Part 15

Mr. Corlew immediately began to open and sort his papers; Bergan brought writing materials, drew his chair to the opposite side of the table, and bent all the powers of his mind to the hard task before him. It was an action for ejectment, involving trial of title, and with the usual mixed and intricate character of such things; interwoven, too, with a pathetic story of misfortune. Bergan patiently examined and questioned; Mr. Corlew intelligently explained and answered. The investigation was scarce half concluded, when Bergan quietly pushed Mr. Fielder's notes aside.

"They do not help me," he explained, in answer to a glance from Mr. Corlew, "In my judgment, he has mistaken the point on which the case really hangs. At all events, I shall do better to manage it in my own way."

Midnight came and went on silent feet; the "wee, sma' hours," sacred to love rather than law, hastened, one after another, to join their numerous kin in the misty vale of the Heretofore; the stars went out like spent lamps; the dim night-silence began to stir with vague premonitions of light and sound; finally, gray dawn looked solemnly in through the windows. Then Bergan lifted his head, and pushed back the hair from his brow.

"Now leave me," he said to his companion, with unwonted sombreness. "The rest must be done by myself. I will meet you at the court-house, in good time."

He made an almost imperceptible pause. Then, looking Mr. Corlew full in the face, he said, in a tone half-assertive, half-questioning;--

"You wish to succeed in this suit?"

Mr. Corlew's eyes fell under his penetrating gaze. "Of course I do," he answered a little surlily. "What else am I here for?"

Bergan seemed to muse for a moment. "Well," said he, at length, in the tone of a man who recalls his thoughts from an episodical flight to the main subject, "I think you may reasonably expect success, if your witnesses testify as is here set down. The law is clearly in your favor."

"I am glad to hear it," returned Mr. Corlew, heartily. Yet he looked slightly annoyed, none the less; and his "Good morning," as he went out, was a little stiff.

Bergan leaned back in his chair, folded his arms, and knitted his brow. He looked like a man assailed by some miserable doubt or suspicion, which yet he is half-inclined to regard, as illegitimate.

"It is a necessity of my profession," he muttered, at last; and, with a mighty effort, he tore himself free from the teasing phantom, and addressed himself anew to his work.

There is no need to burden these pages with the tedious formalities of a trial at law. Suffice it to say that Bergan conducted the case with an ease and ability that surprised his legal associates. They had looked for some nervousness, some hesitation, some solicitude, some awkwardness, in the manner of the young legal _débutant_; they could detect nothing of the sort. He made his opening speech with consummate clearness and composure; and he examined and cross-examined witnesses, quoted authorities, took exceptions, and made points, with a quiet ease, and even, at times, with a touch of listlessness, that argued excellent training and profound knowledge.

Perhaps his quietude of manner was the more perfect, that a slight cloud hung on his brow, all through the two days of the trial; though his observers were too little acquainted with the wonted expression of his face to discover it. Not till he rose to make his final speech did the shadow lift. Then, indeed, the spectators noticed a change. He had spoken but a few sentences, when his eyes kindled, his brow cleared, his voice gathered fulness and melody, he forgot himself and his doubt in the glow of an irresistible inspiration, in the glad exercise of a natural gift of oratory so wondrous, so unexpected, and so potent, that court and spectator were alike taken by storm. Only in dim tradition had such a speech ever been heard in that court room,--so fluent, so animated, so skilfully throwing an ideal grace around dry, bare legal facts, without dimming their outline or destroying their logical connection. People held their breath to listen, unwilling to lose one delicate shade of thought, one fit, luminous expression. Two or three times, the judge was forced to suppress outbursts of applause, in which, nevertheless, his pleased and interested face concurred; and when Bergan took his seat, gray-headed lawyers stretched their hands across the table in hearty congratulation.

A verdict for his client was almost immediately rendered. Then he stepped out into the crowd, to be met on all sides by extended hands and enthusiastic compliments. People that had always studiously avoided him, now sought to catch his eye; gentlemen who had never vouchsafed him more than a stiff nod, now waited to give him a friendly hand-grasp and a few congratulatory words. One of the magnates of the neighborhood publicly stamped him, as it were, with the seal of his high approbation, by engaging him for a few moments in conversation, and then parting from him with an intimation that he might expect an early invitation to dinner.

Turning away from the dog-day smile of this personage,--late and sultry,--Bergan encountered the meaning gaze of a pair of blear eyes.

