times, an' she say she tink her days drawin' to her close, an' she's
mighty anxious to see you, massa, 'fore she done gone. So she tole me
to ax you, could n' you come to yer ole room in de Hall, some ob dese
yere ebenins, jes' so's to gib her a chance to talk wid you. Ole massa
need n' know nothin' 'bout it; he's allers safe 'nough in de cottage
dem times. An' she hopes you'll hab de kin'ness to come, 'case she's
got suthin' bery partic'lar to say to you."
Bergan hesitated. He could not visit the old Hall without reviving
painful recollections; besides, it did not suit his natural
straightforwardness to go thither in a half-clandestine way. Yet how
could he refuse the urgent request of Maumer Rue, weighted not only
with the probability of coming death, but with the consideration of her
long, faithful, life service of his mother's family? And, after all,
there was no great harm in a visit to the deserted Hall, to gratify an
old, infirm, attached dependent. He certainly need do no skulking; if
he chanced to come upon his uncle, he could fairly and frankly face
both him and the situation.
Accordingly, he directed his evening stroll toward Bergan Hall. It was
an obscure night of late March. A gray veil of cloud covered the wide
expanse of sky, from horizon to zenith; through which only the faintest
light struggled, to guide his steps up the ruined avenue. He could not
but be reminded of his first forlorn coming upon the desolate scene;
even though he was obliged to confess that, in some respects, matters
were mending. Though the Hall stood silent and ruinous as before,
under the sighing oaks, it was not wholly dark. An arch of light shone
above the doorway, and a second gleam came invitingly from the window
of the room that he had once called his own. The door, too, yielded
readily to his pressure. At this rate of improvement, a few years
might easily transform the shadow-haunted old ruin into a cheery,
heartwarm home.
It was only a passing thought, and did not slacken in the least the
light, quick step with which he ran up to his old room. Rue had done
her best to give it a look of home and welcome. A fire blazed on the
hearth, and reddened the walls; his favorite arm-chair was drawn before
it; near by, stood a round table, with two tall candles, a few
scattered books, and a tray of refreshments. It all looked strangely
familiar:--there was the secretary at which he had written his letters
home; there was the book that he had been reading, with his mark
between the leaves; there was the flute, so few of whose long-prisoned
harmonies he had been able to set free. Was it really five months
since he saw them last?
Rue was not in the room when he entered it; it did not suit her notion
of their respective positions to assume any quality of hostess. But
she almost immediately appeared, and greeted him with tearful affection
and respect. Bergan looked at her narrowly, and was pained to see that
her tall form had lost much of its old erect stateliness, and that she
leaned heavily on her cane as she walked. Still, there was no sign of
immediate loosing of the silver life-cord; on the whole, he thought
that she bore her heavy burden of years wonderfully well, and the
thought came naturally to his lips.
"It may seem so," replied the old woman, with a slow shake of her head,
"but I feel a greater change than you can see, Master Bergan. Till
now, I never knew anything about the chill or the heaviness of age; it
has come upon me all at once. I do not think, any more than you do,
that the end itself is close at hand; but the beginning of the end is
certainly here. Let it come as soon as the Lord wills; He knows I'm
ready. Only it is borne in upon me that there's something more for me
to do for the family, before I leave their service; though I cannot
rightly see what. Sometimes I am almost sure that it's just to see
that you are put into your rightful place as the master of Bergan Hall.
If that is all that I am waiting for, I wish it might be done quickly.
Couldn't you make up your mind to come back here now, if Master Harry
would ask you kindly? I know I can get him to do it."
"Indeed, I could not, maumer," answered Bergan, quietly, but very
firmly. "I am not yet in a position to treat with my uncle, on equal
terms. And I am less than ever inclined to be dependent upon him, or
any one. Let me beg you to give yourself no further care or thought in
the matter."
Rue sighed deeply. There was something in the young man's tone that
forestalled either argument or entreaty.
"Pardon an old woman's curiosity," she said, at length, "but, are you
very much nearer to independence than when you left here?"
