Part 36

However,--thanks to Carice,--the room was empty when Big Ben and his companion looked into it. Determined not to be baffled thus, he prowled around the house, until he was detected by Rue's quick ears in the hall, and asked what was his business; when he truthfully replied that he was seeking for Mr. Arling. Hearing this, Doctor Gerrish came forward, stated where Bergan could probably be found, and entrusted Ben with the message, which, as we have seen, was scrupulously delivered. Bergan was then knocked down; and the inanimate body was dragged by the two ruffians to what seemed to be a remote point of the Oakstead grounds, where it would not be likely to be discovered for some hours, perhaps days. There, Ben debated within himself, for a minute, whether he would leave it its small remaining chance of life; but he remembered that Bergan had seen both himself and his comrade face to face, and would be able to identify them, on occasion. He drew his knife, muttered, "Dead men tell no tales," and sheathed it in the young man's breast.

As he stood upright, his ear caught the faint jar of a closing door, followed by the sound of slow footsteps, and a cracked voice humming a song. Apparently, the spot which he had chosen, lonely as it seemed, was not far from some human dwelling. He and his companion exchanged startled glances, plunged into the underbrush, and fled silently and swiftly.

III.

FATALITY OR TEMPTATION?

Doctor Remy, meanwhile, had made all possible speed from the Rat-Hole to the bedside of a third patient; in order that his time, on that night, might seem to be sufficiently accounted for by his professional visits. His horse was swift, and he had not spared it in his recent expedition; it would seem impossible that he should have been at points so wide apart, within so short a time. By this means he expected to secure himself from Justice, in her human shape; of her divine form, he had no thought nor fear. Yet, all the way, a voice from the Past, which sounded curiously like his own, kept echoing in his ears, with a dull, dead intonation,--"Crime is a mistake."

Well, suppose that it was, he had committed no crime. He had merely placed a particular powder, among many others, where a drunken old man, whose life was of no moment to anybody, could take it or not, at pleasure; he had altered a will in such manner as to give him absolute, instead of partial, control of a certain property, which he intended to use for the advance of science and the benefit of the race; and he had provided for the temporary elimination from affairs of a person likely to obstruct their proper sequence. That was all. What was there in it to cause such a chill depression of spirits,--such an unreasoning dread of--he knew not what?

Nothing, we may be sure, that was patent to the doctor's science. Regarding right merely as another term for custom, policy, expediency, and conscience as a softer name for cowardice, he was not likely to discern clearly, nor explain correctly, phenomena by which even a lost soul now and then asserts itself as of another nature than its tabernacle of dust, subject to other laws, responsive to other influences, thrilled with other pangs, fears, and longings. Nevertheless, he sought for an answer to his question, and found a plausible one in the fact that he was physically weary, and therefore mentally ill at ease. The night, too, was cool for the season, no wonder that some of its chill had gotten into his mind as well as his bones! He buttoned his overcoat more closely around him, and spurred on his flagging horse.

Yet he did not shut out the shiver, nor distance the uneasiness. Some importunate Cassandra of the depths still insisted upon its clearness of vision, in respect to impending calamity. Troubled in spite of himself, he passed his recent operations in careful review, to see if he had left any loophole open to invite detection or impediment. None. On the contrary, all seemed safe and propitious. The Major was dying, or dead, in consequence of his own self-will and folly. Bergan Arling would shortly be disabled, or killed,--but by another man's hand, and ostensibly--really, even, in part--to gratify another man's thirst for revenge. The Major's will had been found and destroyed; and another--its exact counterpart, except for the omission of a few absurd conditions and restrictions--had been put in its place. A few days more, and the vast and valuable Bergan estate would be his own, and available to his ends. If his road to its possession had not been what men accounted straight and clean, whose fault was it? Had he not, in virtue of his marked talents and abilities, a better right to wealth and fame than most men?--and was he to blame for the fatality which always placed some other life or heart between them and him? Had he not done his best to escape from it? Had he not tried more legitimate means to gain them, and failed?

If the doctor had been less intent upon special pleading, he might have reminded himself that the records of crime show that a man seldom stops with the commission of a single theft, forgery, murder, or other offence. The first one being the necessary sequence of an evil habit of living or thinking, a second and a third follow as unavoidably as a strict logical inference from admitted premises. Might not the fatality of which he complained be but the inevitable result of indulging a certain kind of thought until it became a settled habit of mind, sure to manifest itself, on occasion, in appropriate action? Had not this fatality first presented itself to him as a temptation, suggesting a swift means to a desired end?--nay, was it not such still, only treading more confidently a familiar track, and finding a readier reception?

