Chapter 5 MORE MYSTERY.

The funeral was over. Major Bergan, with due pomp and circumstance of woe, had been laid in the tomb of his forefathers, and left to mingle his ashes with theirs. Of all his possessions, he retained for his own behoof simply a shroud and a coffin. No good work of Church or State would miss his helping hand. He left no real, aching vacancy in any human heart. His imposing funeral train scattered to houses, places of business, and street corners, some to forget the event at once, in the absorbing interest of their own affairs; some to talk it over, and then—forget it all the same. Two or three remote cousins, sniffing the air for legacies, went back to the Hall, to wait for the reading of the will, and, meanwhile, to finish the funeral baked meats. Mr. Bergan had bidden them make themselves at home, and excused himself from accompanying them: being greatly fatigued with the manifold duties and emotions of the day, he was fain to spend the intervening time quietly at Oakstead.

He found Carice on the piazza; she had been wheeled out in an easy chair, to enjoy the beneficent air and sunshine. She was pale and feeble, but the light of restored reason shone in her eyes, and gave animation and intelligence to their expression. Also—light being the mother of shadow—it imparted to them a deep seriousness. She had taken up the problem of life precisely where it had dropped with her into the river, on the night of her wedding,—unconscious, as yet, of the length of the blank between,—and addressed herself to its solution with a clearer brain and a firmer courage. She reflected that, in the eyes of the world and the estimation of the law, she was Doctor Remy's wife. She had publicly entered into that relation, without denial or protest; solemnly taking him as her husband, for better for worse, till death them should part. Did the fact that he had been accused of a terrible crime, absolve her from this vow? Did it not rather make it more imperatively her duty to stand by him; to help him with her countenance and sympathy, if he were innocent; to influence him to repentance and confession, if he were guilty? Was she to think only of her happiness, not at all of his good? Had he not a soul that might still be saved, as God had saved the world, by love?

Hard questions these,—demanding for their consideration a clear head, and a heart at once tender and strong. Carice, being now fully herself, had both; yet she might well delay coming to a decision so momentous. She was glad when her father's arrival broke the thread of her meditations; albeit, it was only to give her a fresh subject of anxiety. He looked so strangely old and worn,—it struck her with new wonder, new alarm, at every sight of him! How was it possible for him to change so much in the two or three days that she believed her unconsciousness to have lasted, even though weighed down by the anxiety consequent upon his interview with Bergan?—an interview which could not have been without definite result, since she saw nothing of Doctor Remy. Indeed, his name had been mentioned to her but once, and then in terms of manifest constraint, though of apparent excuse for his absence. No doubt her father had taken the thought of his possible guilt very sorely to heart; no doubt, too, he blamed himself severely for his advocacy of the marriage. She must not let him do that! She knew so well that he had meant it for the best,—that he had erred in judgment only, never in intention,—that pure, strong, unselfish love for her had been the deep motive of his every act. Her heart was very tender, very pitiful, toward him as he came up the gravel-walk, with that slow, stooping gait, and those sudden gray hairs, which made her feel, every time that she saw him, as if she must have been dreaming for years, or was dreaming now.

He brightened visibly at sight of her. He was thankful, with all his heart, for her restoration, even though it but served to increase his perplexities. For how was she to be given to understand, without a harmful shook, that a year of her life had passed her by, and made no sign? With what face could he break it to her that the man whom he had urged upon her as a husband, was likely to prove a murderer? What answer was he to make when she inquired after Bergan, as he was constantly expecting her to do?

Needless anxieties, all, as he would duly discover. Carice was already feeling her way to the truth, as regarded the lapse of time, by means of the incomprehensible changes that she saw about her; it would not so much shock her as satisfy her with a reasonable explanation of them. The accusation against Doctor Remy would be no surprise to her; on the contrary, its dark shadow continually fell athwart her mind, and prompted or modified all her thoughts. Moreover, as long as her duty to Doctor Remy was in question, she conscientiously checked every thought, every wish, every emotion of curiosity even, that wandered toward Bergan. Knowing nothing of all this, however, and fearing lest she should seize upon this opportunity to ask for the full explanation that he was so loath to make, Mr. Bergan began a lengthened account of the funeral ceremonies. He had deemed it wise to tell her of her uncle's death, both as affording a good excuse for postponing other matters, and as a reason for his own troubled and abstracted face.

