Chapter 9 MISTAKES.

The summer ran its course, and came to an end. With the first frost of autumn, Hubert Arling arrived in Savalla, to pay a visit of indefinite extent to his brother. A few days after, Coralie, newly returned from Farview, called at the office, expecting to find her father there, according to appointment; but found only Bergan, as it appeared, writing in his usual place. He rose, bowed, and finally took her offered hand, with what seemed to her an odd mixture of hesitation and embarrassment, while she poured forth greetings, thanks, and questions.

"You are looking wonderfully well," she concluded; "one would think you had been rusticating in the mountains, instead of spending a hot and lonely summer in the city. But I suppose that you are lonely no longer; you must be very glad to have your brother with you; my father told me of his arrival."

He looked much amused. "I suspect that I am my brother," said he, smiling. "But I am not my brother whom you take me for. I wish I were,—to have the honor of your acquaintance."

It was Coralie's turn to look embarrassed. "I thought—is it not Mr. Arling?" she stammered.

"It is Mr. Arling—Hubert Arling, at your service. Can I do anything for you?"

Coralie was so much amazed, that it would have been difficult for her to decide, at the moment, whether he could do anything for her or not. But the entrance of Mr. Youle and Bergan relieved her from the necessity of answering, and gave her opportunity to compare the brothers at her leisure. Unquestionably, they were singularly alike, in personal appearance, manner, and somewhat, even, in mind. Only, when seen together, Bergan was found to be so much older and graver of aspect—far more than was justified by his two years of seniority—that she wondered how she could ever have mistaken one for the other. And, certainly, there was a rare charm about Bergan's gravity, a singular fascination in looking into his deep, thoughtful, all-observant eyes, and conjecturing what disappointment or sorrow lay darkly underneath. Still, Hubert's buoyancy and animation were wonderfully taking, too, in their way; and her youthfulness sprang involuntarily forward to meet his. On the whole, she was glad to know that Mr. Arling had a brother every way so worthy of him.

Before she left, the brothers received and accepted an invitation from Mr. Youle to dine with him. But for Hubert's sake, Bergan would gladly have declined it. Having once introduced his brother into pleasant society, however, he could leave him to make his own way in it,—as he was fully qualified to do.

When the door closed on the father and daughter, Hubert looked at his brother, and smiled meaningly.

"Why did you not tell me?" he asked.

"What should I tell?" rejoined Bergan, composedly.

"That your future was likely to atone so prettily and pleasantly for your past."

Bergan looked grave. "Not another word of that, Hubert, if you please. The past is not atoned for, in that sense; in another, I hope it may be. Miss Coralie is, to me, simply my kind old partner's very admirable and estimable daughter."

Hubert looked half incredulously into his eyes, but there was no resisting the strong confirmation of their quiet, steady, answering gaze.

"But, Bergan, you are a goose!" he broke out.

"At your service," was the reply, with a bow of mock courtesy.

"Pshaw! Then, if I go and trade on your capital, you will never call me to account?"

"Never."

Hubert held out his hand; Bergan gave it a firm, strong clasp. There was not another word; they understood each other.

In the midst of the desultory chat that followed, there came a knock at the door; and in answer to Bergan's prompt "Come in," his former client, Unwick, entered.

"My brother," explained Bergan, as the new comer looked a little hesitatingly at Hubert. "Would you like to see me alone?"

"As you please," replied Unwick. "It is your business rather than mine that brings me here; if anything so vague and indefinite can be called business."

"Then, proceed. I have no secrets from my brother. Will you take a chair?"

Unwick sat down, and cleared his throat.

"It is a long story; but I will make it as brief as I can. You know that my cousin Varley is now in prison, under sentence of death for the murder of which I came so near to being convicted myself,—and should have been, but for you. Well, he sent for me a few days ago, to ask my pardon, and to beg me to take charge of a certain child of his. It seems that, two or three years ago, he was inveigled into a marriage with a beautiful but unprincipled girl, belonging to one of the worst families in this vicinity; her parents keep a low tavern, generally known, I believe, as the 'Rat-Hole,' about a mile out of town, on the Berganton road. Do you know it?"

"Yes, it has been pointed out to me," replied Bergan.

