IX.
THE FIRST LINKS OF A CHAIN.
"I don't beg pardon for disturbing you," said Doctor Remy, giving the sleeper a vigorous shake. "You are in as fair a way to catch your death of cold, a your worst enemy could wish you to be."
Bergan slowly opened his eyes and stared vacantly around him. The doctor's words, though they had reached his ears, had not penetrated to his understanding. As yet, he was but half cognizant of his whereabouts, not at all of his circumstances.
"Come, up with you!" persisted the doctor, "and take a turn round the room, to get the chill out of your Mood. Man alive! what were you thinking of, to go to sleep before that window, with such a damp wind blowing in?"
"I did not mean to," responded Bergan, drowsily. And his eyes closed again.
"Did not mean to!" repeated Doctor Remy, in a tone of ineffable contempt. "You might at least have vouchsafed me a newer excuse: that is worn threadbare. It has served the whole human race, from Eve over her apple, down to Cathie over her last broken doll. Nobody 'means' to do anything. Except me—I 'mean' to wake you up." And the doctor gave Bergan another uncompromising shake.
"It is so good to sleep!" remonstrated the young man, in the same drowsy tone.
"It is so good to have the rheumatism, or that cream of delights known hereabout as the broken-bone fever!" returned the doctor, with cool irony. "However," he added, indifferently, turning away, "chacun à son goût."
"You surely do not mean to leave him, in that way, Doctor," said a rebuking voice, beneath the window. Miss Lyte, fastening up a rosebush, in the dusk outside, had heard the whole.
"Certainly not, if it pleases you to wish otherwise," replied the doctor, gallantly.
And returning to the charge, Doctor Remy did not remit his efforts until he had gotten the half-vexed young man upon his feet, and forced him to pace two or three times up and down the office. Thereupon Bergan was fain to avow that his limbs were stiff and sore, and he had no mind for further exercise.
"Just as I expected," said the doctor, calmly.
Without further words, he marched Bergan off to bed, and did not let him alone, until, by dint of various outward and inward applications, he had restored natural warmth and circulation to his chilled, benumbed frame. In doing this, the young man was effectually roused; and memory and thought came back with consciousness.
"Doctor," said he, suddenly, "I almost envy you your profession."
"Why?"
"Because, as you told me at our first meeting, your duty is always plainly one thing—to save life."
"Humph! it seems to me that yours is equally plain—to save your client."
"What! whether his cause be right or wrong?"
"I save life, whether it be good or evil—a thief's or a saint's."
Bergan was silent for a moment. He felt the sophistry, but could not, on the instant, detect wherein it lay. He allowed himself to be diverted from the main question by a side issue.
"You say that you save life," said he, "but do you feel that it is really you? Are you never conscious of a power above you, without whose help your efforts would avail nothing?"
"Granted, for the sake of argument," replied Doctor Remy, composedly. "Then you may believe that it is not your efforts which gain a cause, but the 'power above,' of which you speak."
It is not often that a side issue leads so directly back to the main point as in this instance, thanks to Doctor Remy's mode of treating it. "I see," said Bergan, musingly, "the difference is in the intent. Of course, God does decide the event, or consequence,—that is beyond us. He can frustrate our best efforts, or crown them with success, as He pleases. Our business, then, is with motives—and aims—and means." (The last clauses came slowly, and in the natural, if not the logical, order of thought.) "It is only after we have made sure that those three are right," he went on, "that we are freed from responsibility, and can comfortably leave results to God."
"All very fine," returned Doctor Remy, coolly. "But it seems to me that our motives, means, and aims (that is to say, yours and mine) are the same. Motive, love of life; means, a profession; aim, money,—which though in itself only a means, is the most convenient representative of all that it will buy; that is, all that supports life, and enhances its enjoyments."
"I hope you are not serious," replied Bergan, gravely. "I should be sorry to think that any man—much less a man with your talent, culture, and opportunities for benefiting his fellows—could be satisfied with so poor an ambition as that."
Doctor Remy slightly raised his eyebrows. "My dear fellow," said he, "if you do not follow your profession for the sake of the money that you expect it to bring you, what do you follow it for?"
"Money is one object, of course," answered Bergan, "but I hope it is not the only one, nor even the chief one. When my mind takes a leap into the future, it is not so much fees that I think of, as wrongs to be redressed, and rights to be protected, and influence to be gained and exercised,—yes, and fame and independence to be won."
"All very good things," returned Doctor Remy, smiling; "and all very dependent on those same fees, of which you think so little. Without money, you will not do much for right, nor against wrong; neither can you be independent, or famous, or influential."
"I do not know about that," rejoined Bergan, smiling. "Certainly, it was not his riches that made Diogenes independent. Neither does the name of Howard borrow any of its lustre from gold. Nor—to come down to our own time—is Mr. Islay influential on account of his wealth."
"Mr. Islay influential!" repeated Doctor Remy, contemptuously. "In what way, let me ask?"
"In a hundred ways. Every week, his words, his thoughts, go into scores of hearts and homes, for warning, for comfort, for inspiration; and reappear constantly in human lives. Certain sentences of his last Sunday's sermon have been ringing in my ears all day. And only three or four days ago, Miss Lyte, under the influence of that suggestive discourse, asked me how far I thought one was justified in a purely negative use of a talent,—that is, in merely refraining from doing harm, rather than trying actively to do good. And these are only two examples, you see, where there are doubtless many."
"Priests easily influence women," said the doctor, scornfully.
"Women!" exclaimed Bergan, stretching out a stalwart arm toward the doctor. "Are not those the muscles and sinews of a man?"
"I beg your pardon," said the Doctor, laughing, "I had forgotten what was the first of your two examples. Still, that sort of influence would never suffice for me. If I cared for anything of the kind, it would be for power,—direct, absolute power over men's acts and lives. But as that belongs only to kings and generals, I am content to do with—"
He hesitated.
"Well, what?" said Bergan.
"Wealth—when I get it," answered the doctor. "Wealth, and what it brings; ease, leisure, unlimited opportunity and means for the cultivation of the intellect."
"The intellect, then, is your final object, your ultimate good?" said Bergan.
"Yes; it is the one thing which distinguishes man from the brutes," replied the doctor.
"With the soul," rejoined Bergan.
"A word without an idea," returned the doctor,—"unless, indeed, you mean to apply it to that life-principle, which belongs to plants and animals, as well as men."
Bergan looked amazed. "Do you really make no distinction," he asked, "between mind and soul?"
"None. To me, they are synonymous terms."
"Is it from the intellect, then," said Bergan, "that the moral sense comes?"
Doctor Remy's lips opened for a reply, but closed again in silence. And, knowing that he was never at a loss for a rejoinder, Bergan suspected that the words so suddenly cut off from utterance were of a franker character than his second thought approved. Before his less impromptu answer was ready, Bergan, following out some rapid, unexplained train of thought, asked;—
"Doctor, did you ever feel remorse?"
"Never. That is a disease. I am in health."
"But, doctor," persisted Bergan, "should you call that a healthy body, which was incapable of feeling pain? Should you not rather say that it was paralyzed, or ossified?"
