Chapter 9 THE BLOT CLEAVES.

Youthful spirits have a natural buoyancy that floats them easily over the first wave of trouble, however severe. It is the long succession of wearing disappointments and corroding griefs, of anxious days and restless nights, of abortive aims and hopes deferred, which finally overcomes their lightsomeness, and sinks them fathoms deep under a smooth-flowing surface of gentle cheerfulness, a teasing ebb and flow of worriment, or an icy plane of despair.

But of this grievous iteration, and its depressing effect, Bergan, as yet, had no experience. His heart involuntarily grew lighter as he went down the long avenue. The old Hall, with its dust-clogged and tradition-darkened atmosphere, its dusky delights and duskier temptations, seemed to fade back again into the unsubstantiality of his childhood's visions. His sojourn there was, at best, but a brief, casual episode in an otherwise coherent life. He now recurred to the main argument. Not that he could foresee precisely how it was to be wrought out. But the very uncertainty before him was not without its own special and potent charm. It gave such unlimited scope to hope and imagination; there was in it so much room for sturdy endeavor and noble achievement, for an iron age of progress, and a golden era of fame!

It was still early when he reached the Berganton Hotel. The landlord was in the office; he was also in the midst of a prolonged matutinal stretch and yawn, when Bergan surprised him with a pleasant;—

"Good morning. Have you a vacant room for me?"

"Yes, sir,—that is, I will see," was the somewhat inconclusive reply; its first clause being due to the favorable impression made by Bergan's face and manner, and its last to prudential considerations arising from the quickly recognized facts that this prepossessing young man was on foot, and without baggage. "Do you want it long?"

"I can hardly tell,—some days, perhaps; possibly longer. I wish to see if it be worth my while to locate myself permanently here. My name is Bergan Arling. My baggage is to be sent over from Bergan Hall."

"Ah, I see," said the landlord, in a tone which implied that he had suddenly been lifted to a point of observation at once wide and unpromising. And almost immediately he added,—"On the whole, I believe I haven't got an eligible room to offer you. The one that I thought of at first is partially engaged; I cannot let it go till I know the gentleman's decision."

Bergan was gifted with perceptions too quick and fine not to notice the unfavorable effect produced by his frank explanation of himself. Nor was he slow to divine the cause. No doubt his name had been bruited abroad in connection with the disgraceful scenes of yesterday; and, as a natural consequence, in the very place where it would otherwise have been an advantage to him, it would now stand in his way. His heart sank a little to find that he had not left yesterday's acts so completely behind him as he had allowed himself to believe. He had still to endure his inevitable term of bondage to their evil consequences.

Yet herein, he remembered, was his strongest motive for perseverance in the path upon which he had entered. He could not leave a tarnished reputation behind him in the place founded by his ancestors,—the very dust of which, blowing about the streets, doubtless held many particles closely akin to his own earthly substance, and dimly capable of pride or shame on his account. At whatever cost of present pain or ulterior loss, he must stay in Berganton long enough to set himself right in the public eyes.

And loss, it was plain, there might be. Berganton was no longer the busy and prosperous town of his mother's reminiscences. All these years, it had been going backwards. Looking up and down its long, tame, principal street, with its scant and sluggish flow of human life, he could discover little field for energy, little scope for ambition. Were it not for the cords of obligation woven around him by yesterday's events, he would scarcely have stayed for a second look. But those cords held him firmly to his purpose.

"Do you know of any respectable family where I should be likely to obtain board, or, at least, lodgings?" was his next inquiry.

"I do not. I think they might take you in at the Gregg House, down at the lower end of the street."

The words were spoken carelessly enough, yet Bergan could scarcely fail to detect in them a covert insinuation, or to imagine one. His cheek crimsoned, and his eye flashed. Ere he could speak, however, a gentleman whom he had observed sitting near him, with a newspaper before his face, dropped the printed screen, and came forward.