"I cannot say that I am."
"Do you have much to do, in the way of your profession?"
"I could easily do more." There was a slight dryness in Bergan's
intonation, that did not escape the blind woman's quick ear.
"Come with, me, please; I have something to show you," said she,
turning toward the door. "You had better bring a light, too; you will
need it, though I do not."
She led the way to a large room on the other side of the hall,--the
bed-chamber (and death-chamber, too) of the mansion's departed owners.
It was lined, from floor to ceiling, with carved and panelled
wainscoting. Rue went straightway to one side, not far from the
mantel, ran her fingers carefully over the dark, uneven surface, and
finally pressed hard on a projecting point.
"Now, Master Bergan," said she, pointing to a great, carved acorn,
"take hold of that, and push this way."
Bergan obeyed, and a considerable portion of the wainscoting slid
easily to one side, disclosing a small room or closet, so artfully
contrived between wall and chimney, that its existence could never have
been suspected. It was lighted and ventilated by a window, and
furnished with an armchair and a massive, old-fashioned secretary. Rue
opened one of the compartments of the latter, and revealed several
small canvas bags, which, it was easy to see, contained gold and silver
coin.
Bergan was naturally a good deal surprised at sight of the hidden
hoard. It seemed scarcely credible that any man in his senses should
care to lay up such idle store of the precious metals, which might
otherwise be profitably employed in an easy process of
self-augmentation. Still, he knew enough of his uncle's surly and
suspicious character, and of his distrust of banks (which he had once
heard him characterize as "ready sinks for fools' money"), to leave
only room for a passing wonder.
"I have brought you here, Master Bergan," said Rue, solemnly, "because
this secret rightly belongs to you, as the future master of the Hall.
It is the duty of each owner to make it known to his heir, on his
deathbed, or earlier. The place was contrived by Sir Harry, because
there was something like it in the English Bergan Hall, which served
for a hiding place for men and women in troublous times; and he
provided for the keeping and handing down of the secret, in the same
way as it, had been done there. It was only to be known to the owner
and the heir."
"Then how came you to know it?" asked Bergan.
"I will tell you. When the third Harry Bergan was at the point of
death, his heir was in Europe. The person whom he most trusted, in the
world, was his body-servant, Cato. He gave the secret to him, to be
kept till the heir's return. Cato was my great-great-great
grandfather. He thought the same thing might happen again, and the
secret be lost; so, on his deathbed, he told it to his son, and the son
told it to his son, and so on, till my father, who had no son, told it
to me. So, you see, the secret has run down in the black blood
alongside of the white blood, and been kept just as sacredly. But the
white blood has never known it till now; when I tell it to you, because
I have no child living, and Brick is still too young to be trusted with
such a matter."
"What a strange circumstance!" said Bergan, deeply interested. "Has
the place ever been used except as a storeroom for valuables?"
"Only once, to my knowledge. During the Revolution, Colonel Bergan was
hidden here some days, when a party of British were quartered on the
premises,--some of the same party that Sergeant Jasper afterwards
captured."
She paused for a moment, while Bergan silently looked round the narrow
walls; and then she resumed.
"You see what use Master Harry makes of the place. And perhaps you
know him well enough to understand that he will never tell any one
where he keeps his money, until his breath is almost out of his body.
That is why I brought you here. I cannot expect to outlive him; and if
he should die suddenly, or with the secret only half-way off his
tongue, it would die with him."
"Perhaps you have done well," said Bergan, after a moment of thought.
"Certainly, I shall regard it only as a trust for the future owner of
the Hall, whoever he may be."
"He will be none other than yourself," returned Rue, decidedly. "I
only wish I were as certain of the time, as I am of the fact. And
now," she continued, pointing to the bags of coin, "take as much of
that as you need. Master Harry will never miss it; I don't think he
ever counts it over, he is so sure that it is safe here. And it will
all be your own some day."
"What do you mean!" exclaimed Bergan, angrily, starting back. "Do you
take me for a thief?"