"Just as I should say that it was inflamed, if mere pressure caused it acute pain," answered Doctor Remy.
Bergan looked unconvinced.
"I do not mean that I never feel regret," explained the doctor. "I have often been angry with myself for having been guilty of a mistake."
"A mistake," repeated Bergan, doubtfully. "Do you mean a sin?"
"I will not be particular about terms," replied Doctor Remy, shrugging his shoulders. "But I prefer my own, as better expressing my ideas."
Bergan looked a little bewildered. The doctor again condescended to explain.
"Like you," said he, "I hold it to be every man's duty to make the most of his life,—his talents, time, and health. If he so act as to hinder the development, or impair the value and efficiency, of any of these, does it make any practical difference whether we call it a sin or a mistake?"
"None," answered Bergan, with scorn that he could not repress; "except that it narrows everything,—aim, responsibility, hope, faith, desire, and fulfilment,—down to man's miserable self!"
"Well," said the doctor, coldly, "bring me the most signal example of heroism, disinterestedness, charity,—what you like,—that you can find; and I will point out to you a plain germ of selfishness at the bottom of it."
"What of that?" replied Bergan, with kindling eyes. "Because we can never wholly get rid of self, in this lower life, does it therefore follow that we must concentrate our thoughts and aims upon it? Must we forever deny ourselves the ennobling, elevating, softening influence of a duty and a hope outside of ourselves; an object of affection, trust, and desire, higher than ourselves?"
Bergan reached out for a book, found a marked passage, and read aloud.
"'Take the example of a dog, and mark what a generosity and courage he will put on, when he finds himself maintained by a man, who, to him, is instead of a God, or melior natura; which courage is manifestly such as that creature, without that confidence in a nature better than his own, could never attain. So man, when he resteth and assureth himself upon Divine protection and favor, gathereth a force and faith which human nature would not otherwise obtain.'"
"I deny—" began Dr. Remy, with his wonted audacity. But, at this moment, his office-boy, Scipio, thrust his woolly head in the door with the laconic intimation,—
"Sent for, massa. Drefful hurry."
"And in good time," laughed the doctor. "I was forgetting my professional duty to you,—which was, to have left you long ago to the sleep which you so much need, and which you may now safely and profitably take. Good night."
For some moments, Bergan lay thinking over the conversation. Never had Dr. Remy's low and limited notions of life been so nakedly presented to his abhorrent gaze. A certain distrust and dread awoke within him, accompanied by a chill creeping of the flesh, as at something not altogether human. It impressed him that there was a dark and sinister peculiarity about this man, with the rarely cultivated intellect and the inert affections,—this man whom he had so long called his friend, and who, so far as he knew, had not ill deserved the name;—a peculiarity that could not fail to be pernicious to lives and characters too intimately connected with him. Running over in his mind the whole course of their acquaintance, he could not remember ever to have heard the doctor give utterance to one lofty aspiration, one purely benign impulse, one word of hearty sympathy or generous affection. His opinions and beliefs were chill products of the intellect, unwarmed by any glow of the affections, unpurified by any strict assay of conscience. And Bergan was just beginning to discover that, while pretending to great breadth and depth, they were really narrow, because limited to life and earth, and shallow, because never penetrating below or above the reach of the human intellect, when his thoughts suddenly began to grow vague and dim, as if seen through a mist, and the next moment, he was sound asleep.
Meanwhile, much to his surprise, as well as gratification, Doctor Remy was hastening toward Bergan Hall. Maumer Rue being suddenly seized with alarming symptoms, the Major's head man, Ben, had been despatched to Berganton, with instructions not to return without a physician. In his haste and anxiety, it had not occurred to the Major to make any exception; though he retained a sufficiently angry reminiscence of Doctor Remy's cool and satirical demeanor, on the occasion of his ill-fated visit of reconciliation to Bergan, to have prompted one, if he had bethought himself of it in time.
Ben, therefore, having sought two other representatives of the medical profession without success, finally presented himself at Dr. Remy's office. There the doctor found him, on quitting Bergan's room; and in very brief space of time, the two were driving swiftly up the long avenue, through a moonlight that was scarcely less illuminative than sunshine, and far more beautifying, by reason of the soft charm with which it enhanced beauties while it concealed defects.
It was the first time that Doctor Remy had entered upon the territory of Bergan Hall. He was surprised both at its extent, and its signs of opulence. As he passed the stately, deserted mansion,—showing so fair in the moonlight, under its grand, sheltering oaks,—and came in sight of the populous negro-quarter, and the far stretch of cultivated fields beyond, his face was alive not only with interest, but with something deeper still; it might be calculation.
"A fair inheritance!" he said to himself. "Miss Astra will be a most eligible parti. I wonder if that will is made!"
The Major was standing in the door of his cottage, as the buggy drove up with the doctor.
"So it's you, is it?" was his curt salutation. And his tone and look said plainly enough, "I wish it were anybody else!"
But Doctor Remy, though generally armed at all points against such looks and tones, now seemed to take no notice. "Yes," said he, good-naturedly, "it is I. Harris and Gerrish were both out, and Ben had to take me or nobody. Allow me to assure you that he chose wisely, for, if the case be what I suspect, from his account, it does not admit of delay. It follows, therefore, that the sooner I am introduced to the patient, the better."
If the doctor had been studying his speech for the last half-hour, it could not have been more skilfully constructed. The Major's irritation instantly gave way, partly melted by the doctor's good humor, partly forgotten in a sudden rush of anxiety.
"Come on, then," said he, turning to lead the way to old Rue's cabin, which was but a little way from the cottage. As they approached, painful gasps and groans were distinctly heard from within.
On the doorstep, Major Bergan paused. "She is my old, faithful nurse," said he, feelingly. "Spare nothing,—no skill, nor trouble, nor expense,—no more than if she were the first lady of the county."
A kind of spasm crossed his rugged features, and throwing himself down on a bench beside the door, he left the doctor to enter alone.
X.
FEELING HIS WAY.
Rue was lying on her bed, propped up by pillows into a half-sitting posture. Her breath came raspingly and painfully, and she had the dingy pallor wherewith disease is wont to write itself on the African face.
"Is it death?" she asked, hoarsely, when the doctor had finished his examination. "Because, if it is, I should be glad to know in time to send for Master Bergan,—I mean, Mr. Arling."
Doctor Remy looked down upon the blind woman with a grave,—almost a frowning, face—which she could not see.
"So you are attached to Mr. Arling," said he.
"Certainly, sir," replied Rue, simply. "He is Miss Eleanor's son, you know."
If Doctor Remy did not know, he could easily understand. He was aware that the daughter of a Southern house remains "Miss Eleanor" (or whatever the Christian name might be) to the end of her days, with the dusky home population, although, in the meantime, she may have become a great-grandmother. Moreover, various scattered shreds of rumor came to his recollection, enough to afford a tolerably accurate explanation of the blind woman's reason for desiring to see Bergan Arling at her bedside. And though the matter would seem to be no concern of his, it is certain that he gave it a moment or two of profound study, ere he answered the question which Rue had addressed to him. Indeed, it was very much Doctor Remy's habit—as it is that of selfish natures in general—to consider all events mainly with reference to their bearing upon his own interests, and to hold them important or trivial, according to the degree of favorable or adverse influence which they would be likely to exert upon his fortunes.
