Chapter 11 AFTER MANY DAYS.

There was a sudden silence—the shadow of God's hand. In it the lately agonized, writhing body lay at peace, the anxious spectators stood awed and motionless. Yet this silence was more voiceful than any sound,—full of solemn questionings and more solemn answers, subtle suggestions, grave warnings, and momentous intimations. Of the value and the valuelessness of life, of the night and the morning of death, of the character and the import of the Hereafter,—on all these topics it discoursed more eloquently than the most silvery of oratorical tongues.

It had also its more commonplace and definite purport to the simple-minded dependents gathered in the gloom of the broad gallery and the black oaken staircase; which was no sooner fully apprehended, than the sound of weeping was heard among them,—though not noisily demonstrative, according to the African wont, for their awe of their late master had been greater than their affection, and was in nowise diminished by the knowledge of the dread change that had come upon him. It was genuine sorrow, nevertheless, for, though he had been a hard master, of late, most of them remembered when he had been kinder; and, at the worst, he had not been without gleams of good humor and leniency, upon which their minds now dwelt willingly and tenderly. Some few gray heads, too, there were among them, who recollected the grace and promise of his youth, and how proud they had been of their gay, handsome, generous, high-spirited master; and these, striving to forget that the promise had not been kept, or to set down its failure to adverse fate rather than wilful shortcoming, crowded the doorway, or stole in pairs to the foot of the bed, and looked through tears at the dead face, and whispered to each other that something of its youth had come back to it;—the soul, as it took its departure, had stamped the features with their original nobility and grace. And then they stole out, to prompt each other's memories with anecdotes of that vanished youth, and to dilate the eyes of their juniors with descriptions of the ancient splendors and hospitalities of the desolate old Hall;—the banquets that had been served in the dusky dining-room, the gay measures that had been trodden in the long parlor, the wedding-trains and the funeral processions that had passed through the great door; and, finally, of the ghosts that still walk the empty rooms, and may be expected to be seen stalking through the long passages to-night, or holding solemn conclave around the deserted tabernacle of the latest comer among them.

Hark! is not that the sound of footsteps, falling airily, yet heavily, too, in some distant chamber? And there, in the upper gallery, is certainly the rustle of the supernaturally stiff silk robe of the first Lady Bergan, who was found dead in her bed, so many years ago! And now creaks the door at the end of the wing, through which old Sir Harry is wont to march majestically forth, sword in hand, to take vengeance on any degenerate scion of the house that he encounters in his path! This last apparition is too much for their nerves. They shrink together, and flee noiselessly to their cabins, hearing the footsteps of the angry knight following them all the way, and leaving the old house untenanted save by the-ghosts, and the few faithful watchers in the death-chamber.

Rue is kneeling by the corpse. She has closed the eyes—sightless as her own;—she has smoothed back the disordered hair; she has pressed the lips together over the set teeth; now she is passing her withered hand gently over the blind features, thinking more of the baby that she nursed, the child that she petted and spoiled, and the youth that she admired and loved, than of the middle-aged man that she had served with her best strength, or the elderly one that she had stood by so faithfully, striving in vain to hold him back from his evil ways. Finally, she touches the cold lips with her own.

"I kissed him when he was born," she murmurs, half apologetically, to Bergan, "and there will be no kiss on his dead lips, unless I leave it there."

Bergan looks at her wonderingly. Her face is calm—there are no tears in her eyes; she has the satisfied and relieved expression of one who, after long and patient waiting, beholds the expected rest or gladness close at hand, and is already half content.

"One little trust more to be fulfilled," she says softly to herself, "and then my work is done, my long service of the family is over. My God, have I served Thee as well?"

And although, in her deep humility, she shakes her head, and pronounces herself an unprofitable servant, we, who can hear better that voice in the silence, making little of rank, wealth, talent, and culture, and much of faith, patience, and integrity, may be sure that it utters benignantly,—"Well done!"

Rising, at last, Rue turned to Bergan, and made him a low, reverential courtesy.

"Master Bergan," she asked, "have you any orders to give?"