He was still busy with this theme, doing his best to imitate the gold-beater's art of making a little material cover a large space, when he heard a footfall behind him, on the gravel walk. Looking quickly round, he was delighted to behold his nephew coming up the steps, just as he had first seen him two years before, with the same half-eager, half-hesitating expression of one who feels himself at once a relative and a stranger; yet mingled in the present instance, with what seemed an inappropriate sternness. The sight of him was none the less a relief to his uncle.

"Thank Heaven! you are come at last, Bergan!" he exclaimed, starting up to go and meet him.

But Carice put forth a staying hand,—the eyes of love are not so easily deceived. "You mistake, father," she said, in a low and half-frightened voice, "this is not Bergan, though he is like him."

The new comer took off his hat, and bowed low. "No, I am not Bergan; I am Hubert," he said, but with no friendliness of tone or manner. "And you, I suppose, are my uncle Godfrey. I am come to look for my brother. What have you done with him among you? Where can I find that villanous Doctor Remy, who, four days ago, made one attempt on his life (or on mine, mistaking me for him), and has now probably—"

He was startled and silenced by a low, pathetic cry of that found an instant way to his heart, despite its armor of prejudice and anger. At the same moment, Carice fell, white and insensible, across the arm of her chair.

"You have killed her," said Mr. Bergan, not resentfully, but with the still resignation of a man who feels that fate has done its worst for him, and there is little left to dread, and to hope.

"Indeed, I trust not," replied Hubert, earnestly, dismayed at the mischief that he had done, as well as softened by the sweet, death-like face, which, he now knew, was not only the one that still kept its place in Bergan's memory, and would not be cast out, but was correlated to a heart not less interested than his own in Bergan's fate. "I think she has only fainted. Let me take her in, while you summon assistance."

And without waiting for either consent or remonstrance, he lifted her in his strong arms, and carried her to the library. Almost immediately, she showed signs of returning animation. He then withdrew to the piazza, where Mr. Bergan shortly joined him; and explanations were mutually given and received.

Hubert had duly received the notice of his uncle's funeral. It had struck him as a little odd at first, that it should be addressed jointly to his brother and himself; but he set it down as an absurd legal formality, and thought no more about it. He had intended to ride over this morning, in time for the funeral; but just as he was about to start, Mr. Youle had slipped and fallen on the office steps, and received several severe cuts and bruises; which had made it necessary for him to take him home, and do what he could to assist him and reassure his family. Thus it happened that he had arrived at the Hall to find the funeral over, and to learn, to his surprise and alarm, that his brother was not there, and that nothing was known of his whereabouts, except that he was last seen at Oakstead. There, also, he was told Doctor Remy might be found. Accordingly he had hastened thither.

He now proposed to commence an immediate, thorough search for his brother.

"Take my advice," said Mr. Bergan, "and wait a little longer. I have had, all along, an expectation—or, at least, a hope—that my brother's will would give some clue to all these mysteries. The time fixed for the reading is now at hand. Go with me, and be present thereat, as you have a right to be. Then, if we get any clue, I will do my utmost to help you follow it out; if we do not, I shall be equally at your service to seek for one elsewhere."

Chafing at the delay, but unable to suggest anything better to be done, Hubert accompanied his uncle to the Hall. In the library they found a considerable party assembled, discussing Bergan's mysterious disappearance.

"I hope," Doctor Remy was just saying, with apparent concern, "that nothing worse is behind it all, than some foolish whim or escapade"—when, hearing a step at the door, he turned and met Hubert Arling's stern, threatening gaze. In spite of his consummate self-control, he could not help giving a violent start. Recollecting himself instantly, however,—inasmuch as he had just heard of Hubert's previous visit,—he came forward and held out his hand.

