Carice was in her own room. Her face was pale, her mouth and eyes deeply serious. At last, she had been put in possession of all the facts hitherto concealed from her. She knew by what base means she had been separated from Bergan, and married to a man known to be a forger, suspected to be a murderer, and now a fugitive from justice. She was also aware that, so far as her own consciousness went, she had lost a year out of her life. None the less, she felt in her deep heart that her soul had not stood still during this suspension of certain of her faculties, but had accomplished some rapid, sensible growth. She was not, in all respects, the same Carice who had fallen through the gap in the foot-bridge. She contemplated her situation with far less dismay and bewilderment than that immaturer self could have done; in some mysterious way, her year of unconsciousness had been also a year of preparation for the difficulties that it had postponed; she now faced them with a deeper insight, a broader comprehension, and a calmer courage. She blinded herself with no subtleties nor evasions; she dimmed the clear medium of her integrity with no selfish breath; but counted herself what that solemn marriage ceremony had made her—a wife. She must remain such until the plea of "wilful desertion for a year," in the courts of law, should secure for her a certain personal freedom. But even then, she would be only a deserted wife;—in her opinion, divorce was powerless except as regarded separation. The virtual relation, she believed, could only be dissolved by death; and that meant, in this case, perhaps, the arrest, conviction, and execution of Doctor Remy. She shuddered at the thought. She could not wish the barrier between Bergan and herself to be thus removed.
Bergan?—She dared not think of him! He was lying so dangerously ill!—yet she must not go to him;—she could trust neither her thoughts nor herself by that bedside. She must just leave him, where she left all her own cares and sorrows, in the hands of God. She waited upon Him: in His own good time and way, He would make it clear that He reigned, and that His sceptre was justice, and His crown mercy.
Mrs. Bergan opened the door. "My child," she asked, tenderly, "would you like to see a visitor?"
"Whom?" asked Carice, with a little wonder;—her mother had been so careful to spare her all intrusion, during these trying days.
Mrs. Bergan shook her head. "I really don\'t know; I was so taken with her face, that I forgot to ask her name. She said that she was a friend of Astra Lyte\'s, and of—Bergan\'s."
"Mamma, could I not be excused?"
"I suppose so,—if you really wish it. But you would never think of refusing her, if you once saw her; she has such a princess-like way with her, as if she had never been refused anything in her life—except happiness. She has the most beautiful face that I ever saw, but there is a shadow over it, as if she had known great sorrow."
Carice felt a jealous pang. Beautiful! and Bergan\'s friend? Sad? of course, since he was in danger!
Mrs. Bergan went on. "She said she had a story to tell you. And when I hesitated—fearing that it might be some new trouble or excitement—you have had enough such, of late, dear—she smiled, as if she knew what I was thinking, and said,—\'Have no fear, madam; my story will do her good, not harm!\' Shall I let her come up?"
An hour after, the door of Bergan\'s sick-room opened gently. His eyes were closed; he, too, had been thinking, as deeply as his weak, half unconscious state permitted; and his thoughts had been strangely like those of Carice. The tangled web left behind by Doctor Remy would be hard to unravel, he felt; and in the process, there would be much pain, loss, anxiety, and disgrace,—especially for Carice. His heart ached for her;—and a little also—for he was very weak and weary—for himself. Would it not be well to have done with it all,—to let thought, care, and life drift away together, as they seemed so ready to do, if only he ceased to hold them back? It would be so much easier to let them go!—was there really any good reason why he should try to live?
Hearing the door close, and the sound of light footsteps, he languidly opened his eyes. Diva Thane was standing at his bedside, holding the blushing Carice by the hand, and smiling down upon him with eyes deep-lit by a mysterious radiance. There was a lofty beauty in her face, a look of victory after conflict, that he had never seen there before.
His heart gave a great bound. He remembered his strange, repeated intuition that that fair, firm hand would some day bestow upon him an inestimable blessing. Was the time come?
"I bring you a gift," said she, in low, rich tones, full of feeling as of melody. "This little, maiden hand—free from every claim as from every stain—is the best return that I can make for what you have done for me." And, placing Carice\'s hand in his, she added, solemnly:—"I give it to you, for I have the right: I am the wife of Edmund Roath."