"Of course not, Master Bergan, of course not," answered Rue, earnestly
and deprecatingly, laying her hand on his arm. "It is only because I
know that it will be yours in time; and as Master Harry does not need
it nor use it, why shouldn't you have the good of it now, when you need
it more than you ever may again? If it suits you better, take it as a
loan, and pay it back, when you are able."
"No! no!" said Bergan, turning hurriedly away, "it is impossible. You
mean kindly, I know, Maumer Rue, but you do not seem to understand the
facts. I have no more right to it than any stranger; I could not touch
it, to save me from starving. Come, let us go! I have seen enough."
"I believe you are right," said Rue, after a pause, "and I am a foolish
old woman. I could not bear to think that my dear Miss Eleanor's son
was pinching himself, in the least, when there was so much idle gold in
the old house; but I see you are right, sir; and I beg your pardon."
It was not without a sense of relief that Bergan soon after closed the
door of the old Hall behind him, and stepped out into the cool, fresh
night air. Not that he had suffered any real trial of temptation,--his
principles were too true and firm for that;--but there had been
something in the whole sombre scene--the deserted, death-scented
chamber, the concealed closet, the hoarded gold--that had left him with
a sense of oppression, which kept its hold of him all the way home.
It was late when he reached his office. To his surprise, it was not
empty. A gentleman was sitting by the table, with a pile of papers
before him, and a weary, discontented face, as if his waiting had
outlasted his patience.
Bergan's heart gave a great leap. He divined that his long-looked-for
client was before him!
VIII.
THE WIND CHANGES.
"Good evening, Squire," said the stranger, in a deep voice,--a voice
that would have been gruff, but for the melodizing influences of the
soft southern climate. "My name is Corlew--John Corlew, of Williston.
I came to see if you would consent to take charge of a case of mine,
which is to be called to-morrow."
"To-morrow!" repeated Bergan, in much surprise. "That is very short
notice."
"I know it. But it is of the greatest consequence to me that the case
should be tried at this time, and not carried over to another term. It
was in the hands of Squire Fielder, one of our Williston lawyers; but
he was taken sick this afternoon,--fell down in court, some brain
difficulty or other,--and is forbidden by the physicians to do a thing.
So I inquired for a lawyer that hadn't got his hands full of business,
and somebody mentioned you. I remembered your name; I happened to be
North five years ago, and heard your Commencement speech, and knew what
sort of a reputation you graduated with; so I quickly made up my mind
that you were the man for my need. I've brought all the
papers,--Squire Fielder's notes and all,--he couldn't well do less than
give them to me, under the circumstances. I understand matters pretty
well myself; and we've got the night before us. If you'll undertake to
master the case by ten o'clock to-morrow morning, I am willing to put
it in your hands."
"I will do my best," said Bergan, after a brief consideration.
Mr. Corlew immediately began to open and sort his papers; Bergan
brought writing materials, drew his chair to the opposite side of the
table, and bent all the powers of his mind to the hard task before him.
It was an action for ejectment, involving trial of title, and with the
usual mixed and intricate character of such things; interwoven, too,
with a pathetic story of misfortune. Bergan patiently examined and
questioned; Mr. Corlew intelligently explained and answered. The
investigation was scarce half concluded, when Bergan quietly pushed Mr.
Fielder's notes aside.
"They do not help me," he explained, in answer to a glance from Mr.
Corlew, "In my judgment, he has mistaken the point on which the case
really hangs. At all events, I shall do better to manage it in my own
way."
Midnight came and went on silent feet; the "wee, sma' hours," sacred to
love rather than law, hastened, one after another, to join their
numerous kin in the misty vale of the Heretofore; the stars went out
like spent lamps; the dim night-silence began to stir with vague
premonitions of light and sound; finally, gray dawn looked solemnly in
through the windows. Then Bergan lifted his head, and pushed back the
hair from his brow.
"Now leave me," he said to his companion, with unwonted sombreness.
"The rest must be done by myself. I will meet you at the court-house,
in good time."
