PART SECOND. THE FRUIT OF THE WAY. Chapter 1 THROUGH A MIST.

Oakstead, the estate of Godfrey Bergan, was separated from the lands of the Hall by the small river—or "creek," in local parlance—which has before been mentioned. The pleasant dwelling of the owner stood not far from a picturesque bend of the stream, commanding a view of its tawny, slumberous current for a considerable distance up and down,—a view made up of gentlest curves and softest coloring only, yet with enough of quiet beauty to arrest Bergan's feet, for some moments, on the oak-shadowed lawn.

The river's tide stole almost imperceptibly past, mirroring in its still bosom the sunset-painted sky, and the graver tinted objects of earth, with equal felicity,—like a gentle spirit, in whose well-ordered life the things of either world find their appropriate place and exquisite harmony. Just at that point of the upper stream where an artist would have placed it for the best pictorial effect, was the bridge of the main road, with rough abutments half-buried in wild foliage, and railings overrun with vines; and at a remoter point down its shining course, the slenderer span of a narrow footbridge, with a single rustic railing, was also seen, idealized by distance into an aerial passway fit for fairy feet. In the earlier days of Godfrey's proprietorship, while the half-brothers were yet on friendly terms, this latter structure had furnished the means of easy and frequent communication between the two households. On the cessation of intercourse, however, Major Bergan had threatened its destruction, and had even begun an attack upon his own abutment; but his operations being suddenly suspended, and no convenient opportunity occurring for their resumption, he had finally left the work of demolition to be finished by the wear and tear of the elements, and the slow tooth of time. Though in a somewhat ruinous condition, and but insecurely poised on the damaged abutment, the bridge was still passable, with due caution; and, doubtless, it served for the nocturnal visits of such negroes of the two estates as were not set at odds by the bitterness of their masters' feud.

At a little distance below the footbridge, the river made another graceful bend, and soon disappeared in the shadow of the pine forest,—behind and above the dark, swaying fringe of which, the posthumous glory of the sun was fading from the western sky. Against this flitting splendor, the turret-like summits of the chimneys of Bergan Hall were distinctly visible. A little saddened by the sight, as forcing back on his mind thoughts and images which he had partially succeeded in flinging off, Bergan turned and walked quickly up the path to the house. Voices met him as he drew near. In one end of the broad piazza, so shut in by interlacing vines as to constitute a kind of leaf-tapestried parlor, two gentlemen were talking.

"I am afraid the identity is only too certain," said the smooth, sarcastic voice of Doctor Remy. "But I doubt if the habit be a confirmed one,—certainly, the physical indications are lacking. At any rate, as I said before, he is evidently making an effort to overcome it."

"I wish that no such effort were necessary,"—began a different voice; but with the instinct of delicacy, Bergan set his foot upon the lower step of the piazza in a way to be distinctly heard, and would have done the same had he supposed that the conversation concerned him, which he did not. The voice ceased abruptly, and a gentleman, whom he instantly recognized as his uncle, advanced to meet him. Though he had enough of the Bergan cast of feature to identify him at the first, casual glance, as belonging to the race, it was lost, almost as soon as seen, amid traits widely differing from the ancestral pattern. He was a much more genuine outcome of American soil than the rest of Sir Harry's descendants,—in whom a childhood fed upon old-world family traditions, and a youth spent at Oxford or Cambridge, had availed to preserve the English mould from all but the more unavoidable modifications. The race had always been marked by a greater volume of muscle, a ruddier complexion, and a sturdier texture of character, than was exactly native to the soil. But, in Godfrey Bergan, these characteristics were lacking. Though tall and well-formed, he was spare in figure and thin in face. His complexion had the true American sallowness of tint. In matters of bulk, weight, and coloring,—all the purely animal characteristics,—he fell far below the standard of his half-brother. By way of indemnity, his figure had more litheness and grace; and his features were more clearly cut, and endowed with a keener vivacity of expression,—apparently, they were informed by a quicker and finer intellect, as well as a gentler spirit.

Altogether, it was a thoughtful, a refined, and a benevolent countenance, that confronted Bergan; yet not without certain firm lines about the mouth to indicate that its owner could be decided, if he chose, and perhaps severe. While it invited liking, it commanded respect.

It was with real pleasure that Bergan made his self-introduction to a relative with so many apparent claims to affection and esteem. Yet, even while he mentioned his name and relationship, and held out his hand, as to a stranger,—albeit a friend,—he was beset by an uneasy consciousness that he had met Mr. Bergan, or somebody very like him, before. But where? Sending a swift, retrospective glance through his life, he could find no clue to the perplexing feeling; and, having scant time for investigation, he quickly dismissed it as the offspring of some indefinite and elusive resemblance, perhaps to one of the ancestral portraits, perhaps to a half-forgotten acquaintance.

