Chapter 10 FEELING HIS WAY.

Rue was lying on her bed, propped up by pillows into a half-sitting posture. Her breath came raspingly and painfully, and she had the dingy pallor wherewith disease is wont to write itself on the African face.

"Is it death?" she asked, hoarsely, when the doctor had finished his examination. "Because, if it is, I should be glad to know in time to send for Master Bergan,—I mean, Mr. Arling."

Doctor Remy looked down upon the blind woman with a grave,—almost a frowning, face—which she could not see.

"So you are attached to Mr. Arling," said he.

"Certainly, sir," replied Rue, simply. "He is Miss Eleanor's son, you know."

If Doctor Remy did not know, he could easily understand. He was aware that the daughter of a Southern house remains "Miss Eleanor" (or whatever the Christian name might be) to the end of her days, with the dusky home population, although, in the meantime, she may have become a great-grandmother. Moreover, various scattered shreds of rumor came to his recollection, enough to afford a tolerably accurate explanation of the blind woman's reason for desiring to see Bergan Arling at her bedside. And though the matter would seem to be no concern of his, it is certain that he gave it a moment or two of profound study, ere he answered the question which Rue had addressed to him. Indeed, it was very much Doctor Remy's habit—as it is that of selfish natures in general—to consider all events mainly with reference to their bearing upon his own interests, and to hold them important or trivial, according to the degree of favorable or adverse influence which they would be likely to exert upon his fortunes.

The doctor's reflections were short and swift. To the bystanders, there seemed to be only the natural, deliberate pause of the careful physician, before deciding upon the case presented to him. Nor was Rue's patience greatly tried, ere his answer to her question was ready for her.

"Your case is not desperate, this time," said he, "though I can see that it is painful. Your cold, being unwisely left to run its own course, has resulted in inflammation of the throat, and, partially, of the lungs. But it is not beyond present relief, nor permanent cure, I think. At least, we shall soon see."

There was no question of Doctor Remy's professional skill. In Berganton, his scientific superiority had early been recognized by the community, and tacitly conceded by his medical brethren. Yet he could hardly be said to be popular, even with his patients. There was no affection mingled with the respect accorded to his talent. It was intuitively felt, if not clearly understood and expressed, that, though he brought every resource of science to the sick-chamber, he brought nothing else. He was as cold and pitiless as his own steel probe or lance. And there are times when a deep, human sympathy, on the part of the physician, is as real a medicament to the sufferer, as any set down in the pharmacopeia; in which fact many a genial quack finds his account. It had come, therefore, to be very much the Berganton habit to reserve Doctor Remy's skill for severe accidents, for consultations, for the awful conflict of life and death over wasted forms writhing with sharp pain, or locked in moveless stupor. But the thousand pettier ills of life, which asked for tender consideration almost as imperatively as for medicine, preferred to commit themselves to the fatherly kindness of good old Doctor Harris, or the warm-hearted enthusiasm of the last medical arrival,—Doctor Gerrish, whose scientific attainments had, as yet, to be taken for granted, but whose smile was a veritable cordial.

It was Doctor Remy's fate, therefore, to stand by many deathbeds,—where he comported himself much more like a baffled and beaten general than a sympathetic, sorrow-stricken friend. It was also his frequent privilege to see the life-forces rally and stand fast, under his generalship, to begin anew the fight that seemed wellnigh over, to win back, inch by inch, the ground that had been lost, and finally to stand a conqueror on the field. Even then, those most indebted to his skill were often chilled to see how little the cold triumph of his face had to do with their deep heart gladness. Nevertheless, this was the position wherein the doctor appeared at his best,—as now at Rue's bedside.

For some reason,—probably as a step to Major Bergan's favor,—he was putting forth all his skill. In one respect, he was always admirable: he never hesitated to put his professional hand to any business that might seem to belong more properly to the nurse. Rue's attendants were ignorant and awkward; if Doctor Remy had not helped to carry his orders into effect, progress would have been slow. As it was, the treatment was prompt and effective. In about an hour, the acute pains had ceased, respiration had become less difficult, and Rue having devoutly thanked the doctor, under God, for relief so speedy and so grateful, had turned on her side for a complete self-surrender to the delightful drowsiness that was stealing over her.