The doctor's reflections were short and swift. To the bystanders, there seemed to be only the natural, deliberate pause of the careful physician, before deciding upon the case presented to him. Nor was Rue's patience greatly tried, ere his answer to her question was ready for her.
"Your case is not desperate, this time," said he, "though I can see that it is painful. Your cold, being unwisely left to run its own course, has resulted in inflammation of the throat, and, partially, of the lungs. But it is not beyond present relief, nor permanent cure, I think. At least, we shall soon see."
There was no question of Doctor Remy's professional skill. In Berganton, his scientific superiority had early been recognized by the community, and tacitly conceded by his medical brethren. Yet he could hardly be said to be popular, even with his patients. There was no affection mingled with the respect accorded to his talent. It was intuitively felt, if not clearly understood and expressed, that, though he brought every resource of science to the sick-chamber, he brought nothing else. He was as cold and pitiless as his own steel probe or lance. And there are times when a deep, human sympathy, on the part of the physician, is as real a medicament to the sufferer, as any set down in the pharmacopeia; in which fact many a genial quack finds his account. It had come, therefore, to be very much the Berganton habit to reserve Doctor Remy's skill for severe accidents, for consultations, for the awful conflict of life and death over wasted forms writhing with sharp pain, or locked in moveless stupor. But the thousand pettier ills of life, which asked for tender consideration almost as imperatively as for medicine, preferred to commit themselves to the fatherly kindness of good old Doctor Harris, or the warm-hearted enthusiasm of the last medical arrival,—Doctor Gerrish, whose scientific attainments had, as yet, to be taken for granted, but whose smile was a veritable cordial.
It was Doctor Remy's fate, therefore, to stand by many deathbeds,—where he comported himself much more like a baffled and beaten general than a sympathetic, sorrow-stricken friend. It was also his frequent privilege to see the life-forces rally and stand fast, under his generalship, to begin anew the fight that seemed wellnigh over, to win back, inch by inch, the ground that had been lost, and finally to stand a conqueror on the field. Even then, those most indebted to his skill were often chilled to see how little the cold triumph of his face had to do with their deep heart gladness. Nevertheless, this was the position wherein the doctor appeared at his best,—as now at Rue's bedside.
For some reason,—probably as a step to Major Bergan's favor,—he was putting forth all his skill. In one respect, he was always admirable: he never hesitated to put his professional hand to any business that might seem to belong more properly to the nurse. Rue's attendants were ignorant and awkward; if Doctor Remy had not helped to carry his orders into effect, progress would have been slow. As it was, the treatment was prompt and effective. In about an hour, the acute pains had ceased, respiration had become less difficult, and Rue having devoutly thanked the doctor, under God, for relief so speedy and so grateful, had turned on her side for a complete self-surrender to the delightful drowsiness that was stealing over her.
Coming out, Dr. Remy found Brick waiting for him, on the bench where he had left the Major.
"Is gramma goin' to get well?" he asked, anxiously.
"Certainly,—in a few days," returned the doctor. "Where is your master?"
The negro pointed to the Major's cottage. "Ole massa is thar," he answered. "He tole me, when you's t'rough, to ax you to come an' see him."
The doctor turned in the direction indicated, but was plainly in no hurry to reach the goal. He walked very leisurely, stopping, now and then, to look round on the moonlit landscape. Not till he seemed to have settled some knotty point to his satisfaction, did he enter the cottage.
The Major was seated at the table, with his bottle and glass before him. He did not need to ask Doctor Remy how the case had gone; that had already been made known to him by the mouths of half-a-dozen eager messengers. He merely said, in a tone that was half a protest;—
"I never expected to be so much obliged to you, Doctor Remy. I should be sorry to lose my faithful old nurse. She is the last link between me and my early days. Is she out of danger?"
"For the present, yes. And in the morning, I will look in to see how she goes on,—that is, if you wish."
"I shall take it as a favor," returned the Major, in a tone that was almost courteous. "Sit down, before you go, and take a drink."
Doctor Remy quietly took a chair, but shook his head at the proffered glass. "No, thank you," said he. "We physicians need to keep our heads clear and our nerves steady; and brandy does not conduce to either."
"It never hurt mine," answered Major Bergan, rather surlily, as if he suspected a covert insinuation in the doctor's words.
"Perhaps not," replied Dr. Remy, indifferently. And, glancing out of the open window, he added, "A fine place you have here."
"The finest in the county," replied the Major, with frank pride. "That is, as far as soil and crops are concerned. The old Hall is out of repair, to be sure, but it can be restored to its former grandeur, whenever I see fit."
Dr. Remy gave his host a long, penetrating, comprehensive look. "I should advise you not to neglect the work too long," he observed, gravely, "if you have it much at heart."
Major Bergan set down the glass that was on its way to his lips, and looked wonderingly at his guest.
"Why?" he asked.
"Because a man of your age, with your habits, breaks down soon, when once he begins."
"My habits!" growled the Major, drawing his eyebrows into a heavy frown, "what do you mean, you insolent scamp?"
"I mean," replied Doctor Remy, composedly, "habits at once active, careless, and self-indulgent; such as riding or walking in the heat of the day, spending hours in the rice fields, rising early and sitting up late, eating ad libitum, and drinking ad infinitum."
The summary was too truthful, and the tone too professional, for the Major to retain his unreasonable anger. He merely asked,—"How do you know that I do these things?"
"By your looks."
"Pshaw!" exclaimed Major Bergan, with a scornful curl of the lip.
Doctor Remy smiled, with the calm unconcern of a man who knows his ground. "Your looks tell me more than that," said he.
"If they tell you anything but that I am well,—perfectly well,—they lie," answered the Major, bluntly.
"I am glad to hear it," replied Doctor Remy. "Doubtless, then, you sleep sound and soft."
"No, I don't," grumbled the Major, with unsuspecting frankness, "I sleep like a man tossed in a blanket."
"And probably you have pleasant dreams."
"On the contrary, a perfect Bedlam of furies and horrors."
"And I suppose that you never have headaches, or dizziness, or vagueness and loss of sight."
"I have them all," growled the Major, with an oath, "every miserable item of them. I had an attack, about a fortnight ago, that actually laid me up in bed for a day! I wonder what it all means!"
Doctor Remy forebore to signalize his victory by so much as a triumphant look. "It means," he answered, quietly, "that you will be none the worse for a little medicine in the house, as a provision for future attacks of the sort."
And opening his pocket medicine-case, Doctor Remy selected three or four small phials, and began to measure, mix, and fold up powders, with a dexterity that it pleased the Major to witness. He noticed, too, that the doctor's brow was deeply knit as he prosecuted his task, and that he held one of the phials suspended, for a moment, over the small square of paper, before discharging its contents. All this looked as if his case was getting due consideration, and the Major was proportion ably gratified.