Bergan started. There was a quiet significance in her tone and manner that made his heart beat fast, for just one moment,—not with elation, however, so much as with a heavy weight of responsibility; as if the chill corpse, the crumbling Hall, the hundreds of negroes, the far-stretching lands, and all the cares and complexities thereto pertaining, had been suddenly flung on his shoulders. But the feeling passed quickly; he remembered the will in favor of Carice, as well as its fraudulent successor (which, he now bethought himself, it might be impossible to nullify, even if he could bring himself to come in conflict with Carice's husband); and the weight slid easily from his shoulders, though not without leaving some correlative heaviness in his heart.

Still there were orders to be given; and, until a more legitimate authority or a closer relationship should supersede him, he, being on the spot, must answer the immediate need of headship. He despatched messengers, therefore, in various directions,—one to Godfrey Bergan to apprise him that the long, bitter feud was ended, and between him and the corpse of his brother there might be peace; another to Doctor Remy, with a supplementary direction that if he was not to be found, Doctor Gerrish should be summoned also; and a third to the undertaker, to arrange for the sombre funeral paraphernalia. When all was done, he was glad to retire for awhile to his room, leaving Rue, as she desired, alone with her dead. Yes, hers,—no living person had so strong a prescriptive right to that sad and tender vigil; no other love held the sufficient warrant of such long and loyal service.

Bergan remembered, long afterward, just how she looked as he bade her good night; standing, tall, gaunt, and erect, by the high, old-fashioned bedstead, drawing the heavy curtains round the silent dead with one hand, and extending the other toward him with a free and lofty gesture that suggested the unveiling of a new and golden future.

"Good night, Master Bergan," said she, "or rather, good morning. For you, the night is past, and the dawn is near. For you the Bergan star shines bright in the morning sky; for you and the old Hall a new reign of peace and prosperity is begun. Neglect not the warnings of the past; rejoice in the promise of the future. God bless you, now and evermore!"

The last words were spoken with a solemnity befitting a long farewell. At the moment, a vague apprehension flitted across Bergan's mind; but, looking back, he saw that she had seated herself quietly by the bed, like one whose only purpose was to watch and wait. Besides, she had spoken freely of the morrow's necessities and duties, and of her own part in them; it was plain that she had no apprehension for herself, and he might dismiss his fears.

In the hall, he was met by the solemn ticking of the tall old clock, which some one had set in motion; probably with a vague idea that a human soul's last minutes of time should be carefully measured, and the moment of its entrance upon eternity definitely marked. He could not help shivering at the sound. His mind involuntarily followed the departed soul in its journeyings beyond the bounds of time, picturing the heights or depths it had already reached, the scenes opened to its awed vision, the momentous truths dawning upon its startled comprehension. These thoughts not only accompanied him to his room, but would not be shut out by the closing door.

Weary as he was, he had no disposition to sleep. He sat down by the table, leaned his head on his hand, and gave himself up to sombre reflections. The gloomy deathbed that he had just witnessed, the emptiness and decay of the old ancestral home, the tangled questions of right and expediency that might present themselves for decision at any moment,—all these weighed heavily on his mind, and depressed his spirits. For one moment he half forgot his rooted trust in an overruling Providence, at once wise and tender, in the contemplation of the chill chain of events that appeared to be tightening around him, the seemingly mysterious fate that had twice compelled his return to this dreary old dwelling,—tomb rather,—to experience some new phase of sin or sorrow, after he had turned his back upon it, as he believed, for many years, if not forever. No wonder the negroes thought it haunted; its heavy, musty atmosphere was much better adapted for ghosts to float about in than to be breathed into living lungs; it might well be crowded with the spirits of his whole ancestry, to make it so stifling!

He went to the window, to see if it were any better there. Scarcely. The moon had vanished behind a cloud; the night was dim; the outside air seemed not less burdened with woe and mystery than that within; he even fancied that he heard light footsteps on the path below. He flung himself again into his chair, and an almost superstitious awe stole over him, a feeling that there was no such thing as emptiness, but only invisibility,—that the air was teeming with mystic shapes, busily tying circumstance to circumstance, cause to effect, motive to result, and life to life, with cords of terrible strength and indestructibility.

Cords:—The word struck lightly on the sensitive chain of association, and there was an instant response from the past;—"Holden with the cords of his sins." No doubt that was the essential truth. Strictly speaking, a separate act or an individual life was an impossibility; each was bound to each by influence or consequence; sin, especially, entailed its results upon a wide circle of inheritors,—the sinner himself, his kindred, friends, neighbors, even his descendants unto remote generations. Doubtless the sins of many old-time Bergans had helped to twist the cords which had held the mansion of their pride to so sad a period of desertion and decay, if not their scion to so woful a death. With how many such cords was he himself holden, and to what, and for how long?

