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 w............