Part 33

"Well, the girl is dead; but there is a child, left in the grandmother's hands, which Varley wants me to get possession of, and bring up in a respectable way. Poor fellow! he has seen what is the result of evil associations, and desires to save his child from a similar fate. Still, he wishes the matter to be arranged quietly, if possible. So, yesterday, I went out to see the grandmother--that explains how I came to be in so vile a place. Well, I was made to wait for a half hour in a dirty little back room; and having nothing else in the world to interest me, my attention was attracted by a conversation on the other side of the thin board partition which divided the room from the next one. Still, I doubt if I should have taken the trouble to try to make it out, if I had not heard your name spoken. Then it occurred to me that I might possibly be able to do you a good turn, in part payment of what you had done for me. So, swallowing my scruples as best I could, I put my ear to one of the cracks, and listened. There were two men on the other side, but they were wise enough not to call names,--I did not get the least clue to whom or what they were. One talked quite low, but in a clear, though rather thin voice, which made it comparatively easy to catch what he was saying. The other talked louder, but pretty thick, as if he were a good deal the worse for liquor; and he mixed up everything that he said with such a queer medley of proverbs--"

"Proverbs!" interrupted Bergan, starting, and beginning to look interested.

"Yes,--proverbs in every language under the sun,--Latin, Greek, Spanish, German, and all the rest,--a regular Tower-of-Babel performance. Do you recognize him?"

"I suspect that I do. Go on."

"Well, his companion,--have I given you any clue to _him_?"

"None as yet. Perhaps I may get one as your story progresses."

"_He_ was persuading this old proverb-spouter to sign some paper,--a will, I think; but it was only after a good deal of arguing, and bribing, and threatening, that he succeeded in doing so. Now comes your part in the matter; the old fellow's great objection seemed to be that he didn't want to injure you."

"Me!" repeated Bergan, in much astonishment; "what had I to do with it?"

"That is exactly what I couldn't find out; but I thought you might be able to tell. You cannot?"

"Not in the least. What else was there?"

"Nothing, only the old bundle of proverbs also wanted to know 'what would be to pay,' if they were found out,--would it be felony, or compounding of felony, or what?"

"Why!" exclaimed Bergan, "the will was a forgery, then!"

"I cannot say as to that. The man who _didn't_ spout proverbs set the other's scruples at rest, first, by asserting that there was not the least danger of detection; and secondly, by declaring that you would not sustain any injury, because the property was certain to come to him, soon or late, anyhow. Whereupon the drunken Solomon muttered, sotto voce, 'Into the mouth of a bad dog, often falls a good bone,' and appeared to sign his name as required. At least, I heard the scratching of a pen on paper; and, after that, some money was told out on the table, as a first instalment of the bribe agreed upon; and another instalment was to be paid at the same place to-morrow. Do you get any light on the transaction yet?"

Bergan looked very grave. He remembered old Rue's assertion that Doctor Remy had wedded Carice simply to get possession of the Hall estates, through his uncle's will in her favor. "Was the first voice that of an educated man?" he asked.

"Thoroughly so; an exceedingly distinct, even intonation, and the language was well chosen, too. It would have been a very pleasant voice to the ear, except that it seemed to lack heart, emotion; it was just clear and cold, like ice. Are you beginning to see your way through the affair?"

"Very dimly, if at all. But I think that I know the parties."

"Is there anything to be done about it? Can I help you in any way?"

Bergan shook his head. He remembered that Doctor Remy was the husband of Carice. He sat silent, his heart swelling with unselfish pain and pity for the pure, delicate nature thus linked to the dark and vile one; he hoped that the latter had not lost the art of concealing somewhat of its hideousness.

Mr. Unwick rose. "I will not detain you any longer. I am glad--or sorry, whichever is proper--that my story proves to be of so little importance."

"Thank you, nevertheless, for taking the trouble to come and tell it to me. By the way, did you get the child you went after?"

