Chapter 11 SLEEPLESS NIGHTS APPOINTED.

Doctor Remy possessed in perfection the power of rapid concentration of thought. Otherwise, he would have taken a divided mind to the bedside of his second patient, that night, after leaving Bergan Hall. As it was, he was glad when the stroke of midnight set him free, body and mind; the one to find its way mechanically to the hotel, through the silent moonlighted streets of Berganton, the other to occupy itself in arranging and perfecting the details of a certain plan for his future advantage, which had suddenly shaped itself out before him, so distinctly, if roughly, that he had already taken an important step toward its accomplishment. It now remained to provide for the rest of the way.

The midnight heaven was without a cloud, and the moon filled it with white radiance. Every object down the long line of the town's principal street was shown with the clearness of noonday, but also with the ghostlike awfulness that moonlight is wont to impart to objects the most familiar. The large, wooden houses, with their broad, shadowy piazzas and dim doorways; the wide, empty sidewalks; the great, shining-leaved oaks, dotting the silvered highway with black islands of shadow; the narrow wheel-track, with its broad margin of grass and weeds, through which an isolated footpath took its solitary way to every gate;—all were distinctly visible, but with a singularity of aspect that seemed to change their whole character and meaning.

And perhaps something of the same effect extended to the countenance of Doctor Remy, as he came down the street, followed by the dreary echo of his own lonely footsteps, as if dogged by immitigable fate. To his features, as to all other objects, the moonlight seemed to impart a new expression. Those who were best acquainted with him, had any such been abroad, would have needed to look twice at his dark moody countenance, and the ominous gleam of his deepset eyes, to feel themselves quite sure of his identity. Continuing to brood over the casual encounter, as they pursued their way, they might have tried to divine what sombre energy of purpose it was that had lit his eyes with such deep, dusky light, and marked his brow and eyes with lines so sternly rigid; shuddering, too, to think how remorselessly he would sweep from his terribly direct, if underground, path, whatever object should intervene between himself and his goal. Then, seeing how the moonbeams had subtilized some mean hovel into a phantom palace or tomb, wrought of alternate silver and ebony, they would be fain to set down both the origin and substance of their reflections to the same magical agency, and breathe more freely in making haste to forget the whole matter.

Secure in the absence of all observation, the dark face kept on its way through the silent street, giving its features the fullest liberty of evil expression. Opposite the principal dry goods store of the street, it paused for a moment; its restless glance had caught sight of a faint gleam from one of the rear shutters, which was plainly not moonlight.

"They are up late," muttered the doctor, "or there is mischief afoot. Well! what is it to me? Have I not enough else to think of?" And he kept on his rapid way.

But the incident seemed to have set free the faculty of speech. Words began to drop from his set lips; short, disconnected sentences, through which, nevertheless, there ran a distinct thread of suggestion.

"I have waited long enough,"—so ran one of these half-involuntary utterances,—"I have waited long enough for Fortune's willing favors; it is time to grapple with the exasperating jade, and wring them from her reluctant hands, by fair means or foul. For what else was I endowed with talent, daring, energy, and will, beyond most men? Not, certainly, to waste them all in earning a bare subsistence, or little more, as I am now doing."

"Is it my fault," he went on, in broken, detached sentences,—"is it my fault that Fortune never shows herself to me, save at the farther end of some dark vista which the world calls crime?—Pshaw! what is a life, one worthless, drunken, half-worn-out life, in comparison with the ends that I have in view,—increase of knowledge, expansion and perfection of science, and through them—as a casual end, I do not pretend that it is a direct one, for me—the advancement of the human race.—The plan seems feasible, as much so, at least, as anything can be, in this miserable, mocking world, where Fate seems to delight in balking the best talent and deranging the artfulest contrivance.—Fate, Chance, or Providence, which? Three different terms for the same thing;—language would be more accurate, if there were less of it.—At any rate, I have given Providence a chance. Let it take the responsibility of the result.—If that will be not made! But to whom else should he give the place? He cannot abide either his brother or his nephew. And Miss Lyte comes next. Besides, there are ways of finding a will, at need. The essential point is, that no other be made."

He was now nearing Mrs. Lyte's house, and the sight of it prompted his next sentence.

"Astra!—there, at least, the way is easy. Only, it must be secret;—I doubt if the old Major would altogether relish me for his heir, despite to-night's increase of cordiality.—As for Arling, it is said that history—"

Dr. Remy broke off suddenly. The subject of his soliloquy was calmly looking at him across Mrs. Lyte's gate.

"Pardon me for interrupting jour conversation," said Bergan, with a smile which satisfied the doctor that he had not heard what he was saying. "One's talks with one's self are sometimes very interesting."

"Why are you not in bed?" asked the doctor, with a sharpness that Bergan set down to professional anxiety.

"A man who goes to bed at six may well get up at twelve," he replied, lightly, "especially if sleep forsakes him. Have you been out until this time?"

"Yes," answered the doctor, debating within himself whether he would speak of his visit to Bergan Hall, and quickly deciding in the negative, since there was little probability that Bergan would hear it from anybody else; inasmuch as the Hall led an independent, isolated life of its own, the events of which rarely made their way into the talk of the town. "It is nothing new for me to be late," he added, by way of finish to his monosyllable.

"I will walk down with you as far as the hotel," said Bergan, coming out, and closing the gate behind him. "Perhaps I may be able to pick up a few seeds of sleep on the way, which will sprout into another nap, when I return. What a night it is!"

"For lunatics—yes," said the doctor dryly.

"Among which you would doubtless class your humble servant," returned Bergan, "if you could look into his mind, at this moment."

"Very likely," rejoined Doctor Remy, indifferently; but he gave his companion a quick, keen glance, nevertheless.

Bergan was looking straight before him. "Doctor," said he, suddenly, "I believe you know the world well; what does it do to the man who goes counter to its traditions and prejudices,—whom, in short, it is pleased to look upon as a kind of modern Don Quixote?"

"Laughs at him first, hammers him next, flings him aside last," returned the doctor, sententiously.

"But if he does not mind being laughed at, bears the hammering without flinching when he must, hammers back again when he may, and will not be flung aside, what then?" pursued Bergan.

The doctor stopped short in his walk, and looked long and searchingly in the young man's face. "Then," said he, slowly, as if the words were drawn out of him almost against his will,—"then it gives way to him, and honors its conqueror. But," he added, "it is a long, exhausting contest. I do not advise you to try it."

"Thank you," answered Bergan, quietly. "I am inclined to try it, nevertheless. But here we are at the hotel. Good night."

Doctor Remy stood on the steps of the hotel, looking moodily after him.

"What has he taken into his head now?" he asked himself.

He had not long to wait for an answer. In the morning, the light which he had noticed in the rear of the drygoods store, found its sufficient explanation in an empty safe and rifled shelves. A week afterward, a tall, ill-favored man was arrested on suspicion of being concerned in the robbery. Two days later, it was known that Bergan Arling had positively refused to undertake his defence. In due course of time, it leaked out, through the amazed prisoner himself, that he had done so because he believed it to be no part of his professional duty to try to shield a criminal from just punishment.