"Sudden change of weather," remarked Dick Causton, dryly. "'it never rains but it pours.' You are in a heavy shower, Mr. Arling."

And with unwonted consideration, Dick waited till Bergan had passed on, before he muttered, "_In picciol tempo passa ogni gran pioggia_,--a heavy shower is soon over."

Dr. Remy came next. "I never sing in chorus," said he, shrugging his shoulders, and putting his hands behind him; "I shall keep my compliments for a day of dearth. But what a weathercock is public opinion!"

Yet the change was not altogether so sudden and radical as it appeared. Bergan's upright, independent course of conduct, so quietly persisted in, through all these months, despite every discouragement, had at last begun to tell upon the prejudices of the community. Mrs. Lyte's warm advocacy and indignant protest, in her small circle, had also had its weight. Probably both would have availed much earlier, but for the curiously infelicitous language in which Dr. Remy had all along chosen to couch his responses to such persons as had approached him in relation to Bergan's character and habits.

"As talented a fellow as ever lived," he replied to one inquirer,--"and as deep a one. Ah! he knows well what he's about!"

"Sober?" he answered another,--"certainly; as sober as an anchorite. I hope he will keep so."

"Mr. Arling is my neighbor and friend, as friendship goes," he said to another; "I neither make, nor listen to, derogatory remarks about him. If you want confirmation for your prejudice, go elsewhere. I am not in that line."

Intentionally or not, Dr. Remy's cool cynicism rather damaged than helped Bergan's cause.

Nevertheless, the steadfast testimony of his upright life remained, and could not be wholly ignored. The feeling was fast becoming general that the young man deserved somewhat better at the hands of the community than he had received. And the feeling would doubtless have manifested itself in good time, and with due caution, if Bergan's unexampled success in the court-room had not fairly dazzled out of sight the last lingering shadow of prejudice, and caused a popular reaction toward the other extreme of enthusiastic admiration and approval,--a reaction all the stronger because spurred on by a lurking sense of past injustice.

Moreover, the little, sleepy town, whose intellectual brilliants were few, and not of the first water, naturally felt that it could not afford to ignore the fine talent which had so suddenly blazed out in its midst, and which might be regarded as, in some sense, of its own creation.

"He really belongs to us, you know," remarked one townsman proudly to another. "He comes of the Bergans of Bergan Hall, on the mother's side,--good old aristocratic stock. And he's an honor to it!"

And so, as has been said before, Bergan's exit from the court-room was a scene of triumph that might easily have turned an older head, and quickened the beating of a chiller heart.

But Bergan took it all quietly, gravely,--almost indifferently. The cloud had settled back upon his brow, and never stirred for any compliment, or congratulation, or friendliness. Most persons attributed it to wounded pride, not yet healed. In the midst of the ovation, they believed that he kept a rankling remembrance of the coldness and neglect which had preceded it. One observer only, a little clearer eyed than the rest, said to him:--

"You look tired."

"And well he may!" responded Mr. Corlew, standing by with a face of unalloyed satisfaction. "He never saw the case until evening before last; and he has not slept for two nights."

There was another, and a stronger, burst of admiration, mingled with wonder; but the complacent, satisfied tone of Mr. Corlew's voice only deepened the shadow on Bergan's brow. Quickly extricating himself from both crowd and client, he walked swiftly home, meditating, as he went, upon the seeming churlishness of human existence, in that it never gives us what we want, or gives it only in such way and shape as to neutralize its sweetness.

What, then, was the drop of bitterness in his cup of triumph?

Not the paltry pride that had been attributed to him, nor yet the depressing reaction that comes after excitement, but an uneasy suspicion that he had helped to do an injustice. He had discovered,--or seemed to discover,--as the intricacies of the recent case had unfolded themselves before him, that law and justice stood on opposite sides of it. Of his client's legal right to the property in dispute, admitting his statements to be true, there seemed to be no question; but of his moral right to it, as well as of his own personal integrity, and that of his principal witness, Bergan had grave doubts. And these doubts had followed him, and planted a heavy footstep on his conscience, all the way down through the trial. For he was still young, his personal conscience tender, and his professional one undeveloped. His duty as a man, and his duty as a lawyer, had not yet distinctly separated themselves into opposing segments.

So, while the whole town was ringing with the fame of his successful legal _début_, he sat moodily in his office, a prey to troubled and half-regretful thought, until Sleep, so long defrauded of her rights, stole upon him in his chair, and held him fast prisoned in her soft embrace.

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.