Chapter 3 FATALITY OR TEMPTATION?

Doctor Remy, meanwhile, had made all possible speed from the Rat-Hole to the bedside of a third patient; in order that his time, on that night, might seem to be sufficiently accounted for by his professional visits. His horse was swift, and he had not spared it in his recent expedition; it would seem impossible that he should have been at points so wide apart, within so short a time. By this means he expected to secure himself from Justice, in her human shape; of her divine form, he had no thought nor fear. Yet, all the way, a voice from the Past, which sounded curiously like his own, kept echoing in his ears, with a dull, dead intonation,—"Crime is a mistake."

Well, suppose that it was, he had committed no crime. He had merely placed a particular powder, among many others, where a drunken old man, whose life was of no moment to anybody, could take it or not, at pleasure; he had altered a will in such manner as to give him absolute, instead of partial, control of a certain property, which he intended to use for the advance of science and the benefit of the race; and he had provided for the temporary elimination from affairs of a person likely to obstruct their proper sequence. That was all. What was there in it to cause such a chill depression of spirits,—such an unreasoning dread of—he knew not what?

Nothing, we may be sure, that was patent to the doctor's science. Regarding right merely as another term for custom, policy, expediency, and conscience as a softer name for cowardice, he was not likely to discern clearly, nor explain correctly, phenomena by which even a lost soul now and then asserts itself as of another nature than its tabernacle of dust, subject to other laws, responsive to other influences, thrilled with other pangs, fears, and longings. Nevertheless, he sought for an answer to his question, and found a plausible one in the fact that he was physically weary, and therefore mentally ill at ease. The night, too, was cool for the season, no wonder that some of its chill had gotten into his mind as well as his bones! He buttoned his overcoat more closely around him, and spurred on his flagging horse.

Yet he did not shut out the shiver, nor distance the uneasiness. Some importunate Cassandra of the depths still insisted upon its clearness of vision, in respect to impending calamity. Troubled in spite of himself, he passed his recent operations in careful review, to see if he had left any loophole open to invite detection or impediment. None. On the contrary, all seemed safe and propitious. The Major was dying, or dead, in consequence of his own self-will and folly. Bergan Arling would shortly be disabled, or killed,—but by another man's hand, and ostensibly—really, even, in part—to gratify another man's thirst for revenge. The Major's will had been found and destroyed; and another—its exact counterpart, except for the omission of a few absurd conditions and restrictions—had been put in its place. A few days more, and the vast and valuable Bergan estate would be his own, and available to his ends. If his road to its possession had not been what men accounted straight and clean, whose fault was it? Had he not, in virtue of his marked talents and abilities, a better right to wealth and fame than most men?—and was he to blame for the fatality which always placed some other life or heart between them and him? Had he not done his best to escape from it? Had he not tried more legitimate means to gain them, and failed?

If the doctor had been less intent upon special pleading, he might have reminded himself that the records of crime show that a man seldom stops with the commission of a single theft, forgery, murder, or other offence. The first one being the necessary sequence of an evil habit of living or thinking, a second and a third follow as unavoidably as a strict logical inference from admitted premises. Might not the fatality of which he complained be but the inevitable result of indulging a certain kind of thought until it became a settled habit of mind, sure to manifest itself, on occasion, in appropriate action? Had not this fatality first presented itself to him as a temptation, suggesting a swift means to a desired end?—nay, was it not such still, only treading more confidently a familiar track, and finding a readier reception?

He had no time to answer these queries, if it had occurred to him to ask them;—he was already at his destination. With a mighty effort of his will, he tore himself free of his anxieties and doubts, and bent his mind steadily upon the surgical operation which he had come to perform; and he performed it well, with a clear eye and a steady hand. He then went on to his office, where he found Bergan's summons to the death-bed waiting for him; in apparent obedience to which, he soon after presented himself at the Hall.

In the avenue, he met Doctor Gerrish, who, having lost all patience at Bergan's unaccountable tardiness, had finally started for home. He instantly turned back with Doctor Remy, and waited silently, with an air of deep gravity, while the latter made a brief examination of the corpse. At first sight of it, he gave a little start; and when he had finished his inspection, he stood silent and thoughtful. He had sneeringly committed a certain powder, he remembered, to the disposal of "Providence;" it struck him as a little odd that it should have been kept so long, and finally used only to put a merciful end to intense bodily and mental torture. Was there really a Power overruling the acts of men, whether good or evil, to His own purposes?

"Well!" said Doctor Gerrish, growing tired of the prolonged silence, "what do you think of it?"

Doctor Remy raised his eyes, and met the meaning glance of his colleague. "You suspect—" he began slowly, and then paused, as if not quite willing to put his thought into words.

"Poison," returned Doctor Gerrish, promptly. "Not a doubt of it. The question is, where did he get it—who gave it to him? Is it accident, or suicide, or murder? What are we to do about it?"