Doctor Remy ended by pushing a dozen or more of tiny folded papers across the table. "Take one, in water, every two hours," said he, "till the symptoms abate,—that is, of course, when you have another attack. There are enough for several occasions; I know you do not like to send for a doctor, if it can be avoided. At the same time," he added, "take care to drop those careless habits that I mentioned."
The last sentence brought a cloud to Major Bergan's brow; but the doctor gave it time to dissipate while he packed his medicine case, and chatted pleasantly about its convenient arrangements. "And now," said he, rising, "what else can I do for you?"
"Nothing, that I know of," replied the Major, "except it be to present your bill. What else can a doctor do?"
"Several things," answered Doctor Remy, lightly. "Make your will, for instance."
The Major laughed outright. "I should say that was a lawyer's business," said he.
"So it is. But do you not know that I once belonged to the bar?"
"I do remember hearing something of the sort, now that you remind me of it," rejoined the Major dryly. "I don't think any the better of you for it."
"Nor any the worse, I hope," returned Doctor Remy, placidly. "At all events, I always advise my patients to make their wills. There is nothing like a mind at rest about the future, to prolong life." He seemed to speak carelessly, yet he fastened a keen look on the Major's face, nevertheless.
The latter only smiled. "When I want my will made," said he, coolly, "I will employ you to do the job."
"He has made it already, as he said he would," thought Doctor Remy to himself. "And the chances are that he won't live to alter it.
"I shall be very much at your service," he answered, aloud. "And now, I must be getting townward; I have to see another patient this evening."
The Major followed him out, and stood for some moments watching the retreating buggy. Doctor Remy, looking back, saw him there in the moonlight, and a strange, furtive look came into his eyes.
"I have given 'Providence' a chance," said he to himself. "Let us see what it does with it."
Major Bergan, meanwhile, was muttering,—"What did he mean, I wonder, by talking to me about my will? It is certainly no concern of his. Does he really think me near death?" And the Major shivered, as if there had been an uncomfortable chill in the thought.
"Uncle Harry," said a clear, sweet voice, close at his elbow. He started, and turned quickly round.
A slender, girlish shape,—a graceful head, drooping like a lily on its stem,—a fair, pure, bright face,—this was the vision that confronted him, and carried him back to his youth, and to the love of his youth; the untoward course of which had doubtless helped to make him the man that he was.
"Clarissa!" he exclaimed, trembling, and feeling as if he were in a dream.
The vision smiled. "Do you not know me, uncle?" it asked, in its sweet tones; "I am Carice."
"Ah!" said the Major, slowly, and as if but half awake. He took his niece's hands, and gazed earnestly in her face. "You are like your mother, child, or like what she was at your age, much more than you are like the child that used to play around my knees,—let me see,—six—eight—nine years ago. I missed her, Carice, when she stopped coming, I missed her."
"She missed you, too, uncle," replied Carice. "She was very fond of you.'
"Then why did she stop coming? asked the Major, gloomily.
"Because, uncle," answered Carice, simply, "she grew old enough to know that it is a child's duty to obey, and not to question."
The Major's brow darkened; but he looked sad, too. "I never laid it up against you, Carice," he said, with significant emphasis.
"Nor against any one, I hope," replied Carice, coaxingly. "Oh, uncle, ought not this long feud to cease?"
Major Bergan shook his head. "There is no feud between you and me, child," said he. "But, as for your father," he went on, with a kindling eye and a roughening voice, "when he—"
Carice laid her hand upon his arm. "As you were just saying," said she, gently, "he is my father. And, dear uncle, a daughter's ear is easily hurt."
The Major stopped, and nearly choked himself with the sentence so suddenly arrested on his lips. "Then, what are you here for?" he finally blurted out, half-wonderingly, half-sternly.
"Ah!" exclaimed Carice, in a tone of sudden recollection, "I had nearly forgotten my errand, in the pleasure of seeing you."
The Major's face grew soft again. He put his hands on Carice's shoulders, turned her toward the full moonlight, and looked long and earnestly in her face. "How beautiful you have grown!" said he, with even more of wonder than admiration in his voice; "I am not sure but that you are still more beautiful than she was. But you don't look as if you belonged to this earth, child; and there's not a bit of the family look left in you. Are you certain that you are Carice Bergan, and not a changeling?"
"Quite sure, uncle," she answered, smiling, "Ask Rosa, there, if I am not." She pointed to her maid, who had accompanied her, and stood waiting near.
"Then, Miss Bergan," said the Major, making her a courtly bow, "what can your old uncle do for you?"
"Nothing, at present," she replied, "except to let me keep my own, old corner in his heart. I only came to see Maumer Rue, if I may. We heard she was dying. So I begged hard to be allowed to come and tell her that I had not forgotten how kind she used to be to me, and to see if I could do anything for her. I fancied it would please her to see me, if she is still able to recognize me. Is she?"
"Perfectly able," replied Major Bergan, "and will be, I hope, for years to come. She has been very ill, but she is much better. She is now asleep."
"Then I will not disturb her," returned Carice. "And yet, I am loath to go back without a glimpse of her. Could I not look in upon her for one moment? I will be sure not to make a sound."
Major Bergan led her to Rue's cabin, and waited on the threshold, while, with her finger on her lips, to guard against any outburst of astonishment from the negro woman in attendance, she stole softly to the bedside, and bent over the sleeping Rue. A wondrously lovely picture she made there,—a picture of such unearthly grace, delicacy, and purity, that the Major's eyes filled with unconscious moisture as he gazed.
Suddenly Rue's lips parted, in a dream, "The Bergan star!" said she. "See! it rises!" And, after a moment, she added, decidedly, "He shall have Bergan Hall!"
Carice quickly stole out to her uncle. His face looked very gloomy, as he led her back toward the cottage.
"Carice," said he, suddenly, "have you seen your Western cousin?"
"Bergan Arling? Yes, certainly," she answered.
"How do you like him?"
"He seems very pleasant," she replied, evasively.
"Seems!" repeated her uncle, gruffly. "What is the matter with him?"
"I do not know, uncle. It is said that he is very dissipated."
The Major laughed ironically. "Nonsense! The most incorrigible milksop that ever I saw," said he. "That is why we quarrelled."
Carice looked at him doubtfully. "The very first thing that we heard of him," said she, "was that he had been mixed up in a low brawl at Gregg's tavern."
"All my fault, Carice," returned Major Bergan, shortly. "I took him there, and cheated him into swallowing a glass of raw brandy."
Carice's blue eyes looked a sorrowful astonishment.
"I did not mean to do him any harm," pursued the Major, answering their mute eloquence; "I only wanted to teach him to drink like a man and a Bergan. I loved the boy, Carice, like my own son, and would have kept him with me, if I could. But he forsook me for the law, the ungrateful dog!"
"Perhaps he had no choice," suggested Carice.
"No choice! Didn't he have the choice of Bergan Hall, and all that belongs to it? That was what was running in Maumer Rue's head, just now. But he preferred independence—and a tin sign in his window! He is a degenerate scion of the race, like your—" The Major suddenly recollected himself, and broke off with a dry cough.
Carice was looking down thoughtfully. An unexpected clue to Bergan's character, motives, and aims, had been put into her hands; and she was slowly trying to follow it out.