"Not yet; the grandmother declared that it was not in the house, though I did not believe her. Bad woman as she is, I think she really loves it, and would like to keep it. But I was authorized to offer her a considerable sum of money to get it quietly out of her hands; and she knows that the law gives the father the right to dispose of its future. I am going, to-morrow afternoon, to get a final answer from her, after she has consulted with her husband, who was out when I was there."

"Will you let me go with you? I should like to see if I recognize any old acquaintance around the place; and if I do, to give him a friendly warning to take care not to be seen there again. I happen to know that the premises are now under constant surveillance, as a suspected depository of stolen goods, and that the police are meditating a descent upon them in a day or two."

"I shall be only too happy to have your company," replied Unwick, courteously.

"And I will go along, too, if you don't object," remarked Hubert. "If the place is of the character you mention, the more the safer, as well as merrier, I should say."

"Then, I will call for you to-morrow, at three o'clock," said Unwick, "if that suits your convenience."

The "Rat-Hole" wore an appearance of exceeding quietness, in the sunny autumn afternoon. A half tipsy vagabond or two lounged about the stoop, but the greater part of its frequenters were of the owl species, careful not to show their heads in the daytime.

Having signified to the bar-keeper that his business was with the mistress of the house, Unwick was shortly summoned to her presence, leaving the brothers waiting in the bar-room. After a considerable time he reappeared, and beckoned to Bergan.

"I have persuaded Mrs. Smilt to allow of a witness to our transaction," said he. And he added, in a low tone, "The pair that I spoke of, are on the other side of the partition again; you can hear their voices, and satisfy yourself whether you know them or not."

Mrs. Smilt was a hard, ill-favored woman, of about fifty; she had a child on her lap, and there were tears in her eyes.

"Mr. Unwick wants a witness to our business," she remarked, grimly, to Bergan. "Well, here's the child, and there's the money that he's to pay me for't. It's a fair bargain, and I don't mean to shirk it; though I'd rather keep the child, a good deal, myself. But my husband 'ud rather have the money; and he's captain."

Bergan bowed. He would not speak lest his voice should be heard and recognized in the adjoining apartment. He drew near the partition, but there was only a sound of footsteps on the other side, and the closing of a door; he was too late to get any satisfaction from this quarter. He stood waiting impatiently for Unwick to bring his business to an end, and half inclined to excuse himself, and make his escape, when he heard a pistol-shot, and a brief struggle, ended by a heavy fall, in the direction of the bar-room. He opened the door, and ran thither, closely followed by Unwick and Mrs. Smilt.

A singular scene was presented to his eyes. Prostrate on the floor lay Doctor Remy, with an exceedingly black and discomfited face; while Hubert was standing over him like a young gladiator. On one side, stood Dick Causton pouring forth a volley of utterly incoherent proverbs and entreaties, addressed to his "dear young friend Mr. Bergan;" and, on the other, stood the barkeeper, so bewildered, apparently, by this sudden and unaccountable fracas, as to be undecided which side or what tone to take. At sight of Bergan, Dick reeled backward, and looked completely confounded; Doctor Remy set his teeth hard, and his face grew blacker than ever.

Bergan looked at Hubert. "What does this mean?" he asked.

"Upon my soul, I wish I knew!" responded Hubert. "This--gentleman"--there was a deeply sarcastic emphasis on the word--"did me the honor to point a pistol at me. I knocked it up, and him down; that is all I know about the matter."

Bergan motioned him to stand aside, and helped Doctor Remy to his feet. "Thank God--if you ever do such a thing"--said he solemnly, "that you have been saved from the commission of another crime. Go, now; and, for your own sake, as well as for the sake of those connected with you, take care to be seen here no more. I assure you that it is a dangerous place for persons without legitimate business and fair credentials."

