Late wisdom is apt to taste of the flower of folly whence it is distilled. So, at least, thought Mrs. Bergan, when, months afterward, she looked back upon her dinner-party, and seemed to see in it the beginning of trouble. But it is probable that nothing which she could have done, or left undone, would have availed to alter the natural, irresistible course of events. At the most, she may have hastened its current a little. Her dinner-party only furnished a convenient point of meeting for lives inevitably tending toward each other, for influences long converging, and certain to meet at last, in clash or harmony. Without it, there must needs have been a swift birth of friendship between Carice and Astra, at their next meeting; which meeting could not have been much longer deferred. Without it, Doctor Remy would assiduously have spun his web for self-advantage, fastening his threads indifferently to whatever or whomsoever seemed to promise the best support, and quickly unfastening them whenever a prop failed him. Without it, the hearts of Bergan and Carice would sooner or later have inclined toward each other, by reason of an instinct truer and surer than maternal foresight or forestalling.
The dinner was, per se, a success. The table was elegant with glass, silver, and flowers; the viands were the creation of one of those round, greasy Africanesses, who are born to the gridiron not less indubitably than a poet to the lyre; and white-haired old Sancho waited with a blending of obsequiousness and pomposity, wonderful to behold. There were neither culinary failures to harrow the soul of the hostess, nor glass-fractures or sauce-spillings to disconcert her guests.
The conversation was bright, easy, and desultory, as well as interlocutory and general by turns, as dinner-table talk should be. Only once, and that quite at the last, did it take a graver turn than was well suited to the occasion, or seem to stir any ill-feeling. In a pause of the more general conversation, Doctor Remy was heard saying to Carice, who sat next him;—
You are fortunate in being able to believe so implicitly, without ampler proof.
Do you think the proof insufficient, then? asked Carice, with a little look of wonder in her blue eyes.
To some minds, answered Doctor Remy, evasively.
Perhaps, interposed Mr. Islay, whose ears had been open for some moments toward this conversation,—"perhaps such minds find the proof insufficient only because they have not yet been able to look at it in the right light."
What light do you mean? asked Doctor Remy, a little doubtfully.
The light of a renewed heart and an obedient life. No man apprehends the truths of Christianity clearly, nor believes them with a belief that is worth anything, until he feels his own personal need of them. When that time comes, he catches hold of them, without proof, as it were,—or, at least, without other proof than their felt adaptation to that intense need,—-just as a man who is hungry and thirsty accepts convenient food without troubling himself about its chemical analysis. Then, holding them fast, and feeling how perfectly they meet his wants, what strength and satisfaction they give to his mind, and what symmetry and dignity they impart to his life, he begins to look back over the long line of prophecy and testimony for proof, and finds it ample. Men are prone to forget, Dr. Remy, that the natural order—as we see in children—is through the heart to the intellect, not through the intellect to the heart.
But, objected Doctor Remy, "if a man is not sensible of any such personal need, how is he to be made to feel it?"
Who can tell? responded Mr. Islay, solemnly. "If the eye sees no comeliness in Christ, to desire Him, if the heart feels no void which craves His fulness, no pang which needs His healing, who can tell when the one will be opened, the other emptied or smitten? 'The wind bloweth where it listeth.' But I can tell you, Doctor Remy, how a man can postpone the time of conviction to the last moment, perhaps to the very end."
Indeed, answered Doctor Remy, lifting his eyebrows. "May I ask for the formula?"
Simply by leading a life of deliberate, habitual sin and selfishness. There is nothing like sin for blinding the eyes, and misleading the judgment, in regard to spiritual things. Indeed, if I desired to shake my own faith in Christ to the very centre, I know no way in which I could do it so surely as by committing some dreadful crime—murder, for instance. All my views of life and death, earth and heaven, would at once become distorted and confused, just as all my thoughts and aims would immediately take a new direction.
Mr. Islay being on the same side of the table as his interlocutor, could not observe the latter's sudden change of countenance; but Bergan, sitting opposite, was surprised to see the doctor's face darken with some powerful emotion, while he shot a furtive, suspicious glance at the speaker. Yet his voice, when he spoke, was studiously low and even, so much so that its latent venom was unnoticed by the majority of the party.
Inasmuch, said he, "as Mr. Islay is able to speak so intelligently of religious faith, because of his thorough acquaintance therewith, so, doubtless, his remarks upon crime and its effects are the outcome of his own personal experience."