"Thank you, uncle, for telling me this," said she, at length. "I am afraid we have been doing Bergan an injustice."
"You certainly have, if you have thought him a drunkard," replied the Major. "But, nevertheless, he's no true Bergan, Carice; don't have anything to do with him."
"No more than is just and right," said Carice, quietly. "And now I must go; mamma will be getting anxious. Come a little way with me, uncle, as you used to do."
The Major walked by her side down to the creek, and watched her anxiously across the dilapidated bridge.
"Don't come that way again," he called to her, as she reached the other end. "It's unsafe."
"Mend it then, uncle," she called back to him. "For I like old paths—and old friends—best."
The Major turned away with a smile. And all the way to the cottage he was saying to himself,—
"Perhaps I had better make my will."
XI.
SLEEPLESS NIGHTS APPOINTED.
Doctor Remy possessed in perfection the power of rapid concentration of thought. Otherwise, he would have taken a divided mind to the bedside of his second patient, that night, after leaving Bergan Hall. As it was, he was glad when the stroke of midnight set him free, body and mind; the one to find its way mechanically to the hotel, through the silent moonlighted streets of Berganton, the other to occupy itself in arranging and perfecting the details of a certain plan for his future advantage, which had suddenly shaped itself out before him, so distinctly, if roughly, that he had already taken an important step toward its accomplishment. It now remained to provide for the rest of the way.
The midnight heaven was without a cloud, and the moon filled it with white radiance. Every object down the long line of the town's principal street was shown with the clearness of noonday, but also with the ghostlike awfulness that moonlight is wont to impart to objects the most familiar. The large, wooden houses, with their broad, shadowy piazzas and dim doorways; the wide, empty sidewalks; the great, shining-leaved oaks, dotting the silvered highway with black islands of shadow; the narrow wheel-track, with its broad margin of grass and weeds, through which an isolated footpath took its solitary way to every gate;—all were distinctly visible, but with a singularity of aspect that seemed to change their whole character and meaning.
And perhaps something of the same effect extended to the countenance of Doctor Remy, as he came down the street, followed by the dreary echo of his own lonely footsteps, as if dogged by immitigable fate. To his features, as to all other objects, the moonlight seemed to impart a new expression. Those who were best acquainted with him, had any such been abroad, would have needed to look twice at his dark moody countenance, and the ominous gleam of his deepset eyes, to feel themselves quite sure of his identity. Continuing to brood over the casual encounter, as they pursued their way, they might have tried to divine what sombre energy of purpose it was that had lit his eyes with such deep, dusky light, and marked his brow and eyes with lines so sternly rigid; shuddering, too, to think how remorselessly he would sweep from his terribly direct, if underground, path, whatever object should intervene between himself and his goal. Then, seeing how the moonbeams had subtilized some mean hovel into a phantom palace or tomb, wrought of alternate silver and ebony, they would be fain to set down both the origin and substance of their reflections to the same magical agency, and breathe more freely in making haste to forget the whole matter.
Secure in the absence of all observation, the dark face kept on its way through the silent street, giving its features the fullest liberty of evil expression. Opposite the principal dry goods store of the street, it paused for a moment; its restless glance had caught sight of a faint gleam from one of the rear shutters, which was plainly not moonlight.
"They are up late," muttered the doctor, "or there is mischief afoot. Well! what is it to me? Have I not enough else to think of?" And he kept on his rapid way.
But the incident seemed to have set free the faculty of speech. Words began to drop from his set lips; short, disconnected sentences, through which, nevertheless, there ran a distinct thread of suggestion.
"I have waited long enough,"—so ran one of these half-involuntary utterances,—"I have waited long enough for Fortune's willing favors; it is time to grapple with the exasperating jade, and wring them from her reluctant hands, by fair means or foul. For what else was I endowed with talent, daring, energy, and will, beyond most men? Not, certainly, to waste them all in earning a bare subsistence, or little more, as I am now doing."
"Is it my fault," he went on, in broken, detached sentences,—"is it my fault that Fortune never shows herself to me, save at the farther end of some dark vista which the world calls crime?—Pshaw! what is a life, one worthless, drunken, half-worn-out life, in comparison with the ends that I have in view,—increase of knowledge, expansion and perfection of science, and through them—as a casual end, I do not pretend that it is a direct one, for me—the advancement of the human race.—The plan seems feasible, as much so, at least, as anything can be, in this miserable, mocking world, where Fate seems to delight in balking the best talent and deranging the artfulest contrivance.—Fate, Chance, or Providence, which? Three different terms for the same thing;—language would be more accurate, if there were less of it.—At any rate, I have given Providence a chance. Let it take the responsibility of the result.—If that will be not made! But to whom else should he give the place? He cannot abide either his brother or his nephew. And Miss Lyte comes next. Besides, there are ways of finding a will, at need. The essential point is, that no other be made."
He was now nearing Mrs. Lyte's house, and the sight of it prompted his next sentence.
"Astra!—there, at least, the way is easy. Only, it must be secret;—I doubt if the old Major would altogether relish me for his heir, despite to-night's increase of cordiality.—As for Arling, it is said that history—"
Dr. Remy broke off suddenly. The subject of his soliloquy was calmly looking at him across Mrs. Lyte's gate.
"Pardon me for interrupting jour conversation," said Bergan, with a smile which satisfied the doctor that he had not heard what he was saying. "One's talks with one's self are sometimes very interesting."
"Why are you not in bed?" asked the doctor, with a sharpness that Bergan set down to professional anxiety.
"A man who goes to bed at six may well get up at twelve," he replied, lightly, "especially if sleep forsakes him. Have you been out until this time?"
"Yes," answered the doctor, debating within himself whether he would speak of his visit to Bergan Hall, and quickly deciding in the negative, since there was little probability that Bergan would hear it from anybody else; inasmuch as the Hall led an independent, isolated life of its own, the events of which rarely made their way into the talk of the town. "It is nothing new for me to be late," he added, by way of finish to his monosyllable.
"I will walk down with you as far as the hotel," said Bergan, coming out, and closing the gate behind him. "Perhaps I may be able to pick up a few seeds of sleep on the way, which will sprout into another nap, when I return. What a night it is!"
"For lunatics—yes," said the doctor dryly.
"Among which you would doubtless class your humble servant," returned Bergan, "if you could look into his mind, at this moment."
"Very likely," rejoined Doctor Remy, indifferently; but he gave his companion a quick, keen glance, nevertheless.
Bergan was looking straight before him. "Doctor," said he, suddenly, "I believe you know the world well; what does it do to the man who goes counter to its traditions and prejudices,—whom, in short, it is pleased to look upon as a kind of modern Don Quixote?"
"Laughs at him first, hammers him next, flings him aside last," returned the doctor, sententiously.
"But if he does not mind being laughed at, bears the hammering without flinching when he must, hammers back again when he may, and will not be flung aside, what then?" pursued Bergan.
The doctor stopped short in his walk, and looked long and searchingly in the young man's face. "Then," said he, slowly, as if the words were drawn out of him almost against his will,—"then it gives way to him, and honors its conqueror. But," he added, "it is a long, exhausting contest. I do not advise you to try it."
