Chapter 9 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 go?t."

"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.

Ben, therefore, having sought two other representatives of the medical profession without success, finally presented himself at Dr. Remy's office. There the doctor found him, on quitting Bergan's room; and in very brief space of time, the two were driving swiftly up the long avenue, through a moonlight that was scarcely less illuminative than sunshine, and far more beautifying, by reason of the soft charm with which it enhanced beauties while it concealed defects.

It was the first time that Doctor Remy had entered upon the territory of Bergan Hall. He was surprised both at its extent, and its signs of opulence. As he passed the stately, deserted mansion,—showing so fair in the moonlight, under its grand, sheltering oaks,—and came in sight of the populous negro-quarter, and the far stretch of cultivated fields beyond, his face was alive not only with interest, but with something deeper still; it might be calculation.

"A fair inheritance!" he said to himself. "Miss Astra will be a most eligible parti. I wonder if that will is made!"

The Major was standing in the door of his cottage, as the buggy drove up with the doctor.

"So it's you, is it?" was his curt salutation. And his tone and look said plainly enough, "I wish it were anybody else!"

But Doctor Remy, though generally armed at all points against such looks and tones, now seemed to take no notice. "Yes," said he, good-naturedly, "it is I. Harris and Gerrish were both out, and Ben had to take me or nobody. Allow me to assure you that he chose wisely, for, if the case be what I suspect, from his account, it does not admit of delay. It follows, therefore, that the sooner I am introduced to the patient, the better."

If the doctor had been studying his speech for the last half-hour, it could not have been more skilfully constructed. The Major's irritation instantly gave way, partly melted by the doctor's good humor, partly forgotten in a sudden rush of anxiety.

"Come on, then," said he, turning to lead the way to old Rue's cabin, which was but a little way from the cottage. As they approached, painful gasps and groans were distinctly heard from within.

On the doorstep, Major Bergan paused. "She is my old, faithful nurse," said he, feelingly. "Spare nothing,—no skill, nor trouble, nor expense,—no more than if she were the first lady of the county."

A kind of spasm crossed his rugged features, and throwing himself down on a bench beside the door, he left the doctor to enter alone.