Bergan colored with indignation, and was about to say something in sharp rebuke of the covert insult; but Mr. Islay stopped him by a look, and a slight, yet decided gesture.
You are thinking, doubtless, said he, mildly, turning to Dr. Remy, "of the deep truth that he who would teach successfully, must know something of his subject by experience as well as theory. A clergyman certainly does find in his own heart both the suggestion and the proof of the truths which he seeks to enforce upon others. Herein lies his fitness for his office. Out of seeming weakness comes real strength. Feeling, or having felt, in his own person, the power both of sin and of redeeming love, he can the better set forth the hatefulness of the one, and the efficacy of the other."
There was a slight pause; then, Mrs. Bergan made haste to break the silence, and to do it in such a manner as to induce a speedy change of subject. And Dr. Remy, after a brief moodiness, which seemed to indicate some lingering effect of the preceding discussion, suddenly unbent his brow, and threw himself into the new theme with animation, to the immediate enlivenment of the party, and the gradual extinction of his hostess's resentment. She acknowledged to herself that he could be exceedingly agreeable, when it pleased him. If he would but spice his conversation a little less freely with sarcasm!
And then she gave the signal for the ladies to leave the table.
As has been already hinted, the more immediate and visible result of the dinner-party at Oakstead, was a swift budding and blossoming of friendship between Carice and Astra. Despite the playful disclaimer of the latter, when the probability of such a consummation had been mentioned by her mother, no sooner did the two girls meet face to face, the gray eyes and the blue ones looking straight into each other's depths, than there was an instant, unlooked-for revival of their childish affection and confidence; quickly informed by a deeper sympathy and fuller comprehension. It was much like sisters—unavoidably separated for years, but in whom the instinct of kinship cannot be lost—that they sat talking together, in a twilight corner of the parlor, until the gentlemen came from the dining-room. Not only were there pleasant childhood memories to recall, but the life-story of each was to be brought fairly up to the present time, for the enlightenment of the other. Astra's was the more eventful; it embraced all her art-education and life, with its toils, pleasures, difficulties, ambitions, and disappointments. Carice's was more like that of a flower; she had lived and grown in the home-precinct, she had fed on sunshine and dew, sweet and right thoughts had been as natural to her as perfume to a rose, she had made a little space very delightsome with her beauty and her sweetness; and that was all. Each felt a very genuine admiration for the other;—Carice bent loyally before Astra's crown of genius; Astra held her breath, half in awe, half in tenderness, before the aureola that she saw encircling the fair head of Carice. As for the "chill" of which she had spoken to Bergan, she had ceased to think of it. Carice's affections were warm enough, she saw, when they were reached. Yet there was something about her too, which she would still have been forced to call chill, for want of a better word,—-that indefinable quality which is inseparable from anything at once white and pure,—a pearl, a star, or the white wing of a dove.
As a natural consequence of this friendship, Carice came often to Astra's studio. Not infrequently she met Bergan there. Remembering Miss Ferrar's statement, and giving it more credit than she was really aware of, she wondered, sometimes, that she could detect no sign of a secret, or tacit, understanding between him and Astra. Their manner to each other was most frank and kind, but it seemed totally devoid of any lover-like quality. She finally settled it in her mind that no engagement existed as yet; but she also decided that, inasmuch as they were admirably fitted for each other, it was sure to come, in good time. Nothing better, she thought, in her innocent heart, could well be devised for either.
Astra, meanwhile was watching Bergan and Carice with as warm an interest, and a far more penetrating glance; and often she smiled to herself over the discoveries that she made. To her, they appeared to be drifting as surely, if unconsciously, down the smooth, gliding current of love, as could be desired. She was glad to have it so. She believed them to be true counterparts, needing each to be completed by the other. Bergan had strength, nobleness, enthusiasm; Carice had sweetness, purity, repose; how beautiful and fit the union, how symmetrical the result! There was a genuine artistic joy in the thought.
And then, all at once, she forgot to watch them. Suddenly, or gradually, she knew not which, a magical change had been wrought in her surroundings; old things had vanished, all things had become new. A new sky, a new earth,—stars and cloud-shapes of bewitching vagueness and softness,—scenery of wondrous coloring and surpassing loveliness,—lights that were tenderer than any shadows, and shadows that were only subdued lights;—of what were these things the signs? Had she also been drifting, and whither?