Doctor Remy had recovered his composure, in part. He drew himself up haughtily. "Keep your advice for those who need it," he rejoined; "I am here simply as a physician, in attendance upon a sick man. What your business may be, is none of mine: good evening." And he strode out of the door.

Hubert stood looking on, the picture of astonishment. "Was there ever such a riddle!" said he. "First, an unknown man attempts my life; and next, you bid him go in peace, or something very like it!"

"He took you for me," said Bergan, quietly.

"I appreciate the compliment. But are you in the habit of serving for a target?"

"Hush! It was Doctor Remy."

Hubert looked more amazed than ever, for a moment; then his brow flushed, and his eyes lit up. "Lucky for him that you did not tell me that before," said he. "He should never have gotten out of my hands, except into those of a policeman. Why, Bergan, what are you thinking of, to let him escape us thus?"

"I will explain all to you, when we get home," answered Bergan, wearily. "Mrs. Smilt, I beg your pardon for having been the unintentional cause of such a commotion in your house; I think I can assure you that no harm has been done. Mr. Unwick, are you ready to go?"

At the door, Bergan stopped and looked around for Dick Causton; but he had taken advantage of the discussion between the brothers to sneak out. The fact was a suggestive one to Bergan, taken in connection with Unwick's story of the preceding day. Never before, in spite of his bad habits and fallen estate, had Dick Causton been known to flee from before any man's face.

X.

LIKE A THIEF IN THE NIGHT.

Bergan could not help wasting a little wonder on Doctor Remy's choice of the "Rat-Hole" as a place for transacting business, of whatever character. Yet the explanation was simple. The doctor was there, as he had stated, professionally. One of the _habitués_ of the place had been severely wounded in an encounter with a policeman, some weeks before; and although he had succeeded in escaping unrecognized, the affair had made so much stir that his friends had not deemed it prudent to put him into the hands of any of the city physicians, for treatment. Doctor Remy had therefore been summoned from Berganton, and had not only conducted the case with his usual skill, but, foreseeing a possibility of turning the circumstance to future account, had won the ruffian's warmest gratitude by keeping his secret and declining any fee. Having thus gotten the run of the place, and the good will of its inmates, he had chosen it for the scene of his interviews with Dick Causton, because he had his own excellent reasons for not wishing these interviews to be seen or suspected by anybody in Berganton. And Dick made no objections, inasmuch as various small errands, which he dignified with the title of "business," had taken him to Savalla, for two or three consecutive days; and the "Rat-Hole" was a convenient stopping-place, and, moreover, furnished liquor which had the two-fold merit of being of a better quality than any to be had at the "Gregg Tavern," and of being quaffed at Doctor Remy's expense. Dick was not likely to trouble his head much about the character of any house possessing these strong recommendations.

In regard to the signing of the fraudulent will, he had shown himself a little more scrupulous; his habit of intoxication had not yet accomplished its evil work of obliterating all sense of right, and every consideration of honor. At the first broaching of the subject, he had indignantly refused to listen to it for a moment. Later on--having apparently gotten some new lights on the question in the meantime--he had quietly suffered his objections to give way, one after another, to the doctor's arguments and bribes; to the great satisfaction of the latter, who found his task, on the whole, easier than he had expected.

Yet he might have felt some misgivings, if he had followed Dick out of the house, immediately after the signing of the will, and heard the low, satisfied chuckle with which he tumbled into his superannuated chaise, and started his horse on a jog-trot toward Berganton. The potent draught just swallowed had as yet taken effect only in quickening his sense of the humorous, and putting him on excellent terms with his own self-conceit. His eyes twinkled with amusement, too intense to be denied the occasional vent of a loud burst of laughter, or an appropriate string of proverbs.

"_Wer dem Spide zusicht, kann's am besten_, my dear Doctor Remy," he muttered; "or, in other words, the looker-on sees more of the game than the player. What would you give to know what I know, I wonder! Just wait till the right time comes; then you'll find out that 'He is worst cheated, who cheats himself.'"