He had no time to answer these queries, if it had occurred to him to ask them;--he was already at his destination. With a mighty effort of his will, he tore himself free of his anxieties and doubts, and bent his mind steadily upon the surgical operation which he had come to perform; and he performed it well, with a clear eye and a steady hand. He then went on to his office, where he found Bergan's summons to the death-bed waiting for him; in apparent obedience to which, he soon after presented himself at the Hall.

In the avenue, he met Doctor Gerrish, who, having lost all patience at Bergan's unaccountable tardiness, had finally started for home. He instantly turned back with Doctor Remy, and waited silently, with an air of deep gravity, while the latter made a brief examination of the corpse. At first sight of it, he gave a little start; and when he had finished his inspection, he stood silent and thoughtful. He had sneeringly committed a certain powder, he remembered, to the disposal of "Providence;" it struck him as a little odd that it should have been kept so long, and finally used only to put a merciful end to intense bodily and mental torture. Was there really a Power overruling the acts of men, whether good or evil, to His own purposes?

"Well!" said Doctor Gerrish, growing tired of the prolonged silence, "what do you think of it?"

Doctor Remy raised his eyes, and met the meaning glance of his colleague. "You suspect--" he began slowly, and then paused, as if not quite willing to put his thought into words.

"Poison," returned Doctor Gerrish, promptly. "Not a doubt of it. The question is, where did he get it--who gave it to him? Is it accident, or suicide, or murder? What are we to do about it?"

Doctor Remy looked down thoughtfully. He was at a loss how to treat this new complication. He had not expected it; he knew not how best to weave it into the intricate web of his plans; he wanted time to consider whether it could be turned to advantage.

"Your last question is the only one that I can answer," he said, at length,--"let us wait. There are many things to be considered. In the first place the poison only hastened the death that was certain to come soon, anyway."

"Are you sure of that?"

"Perfectly so. When I left the Major last night, I knew that he must be a dead man by morning. He had taken no poison then,--except the slow one that he has been taking for years."

"Nevertheless," persisted Doctor Gerrish, "it was not _that_ poison which killed him."

"I suppose there was no one present, when he died, except the servants," remarked Doctor Remy.

"And Mr. Arling," answered Doctor Gerrish.

Doctor Remy lifted his eyebrows. "That looks bad," said he, gravely. "He is the heir, I suppose?"

"If you mean that it looks bad for Mr. Arling," returned Doctor Gerrish, "I do not agree with you. It was he who sent for me; and he promised to meet me here soon."

"Why is he not here, then?" asked Doctor Remy, pointedly.

"I cannot tell. He must have been unexpectedly detained."

Doctor Remy closed his lips like a man who forbears to argue, but is not convinced.

Doctor Gerrish went to the door and called Rue, who had been desired to wait outside during the examination.

"Did you notice anything unusual about your master's death?" he inquired.

"I thought he died very sudden like," answered Rue; "and so I think did Mr. Arling, for he immediately said that Doctor Remy, or some one else, must be sent for, and gave very particular directions that the body should not be disturbed before he arrived."

Doctor Gerrish shot a triumphant glance at Doctor Remy, who only smiled, shook his head, and interrogated Rue, in his turn.

"What did your master take last?"

"A powder. He insisted upon having it."

"Where is the glass from which he took it?"

"Here, sir; but it has been washed."

So it had, and so carefully that there was nothing to show what its contents had been. It also appeared that the paper in which the powder had been folded, had been used to light a candle, and was burned to ashes.

Doctor Gerrish took up the examination:--"Are there any more powders like it?"

"One, sir;--here it is. I think master said he had them from Doctor Remy."

Doctor Remy bent his head in assent, thankful that no vestige of the fatal powder was left, to make the admission dangerous. The remaining one, being examined, was proved to be innocuous. Doctor Gerrish looked puzzled.

"You see," said Doctor Remy, "that it comes back to what I said first,--we must wait. That is, until we can consult with the dead man's brother and nephew. At what hour this afternoon will it be convenient for you to meet them, and me, here?"

"At any hour you please."

"Say three o'clock, then. I will answer for Mr. Bergan's appearance. Of course, Mr. Arling will be back--if ever--long before that time."

From the Hall, Doctor Remy hastened to Oakstead. There was an unusual quietude about the place, and he was met at the door by Mrs. Bergan, with her finger on her lips, and the low-spoken information that, after an excessively restless night, causing them all a good deal of trouble and uneasiness, Carice had fallen into a deep sleep, and must not be disturbed. Would he be good enough to step noiselessly into the parlor, and speak low?