He made an almost imperceptible pause. Then, looking Mr. Corlew full
in the face, he said, in a tone half-assertive, half-questioning;--
"You wish to succeed in this suit?"
Mr. Corlew's eyes fell under his penetrating gaze. "Of course I do,"
he answered a little surlily. "What else am I here for?"
Bergan seemed to muse for a moment. "Well," said he, at length, in the
tone of a man who recalls his thoughts from an episodical flight to the
main subject, "I think you may reasonably expect success, if your
witnesses testify as is here set down. The law is clearly in your
favor."
"I am glad to hear it," returned Mr. Corlew, heartily. Yet he looked
slightly annoyed, none the less; and his "Good morning," as he went
out, was a little stiff.
Bergan leaned back in his chair, folded his arms, and knitted his brow.
He looked like a man assailed by some miserable doubt or suspicion,
which yet he is half-inclined to regard, as illegitimate.
"It is a necessity of my profession," he muttered, at last; and, with a
mighty effort, he tore himself free from the teasing phantom, and
addressed himself anew to his work.
There is no need to burden these pages with the tedious formalities of
a trial at law. Suffice it to say that Bergan conducted the case with
an ease and ability that surprised his legal associates. They had
looked for some nervousness, some hesitation, some solicitude, some
awkwardness, in the manner of the young legal _débutant_; they could
detect nothing of the sort. He made his opening speech with consummate
clearness and composure; and he examined and cross-examined witnesses,
quoted authorities, took exceptions, and made points, with a quiet
ease, and even, at times, with a touch of listlessness, that argued
excellent training and profound knowledge.
Perhaps his quietude of manner was the more perfect, that a slight
cloud hung on his brow, all through the two days of the trial; though
his observers were too little acquainted with the wonted expression of
his face to discover it. Not till he rose to make his final speech did
the shadow lift. Then, indeed, the spectators noticed a change. He
had spoken but a few sentences, when his eyes kindled, his brow
cleared, his voice gathered fulness and melody, he forgot himself and
his doubt in the glow of an irresistible inspiration, in the glad
exercise of a natural gift of oratory so wondrous, so unexpected, and
so potent, that court and spectator were alike taken by storm. Only in
dim tradition had such a speech ever been heard in that court room,--so
fluent, so animated, so skilfully throwing an ideal grace around dry,
bare legal facts, without dimming their outline or destroying their
logical connection. People held their breath to listen, unwilling to
lose one delicate shade of thought, one fit, luminous expression. Two
or three times, the judge was forced to suppress outbursts of applause,
in which, nevertheless, his pleased and interested face concurred; and
when Bergan took his seat, gray-headed lawyers stretched their hands
across the table in hearty congratulation.
A verdict for his client was almost immediately rendered. Then he
stepped out into the crowd, to be met on all sides by extended hands
and enthusiastic compliments. People that had always studiously
avoided him, now sought to catch his eye; gentlemen who had never
vouchsafed him more than a stiff nod, now waited to give him a friendly
hand-grasp and a few congratulatory words. One of the magnates of the
neighborhood publicly stamped him, as it were, with the seal of his
high approbation, by engaging him for a few moments in conversation,
and then parting from him with an intimation that he might expect an
early invitation to dinner.
Turning away from the dog-day smile of this personage,--late and
sultry,--Bergan encountered the meaning gaze of a pair of blear eyes.
"Sudden change of weather," remarked Dick Causton, dryly. "'it never
rains but it pours.' You are in a heavy shower, Mr. Arling."
And with unwonted consideration, Dick waited till Bergan had passed on,
before he muttered, "_In picciol tempo passa ogni gran pioggia_,--a
heavy shower is soon over."
Dr. Remy came next. "I never sing in chorus," said he, shrugging his
shoulders, and putting his hands behind him; "I shall keep my
compliments for a day of dearth. But what a weathercock is public
opinion!"
Yet the change was not altogether so sudden and radical as it appeared.