It was the more easily disposed of, that its place was soon filled by another shadowy vexation. His uncle's reception was both courteous and kind; yet he could not help feeling intuitively that it was lacking in some indefinable element of cordiality, even while he repudiated the intuition as a baseless figment of his own imagination. Certainly, there was no tangible coolness, not so much as a thin film of indifference, upon which to lay a plausible finger-tip; nothing that did not slip away from every attempt at analysis, and seem to resolve itself into a sickly humor of his own. At worst, he told himself, there was only some less definite expression of consanguineous sympathy, in the pressure of his uncle's hand, and in the modulations of his voice, than he had allowed himself to look for; and this was a mere matter of mood and temperament, the absence of which formed no good ground of complaint, whatever warmth and grace might have been contributed by its presence. No doubt, it would come in good time.

Meanwhile Doctor Remy, sending forth his keen glance from the shadowy end of the piazza, had recognized the new comer; and he now presented himself, hat in hand.

"The first meeting of near relatives," said he, with his indescribable mixture of seriousness and sarcasm, "is a scene upon which a third person is bound to pronounce his blessing, and—turn his back! Nay, no disclaimers; he is equally bound not to listen to them. Good evening, Mr. Bergan,—allow me to remark that good influences may avail much in the matter that we were talking of. Good evening, Mr. Arling,—it gives me pleasure to leave you in such agreeable quarters; Oakstead has manifold attractions, as you are in the way to discover."

And the doctor bowed, and descended the steps.

Mr. Bergan turned to his nephew. "I hope you left my sister well," said he.

"Quite well. I have a letter from her for you. I am ashamed that it has not been delivered before, but—"

Bergan hesitated; a further explanation would take him upon delicate ground.

"Never mind the sequence of the 'but,'" said his uncle, smiling, albeit a little gravely;—"I am aware that the road from Bergan Hall to Oakstead is not so smooth as could be wished. I"—there was a slight hesitation, as if a colder phrase had been sought, and not found,—"I am glad that you were able to surmount its difficulties so soon. A letter from Eleanor!" he went on, with a sudden change of subject,—"that will be a treat indeed! I take shame to myself that our correspondence has fallen into such desuetude. But what one ever did survive the lapse of forty-two years, without the reviving impulse of an occasional meeting? I hardly dare venture a question about my sister's family, lest I make some terrific blunder. I am not even sure about the present number of her children."

"There are six of us left."

"'Left' implies 'taken,'" said Mr. Bergan, with a sigh.

"We have lost two of our number."

"So have we," replied Mr. Bergan. "But we have not six left—we have only one. However, she is a host in herself,—at least, we think so,"—he added, with a smile at his own enthusiasm. "But, will you come in and see your aunt and cousin?"

He led the way to a small room, pleasantly furnished as a library; and Bergan followed him, though not without a vague sense of a lurking reluctance and lukewarmness in the invitation,—which he sternly smothered, nevertheless, as unworthy of himself and unjust to his uncle.

Stepping to an open French window, Mr. Bergan slightly raised his voice and called,—

"Carice!"

"Yes, father!" was the instant answer, in a voice of peculiar richness and melody; and the next moment a young girl stood in the window, with a light shawl wrapped round her slender figure, and her hands filled with autumn flowers, just gathered. The light was too dim to show her features clearly; but a certain indefinable freshness and sweetness seemed to enter the room with her and diffuse itself through the atmosphere not less perceptibly than the scent of the flowers. At sight of a stranger, imperfectly seen in the twilight obscurity of the room, she stopped abruptly.

"It is your cousin, Bergan Arling, the son of my sister Eleanor," briefly explained her father.

There was a little start of surprise and of pleasure; then Carice dropped her flowers on the nearest table, and gave Bergan two cordial hands. Not only was there a charming grace in the unstudied action, but also the pleasant heart-warmth, the frank recognition of kinship and its appropriate sympathies, which Bergan had so unaccountably missed from his uncle's manner, even while trying to persuade himself, either that it was there, or that its absence was no matter of surprise.

"Have I really a cousin, then!" said she, brightly. "I never believed it till now. That story of cousins at the West always sounded like a pleasant fiction to me,—I am glad to know that it is founded on fact."