"Well, the girl is dead; but there is a child, left in the grandmother's hands, which Varley wants me to get possession of, and bring up in a respectable way. Poor fellow! he has seen what is the result of evil associations, and desires to save his child from a similar fate. Still, he wishes the matter to be arranged quietly, if possible. So, yesterday, I went out to see the grandmother—that explains how I came to be in so vile a place. Well, I was made to wait for a half hour in a dirty little back room; and having nothing else in the world to interest me, my attention was attracted by a conversation on the other side of the thin board partition which divided the room from the next one. Still, I doubt if I should have taken the trouble to try to make it out, if I had not heard your name spoken. Then it occurred to me that I might possibly be able to do you a good turn, in part payment of what you had done for me. So, swallowing my scruples as best I could, I put my ear to one of the cracks, and listened. There were two men on the other side, but they were wise enough not to call names,—I did not get the least clue to whom or what they were. One talked quite low, but in a clear, though rather thin voice, which made it comparatively easy to catch what he was saying. The other talked louder, but pretty thick, as if he were a good deal the worse for liquor; and he mixed up everything that he said with such a queer medley of proverbs—"

"Proverbs!" interrupted Bergan, starting, and beginning to look interested.

"Yes,—proverbs in every language under the sun,—Latin, Greek, Spanish, German, and all the rest,—a regular Tower-of-Babel performance. Do you recognize him?"

"I suspect that I do. Go on."

"Well, his companion,—have I given you any clue to him?"

"None as yet. Perhaps I may get one as your story progresses."

"He was persuading this old proverb-spouter to sign some paper,—a will, I think; but it was only after a good deal of arguing, and bribing, and threatening, that he succeeded in doing so. Now comes your part in the matter; the old fellow's great objection seemed to be that he didn't want to injure you."

"Me!" repeated Bergan, in much astonishment; "what had I to do with it?"

"That is exactly what I couldn't find out; but I thought you might be able to tell. You cannot?"

"Not in the least. What else was there?"

"Nothing, only the old bundle of proverbs also wanted to know 'what would be to pay,' if they were found out,—would it be felony, or compounding of felony, or what?"

"Why!" exclaimed Bergan, "the will was a forgery, then!"

"I cannot say as to that. The man who didn't spout proverbs set the other's scruples at rest, first, by asserting that there was not the least danger of detection; and secondly, by declaring that you would not sustain any injury, because the property was certain to come to him, soon or late, anyhow. Whereupon the drunken Solomon muttered, sotto voce, 'Into the mouth of a bad dog, often falls a good bone,' and appeared to sign his name as required. At least, I heard the scratching of a pen on paper; and, after that, some money was told out on the table, as a first instalment of the bribe agreed upon; and another instalment was to be paid at the same place to-morrow. Do you get any light on the transaction yet?"

Bergan looked very grave. He remembered old Rue's assertion that Doctor Remy had wedded Carice simply to get possession of the Hall estates, through his uncle's will in her favor. "Was the first voice that of an educated man?" he asked.

"Thoroughly so; an exceedingly distinct, even intonation, and the language was well chosen, too. It would have been a very pleasant voice to the ear, except that it seemed to lack heart, emotion; it was just clear and cold, like ice. Are you beginning to see your way through the affair?"

"Very dimly, if at all. But I think that I know the parties."

"Is there anything to be done about it? Can I help you in any way?"

Bergan shook his head. He remembered that Doctor Remy was the husband of Carice. He sat silent, his heart swelling with unselfish pain and pity for the pure, delicate nature thus linked to the dark and vile one; he hoped that the latter had not lost the art of concealing somewhat of its hideousness.

Mr. Unwick rose. "I will not detain you any longer. I am glad—or sorry, whichever is proper—that my story proves to be of so little importance."

"Thank you, nevertheless, for taking the trouble to come and tell it to me. By the way, did you get the child you went after?"

"Not yet; the grandmother declared that it was not in the house, though I did not believe her. Bad woman as she is, I think she really loves it, and would like to keep it. But I was authorized to offer her a considerable sum of money to get it quietly out of her hands; and she knows that the law gives the father the right to dispose of its future. I am going, to-morrow afternoon, to get a final answer from her, after she has consulted with her husband, who was out when I was there."

"Will you let me go with you? I should like to see if I recognize any old acquaintance around the place; and if I do, to give him a friendly warning to take care not to be seen there again. I happen to know that the premises are now under constant surveillance, as a suspected depository of stolen goods, and that the police are meditating a descent upon them in a day or two."

"I shall be only too happy to have your company," replied Unwick, courteously.