A mile further on, his potations beginning to make themselves felt, he suddenly broke out, with a tipsy laugh and leer;--"'_Man kan ei drage haardt med brudet Reb_,' mine excellent doctor,--you cannot haul hard with a broken rope! Ha! ha!"

And, although his shamefaced flight from Bergan's presence, on the second day, may seem to indicate that he was not quite certain of the uprightness of all his acts and motives, no sooner was he fairly on the road to Berganton than he began to chuckle again.

Bergan, meanwhile, was questioning within himself whether he ought not to make known Unwick's story to Major Bergan. He hesitated only because he foresaw that the information might possibly be set down to his self-interest, rather than his desire to serve his uncle. Nevertheless, it did not take him long to decide that he must do what he knew to be the right thing, regardless of consequences. Nor was it certain that his uncle would misconstrue his motives:--not long since, he had received an intimation from Rue that he was sure to meet with a cordial reception whenever he could make it convenient to visit Berganton; the Major's anger having so completely wasted away under the double attrition of time and favorable report,--not to mention her own steady influence in his behalf,--that he had lately expressed a wish to see him. There was really no good reason, therefore, why he should hesitate to present himself at the Hall, except that the whole neighborhood was certain to bristle with unpleasant recollections. However, he must face them some time, and as well now as ever.

Still, as nightfall was at hand, and he knew of no reason for hurry, he thought it expedient to postpone the visit till the morrow. He would ride over to the Hall, he thought, betimes in the morning. Having made his arrangements accordingly, and committed his office to Hubert's care, he retired early, and soon forgot the fatigues and excitements of the day in a profound sleep.

He had not slept long, however, before he woke from a dream--wherein Doctor Remy figured as an iconoclast, overthrowing and demolishing the ancient gods of Bergan Hall--to the consciousness that some one was knocking loudly at his door.

"Who is there?" he called.

"It's me, Massa Harry," responded a voice, with the unmistakable negro intonation; but, nevertheless, a voice too much disconnected with the present to meet with immediate recognition from his but half-awakened faculties.

"Who is 'me'?" he demanded again.

"You's own boy Brick, Massa Harry," was the reply.

With an instant intuition of evil, Bergan sprang out of bed, and opened the door. "What is the matter?" he asked.

"Oh, Massa Harry! ole massa's dyin'," replied Brick; "an' gramma Rue, she sent me for you to come right off'; she say,--'Tell him to ride fast, dere's not a minit to lose.' An' I'se brought Vic 'long for you; an' while you's a-dressin', I'll jes' go an' give her a drink, an' rub her down a lilly bit, so she'll be right smart and fresh when you's ready to start."

It was one o'clock in the morning when Bergan saw the great dusky pile of the Hall, and the dark masses of the live oaks, rise before him, in the pale light of the waning moon. He knew that its master lay within. Brick had narrated how Rue had ordered and superintended his removal thither, in one of his moments of comparative quiet and exhaustion;--the old woman being of the opinion that it was not fitting for him to die otherwhere than under the ancestral roof, in the same room where one after another of his forefathers had likewise laid down the burden of the flesh, and begun the new life of the spirit. To this room, Bergan was easily guided by his groans and cries.

Never before had he seen a man in the terrible grasp of delirium tremens; and now, after a brief look, he was glad to turn away his eyes.

Major Bergan was on the bed, but he was only held there by the main strength of two stout negroes. A frightful spasm contorted his face and twisted his limbs. Great drops of perspiration stood on his brow; and from his mouth flowed a mingled stream of oaths, curses, shrieks of horror, threats of defiance, and groans of agony. His bodily anguish was only less than his mental torture. His eyes started from his head at the phantom-creations of his delirious imagination. The furniture was alive, watching him with fiery eyes, and threatening him with envenomed teeth and claws; the shadows took mocking shapes and gibed and jeered at him; and the pictures were demons setting them all on. The very hairs of his head turned to slimy snakes, and the bed-clothes were now damp winding-sheets, and now devouring flames.