"Thank you," answered Bergan, quietly. "I am inclined to try it, nevertheless. But here we are at the hotel. Good night."
Doctor Remy stood on the steps of the hotel, looking moodily after him.
"What has he taken into his head now?" he asked himself.
He had not long to wait for an answer. In the morning, the light which he had noticed in the rear of the drygoods store, found its sufficient explanation in an empty safe and rifled shelves. A week afterward, a tall, ill-favored man was arrested on suspicion of being concerned in the robbery. Two days later, it was known that Bergan Arling had positively refused to undertake his defence. In due course of time, it leaked out, through the amazed prisoner himself, that he had done so because he believed it to be no part of his professional duty to try to shield a criminal from just punishment.
XII.
A CONSULTATION.
Plainly, Mrs. Bergan had something on her mind, that bright spring morning. Though she poured her husband's second cup of coffee with a deliberation that seemed to promise much for its flavor, he was fain to send it back, after tasting it, with the explanatory remark:—
"You have forgotten to smile into it, my dear; it is not sweet enough."
"Eh!" exclaimed Mrs. Bergan, absently, extending her hand toward the cream pitcher.
"I doubt if cream will mend the matter much," observed Mr. Bergan, gravely. "A lump of sugar might do, if the smile be absolutely non est."
Mrs. Bergan's mind having by this time returned to the business in hand, both sugar and smile were immediately forthcoming, in sufficient measure to threaten the coffee with excess of sweets. Nevertheless, she continued to have fits of abstraction, at short intervals, until the breakfast things had been removed, and Carice had quitted the room. Then, she turned to her husband with a serious face.
"I really think, Godfrey," she began, "that we owe your nephew some attention."
"Of what kind, pray?" inquired Mr. Bergan, in considerable surprise.
"Well, it seems to me that we ought,—once, at least,—to invite him formally to dinner."
"Pray, what has he been doing, to place us under such an obligation?" asked Mr. Bergan, somewhat dryly.
Mrs. Bergan colored slightly. "I am afraid that we made a mistake at the outset," said she. "Of course, the attention was due to him then as much as now."
"I thought we agreed that the less Carice saw of him, the better," replied Mr. Bergan.
"Yes, I know. But that was because we believed him to be of intemperate habits."
Men of Godfrey Bergan's thoughtful and deliberate character, when they adopt a mistaken opinion, are wont to wedge it in so firmly among things undeniably true and just, that to dislodge it is like tearing up an oak which has rooted itself in a rock cleft. "I wish I were certain that he is not," he answered, with a slow, grave shake of the head.
Mrs. Bergan gave him a surprised look. "I don't see why you should doubt him," said she. "Everybody agrees that a more correct young man does not exist. He is always to be found in his office during office hours, attends Church regularly on Sundays, as well as at most of the occasional services, goes into but little society, and that of the very best,—what more would you have?"
"Nothing," replied her husband, "except the certainty that it will last. A drunkard's reform is so rarely a permanent thing, that one is justified in distrusting it. Though he may keep as sober as a Carthusian monk for a few months, or even for a year or two, his unhappy appetite is only a caged lion: in the first unguarded moment, it is certain to break out, and to sweep everything before it—resolution, hope, energy, and promise. Unfortunately for my nephew, perhaps, but very fortunately for ourselves, I fancy, I happen to retain a distinct recollection of my first meeting with him."
"But," urged Mrs. Bergan, "I thought Carice told you what your brother Harry said about that matter."
"With all due respect for my brother Harry," returned her husband, coolly, "I don't consider his testimony, in this matter, to be worth much. Intemperance is, in his estimation, so very venial a sin,—not to say, so very Berganly a virtue,—that he would be sure to extenuate it, if he could."
"He would never say what was not true," affirmed Mrs. Bergan, decidedly.
"No, but he would look at the affair from his own point of view, and speak accordingly."
"But your nephew left him on account of that very affair," persisted Mrs. Bergan, "and has refused to have anything to do with him since, even with Bergan Hall held out to him as a bait."
"In which," rejoined Mr. Bergan, composedly, "he shows that he has more of the hereditary temper than is good for him, or any one connected with him. It is the same trait that has made Harry so bitter against us, all these years. And one feud in the family was enough—and too much."
Mrs. Bergan began to look annoyed. While she admitted the general truth of her husband's observations, she had an intuitive conviction of their present misapplication. Her womanly instincts were all in Bergan's favor. But that, she knew, was no ground of effective argument.
Her husband looked at her clouded face, for a moment, and then went to her side. "Confess now, Clarissa," said he, pleasantly, laying his hand on her shoulder, "that our nephew's claims upon our attention would never have presented themselves so strongly to your mind, were it not for his late brilliant hit in the court room, and the sudden admiration and popularity which it has won him."
A slight flush showed on Mrs. Bergan's cheek; nevertheless, she met her husband's eyes frankly. "I acknowledge that those things had their effect in making me ashamed of myself," she answered. "But, all the time, I have had an uneasy feeling that we were not doing our duty by your sister's son. Surely, we ought to have been the very last persons to have listened to, and acted upon, a rumor unfavorable to him; or, if it were certain that he had made a false step, we should have been ready with our influence and countenance, to help him to retrieve himself."
"You forget, my dear," said Mr. Bergan, gently, "that it was for Carice's sake. We were thinking only of her."
"And so we did evil that good might come," returned his wife, somewhat ruefully. "But evil follows the universal law, and brings forth after its kind."
"What do you mean?" asked Mr. Bergan, looking both surprised and puzzled.
Mrs. Bergan smiled at him half-pityingly, half-sarcastically. "Oh, ye men!" she exclaimed, "if ye are wise as serpents, in matters of the intellect, ye are blind as bats, in matters of the heart."
"I am ready to admit the truth of the abstract proposition," said Mr. Bergan, quizzically, "as soon as I am made to understand in what way I furnish a proof of it."
"Don't you see," returned Mrs. Bergan, seriously, "that if ever Carice is to become over-interested in Bergan, now is the time,—now that he is presented to her imagination in the attractive light of a long neglected and misunderstood, but patient, persevering, and, finally, all-conquering hero?"
Mr. Bergan looked as if he did see—several things. "Is that the reason why you propose to throw them together?" he asked, dryly.
"Certainly," replied Mrs. Bergan, with perfect composure. "The first thing is to destroy the halo with which he is now surrounded, by bringing him into the disenchanting daylight of commonplace, everyday association. Next, we must rob him of the crown of martyrdom, so far as we are concerned, by frankly confessing that we were a little too severe upon him at first, and by doing full justice to his talents in a matter-of-fact way. Finally, we must make the most of the relationship."
"You may be right," said Mr. Bergan, after some moments of deep thought. "Though, at first sight, it looks very much like jumping into the river, to avoid the rain."
"My dear," replied Mrs. Bergan, earnestly, "we cannot keep them apart, if we would, as matters are now turning. Twice already, we have met him at dinner parties, where he is the lion of the hour, and everybody makes much of him but ourselves; and we shall continue to do so, until the round is finished. It must be confessed that he wears his honors modestly; at times, I cannot help feeling proud of him myself."
