"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 piazza7, 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 ornaments8 wherewith he had filled it, having inevitably9 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 vile10 tavern11, 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 subjugated12 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 intimacy13 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 immortal14 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 memorable16 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, alas17! 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 remitted18!
Hark! was not that a cry from the direction of the river? He leaned out of the window, and listened attentively19; 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 melancholy20 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 drearily21 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 wrenched22 from the hand of suffering; of lofty hopes blossoming out of the ashes of despair, and fair, new temples, vocal23 with the anthem24 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 carving25 beautifying the arches, capitals, and pinnacles26 of the temple, the thick greenery softening27 its sharp outlines, and the odorous blossoms rooting themselves in its angles and hollows; but neither its strong foundations, its majestic28 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, compensating29 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 partnership30 with an eminent31 lawyer of Savalla, beginning to succumb32 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 thither33, 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 justify34 her father's late incredulity and contemptuous treatment,—namely, meet Doctor Trubie, and dissuade35 him from any further proceedings36 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 rim37 of light,—only a silver one now, but with some mystic intimation of the gold to which it would soon be transmuted38. Was any similar change beginning to show itself in Bergan's heart?
If so, he was in nowise conscious of it. His mind having attained39 to a comparative degree of composure, his body began to press its claims upon him with some pertinacity40. 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 distress41 of mind. No wonder that his head was aching furiously at the temples, and seemed to have a ponderous42 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 solitude43 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 splendor44, its crumbling45 massiveness, its dusty traditions and aristocratic genealogies46, and its corrupt47 feudal48 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, decomposing49 corpse50; showing still, through the overspreading mould and fungi51, 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, Rue15 entered, and bade him good morning.
"How did you know I was here?" was Bergan's first startled inquiry53.
"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 lighter54 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 Harry55 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 implicitly56 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. Apparently57, 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 doorway58, 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 constrained59 to believe him innocent.
There being now nothing to detain him in Berganton, he ordered his horse for an immediate52 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 entirely60 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 wan61 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 chamber62, his heart failed him. The patient lay in a stupor63 that seemed very near of kin6 to death. Two physicians stood by the bed, and the first words that met his ear were,—"No hope."
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1
plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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precipitated
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| v.（突如其来地）使发生( precipitate的过去式和过去分词 )；促成；猛然摔下；使沉淀 | |
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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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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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piazza
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| n.广场；走廊 | |
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8
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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subjugated
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| v.征服，降伏( subjugate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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remitted
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| v.免除（债务），宽恕( remit的过去式和过去分词 )；使某事缓和；寄回，传送 | |
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attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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drearily
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| 沉寂地，厌倦地，可怕地 | |
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wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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vocal
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| adj.直言不讳的；嗓音的；n.[pl.]声乐节目 | |
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anthem
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| n.圣歌，赞美诗，颂歌 | |
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carving
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| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
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26
pinnacles
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| 顶峰( pinnacle的名词复数 )； 顶点； 尖顶； 小尖塔 | |
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softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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compensating
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| 补偿，补助，修正 | |
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partnership
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| n.合作关系，伙伴关系 | |
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eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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succumb
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| v.屈服，屈从；死 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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dissuade
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| v.劝阻，阻止 | |
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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transmuted
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| v.使变形，使变质，把…变成…( transmute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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pertinacity
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| n.执拗，顽固 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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genealogies
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| n.系谱，家系，宗谱( genealogy的名词复数 ) | |
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corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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feudal
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| adj.封建的，封地的，领地的 | |
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49
decomposing
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| 腐烂( decompose的现在分词 )； （使）分解； 分解（某物质、光线等） | |
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50
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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51
fungi
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| n.真菌，霉菌 | |
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52
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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53
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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54
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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55
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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56
implicitly
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| adv. 含蓄地, 暗中地, 毫不保留地 | |
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57
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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58
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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59
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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61
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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62
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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