She did her best not to seem less cordial than usual; nevertheless, it did not escape the doctor's lynx-eyed observation that her tone and manner were forced. He pondered briefly within himself what this might mean; but finally set it down to motherly anxiety for Carice, and a consequent desire to get rid of him as quickly and quietly as possible. He was willing to gratify the wish; he had too much upon his mind and hands, just now, to bestow much thought or time upon Carice. He could safely leave her case to run its own course until after she had been declared the owner of Bergan Hall; then it would be for his interest to hasten her return to reason, since it was to her reason only--her strict notions of right, and her devotion to duty--that he must look for an acknowledgment of his claims as a husband, his right to control herself and her property. He did not flatter himself that he had any strong hold upon her affections.

"Certainly, she must not be disturbed," he replied to Mrs. Bergan, after a brief pause. "Sleep, in her condition, poor child! is the best of restoratives; it also shows a decided change for the better. My present business is with her father; is he in?"

"No; he went out a short time since. He may be in the grounds, or he may have gone to the Hall."

"Then he has heard of his brother's death?"

"Yes, the news came early this morning."

"It is not necessary for me to stop, then. Please say to him that I have engaged that he shall meet Doctor Gerrish, Mr. Arling, and myself, at the Hall this afternoon, at three o'clock, for an important consultation; I beg that he will not fail us. Good morning. Let me know if any change takes place in Carice; for I am likely to be so very busy for a day or two, that I may not present myself unless sent for. I was not in bed at all last night, and probably shall not be to-night. A physician's life is a slavish one."

"Yet you like it," replied Mrs. Bergan, feeling that she must say something.

"Not the general practice; I like the science. Good morning, again."

IV.

BLIND.

Mr. Bergan, meanwhile, had gone over to the Hall, partly to give a regretful look at his brother's dead face, and partly to have some further talk with Bergan. Thick-growing memories beset him, at every step of the way; and, the goal being reached, he had ample opportunity to reflect upon the sin and folly of family feuds, the miserably thin barriers which suffice to keep apart those who ought to be one in affection and interest, as in blood. He had not been very much to blame for their erection between him and his brother, but he regretted none the less that he had not wrought more perseveringly and lovingly to break them down. There had always been a generous side to Harry's character, which might have been successfully appealed to, at least in the earlier stages of the quarrel; his own influence might have been exerted for good; the dreary, empty Hall might still have been a pleasant home; this lonely death-couch might have been sweetened by the tender touch and tears of kindred hands and hearts, and sanctified by the gentle benedictions of religion. It all might have been--it could never be now! Death had closed every door to reconciliation and amendment, and written over each the mournful legend, "Too Late!"

He turned from the corpse to ask for Bergan, and was surprised to learn that nothing was known of him at the Hall since he had retired to his room just before day-break, further than that Doctor Gerrish had mentioned meeting him at Oakstead. However, being informed that two men had inquired for him, and been sent to meet him, he took it for granted that some unexpected emergency had compelled him to hasten back to Savalla, at a moment's notice; he would be sure to return by afternoon, or send some explanation of his absence.

Meantime, Mr. Bergan was forced to fill the gap created by his departure; indeed, until his brother's will should be made known, he was both his natural and legal representative, he appointed the time, and decided the manner, of the funeral; he sent for a lawyer, and had seals affixed to all drawers and boxes likely to contain papers of value; he gave orders for the lower rooms to be cleaned and fitted, as far as might be, for the lying in state, and the reception of guests;--in short, he was kept busy until long past noon, when he was fain to go home for rest and refreshment, as well as to satisfy himself of the state of Carice. She was still sleeping peacefully, and there was no cause for alarm.

Returning to the Hall, at a few minutes past three, he found the two physicians waiting in the library, but no sign or tidings of Bergan.

"Where can my nephew be?" he exclaimed in perplexity and even displeasure.

"It is certainly very strange," replied Doctor Gerrish, gravely.

Doctor Remy said nothing; but he shrugged his shoulders in a manner sufficiently expressive of disapprobation.

Yet he would have been glad to be able to answer the question,--at least to himself. He was completely in the dark as to how Big Ben and his confederate had prospered in their evil undertaking. He knew that Bergan had not been found in his room, as was expected; but why he had gone forth so early, and whether he had encountered the ruffians, was altogether a mystery. All day, he had been holding himself ready for whatever might come,--Bergan's sudden appearance in the flesh, or the bringing in of his dead body, or a summons to go and afford him medical aid;--he did not mean to be taken off his guard, in any case. But the suspense was trying. It had not been contemplated in his original plan; it kept his mind and nerves continually on the stretch; it gave him an uncomfortable feeling that other hands than his own were busy with the dark threads of his schemes, weaving them into patterns that he had not designed. He longed to know precisely what he had to hope or to dread.

Still, every moment of Bergan's absence was reasonable ground for belief that Big Ben had not only carried out his purpose of revenge to the full, but had succeeded wonderfully well in obliterating all trace of his work. So much the better. Bergan once removed from his path, it would become tolerably smooth and direct.