Spring was abroad in the land. No one could tell just when she had stolen into the woods and gardens, and begun her pleasant labors, but there was no question about the fact of her presence and industry. Everywhere, there were the tender green of newborn foliage, and the varied odors of opening buds and blossoms. The new leaves of the ilex trees had quietly pushed off the old ones. The hedges were thick-sown with the white stars of the Cherokee rose. The passion-vine trailed its purple garments along the fences. Houstonias spread a soft blue haze over the grass. Wild plum and cherry trees flung drifts of fragrant snow along the road side. The air was faint with perfume from the ivory censers of the magnolia, swinging dreamily overhead. Wherever a vine could cling and climb, there was a seemingly miraculous outburst of foliage and flowers; every dry stick and stem became a leafy thyrsus, every crumbling stump a green and garlanded altar.
Mrs. Lyte's great, irregular thicket of a garden was quick to feel the genial influence, and to twine and twist itself into a denser tangle than ever. Rose bushes laughed the virtue of economy to scorn, with their perfumed affluence of pink and crimson and yellow. Pomegranates burst into scarlet flames; mimosas tossed aloft feathery balls of many hues. Jessamines and honeysuckles, holding up vases of gold, to catch every sunbeam, ran hither and thither at their own sweet will. So did tiny green lizards, with scarlet throats, and swift chameleons, with curious intelligent eyes. The air was tuneful with the flight and song of bees and humming-birds, cooing doves, and shining-winged spindles. Manifold, in truth, were the garden's delights: varied sound and color and perfume, cheerful radiance and gentle gloom, unobtrusive companionship and soft seclusion, were all to be found within its pleasant compass.
And, as the days grew long and warm with the Spring's advance, Bergan now and then, growing weary of the confinement and monotony of his office, took his Blackstone, or Kent, or whatever might be the legal authority under examination, and gave himself the refreshment of an hour's reading, in one of the garden's shady, sequestered nooks. Doing this, one sultry afternoon in May, the drowsy influence of the atmosphere, and the soothing murmurousness of the insects' song, soon proved too potent for the logical connection of the learned legal thesis; there were unaccountable gaps between fact and deduction; and, going back to pick up the broken thread, Bergan lost it altogether. Sleep had stolen upon him through the dusky foliage, and she held him fast until the latest sunbeam, through a convenient aperture in the verdant walls, laid its light finger on his eyelids.
Waking suddenly, but completely, hushed voices, proceeding from a neighboring thicket, met his ear.
Impossible, Felix.
But, Astra,—
Had there been danger in those low, earnest accents, Bergan could scarcely have started up more quickly and cautiously, nor have fled from them faster. As he expected and desired, the low boughs closing and rustling behind him, made what followed inaudible. He was loath to hear another word. He felt almost guilty for having heard so much. Those subdued, confidential tones, those quietly spoken Christian names, had, of themselves, been a startling revelation. For, notwithstanding her frank, easy, affable deportment toward those who came within her sphere, Astra Lyte knew well how to hedge herself round with a maidenly dignity that kept familiarity at a distance. She was not the kind of girl whose Christian name finds its way easily to unaccustomed lips. Despite his own residence, for a considerable time, under the same roof, and the frank and friendly intercourse which had grown out of it,—despite, too, the fact that Mrs. Lyte often called him her son, and Cathie was wont to spring to his arms as to those of a brother,—it had never occurred to himself to call her anything less formal than "Miss Lyte." Nor would it have done to Dr. Remy, he felt sure, without the sufficient warrant of a close and tender relation. This premise being established, the conclusion that such a relation existed was unavoidable.
