift revelation, a great rush of tenderness, that almost took his breath away. Though he had never suspected it till now, he knew, in an instant, beyond the possibility of a doubt, not only that he loved Carice, but that he had loved her long.
Carice, on her part, was quick to feel the sudden, subtile change in the character of the support given her, and made a fluttering movement of escape. But Bergan would not let her go.
"Carice," said he, gravely, "if I should return sorrowing, will you console me?"
"If I can," she answered, simply, raising her blue eyes to his face.
"If you can!" he repeated, with a deep tender intonation,—"oh, Carice! it must be a heavy sorrow indeed that you cannot console!"
As he spoke, the day, which had hitherto been cloudy, suddenly broke into a smile, pouring a flood of golden light on the river, trickling56 through the boughs57 of the overhanging trees in great, shining drops, and flinging a yellow gleam far down their gray trunks. Wondrous58 sympathy of Nature with the bliss59 of two spirits made one,—the tender joy that keeps, throughout the musty years, the freshness and fragrance60 of its Eden birth! Yet, had the day still held its gloom, it would have been bright in Carice's eyes, and bright in Bergan's! Wherever Love is newly born, it creates a sunshine of the heart, which overflows61 upon the outward world, and fills it with celestial62 radiance.
Five minutes later, and Carice was alone by the river's bank, blushing to hear how persistently63 the little stream kept whispering and singing of what it had just seen and heard. The leaves, too, seemed to be softly talking it over among themselves; and a red bird and a gray one were gossiping merrily about it among the branches.
Still more plainly, Carice's face told the story, when she sought her parents. They saw at once that it was not the same face which had gone out from them an hour before. It had changed as an opening rosebud64 must have changed in the same time, under the balmy breathing of the warm south wind. Its merely girlish loveliness was over; playing about the mouth, and shining from the eyes, there was a bright and tender smile that seemed gushing65 from the very heart of awakening66 womanhood. Never had she seemed so lovely, never so radiant. Looking upon her, it was easy to divine the secret of angelic beauty. The heavenly existences are immortally67 beautiful because immortally happy.
"Did you engage yourself to him?" asked Mr. Bergan, almost sternly, when her brief tale was told.
"Of course not," answered Carice, opening wide her blue eyes at the unusual tone,—"not until you and mamma are consulted. Only, we know that we love each other."
At the same time, Dr. Remy stood smiling to himself, in his office,—a dark, ominous68 smile.
"I am sure of three months," said he. "And, in three months, tact31 and perseverance69 can accomplish a great deal."
At the same time, too, Astra rose suddenly from the chair, where Bergan had left her sitting, and began to pace up and down the room.
"I have been idle too long," she said to herself; "I have let myself dream till my world is peopled with shadows, and I cannot distinguish the false from the true. Work is what I want. Work will exorcise these phantoms70, and make my brain clear and strong again."
She stopped and looked fixedly71 into vacancy72, striving to recall a former conception that had been dazzled out of sight in the golden dawn of her love. In a moment, it rose again before her; a great, stalwart, straining figure,—a man struggling up out of the waves that had wellnigh worsted him, with a little child on his shoulders.
Quickly she improvised73 a kind of platform, and brought out her fertile box of clay. Nervously74, she fastened her supports together; rapidly around them rose the soft, gray, plastic material in the rude, rough resemblance of a human form.
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1
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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epidemic
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| n.流行病；盛行；adj.流行性的，流传极广的 | |
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acclimated
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| v.使适应新环境，使服水土服水土，适应( acclimate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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wringing
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| 淋湿的，湿透的 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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potency
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| n. 效力，潜能 | |
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kindle
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| v.点燃，着火 | |
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diffuses
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| （使光）模糊，漫射，漫散( diffuse的第三人称单数 )； （使）扩散； （使）弥漫； （使）传播 | |
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inmate
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| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
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rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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afflicting
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| 痛苦的 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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trotting
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| 小跑，急走( trot的现在分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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espied
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| v.看到( espy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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creek
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| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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46
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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rippling
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| 起涟漪的，潺潺流水般声音的 | |
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48
yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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51
blanched
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| v.使变白( blanch的过去式 )；使（植物）不见阳光而变白；酸洗（金属）使有光泽；用沸水烫（杏仁等）以便去皮 | |
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52
allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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53
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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54
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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56
trickling
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| n.油画底色含油太多而成泡沫状突起v.滴( trickle的现在分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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57
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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59
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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61
overflows
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| v.溢出，淹没( overflow的第三人称单数 )；充满；挤满了人；扩展出界，过度延伸 | |
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celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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64
rosebud
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| n.蔷薇花蕾，妙龄少女 | |
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65
gushing
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| adj.迸出的；涌出的；喷出的；过分热情的v.喷，涌( gush的现在分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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66
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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67
immortally
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| 不朽地，永世地，无限地 | |
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68
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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69
perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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70
phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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71
fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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72
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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73
improvised
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| a.即席而作的,即兴的 | |
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74
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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