"On six facts," said Bergan, smiling. "I am the fortunate representative of five other claimants to your cousinly regard."

Carice laughingly shook her head. "I believe what I see," said she,—"or rather what I should see, if it were not so dim here. By and bye,—after I have ordered lights,—I may be able to reason from the seen to the unseen." And she glided from the room, which seemed to grow suddenly dark and chill behind her.

Very shortly she returned, preceded by a servant bearing lights, and accompanied by her mother. Looking toward Bergan with a smile, she gave a slight start; the coming words were arrested on her parted lips; the color mounted to her brow; across her face went a swift ripple of disappointment and pain. Quickly recovering herself, she presented him to her mother; but the bright cordiality, the warm heart-glow, of her earlier manner, had faded, and came no more. It was as if a gray screen had suddenly been drawn before a cheery household fire.

Happily for Bergan, his aunt claimed his attention, before he had time to feel the full dreariness of the change. She was a woman of rare tact, and much kindliness of heart, despite a somewhat stately manner, and a considerable degree of aristocratic chill for people not exactly in her "set." She gave Bergan a warm welcome,—almost a motherly one; there was something about him that brought a softening remembrance of the two sons that slept in the family burial ground, and quietly opened the way for him into her heart. Finding his entertainment left very much in her hands, she cared for it kindly; though not without a secret wonder at the inexplicable indifference of her husband and daughter. But she did her best to make amends for it by her own friendliness, and in part, succeeded.

Meanwhile, Bergan was beset by another tantalizing resemblance. Never, he thought, had he seen anything quite so lovely as his cousin Carice,—with her soft, brown hair, her clear rose-complexion, her large, limpid, blue eyes, the lily-like droop of her exquisitely formed head, the inexhaustible grace of her attitudes and movements,—but he had certainly seen somebody a little like her. So strong, yet so puzzling was this conviction, and so frequent the glances consequently sent in her direction, that he felt a word of explanation might not be amiss.

"Excuse me," said he, "if I seem to be looking at you almost constantly; but there is something about you curiously familiar, though it is impossible that we should have met before. I suppose I must have seen somebody that resembled you; but I cannot tell when or where."

Carice looked down, and colored slightly. Her father came to her relief.

"There is often no accounting for resemblances," said he. "When there is any tie of blood, however remote, we understand them, of course; but when the face of an utter stranger startles me in the street with the very smile of my sister Eleanor, or the grave look of my dead father, what am I to think?"

"One would like to know," remarked Bergan, "if there is a mental and moral likeness, to match the physical one. When I fix the resemblance that eludes me so persistently in you," he added, turning to Carice, "I hope it will help me to answer the question."

"I doubt if it does," replied Carice, quietly, yet not without a certain something in her tone that sounded almost like sarcasm. He looked at her in considerable surprise, but her eyes were turned away, and she said no more.

Feeling as if he were walking in a mist, which everywhere eluded his grasp, while it blinded his eyes, and chilled his heart, he rose to go.

"Let me see," said his aunt, kindly, as she gave him her hand, "to-morrow will be Sunday, will it not? Pray let us find you in our pew at church in the morning; and come home with us to an early dinner, before the evening service."

Bergan hesitated. He had no reasonable excuse; yet his uncle had not seconded the invitation. As if suddenly cognizant of the omission, Mr. Bergan now spoke.

"Come, by all means," said he, with more kindness than he had yet shown,—for he could not bring himself to give a half-hearted invitation to his sister's son,—"I have still a great deal to ask about your mother."

"And I," said his aunt, laughing, "have still a great deal to ask about yourself. Good night."

They stood on the piazza watching him, until he was out of sight. Then Carice turned to her father.

"Did he say anything about—yesterday?" she asked, gravely.

"Not a word. I should have liked him better if he had offered some explanation."

"Perhaps he did not recognize us," suggested Carice.

"How could he help it?"

"I don't know,—only—you were angry and I was frightened; probably our faces did not wear their natural expression. Besides, he was doubtless a little bewildered by his fall, and—"

"What or whom are you talking about?" here broke in the amazed Mrs. Bergan.

"About my nephew, the mad cavalier who so nearly came into collision with Carice yesterday," replied her husband.

Mrs. Bergan threw up her hands. "And you let me invite him to dinner!" she exclaimed, in a tone of deep injury.

"How could I help it, my dear? Besides, he is my sister's son."

Meanwhile, Bergan found his way back to the village through the darkness, wondering what had become of the lightness of heart and cheerfulness of hope with which he had set out—he looked at his watch—only two hours before!