hereabout as the broken-bone fever!" returned the doctor, with cool
irony. "However," he added, indifferently, turning away, "_chacun à
son goût_."
"You surely do not mean to leave him, in that way, Doctor," said a
rebuking voice, beneath the window. Miss Lyte, fastening up a
rosebush, in the dusk outside, had heard the whole.
"Certainly not, if it pleases you to wish otherwise," replied the
doctor, gallantly.
And returning to the charge, Doctor Remy did not remit his efforts
until he had gotten the half-vexed young man upon his feet, and forced
him to pace two or three times up and down the office. Thereupon
Bergan was fain to avow that his limbs were stiff and sore, and he had
no mind for further exercise.
"Just as I expected," said the doctor, calmly.
Without further words, he marched Bergan off to bed, and did not let
him alone, until, by dint of various outward and inward applications,
he had restored natural warmth and circulation to his chilled, benumbed
frame. In doing this, the young man was effectually roused; and memory
and thought came back with consciousness.
"Doctor," said he, suddenly, "I almost envy you your profession."
"Why?"
"Because, as you told me at our first meeting, your duty is always
plainly one thing--to save life."
"Humph! it seems to me that yours is equally plain--to save your
client."
"What! whether his cause be right or wrong?"
"_I_ save life, whether it be good or evil--a thief's or a saint's."
Bergan was silent for a moment. He felt the sophistry, but could not,
on the instant, detect wherein it lay. He allowed himself to be
diverted from the main question by a side issue.
"You say that you save life," said he, "but do you feel that it is
really you? Are you never conscious of a power above you, without
whose help your efforts would avail nothing?"
"Granted, for the sake of argument," replied Doctor Remy, composedly.
"Then you may believe that it is not your efforts which gain a cause,
but the 'power above,' of which you speak."
It is not often that a side issue leads so directly back to the main
point as in this instance, thanks to Doctor Remy's mode of treating it.
"I see," said Bergan, musingly, "the difference is in the intent. Of
course, God does decide the event, or consequence,--_that_ is beyond
us. He can frustrate our best efforts, or crown them with success, as
He pleases. Our business, then, is with motives--and aims--and means."
(The last clauses came slowly, and in the natural, if not the logical,
order of thought.) "It is only after we have made sure that those
three are right," he went on, "that we are freed from responsibility,
and can comfortably leave results to God."
"All very fine," returned Doctor Remy, coolly. "But it seems to me
that our motives, means, and aims (that is to say, yours and mine) are
the same. Motive, love of life; means, a profession; aim,
money,--which though in itself only a means, is the most convenient
representative of all that it will buy; that is, all that supports
life, and enhances its enjoyments."
"I hope you are not serious," replied Bergan, gravely. "I should be
sorry to think that any man--much less a man with your talent, culture,
and opportunities for benefiting his fellows--could be satisfied with
so poor an ambition as that."
Doctor Remy slightly raised his eyebrows. "My dear fellow," said he,
"if you do not follow your profession for the sake of the money that
you expect it to bring you, what _do_ you follow it for?"
"Money is one object, of course," answered Bergan, "but I hope it is
not the only one, nor even the chief one. When my mind takes a leap
into the future, it is not so much fees that I think of, as wrongs to
be redressed, and rights to be protected, and influence to be gained
and exercised,--yes, and fame and independence to be won."
"All very good things," returned Doctor Remy, smiling; "and all very
dependent on those same fees, of which you think so little. Without
money, you will not do much for right, nor against wrong; neither can
you be independent, or famous, or influential."
"I do not know about that," rejoined Bergan, smiling. "Certainly, it
was not his riches that made Diogenes independent. Neither does the
name of Howard borrow any of its lustre from gold. Nor--to come down
to our own time--is Mr. Islay influential on account of his wealth."
"Mr. Islay influential!" repeated Doctor Remy, contemptuously. "In
what way, let me ask?"
"In a hundred ways. Every week, his words, his thoughts, go into
scores of hearts and homes, for warning, for comfort, for inspiration;
and reappear constantly in human lives. Certain sentences of his last
Sunday's sermon have been ringing in my ears all day. And only three
or four days ago, Miss Lyte, under the influence of that suggestive
discourse, asked me how far I thought one was justified in a purely
negative use of a talent,--that is, in merely refraining from doing
harm, rather than trying actively to do good. And these are only two
examples, you see, where there are doubtless many."
