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 impu............