Her fears, however, took a different direction from what Doctor Remy had anticipated. He had intended his alteration4 of manner to suggest the grave, stern reserve of a man, who, though he had himself lost confidence in his friend, is still honorably reluctant to injure him in the estimation of another. But from any such suggestion, Carice's mind was shielded by her loyal faith in her lover, as by an armor of proof. Dr. Remy's change of manner only served to strengthen her growing conviction that Bergan's failure either to write, or to appear in person, could be caused by nothing short of some great and unexpected calamity5. As her eyes followed a swift cloud-shadow from object to object of the summer landscape, so her mind followed the dark shade of her fears from point to point of possible ill. Perhaps the fever, quitting his mother, had fastened upon Bergan himself; perhaps he was ill, suffering, unconscious, dying, even, or—the thought shook her like a sudden blow—dead! Gasping6 for breath, she leaned against a friendly tree, and closed her eyes, as if to shut out the agonizing7 vision, which, nevertheless, rose but the more vividly8 before her. Quickly opening them again, she saw Doctor Remy coming toward her from the direction of the cottage. He had espied9 her from the piazza10, as he was taking his leave, after having spent a half-hour with her mother.
She was glad to see him. He could set her free from the intolerable chafing11 of suspense12, though it were but to hand her over to the chill bondage13 of despair. He would doubtless have done so, ere this, but for some request or warning of her parents to the contrary. How far this might have let him into the secret of her relations with Bergan, she know not,—neither did she care much, just now; how far it might avail to close his lips was a much more important consideration,—still she believed that she could gather something from the expression of his face, even though he should think it right to evade14 her questions.
She seized upon the first opportunity, therefore, to look him, steadily15 in the face, though her own flushed a little, as she did so; and to ask, quietly,—"Have you heard anything from my cousin Bergan lately?"
Doctor Remy's face underwent a quick change of expression, none the less effective that it was obedient to his will. "Yes," replied he, sombrely, "I had a letter from him two or three days ago."
Carice could scarcely restrain a cry of joy; it was such a relief to know that Bergan was alive, and able to write. But her immediate16 perception that something was kept back, saved her self-possession.
"And my aunt," she went on, as soon as she could, command her voice, "is she quite recovered?"
"Yes,—that is, I inferred so."
Carice looked a little surprised. It would seem that Bergan's letter had made no mention of his mother. "Has the fever attacked any of the others?" she continued.
"None."
"And Bergan is quite well himself?"
"He says nothing to the contrary."
Satisfactory as were these replies, in substance, there was a degree of dryness and brevity about them which was far otherwise. Unwilling17 to quit the subject thus, Carice ventured another query:—"Then, I suppose he may be expected back very soon?"
Doctor Remy looked grave even to sternness. "No, I think not."
Carice's heart sank. "Did he not say when he should come?" asked she, anxiously.
Doctor Remy seemed to become suddenly aware that she really had something more than a conventional interest in the subject, and to be willing to gratify it, to the best of his ability.
"I forget exactly what he said about it," replied he, "but I think I have his letter in my pocket-book." He drew forth18 a closely written sheet, and glanced rapidly over it, but seemed not to find what he sought. Applying again to the envelope, he produced a separate bit of paper. "Ah, yes, here we have it, in this slip of a postscript19," he went on,—"'In order to'—um—um—'I think I shall postpone20 my return until after Christmas.' That is all."
Carice stood as in a dream. Bergan well! Bergan silent only to her! Bergan not coming back for three months yet!—her mind utterly21 refused to receive three such incongruous ideas. There must be some miserable22 mistake,—but where? She put her hand to her brow with a piteous gesture of perplexity and bewilderment.
Doctor Remy, meanwhile, failed not to observe the effect of his words, though apparently23 thinking only of refolding and rearranging his papers. It was precisely24 what he had expected; and, feeling quite secure, for the moment, from Carice's observation, he took occasion, as he returned Bergan's letter to his pocket-book, to let the postscript drop to the ground, taking care to conceal25 it with his foot during the remainder of his stay, which he wisely made short.
"Can I do anything more for you?" he asked, graciously, as he put up his pocket-book.
Carice gave a slight start, and turned toward him, with an inquiring look. She had heard, but she had not understood. He repeated his question.