"Mr. Arling can breakfast here, at any rate," said he, in the tone of a man accustomed to overcome all obstacles; "it will give me pleasure to have him for my vis-à-vis at the early breakfast that I have bespoken this morning, in order to gain time for a visit to a far-away patient. And you can at least give him the room of which you speak until it is called for; by that time, we will hope, he may be provided with one even more to his mind."

"Certainly, doctor," returned the landlord, looking a little crestfallen. "If I had known the gentleman was a friend of yours—"

"Hardly that yet," interposed the doctor, smiling, "though I trust he may be, in good time. I know your uncle very well," he continued, addressing Bergan, as the landlord moved away,—"indeed, I may say, your two uncles,—if that be any ground of acquaintance. But I have the advantage of you, in that I heard your name just now;—mine is Remy—Felix Remy—very much at your service. Not that this announcement places us on an equal footing; for, while your name puts me at once in possession of your antecedents, to a certain extent, mine tells you nothing about me except that I am of French descent. Are you willing to take the rest on trust, until a fitting time for a fuller explanation?" And the doctor held out his hand.

"Until the end of time," replied Bergan, grasping it warmly. "It would be strange if kindness were not its own sufficient explanation."

Doctor Remy shrugged his shoulders with a frank cynicism. "Perhaps so," said he. "Yet I make bold to confess that my own practice is to look kindness a little more closely in the face than its opposite. The latter generally wears its reasons openly on its forehead; but for the complicated motives at the bottom of the former, one needs to look long and deep."

"Do they pay for the trouble?" asked Bergan, smiling.

"Not unless you love knowledge for its own sake. As society is constituted, you cannot well act upon it. To apparent kindness, one has to return apparent gratitude."

"I trust I succeed in making mine 'apparent,'" said Bergan, falling into the doctor's humor.

"Perfectly. It could not be told from the genuine article."

"The same thing might be said of your kindness."

"Doubtless. But here comes Cato, to show you to your room. I think breakfast will be ready as soon as you are."

A very few moments sufficed for Bergan to remove the traces of his early morning walk, and rejoin his new acquaintance in the breakfast-room. The two gentlemen at once seated themselves on opposite sides of the table. An opportunity was thus afforded them to observe each other at their leisure, of which Bergan was first to avail himself. His interest had been awakened by the doctor's peculiar style of conversation.

He saw before him a man of medium height and compactly built figure. His locks had been touched by thought or care to a premature grayness, for he had scarcely yet entered upon middle age. His features were regular, and would have been handsome had they been less keenly and coldly intellectual,—the physical mould was forgotten in the mental one that made itself so much more manifest. Their expression was one of active intelligence and calm force, embittered, at the mouth, by a touch of scorn. Yet the face did not absolutely repel; for many minds, it would possess an inscrutable fascination. It provoked study; it challenged the imagination and the understanding.

The doctor's conversation was marked by a curious frankness, and an equally curious reserve. He made no scruple whatever of opening to the light of day shadowy recesses of motive and aim that most men would studiously close, nor of putting himself at odds with the world on various points of social or moral ethics, nor of boldly questioning and criticising much that mankind consents to hold in reverence. Yet, at the end of an hour's conversation, though he had talked readily and fluently on many subjects, and said something true, or profound, or brilliant, or suggestive, about each, his interested, amused, startled, and bewildered hearer could find almost no residuum of his real opinions about any of them. It was impossible to decide where he had been in jest, and where in earnest; through his most serious argument had run a vein of mockery, from under his profoundest thought had peeped forth a hidden sarcasm. His creed, social, moral, and political, continually slipped through the seeker's fingers in subtle, witty, or scornful negations and controversions.

Not that Bergan was conscious of this, at the moment,—nor, indeed, until after many days of familiar intercourse. He recognized in the doctor an intellectual cultivation of no ordinary depth and scope; he was interested and well-nigh dazzled by his originality of thought, the boldness of his attacks, and the freedom of his speculations; but the dubious aspect of his own affairs continually rose before him to harass his mind and distract his attention;—he was himself incapable of close observation or continuous thought. After a time, his glance sank upon his plate, or wandered aimlessly out of the window: though he forgot no requirement of courtesy, he was often in a state of semi-abstraction.