"Priests easily influence women," said the doctor, scornfully.
"Women!" exclaimed Bergan, stretching out a stalwart arm toward the
doctor. "Are not those the muscles and sinews of a man?"
"I beg your pardon," said the Doctor, laughing, "I had forgotten what
was the first of your two examples. Still, that sort of influence
would never suffice for me. If I cared for anything of the kind, it
would be for power,--direct, absolute power over men's acts and lives.
But as that belongs only to kings and generals, I am content to do
with--"
He hesitated.
"Well, what?" said Bergan.
"Wealth--when I get it," answered the doctor. "Wealth, and what it
brings; ease, leisure, unlimited opportunity and means for the
cultivation of the intellect."
"The intellect, then, is your final object, your ultimate good?" said
Bergan.
"Yes; it is the one thing which distinguishes man from the brutes,"
replied the doctor.
"With the soul," rejoined Bergan.
"A word without an idea," returned the doctor,--"unless, indeed, you
mean to apply it to that life-principle, which belongs to plants and
animals, as well as men."
Bergan looked amazed. "Do you really make no distinction," he asked,
"between mind and soul?"
"None. To me, they are synonymous terms."
"Is it from the intellect, then," said Bergan, "that the moral sense
comes?"
Doctor Remy's lips opened for a reply, but closed again in silence.
And, knowing that he was never at a loss for a rejoinder, Bergan
suspected that the words so suddenly cut off from utterance were of a
franker character than his second thought approved. Before his less
impromptu answer was ready, Bergan, following out some rapid,
unexplained train of thought, asked;--
"Doctor, did you ever feel remorse?"
"Never. That is a disease. I am in health."
"But, doctor," persisted Bergan, "should you call that a healthy body,
which was incapable of feeling pain? Should you not rather say that it
was paralyzed, or ossified?"
"Just as I should say that it was inflamed, if mere pressure caused it
acute pain," answered Doctor Remy.
Bergan looked unconvinced.
"I do not mean that I never feel regret," explained the doctor. "I
have often been angry with myself for having been guilty of a mistake."
"A mistake," repeated Bergan, doubtfully. "Do you mean a sin?"
"I will not be particular about terms," replied Doctor Remy, shrugging
his shoulders. "But I prefer my own, as better expressing my ideas."
Bergan looked a little bewildered. The doctor again condescended to
explain.
"Like you," said he, "I hold it to be every man's duty to make the most
of his life,--his talents, time, and health. If he so act as to hinder
the development, or impair the value and efficiency, of any of these,
does it make any practical difference whether we call it a sin or a
mistake?"
"None," answered Bergan, with scorn that he could not repress; "except
that it narrows everything,--aim, responsibility, hope, faith, desire,
and fulfilment,--down to man's miserable self!"
"Well," said the doctor, coldly, "bring me the most signal example of
heroism, disinterestedness, charity,--what you like,--that you can
find; and I will point out to you a plain germ of selfishness at the
bottom of it."
"What of that?" replied Bergan, with kindling eyes. "Because we can
never wholly get rid of self, in this lower life, does it therefore
follow that we must concentrate our thoughts and aims upon it? Must we
forever deny ourselves the ennobling, elevating, softening influence of
a duty and a hope outside of ourselves; an object of affection, trust,
and desire, higher than ourselves?"
Bergan reached out for a book, found a marked passage, and read aloud.
"'Take the example of a dog, and mark what a generosity and courage he
will put on, when he finds himself maintained by a man, who, to him, is
instead of a God, or _melior natura_; which courage is manifestly such
as that creature, without that confidence in a nature better than his
own, could never attain. So man, when he resteth and assureth himself
upon Divine protection and favor, gathereth a force and faith which
human nature would not otherwise obtain.'"
"I deny--" began Dr. Remy, with his wonted audacity. But, at this
moment, his office-boy, Scipio, thrust his woolly head in the door with
the laconic intimation,--
"Sent for, massa. Drefful hurry."