"Have you had a doctor?" asked Bergan of Rue, who had met him at the door.

"Yes; Doctor Remy has been here twice; he left not much more than half an hour ago. He said he had a critical case on hand, that must be seen to; and there was nothing to be done here, except what we could do as well as he."

"What are you doing?"

"Giving him soup to keep up his strength, and opium to quiet him. A few minutes ago, too, in a lucid moment, he called for some powders that he has been in the habit of taking, which, he said, always did him more good than anything else. There were only two left; we gave him one, as he was so bent on having it; I thought if it did no good, it couldn't do any harm."

"Did Doctor Remy say that he would call again?"

"He did, but, Master Bergan, a blind woman's ears are quick at catching meanings as well as words, and he did not mean to come very soon,--not, I reckon, till all is over."

Bergan meditated. Though he had long known that his uncle's habits would be likely to bring him, sooner or later, to a drunkard's most miserable end, he could not but think it somewhat suspicious that the seizure should have followed so closely upon the completion of the fraudulent will.

"When was my uncle taken?" he asked.

"Early this evening. He had been drinking a good deal for two or three days past; he said he did not feel well, and he would keep at the brandy bottle, in spite of all that I could say to him. About ten o'clock this morning, Doctor Remy came in to see him, and I suspect, told him something that made him angry,--for I heard him swearing furiously to himself, after the doctor had gone. And then, probably, he fell to drinking worse than ever; but it was not until about four o'clock that I heard him groaning and crying out, and he has kept it up a good part of the time ever since. But now, I think, he seems to be getting a little easier."

Bergan turned to the bed. The spasm was over, and the Major lay exhausted, with his eyes closed. Opening them, they immediately brightened with a look of recognition.

"Is that you, Harry?" he asked, feebly.

"Yes, uncle," replied Bergan, taking his hand; "Rue sent for me, and I came at once. I am sorry to see you so ill."

"I think you are, my boy, I think you are," responded Major Bergan; "you look like it, and besides, a Bergan never lies. And I'm sorry, too,--all the more, because I suspect that it's my own fault. If ever you learn to drink--and I don't feel quite so sure that it's necessary as I did once--don't drink too hard, Harry, don't drink too hard! If ever I get over this bout, I swear I'll think twice, hereafter, before I drink once. And if I don't, I'm glad you're here, Harry, boy; it's well for the new master to be on before the old one is off."

"I hope that you will live to carry your good resolutions into effect," said Bergan earnestly.

"Do you? Well, so do I."

He lay quiet for a moment, busy with his own thoughts. All at once he started up, exclaiming;--

"Fire and fury! what's that?"

The negroes caught hold of him, expecting a fresh convulsion of the same nature as the preceding ones; but, though his face was frightfully distorted, and his form writhed with pain, there was no accompaniment of phantasmal horrors.

"Brandy!" he finally gasped, through his set teeth.

Rue motioned to one of the women in waiting to bring some. Bergan put his hand on her arm. "Surely you will not give it to him _now_," said he, impressively.

"The doctor said he must have a little, now and then," she answered.

But before the glass could be put to his lips, he groaned, shuddered from head to foot, and fell back on the pillow, with his eyes rolled up in his head, his hands clenched, and a dark froth issuing from, between his shut teeth. He was dead.

XI.

AFTER MANY DAYS.

There was a sudden silence--the shadow of God's hand. In it the lately agonized, writhing body lay at peace, the anxious spectators stood awed and motionless. Yet this silence was more voiceful than any sound,--full of solemn questionings and more solemn answers, subtle suggestions, grave warnings, and momentous intimations. Of the value and the valuelessness of life, of the night and the morning of death, of the character and the import of the Hereafter,--on all these topics it discoursed more eloquently than the most silvery of oratorical tongues.