Then, in his turn, Doctor Remy fixed his eyes upon his companion. It was evident that to subjected him to a far more careful and penetrating scrutiny than he had sustained himself. He noted his looks, he weighed his words, he analyzed his turns of thought, in a way to indicate that exceeding "love of knowledge for its own sake," of which he had spoken, or some deeper motive than even his hardy frankness would care to divulge. Whether or no he liked what he saw, no mortal could have told. The doctor's face was a sort of mechanical mask, absolutely under his control; it expressed anything or nothing, according to his will.

One thing only would have been plain to the observer, that he was puzzled by something which he found, or did not find. After one of his deeply penetrating glances, he suddenly called for a bottle of wine, and, first filling his own glass, passed it across the table.

"I am fortifying myself for a harder day's work than usual," said he, as if by way of apology, if apology were needed. "Will you try it? I think I can assure you that it is tolerably good."

"Thank you; I never take wine at breakfast."

"Anything else that you would prefer—" began the doctor, courteously.

"Nothing whatever, thank you," replied Bergan, with a most conclusive wave of the hand.

"Then you do not hold the theory that a little good wine, or other spirits, after a meal, clears the brain, and aids the digestion?"

"Do I look as if I stood in need of either good office?" asked Bergan, smiling.

The doctor gave him a quick, critical glance.

"No, I cannot see that you do," he answered. "I should say that, in your case, Nature might safely be left to perform her own functions;—I do not think I ever saw human mechanism in a sounder condition, or animated by a richer vitality. Still, there can be no great harm in drinking in moderation. Of course, if one cannot do that, it is best to avoid it altogether."

Bergan looked up quickly,—almost angrily,—but there was nothing in the doctor's face or manner to indicate that his general remark was weighted with any ulterior meaning. He was holding his wine up to the light with the air of a connoisseur, and having sufficiently enjoyed its color and bouquet, he tossed it off with apparent relish. Yet Bergan could scarcely have failed to notice, had he been less preoccupied, that he then quietly pushed both glass and bottle aside, and seemed to forget their existence.

"Can I do anything for you, before I set off on my daily treadmill?" he asked, when the meal was ended.

"Nothing, thank you,—unless you can tell me where I shall be most likely to find lodgings and an office."

"An office, did you say? Do I behold in you a brother of the order of the Asclepiad??"

"No, I have not that honor. I am enrolled in the ranks of the Law."

"How many pegs shall I take myself down, in your estimation, if I proclaim myself a deserter therefrom?"

Bergan could not help looking the astonishment that he did not express.

"It is true," said the doctor, answering the look. "I studied law, and practised it for about two years. But it did not suit me."

"Would it be impertinent to ask why?"

"Not at all. It gave too much scope, or too little, to my natural antagonism of mind;—too little for mental satisfaction, too much for material advantage. For instance, I was always possessed with an insane desire to clear the guilty man, whether he were my client, or no."

"Yet you deny to yourself the credit of generous impulses!"

"Stay a little. I was often assailed with an equally insane desire to convict the innocent one—when he was not my client. Do not look so horrified, for the same motive was at the bottom of both. It was because I saw so clearly that, with an exchange of circumstances,—inherited traits, education, temptation, and so forth,—there would also be an exchange of persons."

"In that case, it would seem that neither should be convicted."

"Exactly. But it was Society that needed to be convicted and punished. There was a real satisfaction in reversing its unrighteous judgments."

Bergan felt that he was sinking in a kind of mental quicksand. "But," he objected, catching hold of the first twig of support that offered itself, "you count the man's will for nothing."

"With most men, it does count for nothing. Where one man performs either a good or a bad action deliberately, looking behind and before him, nine hundred and ninety-nine do it because of the pressure of outward circumstance."