And, looking back over the events of the past few weeks, Bergan was amazed to see with what an amount of corroboratory evidence he was unexpectedly furnished. Not only did numberless glances, tones, and actions, bearing directly upon the case, start suddenly into view, but, just as the landscape through which one passes presents new outlines, new features, and a new sentiment, in a backward survey, so these things assumed new faces and a new meaning, in his review of them. Once or twice, of late, it had occurred to him that Astra was scarcely at her ease, in Dr. Remy's presence; he now understood that this constraint came of affection, fearful of betraying itself, and not, as he had imagined, of some newborn distrust or dislike. Anterior to this, he had observed that the doctor's visits to Miss Lyte's studio were much more frequent than formerly, and that he was making an obvious enough attempt to commend himself to her favor by a more cordial and constant interest in her work, as well as by exercising a more careful circumspection over his conversation. His cynicism vanished, or veiled itself, before the rich glow of her enthusiasm. His satire spared her generous ambition. His scepticism, though not less frank, was less hostile and inveterate; and often it resolved itself into a kind of weary and wistful sadness, as if it were less a choice than a misfortune, and would gladly exchange itself for something better, if it only knew how. At such times, Bergan himself was sensible of a singular charm in his conversation, a kind of autumn-night splendor; chill, lustrous moonlight, mystical shadow, and vague mournfulness, blending into one, irresistible fascination. No doubt, Astra had been made to feel it still more keenly; no doubt, too, she had been led to believe that whatever was amiss in the doctor's beliefs would yield readily to her influence,—that he would prove scarcely less plastic in her hands than the clay wherewith she was wont to deal so cunningly.
Yet Bergan could not help wondering a little at the doctor's ready success. Astra's genius, he thought, should have saved her from any hasty bestowal of her affections. He did not know that, in this regard, a woman of genius differs little from the most commonplace of her sisters. She gives her affections as trustfully, and flings herself away as freely, as the silliest of them all.
Having gotten to this point in his meditations, and also to the middle of the open field, back of the garden, Bergan could not help turning and looking toward the thicket, the neighborhood of which he had so hastily quitted. His face grew troubled and anxious, as he gazed. Was Doctor Remy anywise worthy of the heart that he had won? Bergan shook his head ruefully, as he asked himself this question. Without intent or wish of his own—in spite, even, of some strenuous efforts to the contrary—a deep distrust of the doctor had rooted itself in his mind. Though it gave but scanty justification of itself to his intellect, and was not allowed to show itself in his actions; though, now and then, he made a sturdy effort to uproot it, and cast it out, as an ungenerous return for kindness, or something that looked like it; it, nevertheless, kept its ground, and quietly strengthened itself there. It did not fail, now, to thrust itself into view, as a partial answer to his question. The bright spring landscape, with its crowded leaf and bloom, and its rich promise of fruit, seemed to darken with a shadow from Astra's future, as thus revealed to him. Must the promise of seed-time and harvest fail, then, only in the moral world?
Though Bergan, driven by a nice sense of honor, had fled so precipitately from the voices and the neighborhood of the lovers, there is no reason why the reader may not return thither, and see what is to be learned from their conversation.
I cannot think it right, said Astra, "to leave mother in ignorance any longer."
Do you think, then, asked Doctor Remy, reproachfully, "that I would ask you to do anything wrong?"
Astra hesitated for a moment. Perhaps it then and there occurred to her, for the first time, that the doctor's standard of right was likely to differ from her own, in the same ratio as his religious faith.
Doctor Remy did not wait for the tardy answer. Putting his arm round Astra, he drew her head on to his shoulder. The movement might have been prompted by tenderness; none the less, it had the effect to take his face out of her line of vision.
All my life long, Astra, said he, in a deep, moved tone—(it is often easier to put a desired note into the voice, than a corresponding expression into the face)—"all my life long, I have had a strange desire to be trusted,—trusted implicitly. Faith without sight—blind, unquestioning faith—is to me one of the most beautiful as well as desirable things on earth; all the more so, perhaps, that it is not given to me to feel it. But it has always been my dream, my hope, to inspire it. In my ideal picture of the woman whom I should love, it was always her consummate, irresistible charm. Must I now make up my mind to do without it?"
Astra was touched. "If it did not seem to be wrong!" she exclaimed.
The doctor shook his head. "That is not trust," said he, "at least, not the trust that I mean. Who can so order circumstances that they shall never seem to condemn him? But the faith of which I speak, having once assured itself of the integrity of its beloved, never again admits it to be an open question."
Astra was silent. The doctor heaved a heavy sigh. "I see that I am not to realize my ideal," said he. "Well, it cannot be helped. I will give you the explanation that you need. Perhaps, being satisfied, in this instance, that I have a good reason for what I do, you will be able to trust me hereafter."
I will, indeed I will! exclaimed Astra, eagerly.
The worst of it is, pursued the doctor, "that you compel me to betray a trust—your mother's trust."