Coming out, Dr. Remy found Brick waiting for him, on the bench where he had left the Major.

"Is gramma goin' to get well?" he asked, anxiously.

"Certainly,—in a few days," returned the doctor. "Where is your master?"

The negro pointed to the Major's cottage. "Ole massa is thar," he answered. "He tole me, when you's t'rough, to ax you to come an' see him."

The doctor turned in the direction indicated, but was plainly in no hurry to reach the goal. He walked very leisurely, stopping, now and then, to look round on the moonlit landscape. Not till he seemed to have settled some knotty point to his satisfaction, did he enter the cottage.

The Major was seated at the table, with his bottle and glass before him. He did not need to ask Doctor Remy how the case had gone; that had already been made known to him by the mouths of half-a-dozen eager messengers. He merely said, in a tone that was half a protest;—

"I never expected to be so much obliged to you, Doctor Remy. I should be sorry to lose my faithful old nurse. She is the last link between me and my early days. Is she out of danger?"

"For the present, yes. And in the morning, I will look in to see how she goes on,—that is, if you wish."

"I shall take it as a favor," returned the Major, in a tone that was almost courteous. "Sit down, before you go, and take a drink."

Doctor Remy quietly took a chair, but shook his head at the proffered glass. "No, thank you," said he. "We physicians need to keep our heads clear and our nerves steady; and brandy does not conduce to either."

"It never hurt mine," answered Major Bergan, rather surlily, as if he suspected a covert insinuation in the doctor's words.

"Perhaps not," replied Dr. Remy, indifferently. And, glancing out of the open window, he added, "A fine place you have here."

"The finest in the county," replied the Major, with frank pride. "That is, as far as soil and crops are concerned. The old Hall is out of repair, to be sure, but it can be restored to its former grandeur, whenever I see fit."

Dr. Remy gave his host a long, penetrating, comprehensive look. "I should advise you not to neglect the work too long," he observed, gravely, "if you have it much at heart."

Major Bergan set down the glass that was on its way to his lips, and looked wonderingly at his guest.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because a man of your age, with your habits, breaks down soon, when once he begins."

"My habits!" growled the Major, drawing his eyebrows into a heavy frown, "what do you mean, you insolent scamp?"

"I mean," replied Doctor Remy, composedly, "habits at once active, careless, and self-indulgent; such as riding or walking in the heat of the day, spending hours in the rice fields, rising early and sitting up late, eating ad libitum, and drinking ad infinitum."

The summary was too truthful, and the tone too professional, for the Major to retain his unreasonable anger. He merely asked,—"How do you know that I do these things?"

"By your looks."

"Pshaw!" exclaimed Major Bergan, with a scornful curl of the lip.

Doctor Remy smiled, with the calm unconcern of a man who knows his ground. "Your looks tell me more than that," said he.

"If they tell you anything but that I am well,—perfectly well,—they lie," answered the Major, bluntly.

"I am glad to hear it," replied Doctor Remy. "Doubtless, then, you sleep sound and soft."

"No, I don't," grumbled the Major, with unsuspecting frankness, "I sleep like a man tossed in a blanket."

"And probably you have pleasant dreams."

"On the contrary, a perfect Bedlam of furies and horrors."

"And I suppose that you never have headaches, or dizziness, or vagueness and loss of sight."

"I have them all," growled the Major, with an oath, "every miserable item of them. I had an attack, about a fortnight ago, that actually laid me up in bed for a day! I wonder what it all means!"

Doctor Remy forebore to signalize his victory by so much as a triumphant look. "It means," he answered, quietly, "that you will be none the worse for a little medicine in the house, as a provision for future attacks of the sort."

And opening his pocket medicine-case, Doctor Remy selected three or four small phials, and began to measure, mix, and fold up powders, with a dexterity that it pleased the Major to witness. He noticed, too, that the doctor's brow was deeply knit as he prosecuted his task, and that he held one of the phials suspended, for a moment, over the small square of paper, before discharging its contents. All this looked as if his case was getting due consideration, and the Major was proportion ably gratified.