"I never doubted his ability, nor overlooked his pleasing manners," said Mr. Bergan. "But what are they but gems on a poisoned cup, if the virus of intemperance be in his blood, or his principles be unsound?"
"The latter can hardly be the case," remarked Mrs. Bergan, "if the report be true that he refuses to have anything to do with a cause that he does not believe to be just. That seems to argue uncommon strength of principle."
"I am not so sure about that," returned Mr. Bergan, shaking his head dubiously. "Most people, I find, regard it as one of the many eccentricities of genius. Others think he only showed his shrewdness in declining to undertake a cause that he was sure to lose, after his brilliant victory in the case of Corlew vs. Kenan. Besides, he has not announced that such is to be his settled course of action. And if he did, it would seem arrogant, in so young a man. It is, in fact, judging the cause before it is tried."
"It strikes me that a man must needs judge things beforehand, where his own conscience is concerned," observed Mrs. Bergan, thoughtfully. "You would not expect him to act first, and decide afterward whether he had done right or wrong."
"In judging his own actions, he need not judge those of his fellows," replied Mr. Bergan, somewhat magisterially.
His wife could not help wondering within herself how such judgment could well be avoided, where a course of action was involved. But she wisely forbore to press the point, and reverted to the main argument.
"At all events," said she, "if he gets to visit here frequently and familiarly, we shall have an opportunity of seeing for ourselves what his character really is. He may prove to be everything that is safe and admirable; or he and Carice may never think of each other in the way that we are contemplating. And, after all, I think we might trust our daughter; she has never shown herself silly or wilful; she is not likely to despise our judgment, or disregard our wishes."
"All the more reason why we should do our whole duty by her," rejoined Mr. Bergan, "in the way of prevention as well as cure. In such matters, parental commands generally come too late to forestall mischief; the most that they do is to prevent it from going any farther."
"True," replied Mrs. Bergan, quietly. "And I confess that I might have been more puzzled what to do, if,"—Mrs. Bergan made a slight pause, to give her words the greater effect (like a wise woman, she had kept her strongest argument until the last),—"if I were not tolerably certain that he is already engaged—or, at least, likely to become so—to Astra Lyte."
"That alters the case, indeed," said Mr. Bergan, thoughtfully. "But what reason have you for thinking so?"
"Miss Ferrars was here last evening, and she told me—in confidence, you know—that she had no doubt of it whatever. Her window overlooks Astra's studio, and she says that she often sees him there, helping Astra about her work, or watching her with the most absorbing interest, or talking to her with a very tell-tale earnestness."
"It would hardly be received as evidence in a court of justice," said Mr. Bergan, smiling, "though it sounds suggestive. But Miss Ferrars is given to gossip—'in confidence,' as you say."
His wife laughed. "Of course she is; else I should never have heard of this pleasant probability. For both pleasant and probable it certainly is. Astra is turning out a wonderfully fine, talented girl; and she and Mrs. Lyte have been Bergan's fast friends and defenders, all along. How can he show his gratitude more gracefully than by marrying her?"
"Does Carice know of this?" asked Mr. Bergan, after a moment.
"Yes; Miss Ferrars told me in her presence, and greatly shocked her by doing so. She thinks it wrong to connect names so carelessly."
"She is right," said Mr. Bergan, emphatically.
"At the same time," continued Mrs. Bergan, "she remarked, that it would be a very nice thing, if it were only true. And afterward she said that she would like to renew her acquaintance with Astra;—you remember that the two were very good child-friends, though circumstances have kept them apart, of late,—as they have their mothers! I really feel guilty when I think how fond I used to be of Catherine Lyte, and how I have allowed her to slip out of my life. But then, we were both invalids, for many years, with scarce strength enough for home cares, and not a jot for friendship or society. Still, I have all my old regard for her carefully buried in my heart, like the talent in the parable; intact, if not in a way to increase. One of these days, I mean to dig it up, and go with Carice to pay her a visit, and take a look at the wonders of Astra's studio."
"I am glad to hear it," said Mr. Bergan. "Well! I suppose the conclusion of the whole matter is, that we are to give Bergan a dinner, and the freedom of the house."
"Precisely," replied Mrs. Bergan, nodding her head. "And now, I want to consult you about the invitation list."
Mr. Bergan rose hastily. "I am quite content to leave that to you, my dear."
His wife caught his arm, "You are not going to shirk the responsibility in that way," she said, decidedly. "I really want your advice. Am I to ask Dr. Remy?"
"Why not?"
"I don't quite like the man."
"I cannot see what you have against him, unless it be that he was not born in the county, and you don't know his whole pedigree."
Mrs. Bergan did not answer. She knew her dislike to be a case of spontaneous generation, and not at all qualified to give a lucid account of itself.
"Besides," continued her husband, "he is Bergan's particular friend."
"Is he?" asked Mrs. Bergan, innocently. "I did not know that he was anybody's friend."
"Clarissa!" exclaimed Mr. Bergan, rebukingly. "I never heard Dr. Remy speak ill of anybody, in all my acquaintance with him."
"Did you ever hear him speak well of anybody?" responded Mrs. Bergan,—"well enough, that is, to give you new interest, faith, delight, in the person of whom he spoke? On the contrary, does he not somehow manage to chill what you have?"
"I cannot say that he talks of his friends with the warm effusion of a woman," answered Mr. Bergan, sarcastically.
"But only with the cold malice of a man," retorted Mrs. Bergan. "There! a truce! He shall come, if only to prove what I have said. Next, I want to invite Mrs. Lyte and Astra."
"Very well."
"And Mr. Islay, and Judge and Mrs. Morris, and—"
"You have seven already," interrupted Mr. Bergan, "making ten with ourselves; which I hold to be the magic number for a dinner party. If you want to invite anybody else, better wait till another time."
Mrs. Bergan was wise enough to be the bearer of her own invitation to Mrs. Lyte; else it would scarcely have been accepted. The latter had lost the taste for society with the habit of it; nothing short of the personal solicitation of her old friend, now asking it as a favor to herself, and now urging it for Astra's sake, would have induced her to give up, even for a few hours, the seclusion that had slowly been transformed, for her as for most invalids, from a grievous necessity into a calm pleasantness.
Thus far, Mrs. Bergan was successful. But she missed seeing either Astra or Bergan; both happened to be out, on their respective ways. As regarded the former, it did not much matter; but she was sorry not to see Bergan, and utter the few graceful words of apology for the past, as well as of promise for the future, wherewith she had intended to preface her invitation to dinner, and inaugurate her new policy. As it was, she could only leave a pencilled note of invitation on his desk, and reserve her explanation for a personal interview. Then she went back to the studio, where she admired everything cordially, and with wonderful impartiality. Carice, meanwhile, was hanging over the winged cherub, with a deep, silent delight that went to Mrs. Lyte's heart.
"You will take such pleasure in meeting her again!" she said to Astra, when she came in, a few moments after the visitors had gone. "She is just the friend that you need."