Astra's cheek flushed. She had been miserable at the idea of keeping anything from her mother; was she, then, the one really excluded from confidence?
Stay, said she, proudly, "I do not wish to hear anything that my mother desires to conceal from me."
Then, replied the doctor, "it is impossible for me to explain why our engagement must not be made known, at present, to your mother."
Astra looked bewildered, as well she might, at this apparently inscrutable complication.
Doctor Remy seemed to take pity on her perplexity. "Listen, dear," said he, "and you will soon understand. Your mother consulted me professionally, a fortnight since."
Astra's cheek grew white with sudden fear. "What is it?" she gasped.
There is no immediate danger, said the doctor, "and may not be, for years, with due precautions. But there is a tendency to heart disease; and it is imperative, just now, that she should not be agitated. And this, Astra, is the reason why she must not hear of our engagement, for some time to come."
Astra looked down thoughtfully. "I think you are mistaken," said she. "I believe it would be a relief to her to know that my future is in such good hands."
Doubtless, that would be the ultimate effect, replied Doctor Remy; "but there would be emotional excitement, at first, more than is good for her;—so much that I, as a physician, am bound to forbid it."
Astra could not but admit that the prohibition was just. Mrs. Lyte had seemed very fragile and feeble, of late. Astra had urged that application to Doctor Remy which, it now appeared, her mother had made, but in regard to the results of which she had chosen to keep silence,—from a loving wish, probably, to save her daughter from unavailing anxiety. Astra's heart swelled at the thought.
Are you sure, she asked, "that there is no immediate danger?"
As sure as one can be, in such cases—if she is kept quiet.
And is there any probability that the disease may be eventually cured?
There is a possibility,—with the same indispensable condition.
Doctor Remy waited for a moment, in order that Astra might be duly impressed with this answer; then, he asked with a kind of proud humility;—
Have I justified myself, in this matter?
Forgive me, said Astra, penitently. "Of course I never really distrusted your motives; I only fancied that my duty to my mother could not be affected by them."
You see, suggested Doctor Remy, "how easy it is to be misled by appearances, even with the best intentions. The faith, of which I used to dream, would never have fallen into that error."
I will try to have it, hereafter, said Astra.
And yet, returned Doctor Remy, "you will doubtless insist upon a further explanation of the reason why I do not wish our engagement to be known to the outside world."
Indeed, I shall not, returned Astra, glad of an opportunity of proving that she was neither so distrustful, nor so curious, as he believed. "Of course, the outside world must wait till mother is informed; she has the right to the first telling. If you have any other reason for keeping the matter secret, I do not seek to know it."
Could Astra have seen the look of triumph in Doctor Remy's face, she would have been startled. But he only said, quietly,—
Thank you for so much trust. And, after a moment, he added,—"As you say, it is your mother's right to know first. Of course, then, you will not indulge in any confidences to intimate friends."
Certainly not, said Astra, a little surprised. "Indeed, I have none,—except, perhaps, Carice Bergan."
I would not mention it, even to her, said the doctor.
I do not intend to, replied Astra, decidedly. "But I must go in; mother will miss me."
Astra's light form being quickly lost behind the intervening foliage, Doctor Remy turned slowly and meditatively toward his office; which, inasmuch as it had been built for the use and behoof of the late Doctor Lyte, possessed its own door of convenient communication with the garden.
Given opportunity, social equality, and a fine, unremitting tact, and it would seem that any man can marry any woman, whose affections are free. Else, it would be hard to understand how Doctor Remy could have found his way into the heart of Astra Lyte; unless indeed, as is frequently the case, their very dissimilarity should have constituted a principle of attraction; character has its own laws of effective contrast. Astra was enthusiastic, generous, affectionate, with strong religious instincts and aspirations; Doctor Remy was cold, selfish, austere, without reverential sentiment, and, in matters of faith, an utter sceptic. But these traits need not be supposed to have exhibited themselves to Astra in their naked unloveliness. To her imagination, doubtless, they took the fairer form of a calm temperament, and great force and firmness of character, allied to a keen and critical intellect; which last must needs be allowed to take its own appropriate time and road to belief (except as it seemed willing to owe something to her loving guidance). And Astra was of the age and character which are most prone to fall down and worship human intellect; failing, as yet, to understand that it is, in itself, of the earth earthy, and really noble and admirable only as it is enlightened by the spirit of God. She was dazzled and fascinated by the extent and variety of Doctor Remy's attainments, and the range and freedom of his ideas. To talk with him was like drawing the curtain and opening wide the window on a wintry evening, admitting free, frosty air, and giving a far outlook over bleak, white hills and leafless forests. Nor did it alarm her that the air was much too fresh and chill to be breathed long with comfort or safety, and the landscape drearily bare and skeleton-like, since the doctor was always ready, at her slightest sign, to drop window and curtain, and turn back with her to warmer precincts and gentler themes.