Doctor Remy looked down thoughtfully. He was at a loss how to treat this new complication. He had not expected it; he knew not how best to weave it into the intricate web of his plans; he wanted time to consider whether it could be turned to advantage.

"Your last question is the only one that I can answer," he said, at length,—"let us wait. There are many things to be considered. In the first place the poison only hastened the death that was certain to come soon, anyway."

"Are you sure of that?"

"Perfectly so. When I left the Major last night, I knew that he must be a dead man by morning. He had taken no poison then,—except the slow one that he has been taking for years."

"Nevertheless," persisted Doctor Gerrish, "it was not that poison which killed him."

"I suppose there was no one present, when he died, except the servants," remarked Doctor Remy.

"And Mr. Arling," answered Doctor Gerrish.

Doctor Remy lifted his eyebrows. "That looks bad," said he, gravely. "He is the heir, I suppose?"

"If you mean that it looks bad for Mr. Arling," returned Doctor Gerrish, "I do not agree with you. It was he who sent for me; and he promised to meet me here soon."

"Why is he not here, then?" asked Doctor Remy, pointedly.

"I cannot tell. He must have been unexpectedly detained."

Doctor Remy closed his lips like a man who forbears to argue, but is not convinced.

Doctor Gerrish went to the door and called Rue, who had been desired to wait outside during the examination.

"Did you notice anything unusual about your master's death?" he inquired.

"I thought he died very sudden like," answered Rue; "and so I think did Mr. Arling, for he immediately said that Doctor Remy, or some one else, must be sent for, and gave very particular directions that the body should not be disturbed before he arrived."

Doctor Gerrish shot a triumphant glance at Doctor Remy, who only smiled, shook his head, and interrogated Rue, in his turn.

"What did your master take last?"

"A powder. He insisted upon having it."

"Where is the glass from which he took it?"

"Here, sir; but it has been washed."

So it had, and so carefully that there was nothing to show what its contents had been. It also appeared that the paper in which the powder had been folded, had been used to light a candle, and was burned to ashes.

Doctor Gerrish took up the examination:—"Are there any more powders like it?"

"One, sir;—here it is. I think master said he had them from Doctor Remy."

Doctor Remy bent his head in assent, thankful that no vestige of the fatal powder was left, to make the admission dangerous. The remaining one, being examined, was proved to be innocuous. Doctor Gerrish looked puzzled.

"You see," said Doctor Remy, "that it comes back to what I said first,—we must wait. That is, until we can consult with the dead man's brother and nephew. At what hour this afternoon will it be convenient for you to meet them, and me, here?"

"At any hour you please."

"Say three o'clock, then. I will answer for Mr. Bergan's appearance. Of course, Mr. Arling will be back—if ever—long before that time."

From the Hall, Doctor Remy hastened to Oakstead. There was an unusual quietude about the place, and he was met at the door by Mrs. Bergan, with her finger on her lips, and the low-spoken information that, after an excessively restless night, causing them all a good deal of trouble and uneasiness, Carice had fallen into a deep sleep, and must not be disturbed. Would he be good enough to step noiselessly into the parlor, and speak low?

She did her best not to seem less cordial than usual; nevertheless, it did not escape the doctor's lynx-eyed observation that her tone and manner were forced. He pondered briefly within himself what this might mean; but finally set it down to motherly anxiety for Carice, and a consequent desire to get rid of him as quickly and quietly as possible. He was willing to gratify the wish; he had too much upon his mind and hands, just now, to bestow much thought or time upon Carice. He could safely leave her case to run its own course until after she had been declared the owner of Bergan Hall; then it would be for his interest to hasten her return to reason, since it was to her reason only—her strict notions of right, and her devotion to duty—that he must look for an acknowledgment of his claims as a husband, his right to control herself and her property. He did not flatter himself that he had any strong hold upon her affections.

"Certainly, she must not be disturbed," he replied to Mrs. Bergan, after a brief pause. "Sleep, in her condition, poor child! is the best of restoratives; it also shows a decided change for the better. My present business is with her father; is he in?"

"No; he went out a short time since. He may be in the grounds, or he may have gone to the Hall."

"Then he has heard of his brother's death?"

"Yes, the news came early this morning."

"It is not necessary for me to stop, then. Please say to him that I have engaged that he shall meet Doctor Gerrish, Mr. Arling, and myself, at the Hall this afternoon, at three o'clock, for an important consultation; I beg that he will not fail us. Good morning. Let me know if any change takes place in Carice; for I am likely to be so very busy for a day or two, that I may not present myself unless sent for. I was not in bed at all last night, and probably shall not be to-night. A physician's life is a slavish one."

"Yet you like it," replied Mrs. Bergan, feeling that she must say something.

"Not the general practice; I like the science. Good morning, again."