"Gramma Rue, she sent me, massa. She don't feel right smart, dese yere times, an' she say she tink her days drawin' to her close, an' she's mighty anxious to see you, massa, 'fore she done gone. So she tole me to ax you, could n' you come to yer ole room in de Hall, some ob dese yere ebenins, jes' so's to gib her a chance to talk wid you. Ole massa need n' know nothin' 'bout it; he's allers safe 'nough in de cottage dem times. An' she hopes you'll hab de kin'ness to come, 'case she's got suthin' bery partic'lar to say to you."
Bergan hesitated. He could not visit the old Hall without reviving painful recollections; besides, it did not suit his natural straightforwardness to go thither in a half-clandestine way. Yet how could he refuse the urgent request of Maumer Rue, weighted not only with the probability of coming death, but with the consideration of her long, faithful, life service of his mother's family? And, after all, there was no great harm in a visit to the deserted Hall, to gratify an old, infirm, attached dependent. He certainly need do no skulking; if he chanced to come upon his uncle, he could fairly and frankly face both him and the situation.
Accordingly, he directed his evening stroll toward Bergan Hall. It was an obscure night of late March. A gray veil of cloud covered the wide expanse of sky, from horizon to zenith; through which only the faintest light struggled, to guide his steps up the ruined avenue. He could not but be reminded of his first forlorn coming upon the desolate scene; even though he was obliged to confess that, in some respects, matters were mending. Though the Hall stood silent and ruinous as before, under the sighing oaks, it was not wholly dark. An arch of light shone above the doorway, and a second gleam came invitingly from the window of the room that he had once called his own. The door, too, yielded readily to his pressure. At this rate of improvement, a few years might easily transform the shadow-haunted old ruin into a cheery, heartwarm home.
It was only a passing thought, and did not slacken in the least the light, quick step with which he ran up to his old room. Rue had done her best to give it a look of home and welcome. A fire blazed on the hearth, and reddened the walls; his favorite arm-chair was drawn before it; near by, stood a round table, with two tall candles, a few scattered books, and a tray of refreshments. It all looked strangely familiar:—there was the secretary at which he had written his letters home; there was the book that he had been reading, with his mark between the leaves; there was the flute, so few of whose long-prisoned harmonies he had been able to set free. Was it really five months since he saw them last?
Rue was not in the room when he entered it; it did not suit her notion of their respective positions to assume any quality of hostess. But she almost immediately appeared, and greeted him with tearful affection and respect. Bergan looked at her narrowly, and was pained to see that her tall form had lost much of its old erect stateliness, and that she leaned heavily on her cane as she walked. Still, there was no sign of immediate loosing of the silver life-cord; on the whole, he thought that she bore her heavy burden of years wonderfully well, and the thought came naturally to his lips.
"It may seem so," replied the old woman, with a slow shake of her head, "but I feel a greater change than you can see, Master Bergan. Till now, I never knew anything about the chill or the heaviness of age; it has come upon me all at once. I do not think, any more than you do, that the end itself is close at hand; but the beginning of the end is certainly here. Let it come as soon as the Lord wills; He knows I'm ready. Only it is borne in upon me that there's something more for me to do for the family, before I leave their service; though I cannot rightly see what. Sometimes I am almost sure that it's just to see that you are put into your rightful place as the master of Bergan Hall. If that is all that I am waiting for, I wish it might be done quickly. Couldn't you make up your mind to come back here now, if Master Harry would ask you kindly? I know I can get him to do it."
"Indeed, I could not, maumer," answered Bergan, quietly, but very firmly. "I am not yet in a position to treat with my uncle, on equal terms. And I am less than ever inclined to be dependent upon him, or any one. Let me beg you to give yourself no further care or thought in the matter."
Rue sighed deeply. There was something in the young man's tone that forestalled either argument or entreaty.
"Pardon an old woman's curiosity," she said, at length, "but, are you very much nearer to independence than when you left here?"
"I cannot say that I am."