Part 17

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.