"And in good time," laughed the doctor. "I was forgetting my
professional duty to you,--which was, to have left you long ago to the
sleep which you so much need, and which you may now safely and
profitably take. Good night."
For some moments, Bergan lay thinking over the conversation. Never had
Dr. Remy's low and limited notions of life been so nakedly presented to
his abhorrent gaze. A certain distrust and dread awoke within him,
accompanied by a chill creeping of the flesh, as at something not
altogether human. It impressed him that there was a dark and sinister
peculiarity about this man, with the rarely cultivated intellect and
the inert affections,--this man whom he had so long called his friend,
and who, so far as he knew, had not ill deserved the name;--a
peculiarity that could not fail to be pernicious to lives and
characters too intimately connected with him. Running over in his mind
the whole course of their acquaintance, he could not remember ever to
have heard the doctor give utterance to one lofty aspiration, one
purely benign impulse, one word of hearty sympathy or generous
affection. His opinions and beliefs were chill products of the
intellect, unwarmed by any glow of the affections, unpurified by any
strict assay of conscience. And Bergan was just beginning to discover
that, while pretending to great breadth and depth, they were really
narrow, because limited to life and earth, and shallow, because never
penetrating below or above the reach of the human intellect, when his
thoughts suddenly began to grow vague and dim, as if seen through a
mist, and the next moment, he was sound asleep.
Meanwhile, much to his surprise, as well as gratification, Doctor Remy
was hastening toward Bergan Hall. Maumer Rue being suddenly seized
with alarming symptoms, the Major's head man, Ben, had been despatched
to Berganton, with instructions not to return without a physician. In
his haste and anxiety, it had not occurred to the Major to make any
exception; though he retained a sufficiently angry reminiscence of
Doctor Remy's cool and satirical demeanor, on the occasion of his
ill-fated visit of reconciliation to Bergan, to have prompted one, if
he had bethought himself of it in time.
Ben, therefore, having sought two other representatives of the medical
profession without success, finally presented himself at Dr. Remy's
office. There the doctor found him, on quitting Bergan's room; and in
very brief space of time, the two were driving swiftly up the long
avenue, through a moonlight that was scarcely less illuminative than
sunshine, and far more beautifying, by reason of the soft charm with
which it enhanced beauties while it concealed defects.
It was the first time that Doctor Remy had entered upon the territory
of Bergan Hall. He was surprised both at its extent, and its signs of
opulence. As he passed the stately, deserted mansion,--showing so fair
in the moonlight, under its grand, sheltering oaks,--and came in sight
of the populous negro-quarter, and the far stretch of cultivated fields
beyond, his face was alive not only with interest, but with something
deeper still; it might be calculation.
"A fair inheritance!" he said to himself. "Miss Astra will be a most
eligible _parti_. I wonder if that will is made!"
The Major was standing in the door of his cottage, as the buggy drove
up with the doctor.
"So it's _you_, is it?" was his curt salutation. And his tone and look
said plainly enough, "I wish it were anybody else!"
But Doctor Remy, though generally armed at all points against such
looks and tones, now seemed to take no notice. "Yes," said he,
good-naturedly, "it is I. Harris and Gerrish were both out, and Ben
had to take me or nobody. Allow me to assure you that he chose wisely,
for, if the case be what I suspect, from his account, it does not admit
of delay. It follows, therefore, that the sooner I am introduced to
the patient, the better."
If the doctor had been studying his speech for the last half-hour, it
could not have been more skilfully constructed. The Major's irritation
instantly gave way, partly melted by the doctor's good humor, partly
forgotten in a sudden rush of anxiety.
"Come on, then," said he, turning to lead the way to old Rue's cabin,
which was but a little way from the cottage. As they approached,
painful gasps and groans were distinctly heard from within.
On the doorstep, Major Bergan paused. "She is my old, faithful nurse,"
said he, feelingly. "Spare nothing,--no skill, nor trouble, nor
expense,--no more than if she were the first lady of the county."
A kind of spasm crossed his rugged features, and throwing himself down
on a bench beside the door, he left the doctor to enter alone.
X.
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."