"I am not so sure about that!" returned Astra wilfully. "I sometimes catch a glimpse of her at church; and she looks a great deal too soft and dainty and delicate for a friend. If I were a Roman Catholic, I might set her up in a corner, and worship her as a madonna, or a saint. But, being a Protestant, I really don't see that I have any need of her,—or she, indeed, of me!"
Mrs. Lyte shook her head in mild reproof. "You do say such strange things, Astra," said she, "things so liable to be misunderstood."
"You do not misunderstand them, mamma," returned Astra, fondly.
"No, but Mr. Arling might."
Astra turned, in surprise, and met Bergan's quiet smile. He had come in just behind her, and had heard almost the whole.
"I think not," said Astra, coolly. "Mr. Arling is pretty well used to my ways, by this time. We were speaking," she continued, "of that ineffable combination of snow and sunshine, lily and rose, saint and angel, known among mortals by the name of Carice Bergan. Can you even imagine being on familiar terms with her? Or would you if you could? Does she not seem fitter for a pedestal or a shrine,—some place a little above, or remote from, life's ordinary round?"
"She does, indeed," replied Bergan, earnestly. "There is a half-unearthly purity about her, that keeps even one's thoughts at a reverent distance. Snow and sunshine!—yes, she has something of both, a kind of soft, white chill, interfused with a rich brightness, half-golden, half roseate;—but it is impossible to put the idea into words!"
And Bergan turned, musingly, toward his office door.
Astra looked after him, for a moment, and then glanced smilingly at her mother.
"Fortunately, there are such things as household divinities," said she.
"Eh?" said Mrs. Lyte, wonderingly.
But Astra did not explain.
XIII.
DINNER-TABLE TALK.
Late wisdom is apt to taste of the flower of folly whence it is distilled. So, at least, thought Mrs. Bergan, when, months afterward, she looked back upon her dinner-party, and seemed to see in it the beginning of trouble. But it is probable that nothing which she could have done, or left undone, would have availed to alter the natural, irresistible course of events. At the most, she may have hastened its current a little. Her dinner-party only furnished a convenient point of meeting for lives inevitably tending toward each other, for influences long converging, and certain to meet at last, in clash or harmony. Without it, there must needs have been a swift birth of friendship between Carice and Astra, at their next meeting; which meeting could not have been much longer deferred. Without it, Doctor Remy would assiduously have spun his web for self-advantage, fastening his threads indifferently to whatever or whomsoever seemed to promise the best support, and quickly unfastening them whenever a prop failed him. Without it, the hearts of Bergan and Carice would sooner or later have inclined toward each other, by reason of an instinct truer and surer than maternal foresight or forestalling.
The dinner was, per se, a success. The table was elegant with glass, silver, and flowers; the viands were the creation of one of those round, greasy Africanesses, who are born to the gridiron not less indubitably than a poet to the lyre; and white-haired old Sancho waited with a blending of obsequiousness and pomposity, wonderful to behold. There were neither culinary failures to harrow the soul of the hostess, nor glass-fractures or sauce-spillings to disconcert her guests.
The conversation was bright, easy, and desultory, as well as interlocutory and general by turns, as dinner-table talk should be. Only once, and that quite at the last, did it take a graver turn than was well suited to the occasion, or seem to stir any ill-feeling. In a pause of the more general conversation, Doctor Remy was heard saying to Carice, who sat next him;—
"You are fortunate in being able to believe so implicitly, without ampler proof."
"Do you think the proof insufficient, then?" asked Carice, with a little look of wonder in her blue eyes.
"To some minds," answered Doctor Remy, evasively.
"Perhaps," interposed Mr. Islay, whose ears had been open for some moments toward this conversation,—"perhaps such minds find the proof insufficient only because they have not yet been able to look at it in the right light."
"What light do you mean?" asked Doctor Remy, a little doubtfully.
"The light of a renewed heart and an obedient life. No man apprehends the truths of Christianity clearly, nor believes them with a belief that is worth anything, until he feels his own personal need of them. When that time comes, he catches hold of them, without proof, as it were,—or, at least, without other proof than their felt adaptation to that intense need,—-just as a man who is hungry and thirsty accepts convenient food without troubling himself about its chemical analysis. Then, holding them fast, and feeling how perfectly they meet his wants, what strength and satisfaction they give to his mind, and what symmetry and dignity they impart to his life, he begins to look back over the long line of prophecy and testimony for proof, and finds it ample. Men are prone to forget, Dr. Remy, that the natural order—as we see in children—is through the heart to the intellect, not through the intellect to the heart."
"But," objected Doctor Remy, "if a man is not sensible of any such personal need, how is he to be made to feel it?"
"Who can tell?" responded Mr. Islay, solemnly. "If the eye sees no comeliness in Christ, to desire Him, if the heart feels no void which craves His fulness, no pang which needs His healing, who can tell when the one will be opened, the other emptied or smitten? 'The wind bloweth where it listeth.' But I can tell you, Doctor Remy, how a man can postpone the time of conviction to the last moment, perhaps to the very end."
"Indeed," answered Doctor Remy, lifting his eyebrows. "May I ask for the formula?"
"Simply by leading a life of deliberate, habitual sin and selfishness. There is nothing like sin for blinding the eyes, and misleading the judgment, in regard to spiritual things. Indeed, if I desired to shake my own faith in Christ to the very centre, I know no way in which I could do it so surely as by committing some dreadful crime—murder, for instance. All my views of life and death, earth and heaven, would at once become distorted and confused, just as all my thoughts and aims would immediately take a new direction."
Mr. Islay being on the same side of the table as his interlocutor, could not observe the latter's sudden change of countenance; but Bergan, sitting opposite, was surprised to see the doctor's face darken with some powerful emotion, while he shot a furtive, suspicious glance at the speaker. Yet his voice, when he spoke, was studiously low and even, so much so that its latent venom was unnoticed by the majority of the party.
"Inasmuch," said he, "as Mr. Islay is able to speak so intelligently of religious faith, because of his thorough acquaintance therewith, so, doubtless, his remarks upon crime and its effects are the outcome of his own personal experience."
Bergan colored with indignation, and was about to say something in sharp rebuke of the covert insult; but Mr. Islay stopped him by a look, and a slight, yet decided gesture.
"You are thinking, doubtless," said he, mildly, turning to Dr. Remy, "of the deep truth that he who would teach successfully, must know something of his subject by experience as well as theory. A clergyman certainly does find in his own heart both the suggestion and the proof of the truths which he seeks to enforce upon others. Herein lies his fitness for his office. Out of seeming weakness comes real strength. Feeling, or having felt, in his own person, the power both of sin and of redeeming love, he can the better set forth the hatefulness of the one, and the efficacy of the other."
There was a slight pause; then, Mrs. Bergan made haste to break the silence, and to do it in such a manner as to induce a speedy change of subject. And Dr. Remy, after a brief moodiness, which seemed to indicate some lingering effect of the preceding discussion, suddenly unbent his brow, and threw himself into the new theme with animation, to the immediate enlivenment of the party, and the gradual extinction of his hostess's resentment. She acknowledged to herself that he could be exceedingly agreeable, when it pleased him. If he would but spice his conversation a little less freely with sarcasm!