"I suppose that we shall have to proceed to business without my nephew, since he is not come," said Mr. Bergan, after a prolonged pause. "May I ask what is the object of this meeting?"

The answer to this question, although very gently given by Doctor Gerrish, was, of course, a severe shock; all the more, because Doctor Remy took care to throw in a covert insinuation that Bergan's absence betrayed some guilty connection with the disastrous event; bethinking himself that, in case the young man should escape Big Ben, he could be gotten rid of all the same, for the present, by being arrested for murder.

Doctor Gerrish, however, repelled the insinuation, as he had done before. "To my mind," said he, "everything points to the opposite conclusion. If Mr. Arling had anything to gain by poisoning his uncle, he must have gained it by staying here, and not by flight. Besides, he is too intelligent a man not to know that such flight would, in itself, arouse suspicion, and imply guilt. Having given the matter a good deal of thought, since morning, I have decided that the poisoning must have been accidental. However, we will, with your permission, call in that old 'Maumer' and examine her a little more minutely than we did before. I have thought of several questions that it would be well to ask."

Rue was accordingly summoned from her faithful watch over her dead master. She declared positively that she had been with him from an early stage of his attack, until his death; and that he had taken only the medicines and food ordered by Doctor Remy, except the untimely drink of brandy, and the afore-mentioned powder. He had swallowed nothing whatever after the arrival of Mr. Arling,--not even the brandy for which he had called with almost his last breath.

"That certainly clears Mr. Arling," remarked Doctor Gerrish, in a low voice.

"H'm--perhaps so," rejoined Doctor Remy, meditatively. "Still, it is evidence not worth a rush, you know, in a court of law."

"It is evidence perfectly satisfactory to me, nevertheless," interposed Mr. Bergan, firmly, "and may be so to you. I, as having known Maumer Rue from my infancy, can vouch for her trustworthiness. Her testimony is as good as mine, or yours."

"Well, you ought to know best," returned Doctor Remy, carelessly. "Still, the woman is old and blind, and cannot be expected to know all that goes on in her presence. Major Bergan might have swallowed half-a-dozen things without her knowledge."

Rue had fallen into the back-ground, during this discussion; but she now stepped forward and faced Doctor Remy, drawing herself up, and smiling scornfully.

"Blind, am I?" she asked; "I am not so blind as those who have eyes, Doctor Remy. No one _saw_ you open my master's private drawer last evening, during his worst paroxysm, but I heard you open and shut it, distinctly, and the rustling of papers, too."

If Doctor Remy was both surprised and startled, he concealed it well, thanks to the guard that he was keeping over himself. He merely looked at his companions, and said, disdainfully; "Of course, such a charge, from such a source, is too ridiculous to be contradicted. The poor old woman has mistaken one sound for another; that is all."

"It is people who live by sight that mistake sounds, Doctor Remy," returned Rue, composedly; "a woman, who has lived by hearing for over sixty years, does not. Let me give you a proof of it. These gentlemen listen to your voice, as I do, and they do not hear anything unusual in it,--nothing more than the seriousness, or the coldness, or the scorn, that fits the words; but I hear in it anxiety and perplexity and suspense and fear. Since Mr. Arling has been missing, I have suspected that you could tell us what had become of him, if you would. But while you have been talking about him here, my ears have been watching your voice, your steps, your very breath; and I know now that you do not know where he is any more than we do. You are puzzled because he does not come; you are continually expecting--I will not say, dreading--to see him, or hear of him. Is it not so?"

"And if it is," answered Doctor Remy, coolly, "what is there strange about it? Why should I not be puzzled at his unaccountable disappearance, and anxious for his speedy return?"

"Anxious?" she repeated, with a low laugh; "yes, you are anxious; but it will avail you nothing. Go your way, rummage drawers and cupboards, you will not find what you seek; plot and sin, you will not get what you covet. Blinder of understanding than I am of eyes, you dig, and know not that it is a pit for your own feet; you plant and water, and never remember that the expectations of the wicked shall be cut off. Master Bergan will come back, and have his own, in spite of you!"

"I am very glad to hear it," responded Doctor Remy, with mock earnestness. Then he turned to his companions. "Her master's death has set her wits to wool-gathering," said he. "Have we any more time to listen to her maunderings?"

Rue opened her lips for a rejoinder, but Mr. Bergan, thinking that the scene had lasted long enough, though he had not been unimpressed by it, laid his hand on her arm. Instantly acknowledging his authority, as one of the family, she bent her head, and retired without a word.

Doctor Gerrish took out his watch. "I shall soon have to leave," said he. "Mr. Bergan, what is to be done about this business? I suppose it is our duty to report it to the authorities."