To his surprise, the groan was distinctly prolonged and repeated. Was it the responsive wail of the ancestral spirits, mourning over their degenerate scion, or only the sympathizing echo of the ancestral walls? Springing to his feet, he beheld a tall, erect figure standing on the hearth, showing strangely weird and unearthly by the flickering blaze of a few dying embers. Not till it turned and came toward him did he recognize the dusky features and age-whitened hair of Maumer Rue.
"I hope that it is not on my account that you are up at this time of night," said he, gravely.
"You forget that night and day are both alike to me," she quietly answered. "Are you better?"
"Much better, thank you." And he added after a moment,—"How came I here?"
"Brick found you in the avenue. By my direction, you were brought in. At first, it was thought that you had been thrown from your horse, but—"
Rue paused.
"I understand," said Bergan, bitterly. "I was drunk."
Rue did not immediately answer. It was only after some moments that she said, earnestly;—
"Master Bergan, I am an old woman. I have seen four generations of your house,—I have nursed two,—and I have spent my life in its service. If it had been my own, I could not have loved it better, nor felt its welfare nearer my heart. If these things give me any right to say a word of warning to you, let me say it now!"
"Say whatever seems good to you," replied Bergan, gloomily, as he flung himself into a chair. "I doubt if you can say anything so hard to bear as what I have already said to myself."