Doctor Remy ended by pushing a dozen or more of tiny folded papers across the table. "Take one, in water, every two hours," said he, "till the symptoms abate,—that is, of course, when you have another attack. There are enough for several occasions; I know you do not like to send for a doctor, if it can be avoided. At the same time," he added, "take care to drop those careless habits that I mentioned."

The last sentence brought a cloud to Major Bergan's brow; but the doctor gave it time to dissipate while he packed his medicine case, and chatted pleasantly about its convenient arrangements. "And now," said he, rising, "what else can I do for you?"

"Nothing, that I know of," replied the Major, "except it be to present your bill. What else can a doctor do?"

"Several things," answered Doctor Remy, lightly. "Make your will, for instance."

The Major laughed outright. "I should say that was a lawyer's business," said he.

"So it is. But do you not know that I once belonged to the bar?"

"I do remember hearing something of the sort, now that you remind me of it," rejoined the Major dryly. "I don't think any the better of you for it."

"Nor any the worse, I hope," returned Doctor Remy, placidly. "At all events, I always advise my patients to make their wills. There is nothing like a mind at rest about the future, to prolong life." He seemed to speak carelessly, yet he fastened a keen look on the Major's face, nevertheless.

The latter only smiled. "When I want my will made," said he, coolly, "I will employ you to do the job."

"He has made it already, as he said he would," thought Doctor Remy to himself. "And the chances are that he won't live to alter it.

"I shall be very much at your service," he answered, aloud. "And now, I must be getting townward; I have to see another patient this evening."

The Major followed him out, and stood for some moments watching the retreating buggy. Doctor Remy, looking back, saw him there in the moonlight, and a strange, furtive look came into his eyes.

"I have given 'Providence' a chance," said he to himself. "Let us see what it does with it."

Major Bergan, meanwhile, was muttering,—"What did he mean, I wonder, by talking to me about my will? It is certainly no concern of his. Does he really think me near death?" And the Major shivered, as if there had been an uncomfortable chill in the thought.

"Uncle Harry," said a clear, sweet voice, close at his elbow. He started, and turned quickly round.

A slender, girlish shape,—a graceful head, drooping like a lily on its stem,—a fair, pure, bright face,—this was the vision that confronted him, and carried him back to his youth, and to the love of his youth; the untoward course of which had doubtless helped to make him the man that he was.

"Clarissa!" he exclaimed, trembling, and feeling as if he were in a dream.

The vision smiled. "Do you not know me, uncle?" it asked, in its sweet tones; "I am Carice."

"Ah!" said the Major, slowly, and as if but half awake. He took his niece's hands, and gazed earnestly in her face. "You are like your mother, child, or like what she was at your age, much more than you are like the child that used to play around my knees,—let me see,—six—eight—nine years ago. I missed her, Carice, when she stopped coming, I missed her."

"She missed you, too, uncle," replied Carice. "She was very fond of you.'

"Then why did she stop coming? asked the Major, gloomily.

"Because, uncle," answered Carice, simply, "she grew old enough to know that it is a child's duty to obey, and not to question."

The Major's brow darkened; but he looked sad, too. "I never laid it up against you, Carice," he said, with significant emphasis.

"Nor against any one, I hope," replied Carice, coaxingly. "Oh, uncle, ought not this long feud to cease?"

Major Bergan shook his head. "There is no feud between you and me, child," said he. "But, as for your father," he went on, with a kindling eye and a roughening voice, "when he—"

Carice laid her hand upon his arm. "As you were just saying," said she, gently, "he is my father. And, dear uncle, a daughter's ear is easily hurt."

The Major stopped, and nearly choked himself with the sentence so suddenly arrested on his lips. "Then, what are you here for?" he finally blurted out, half-wonderingly, half-sternly.

"Ah!" exclaimed Carice, in a tone of sudden recollection, "I had nearly forgotten my errand, in the pleasure of seeing you."