"No, thank you," replied Carice, letting her eyes go back to the far, dark line of the pine forest.
"Then I must leave you. I only stopped to say good morning and good-bye. I had already spent my few moments of leisure with Mrs. Bergan."
He raised his hat courteously26, and was gone.
Carice remained, trying her best to reduce the confusion of her mind to order, and, especially, to discover some clue to the mystery of Bergan's doings and intentions. She gave up the difficult task, at last, with a weary little shake of the head, and a smile of pity at her own helplessness.
"It is too deep for me," she said to herself, "but Bergan will be sure to explain it all. I must just go on trusting till he comes, or writes. He shall never be able to say that my faith in him was conquered by the first difficulty!"
There was something quieting and strengthening in the mere27 resolve. Trust has its own special delight,—a far subtler and sweeter thing than any satisfaction of the understanding. Carice's face was almost bright, as she turned to go home.
A folded paper lay directly in her path. Mechanically she picked it up; mechanically she read it almost through, before her mind, busy with other thoughts, began, even vaguely29, to grasp its meaning.
It ran thus:—
"P.S. I cannot understand how my foolish engagement to Astra Lyte should have leaked out. With all due respect for your opinion, I cannot think of fulfilling it; indeed, I wrote to break it off immediately after coming home. I should never have entered into it, but for a mistaken notion that it would advance my interests in a certain quarter. Finding that it was likely to do just the opposite, there was nothing for it but to take the shortest cut out of the scrape. Never fear for Astra, she does not belong to the Ophelia order of women, she has pride and pluck enough to carry her through a worse disappointment; besides, hearts are never broken except in novels and plays. I am much obliged to her for leaving Berganton, the affair will blow over the sooner. In order to give it time to do so, I think I shall postpone my return until after Christmas. "Yours, B.A."
Twice did Carice read the paper's contents through, before she began to understand what it was, and whence it came. She had seen Bergan's handwriting a few times, in notes addressed to her mother; and she remembered enough of its peculiarities30 to recognize them in the lines before her, as soon as her mind was able to grasp the fact that, in this heartless production, she beheld31 the postscript which she had seen in Doctor Remy's hand, and which he had doubtless dropped accidentally, while replacing his papers in his pocket-book. That it should have been deliberately32 forged, and designedly put in her way—a sort of moral torpedo33, loaded with mischief—was a depth of wickedness, of which, in her innocence34, she could never have conceived. She could scarcely make herself comprehend the evil tenor35 of the words before her eyes. She read them over again, with a feeling that either their form or their purport36 must change, if she only studied them carefully enough; it was impossible that she had read them aright.
No, they would not alter. Her efforts only served to brand them more deeply on her mind. She looked up, at last, with a kind of wonder that the earth was still firm under her feet, and the sky's arch entire above her head. It would have seemed more in keeping to have beheld the universe crashing backward into chaos37.
Not that she suffered very keenly yet. She was too much stunned38 to realize the extent of her wounds and bruises39. She picked herself up, as it were, after the fall and the shock, and walked mechanically homeward. Her strength did not give way until she found herself in her room, shutting her door behind her, and felt what a different being had gone out of it only a little while before.
An hour after, Mrs. Bergan found her lying on her bed, white and still, more like a corpse41 than a living, suffering girl.
"Carice!" she cried, appalled42, but not without an intuitive perception of the truth,—"Carice, my child! what is the matter?"
"I don't know—don't ask me," replied Carice, turning her face to the wall.
Mrs. Bergan burst into tears, and stole softly away. Here was a grief in which even she could only intermeddle as a stranger. She could simply commend her child to tenderer, wiser hands than hers.
A day or two went by, and Carice was down-stairs again, white; still, patient; filling her old place, and doing her old tasks, with a sad composure that was more affecting than any abandonment of sorrow. Her woe43 seemed to take the form of torpor44, rather than of anguish45. It was that chill and heavy misery46, that dismal47 realization48 of the actual presence and power of evil in the world, which never comes to us except through the sin of some cherished, trusted friend; standing28 hitherto as the representative of all that is good and true, the earthly type of the Divine perfection. Falling, he falls not alone, but drags down with him the supports of every earthly confidence, and even makes the foundation of our heavenly faith to tremble. Such grief is dumb and tearless; it coils itself round the heart in cold, serpent-like folds, chilling the blood, and oppressing the breath; but it makes no single, special wound, to call forth cries and sobs49 of pain.