The rush of joy was almost too great. It swept over Bergan\'s senses like a great whelming wave; speech and sound were lost in it; sight was gone, except for Carice\'s sweet, fair face, the one point of light in a vast ocean of blackness; feeling was annihilated, save that he clung to that dear hand as to the one treasure that he would not be parted from, let him be carried whither he might. Firmly and tenderly it closed upon his, too,—seeming to be the only thing which kept him from drifting out into that wide obscurity, and brought him back to the steady standing-ground of consciousness. There he was met by a rush of gratitude and sympathy only a little less overpowering. He knew so well what that avowal had cost Diva\'s pride! He understood so clearly whence came that solemn light of sacrifice in her eyes, that exalted beauty in her face, and how dearly it had been won! Still holding Carice fast with one hand, he held out the other to her, with emotion too deep for aught but a benediction.
"God bless you," he murmured, fervently. And he added, in a tone of entire conviction;—"I am sure He will."
She bent her graceful head,—no longer haughty in its pose,—gave his hand an earnest, heartening pressure, and glided from the room.
All gentle, delicate souls, all sympathetic hearts, go with her; curiosity, coldness, rudeness, must needs follow after. In that sick-room, Love only may remain,—Love which, by its long patience of sorrow, its steady conscientiousness, its freedom from all self-seeking, has won at last its blessed right to be,—and to be happy!
At a little distance from the cabin was a huge ilex tree, in the broad, low shade of which Dick had once been moved to set up a rude bench. Thither Diva betook herself to wait for Carice. There was a pleasant enough prospect before her, beyond the gulf of sand,—the creek on its sunshiny way to the sea, the pines and water oaks mingling their moss-hung boughs and diverse verdure,—but it is doubtful if she was aware of it. Her eyes—whether bent on the ground at her feet, or lifted to some far point of the blue horizon—spoke plainly of a mind too busy with its own reflections to be anywise cognizant of outward objects. She was reviewing the main events of her life by the new light recently shed on them, discovering a connection, a harmony, and a meaning in them unsuspected before, and gaining thereby a deeper sense of the might and wisdom of that overruling Providence in whom she had come so lately to believe.
She had been reared in almost princely affluence, as well as in professed scepticism;—every material wish gratified, every material caprice humored; no spiritual want recognized, no spiritual yearning indulged. Early accustomed to admiration and adulation, she grew up proud, imperious, self-reliant, counting herself made of more excellent clay than often went to the fashioning of human organisms, as she was certainly endowed with an intellect of no common strength and fineness of fibre, which her father took care to feed with all his own learned and labored Philosophy of Doubt. She was taught to scorn faith, to deride inspiration, to scoff at worship, to acknowledge no law but her own will, no higher rule of life than "Noblesse oblige." Yet she had generous impulses and strong affections; the very weeds that grew to such rank luxuriance in her character bore witness to the natural richness of the soil. Nor was she without a deep, innate reverence, inherited from the mother that she had never known,—which, being diverted from its proper objects, fell to deifying human genius and intellect, and suffered sorely in seeing them betray, soon or late, how much of their substance was human dust. Disappointed thus in the concrete, she turned to the abstract; first Song, then Art, became the idol of her imagination, the object of her devoted worship. Her father\'s health failing about this time, both looked to Italy as their natural goal, the one for healing, the other for culture. There they met the man whose potent influence was to change the whole current of her life.
He had everything necessary to recommend him to her favor;—a manly figure and bearing, regular, clear-cut features, a bold, acute, powerful intellect, and varied culture. Moreover, there was a mystery about him which acted as a stimulant to interest. No one knew whence he came, and he gave no account of himself beyond what was to be inferred from chance words and phrases, coming by accident, as it were, to the surface of the stream of conversation,—oracular utterances, capable of diverse construction;—which, after being long brooded over in her imagination, were turned into such rich, airy, poetic shapes, as even he, with all his subtlety, would never have thought of suggesting. None the less, they did him friendly service. Moreover, he had, in some way, acquired no small amount of medical science, which he put to good use in alleviating her father\'s sufferings, although it had become evident that his malady was incurable. By this means, he soon acquired such an ascendancy over the invalid\'s mind, and so firm a hold upon his confidence, as to............