The Major's face grew soft again. He put his hands on Carice's shoulders, turned her toward the full moonlight, and looked long and earnestly in her face. "How beautiful you have grown!" said he, with even more of wonder than admiration in his voice; "I am not sure but that you are still more beautiful than she was. But you don't look as if you belonged to this earth, child; and there's not a bit of the family look left in you. Are you certain that you are Carice Bergan, and not a changeling?"

"Quite sure, uncle," she answered, smiling, "Ask Rosa, there, if I am not." She pointed to her maid, who had accompanied her, and stood waiting near.

"Then, Miss Bergan," said the Major, making her a courtly bow, "what can your old uncle do for you?"

"Nothing, at present," she replied, "except to let me keep my own, old corner in his heart. I only came to see Maumer Rue, if I may. We heard she was dying. So I begged hard to be allowed to come and tell her that I had not forgotten how kind she used to be to me, and to see if I could do anything for her. I fancied it would please her to see me, if she is still able to recognize me. Is she?"

"Perfectly able," replied Major Bergan, "and will be, I hope, for years to come. She has been very ill, but she is much better. She is now asleep."

"Then I will not disturb her," returned Carice. "And yet, I am loath to go back without a glimpse of her. Could I not look in upon her for one moment? I will be sure not to make a sound."

Major Bergan led her to Rue's cabin, and waited on the threshold, while, with her finger on her lips, to guard against any outburst of astonishment from the negro woman in attendance, she stole softly to the bedside, and bent over the sleeping Rue. A wondrously lovely picture she made there,—a picture of such unearthly grace, delicacy, and purity, that the Major's eyes filled with unconscious moisture as he gazed.

Suddenly Rue's lips parted, in a dream, "The Bergan star!" said she. "See! it rises!" And, after a moment, she added, decidedly, "He shall have Bergan Hall!"

Carice quickly stole out to her uncle. His face looked very gloomy, as he led her back toward the cottage.

"Carice," said he, suddenly, "have you seen your Western cousin?"

"Bergan Arling? Yes, certainly," she answered.

"How do you like him?"

"He seems very pleasant," she replied, evasively.

"Seems!" repeated her uncle, gruffly. "What is the matter with him?"

"I do not know, uncle. It is said that he is very dissipated."

The Major laughed ironically. "Nonsense! The most incorrigible milksop that ever I saw," said he. "That is why we quarrelled."

Carice looked at him doubtfully. "The very first thing that we heard of him," said she, "was that he had been mixed up in a low brawl at Gregg's tavern."

"All my fault, Carice," returned Major Bergan, shortly. "I took him there, and cheated him into swallowing a glass of raw brandy."

Carice's blue eyes looked a sorrowful astonishment.

"I did not mean to do him any harm," pursued the Major, answering their mute eloquence; "I only wanted to teach him to drink like a man and a Bergan. I loved the boy, Carice, like my own son, and would have kept him with me, if I could. But he forsook me for the law, the ungrateful dog!"

"Perhaps he had no choice," suggested Carice.

"No choice! Didn't he have the choice of Bergan Hall, and all that belongs to it? That was what was running in Maumer Rue's head, just now. But he preferred independence—and a tin sign in his window! He is a degenerate scion of the race, like your—" The Major suddenly recollected himself, and broke off with a dry cough.

Carice was looking down thoughtfully. An unexpected clue to Bergan's character, motives, and aims, had been put into her hands; and she was slowly trying to follow it out.

"Thank you, uncle, for telling me this," said she, at length. "I am afraid we have been doing Bergan an injustice."

"You certainly have, if you have thought him a drunkard," replied the Major. "But, nevertheless, he's no true Bergan, Carice; don't have anything to do with him."

"No more than is just and right," said Carice, quietly. "And now I must go; mamma will be getting anxious. Come a little way with me, uncle, as you used to do."

The Major walked by her side down to the creek, and watched her anxiously across the dilapidated bridge.

"Don't come that way again," he called to her, as she reached the other end. "It's unsafe."

"Mend it then, uncle," she called back to him. "For I like old paths—and old friends—best."

The Major turned away with a smile. And all the way to the cottage he was saying to himself,—

"Perhaps I had better make my will."