He lifted his eyes with a start. A dim shadow had fallen on the floor; something was intercepting the gray dawn-rays, which feebly lit the room. He looked at the open window; it framed a slight graceful figure, a wan, but lovely face,—both so well remembered, so fondly loved, so mournfully lost! Of course, it was an apparition, a creation of his own excited fancy, called forth to furnish another illustration of the strange ramifications and knottings of those mystical cords, and soon to disappear, and make way for some other sharer of his bonds.

And disappear it did; but with a sudden crash, and a startled cry of "Bergan!"—neither of which had any touch of the supernatural. The unexpected sounds at once his awe; he ran to the window, saw that the rotten flooring of the upper piazza had broken down under some recent weight, leaped the gap, flew down the steps, and found lying underneath a motionless form and a lily-pale face, both half hidden in long, flowing tresses. No apparition this, but a living, breathing Carice,—or what had lately been such;—she looked deathlike enough now.

It may well be questioned whether love ever dies. It disappears from sight, no doubt; it ceases to be felt as motive or end; the very heart from whence it sprang believes that it is no more; perhaps a new—and true—affection occupies its place and does its work. But is this apparent death anything more than a partial decay, analogous to that by which thousands of perennial plants seem annually to perish from the face of the earth, under the frosts of autumn, but the roots of which, nevertheless, carefully preserve their life-principle within, ready to respond with swift springing verdure to the tender kisses and tears of the springtime sun and rain? Is not all death only a sleep?

Bergan had striven conscientiously to destroy his love for Carice, as a thing which, however innocent in its birth, had grown to be a sin. And he had measurably succeeded. His worst heartache was over. Life had ceased to look unattractive; if it did not promise happiness, it offered plenty of work, and a sober well-being. He was beginning to feel the beneficent operation of the law of change, to find that sorrow was not meant to be the life-tenant of any human heart. If he had met Carice under other circumstances, less calculated to throw him off his guard, he would doubtless have approved himself master of the situation; meeting her with calm cousinly courtesy and kindness, and stifling only a momentary pang in his deep heart. But seeing her thus,—pale, motionless, unconscious,—dying, perhaps, if not already dead,—flung back at his feet, for sympathy and succor, by some mysterious turn of the same tide of circumstance which had borne her away,—a lost jewel, restored after many days,—it is scarcely to be wondered at that, for one moment, as he knelt by the inanimate form, he forgot all the sorrowful past in the anxiety of the present, and touched the mute lips with the warm kiss of a love which, though long repressed and slumbering, seemed now to have neither wasted nor died.

He soon recollected himself, however; when, seeing that Carice still breathed, and was probably only stunned by her fall, he at once addressed himself to the consideration of the serious question what was to be done with her. She had fled suddenly, it would seem, led by some wild, uncontrollable impulse; nothing shielded her from chill or from observation but a nightdress and a light shawl; on one foot was a thin slipper, the other was bare and bleeding; and her dishevelled hair fell round her shoulders, some locks of which, he now noticed, were encrimsoned by blood flowing from a deep cut in her head.

He glanced quickly round; the dawn was yet gray, there was no one astir at the Hall, and probably not at Oakstead; unless she had been missed, there was still time to save her from what, he knew, she would feel to be worse than death, when fully restored to consciousness. He lifted her in his arms—it went to his heart, even at that moment, to feel how thin and light she was—and bore her swiftly to the door of her home. There Mr. Bergan and Rosa met him; they had just discovered her absence, but had not given the alarm; they were still too bewildered to know precisely what steps should be taken for her recovery. Bergan carried her to the library, and laid her on the sofa. As he did so, she opened her eyes, turned from him to Mr. Bergan, and cried out, in a voice of mingled entreaty and determination;—

"Father, I cannot be Doctor Remy's wife!"

Bergan looked at his uncle with a mixture of surprise and apprehension. "She is delirious," said he.

"No, thank God!" answered Mr. Bergan, with a look of ineffable relief and gladness; "she is herself again—clothed and in her right mind."