Meanwhile, the yellow fever, as foreseen long ago by Doctor Remy, made its silent entry into Berganton. One day a single case was reported in the outskirts50 of the town; another week, and there was scarcely a threshold which it had not crossed, either to strike or slay51. The town put on sackcloth and ashes; business was suspended, except the business of nursing the sick and burying the dead; the streets were deserted52, except by hearses and doctors. Or, it would be truer to say, a doctor; for Doctor Gerrish, being unacclimated, was one of the earliest patients; and Doctor Harris, being old and infirm, quickly sank exhausted53; so Doctor Remy was soon left to face the pestilence54 alone, and multiply himself as best he could, to meet the demands of a whole people.
Let us do him ample justice. All that an iron frame, a steady courage, admirable executive ability, profound medical skill, and deep scientific interest, could prompt or do, he did. He organized and instructed a corps40 of nurses, and made them do effective work; he scattered55 printed suggestions and directions broadcast over the town, for the behoof of sick and well; he was himself constantly in the thickest of the fight, animating56 the workers, cheering the sick, wellnigh raising the dead,—doing everything but comfort the mourners, for that he had neither time nor talent. The town rang with praises of his energy and skill; his presence had brought back hope to many a house whence it seemed to have flown forever, joy into many a heart that had only made itself ready for sorrow. Even Carice, as her private grief half-sank, for the time, under the great wave of public calamity, was moved to a degree of respect and admiration57 for the doctor, of which, two or three weeks before, she could not have believed herself capable. There was still a hero, and room for heroism58, in the world!
By and by, Mr. Bergan fell ill, not of the fever, but of one of the sympathetic diseases, which often go hand in hand with it. There were a few days of intense anxiety, during which the wife and daughter lived, as it were, on the words of Doctor Remy's mouth, and the look of his eyes. After these came slow weeks of convalescence59, of exacting60 feebleness and irritable61 complaint.
It was during these that Doctor Remy spoke62.
Is it necessary to describe the conflict, or designate the result? On the one side were parental63 wisdom, love, and authority, with the strong sanction of recent danger and present feebleness; on the other, filial respect, affection, and obedience64, and a great self-distrust. For Carice remembered that she had taken her own way before, and whither it had led; now, ought she not to submit to the guidance ordained65 of God?
October found her bound fast by a promise, held irrevocably to a day. The outward conflict was over; but the inward struggle, she found, was scarce begun! Under that, she paled and wasted; sleep and appetite forsook66 her; her eyes grew to have the pathetic, pleading look of a dumb animal taken in a net. Finally, worn-out nature took refuge in apathy67 that nothing seemed to disturb.
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1
creek
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| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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3
deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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6
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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agonizing
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| adj.痛苦难忍的；使人苦恼的v.使极度痛苦；折磨(agonize的ing形式) | |
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vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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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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piazza
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| n.广场；走廊 | |
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chafing
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| n.皮肤发炎v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的现在分词 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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12
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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evade
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| vt.逃避，回避；避开，躲避 | |
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15
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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postscript
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| n.附言，又及；(正文后的)补充说明 | |
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postpone
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| v.延期，推迟 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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27
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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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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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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31
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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torpedo
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| n.水雷，地雷；v.用鱼雷破坏 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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purport
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| n.意义，要旨，大要；v.意味著，做为...要旨，要领是... | |
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chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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38
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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39
bruises
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| n.瘀伤，伤痕，擦伤( bruise的名词复数 ) | |
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40
corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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42
appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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43
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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44
torpor
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| n.迟钝；麻木；（动物的）冬眠 | |
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45
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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46
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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47
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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48
realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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49
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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50
outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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51
slay
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| v.杀死，宰杀，杀戮 | |
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52
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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53
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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54
pestilence
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| n.瘟疫 | |
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55
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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56
animating
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| v.使有生气( animate的现在分词 )；驱动；使栩栩如生地动作；赋予…以生命 | |
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57
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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58
heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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59
convalescence
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| n.病后康复期 | |
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60
exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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61
irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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62
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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63
parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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65
ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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66
forsook
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| forsake的过去式 | |
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67
apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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