"You think, then," said Bergan, after a moment's consideration, "that when a man wilfully embarks on the current which tends toward the Niagara cataract, it is his misfortune, and not his fault, if he finally finds himself at a point where the pressure of outward circumstance must needs carry him over the fall."

"In that case," said the doctor, "the responsibility shifts back to the power that made the current and the fall, and put them in his way."

Bergan saw the wide labyrinth of controversy opening before him, and tacitly declined to set foot in it. He was in no mood for polemics. He merely asked,—

"And in what way—if the question is admissible—do you find medicine more to your taste than the law?"

"In medicine, there is always a distinct and a legitimate foe to combat—disease. When one engages in a hand-to-hand fight with a fever, there are no side issues. Nor does it matter in the least, whether battle is to be done over the body of an incarnate demon or an angel unfledged,—in both cases, the treatment is identical, the physician's duty the same."

"I think I understand you," said Bergan, after a pause, during which he had been trying to reconcile these curious and half conflicting statements with some underlying principles, and finding it, at last, in his own heart, rather than in the doctor's words;—"a physician's professional and abstract duty are never at variance, while a lawyer must often be puzzled to decide if he is justified in using his legal skill to save a criminal from merited punishment."

"It is a question that puzzles few of them," remarked the doctor, dryly. "But in regard to this office, in posse, of yours;—I rent my own from a very respectable widow lady, whose house is much too large for the narrow income to which she found herself restricted, at her husband's death. I think she has another room, that she would be glad to let to an eligible tenant. Shall we go and see? It is quite in my way; I must visit my office before I set out on my rounds."

The house won Bergan's liking, at a glance. It stood on a corner; it was large and airy; double piazzas surrounded it on three sides; over it a hale old live-oak and half-a-dozen gray, decrepit china-trees flung their pleasant shade. In the rear, was a tempting thicket of a garden, which Art had first planted, and then handed over to Nature, to be taken care of at her leisure,—the result being an altogether admirable and Eden-like wilderness of boughs and vines, and, in their season, flowers and fruits, such as can be seen nowhere but at the South. The interior of the dwelling wore a most attractive look of neatness, comfort, and refinement, notwithstanding its extreme plainness of finish and furniture. Crossing its threshold, he felt that a true home had received him into its beneficent shadow. Nothing could be better for him, he thought, than to find an abiding place therein.

Nor was there any difficulty in the way. The doctor's magical touch arranged the preliminaries. Then, Mrs. Lyte,—a pale, sweet, fragile-looking woman, with the gentle gravity of manner that comes of sorrow at once incurable and resigned—yielded at once to the magnetism of Bergan's address,—the involuntary softening of tone wherewith he recognized the claim of her black garments upon his sympathies, the manifest deference which he paid to her loneliness, her bereavement, her sorrow. Since it was needful to sacrifice something of the home seclusion and sacredness to the necessity of daily bread, she could not hope for a more desirable tenant. The negotiations were quickly concluded. Not only was an office secured, but a lodging-room in its rear was also placed at his disposal; and he was to take his meals at the hotel.

Returning thither, and finding that his baggage had duly arrived from the Hall, Bergan's active temperament would not let him rest until he had transported it to his new quarters, and gotten them in tolerable order. In this business he consumed the greater part of the day. The sun was low in the horizon, when, by way of a finishing touch, he nailed a tin plate, bearing in gilt letters the words,—"BERGAN ARLING, ATTORNEY AT LAW," to his office window.

With the act, came a thrill of strange enjoyment. It was like the first breath of a new and invigorating atmosphere. That little sign imparted an element of solidity to his plans and aims, hitherto lacking. It marked an epoch in his life. Now, first, he flung himself, with all his strength and energy, into the great struggle of mankind.

To this pleasantly excited mood, motion was still desirable, weariness unfelt. He decided to pay a visit to his second, and yet unknown, uncle,—Godfrey Bergan. He quitted the village with the last, red sunbeams.