"You have deceived me twice, Mr. Arling," he said, pleasantly; "your resemblance to your brother is really quite wonderful, and must lead to many entertaining mistakes. I have to beg your pardon," he went on, in a lower tone, "for my absurd conduct at our former meeting; I will explain to you, by and by, what I had been led, by some malicious persons, to believe that I might expect from your brother; which indignity I hastily attempted to forestall. I have since learned my error, and I now beg you to believe that I have the most friendly feelings toward you both. I am scarcely less concerned than yourself at your brother's absence, on this occasion."

Hubert drew back. "I take no man's hand which I have reason to believe is not clean," said he, haughtily. "As to your relations with my brother, he can settle them with you himself, if he still lives. If he does not, I warn you that any man whom I suspect to have been anywise concerned in his death, will meet with little mercy at my hands."

Doctor Remy turned livid with anger. Before he could reply, Mr. Tatum (the lawyer whom Mr. Bergan had summoned) rapped on the table to command attention, and held up the will to view, in order to show that the seals were unbroken. He then read it, slowly and distinctly. After a few minor legacies, it gave the bulk of the Major's property unconditionally to his niece, Carice Bergan.

There was a dead silence after the formal voice had ceased.

"Is that will in due form of law?" asked Mr. Bergan, breaking the pause.

"It seems so," replied Mr. Tatum; "it is clearly worded, and duly signed and witnessed."

"I drew it up myself," observed Doctor Remy, "as you see. It was over a year ago, before the legatee became my wife. But I am surprised to hear it read on this occasion; I supposed that it grew out of a momentary whim, and had long ago been nullified by some other instrument."

"I am equally surprised," remarked Mr. Tatum, "for the excellent reason that I drew up a very different will myself, only about a fortnight since. At that time, Major Bergan mentioned this one, or some other,—for the provisions of this do not quite answer his description,—and I advised him to destroy it, in order to prevent any trouble."

"He may have returned to his first mind, and destroyed the second will instead," suggested Doctor Remy.

"I cannot believe it," returned Mr. Tatum. "Suppose we go in a body, and make a fresh search. Do you know, Mr. Bergan, any other receptacle of papers than those already examined?"

"I do not," replied Mr. Bergan. "Perhaps Maumer Rue might; she knows the house, as well as my brother's habits, much better than I do."

Strange to say, however, when Rue was sought for, she was nowhere to be found. As messenger after messenger returned from the chambers, the quarter, and the grounds, and reported that no trace of her could be discovered, Doctor Remy and Mr. Bergan looked at each other in blank amazement. This new disappearance was equally startling and suspicious to both; each thought that the other must be privy to it; each wondered what it portended.

"So much the more reason to search," finally said Mr. Tatum; "we have two things to look for,—the will and the old woman."

Hubert Arling rose. "I must beg to be excused," said he. "I have neither time nor inclination to search for anybody, or anything, except my brother."

Mr. Bergan laid his hand warningly on his shoulder. "It seems to me," said he, "that you cannot begin your search better than in this house."

The search began. Not a corner was left unexplored, not a shadow left undisturbed. Many strange relics of olden time were unearthed, much venerable dust raised, but it was all unavailing, so far as either the will or the blind woman was concerned.

Tired and disappointed, they returned to the library. Then Doctor Remy stood forth with the light of triumph shining in his eyes. He had schemed and sinned to some purpose; his reward was sure.

"I suppose that nothing remains," said he, "but for me to take possession of the premises, in the name of my wife."

Mr. Bergan looked inquiringly at Mr. Tatum. "I suppose that is the proper thing," said the lawyer,—"at least, as long as the other will is not found."

Hubert's long-repressed impatience here broke forth. "Settle this matter as you like," said he, "I am going to look for my brother."

He strode out of the room. Mr. Bergan hesitated a moment, and then followed him. At the door, he was met by a servant from Oakstead, who delivered a message, in a low tone; of which Doctor Remy, who was standing near, caught the words, "Richard Causton—business of importance." Mr. Bergan listened half-impatiently, gave a brief answer, and hastened after Hubert.

Doctor Remy watched them down the avenue, with a clouded brow. The triumphant light had gone out in his eyes; a chill premonition of evil was at his heart; already he seemed to feel his prize slipping from his hand. "Excuse me," he said, hurriedly, to those who remained, "I have urgent business to attend to." In another moment he was on his horse, galloping swiftly across the fields.