"And I will go along, too, if you don't object," remarked Hubert. "If the place is of the character you mention, the more the safer, as well as merrier, I should say."

"Then, I will call for you to-morrow, at three o'clock," said Unwick, "if that suits your convenience."


The "Rat-Hole" wore an appearance of exceeding quietness, in the sunny autumn afternoon. A half tipsy vagabond or two lounged about the stoop, but the greater part of its frequenters were of the owl species, careful not to show their heads in the daytime.

Having signified to the bar-keeper that his business was with the mistress of the house, Unwick was shortly summoned to her presence, leaving the brothers waiting in the bar-room. After a considerable time he reappeared, and beckoned to Bergan.

"I have persuaded Mrs. Smilt to allow of a witness to our transaction," said he. And he added, in a low tone, "The pair that I spoke of, are on the other side of the partition again; you can hear their voices, and satisfy yourself whether you know them or not."

Mrs. Smilt was a hard, ill-favored woman, of about fifty; she had a child on her lap, and there were tears in her eyes.

"Mr. Unwick wants a witness to our business," she remarked, grimly, to Bergan. "Well, here's the child, and there's the money that he's to pay me for't. It's a fair bargain, and I don't mean to shirk it; though I'd rather keep the child, a good deal, myself. But my husband 'ud rather have the money; and he's captain."

Bergan bowed. He would not speak lest his voice should be heard and recognized in the adjoining apartment. He drew near the partition, but there was only a sound of footsteps on the other side, and the closing of a door; he was too late to get any satisfaction from this quarter. He stood waiting impatiently for Unwick to bring his business to an end, and half inclined to excuse himself, and make his escape, when he heard a pistol-shot, and a brief struggle, ended by a heavy fall, in the direction of the bar-room. He opened the door, and ran thither, closely followed by Unwick and Mrs. Smilt.

A singular scene was presented to his eyes. Prostrate on the floor lay Doctor Remy, with an exceedingly black and discomfited face; while Hubert was standing over him like a young gladiator. On one side, stood Dick Causton pouring forth a volley of utterly incoherent proverbs and entreaties, addressed to his "dear young friend Mr. Bergan;" and, on the other, stood the barkeeper, so bewildered, apparently, by this sudden and unaccountable fracas, as to be undecided which side or what tone to take. At sight of Bergan, Dick reeled backward, and looked completely confounded; Doctor Remy set his teeth hard, and his face grew blacker than ever.

Bergan looked at Hubert. "What does this mean?" he asked.

"Upon my soul, I wish I knew!" responded Hubert. "This—gentleman"—there was a deeply sarcastic emphasis on the word—"did me the honor to point a pistol at me. I knocked it up, and him down; that is all I know about the matter."

Bergan motioned him to stand aside, and helped Doctor Remy to his feet. "Thank God—if you ever do such a thing"—said he solemnly, "that you have been saved from the commission of another crime. Go, now; and, for your own sake, as well as for the sake of those connected with you, take care to be seen here no more. I assure you that it is a dangerous place for persons without legitimate business and fair credentials."

Doctor Remy had recovered his composure, in part. He drew himself up haughtily. "Keep your advice for those who need it," he rejoined; "I am here simply as a physician, in attendance upon a sick man. What your business may be, is none of mine: good evening." And he strode out of the door.

Hubert stood looking on, the picture of astonishment. "Was there ever such a riddle!" said he. "First, an unknown man attempts my life; and next, you bid him go in peace, or something very like it!"

"He took you for me," said Bergan, quietly.

"I appreciate the compliment. But are you in the habit of serving for a target?"

"Hush! It was Doctor Remy."

Hubert looked more amazed than ever, for a moment; then his brow flushed, and his eyes lit up. "Lucky for him that you did not tell me that before," said he. "He should never have gotten out of my hands, except into those of a policeman. Why, Bergan, what are you thinking of, to let him escape us thus?"

"I will explain all to you, when we get home," answered Bergan, wearily. "Mrs. Smilt, I beg your pardon for having been the unintentional cause of such a commotion in your house; I think I can assure you that no harm has been done. Mr. Unwick, are you ready to go?"

At the door, Bergan stopped and looked around for Dick Causton; but he had taken advantage of the discussion between the brothers to sneak out. The fact was a suggestive one to Bergan, taken in connection with Unwick's story of the preceding day. Never before, in spite of his bad habits and fallen estate, had Dick Causton been known to flee from before any man's face.