Bergan's upright, independent course of conduct, so quietly persisted
in, through all these months, despite every discouragement, had at last
begun to tell upon the prejudices of the community. Mrs. Lyte's warm
advocacy and indignant protest, in her small circle, had also had its
weight. Probably both would have availed much earlier, but for the
curiously infelicitous language in which Dr. Remy had all along chosen
to couch his responses to such persons as had approached him in
relation to Bergan's character and habits.
"As talented a fellow as ever lived," he replied to one inquirer,--"and
as deep a one. Ah! he knows well what he's about!"
"Sober?" he answered another,--"certainly; as sober as an anchorite. I
hope he will keep so."
"Mr. Arling is my neighbor and friend, as friendship goes," he said to
another; "I neither make, nor listen to, derogatory remarks about him.
If you want confirmation for your prejudice, go elsewhere. I am not in
that line."
Intentionally or not, Dr. Remy's cool cynicism rather damaged than
helped Bergan's cause.
Nevertheless, the steadfast testimony of his upright life remained, and
could not be wholly ignored. The feeling was fast becoming general
that the young man deserved somewhat better at the hands of the
community than he had received. And the feeling would doubtless have
manifested itself in good time, and with due caution, if Bergan's
unexampled success in the court-room had not fairly dazzled out of
sight the last lingering shadow of prejudice, and caused a popular
reaction toward the other extreme of enthusiastic admiration and
approval,--a reaction all the stronger because spurred on by a lurking
sense of past injustice.
Moreover, the little, sleepy town, whose intellectual brilliants were
few, and not of the first water, naturally felt that it could not
afford to ignore the fine talent which had so suddenly blazed out in
its midst, and which might be regarded as, in some sense, of its own
creation.
"He really belongs to us, you know," remarked one townsman proudly to
another. "He comes of the Bergans of Bergan Hall, on the mother's
side,--good old aristocratic stock. And he's an honor to it!"
And so, as has been said before, Bergan's exit from the court-room was
a scene of triumph that might easily have turned an older head, and
quickened the beating of a chiller heart.
But Bergan took it all quietly, gravely,--almost indifferently. The
cloud had settled back upon his brow, and never stirred for any
compliment, or congratulation, or friendliness. Most persons
attributed it to wounded pride, not yet healed. In the midst of the
ovation, they believed that he kept a rankling remembrance of the
coldness and neglect which had preceded it. One observer only, a
little clearer eyed than the rest, said to him:--
"You look tired."
"And well he may!" responded Mr. Corlew, standing by with a face of
unalloyed satisfaction. "He never saw the case until evening before
last; and he has not slept for two nights."
There was another, and a stronger, burst of admiration, mingled with
wonder; but the complacent, satisfied tone of Mr. Corlew's voice only
deepened the shadow on Bergan's brow. Quickly extricating himself from
both crowd and client, he walked swiftly home, meditating, as he went,
upon the seeming churlishness of human existence, in that it never
gives us what we want, or gives it only in such way and shape as to
neutralize its sweetness.
What, then, was the drop of bitterness in his cup of triumph?
Not the paltry pride that had been attributed to him, nor yet the
depressing reaction that comes after excitement, but an uneasy
suspicion that he had helped to do an injustice. He had
discovered,--or seemed to discover,--as the intricacies of the recent
case had unfolded themselves before him, that law and justice stood on
opposite sides of it. Of his client's legal right to the property in
dispute, admitting his statements to be true, there seemed to be no
question; but of his moral right to it, as well as of his own personal
integrity, and that of his principal witness, Bergan had grave doubts.
And these doubts had followed him, and planted a heavy footstep on his
conscience, all the way down through the trial. For he was still
young, his personal conscience tender, and his professional one
undeveloped. His duty as a man, and his duty as a lawyer, had not yet
distinctly separated themselves into opposing segments.
So, while the whole town was ringing with the fame of his successful
legal _début_, he sat moodily in his office, a prey to troubled and
half-regretful thought, until Sleep, so long defrauded of her rights,
stole upon him in his chair, and held him fast prisoned in her soft
embrace.
IX.
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.