And so, it had come to pass that, as Doctor Remy walked up the shady garden walk, he had good reason to congratulate himself upon the success, thus far, of his plans. Not only was Astra won, but she had consented to keep silence about the wooing, for awhile. Thus he was saved from the awkwardness of having to account to Mrs. Lyte for his unwillingness to have the engagement made public. It would be difficult to invent a reason likely to commend itself to her judgment; yet it was out of the question to give her the real one,—namely, his reasonable doubt whether he should be altogether acceptable to Major Bergan as the future husband of that gentleman's heiress, and so, in some sense, as his heir; and his consequent fear lest the will in her favor should be set aside. Such a confession might give a mercenary tinge to his suit, in Mrs. Lyte's eyes, which he wisely deprecated. So far as he knew, neither she nor her daughter had ever heard of the Major's declaration of his gracious intentions toward the latter; or, if they had, they regarded it only as a meaningless ebullition of his rage at Bergan Arling. Such, in truth, would the doctor himself have thought it, except for certain later inquiries respecting Miss Lyte, put to himself by the Major; which seemed to show that the matter had not escaped his memory. Besides, in consideration of the Major's bitter resentment toward his brother and nephew,—extending, apparently, to everybody connected with either,—no more eligible heir to the Bergan estate was to be found, than Astra Lyte. If the Major had made his will, as he threatened, there was no one, in the whole Bergan connection, with so strong a claim upon his favorable consideration.
Here the doctor paused, for a moment, in his slow walk. "If!" he muttered, peevishly. "To think that the whole thing turns on a miserable 'if!' I must contrive some way of finding out whether that will—or any will—was ever made. There must be no defective nor missing links in this chain, nothing to invite the meddling of the cursed fate which has followed me so long. The Major must not be permitted to die, one of these days,—by the interposition of Providence and delirium tremens, or something vastly like it,—and leave me with an abortive plan and a portionless fiancée. To be sure, I should not be long in getting rid of the latter, but there would be no help for the former."
His soliloquy had brought him to his office door. Suddenly bethinking himself, then, that a certain patient had been overlooked in the catalogue of the day's duties, he called for his horse, and set out to make good the omission.
His road led past the Bergan estate. As he was galloping swiftly onward, absorbed in his own reflections, he heard an energetic "Halloo!" Pulling up his horse, and looking back, he beheld Major Bergan leaning over a small gate, which opened into the fields near the quarter.
Are you deaf? was his angry salutation, duly emphasized with an oath. "Here I've been hollering after you, till I'm black in the face. I wish I had saved myself the trouble!"
All the fault of my horse's hoofs, replied the doctor, good-humoredly, as he turned his horse toward the gate; "they made such a clatter under me that I could not well hear anything else. How can I serve you?"
Major Bergan hesitated. Apparently his business did not come readily to his lips.
Perhaps you are on your way to a patient, he finally observed, as if he would be well enough suited to find an excuse for not broaching it at all.
His reluctance only stimulated the doctor's curiosity. "The case is not urgent," said he, carelessly; "by and by, or even to-morrow morning, will do just as well. There is no reason why I should not be entirely at your service—as I am."
Come in, then, returned the Major, in a tone that was far from gracious; but swinging open the gate, nevertheless, for Doctor Remy's admission.
The latter dismounted, led his horse through, and slipping the bridle over his arm, walked by the Major's side to the cottage. On the way, the latter vouchsafed a brief explanation of his wishes.
I've been thinking a good deal of the advice that you gave me awhile ago, said he, "and—and—I've concluded to make my will. So, seeing you riding by, just as my mind was full of the subject, it occurred to me that I might as well call you in, and have the thing over with."
And a very sensible decision, returned Doctor Remy, as quietly as if he were not filled with unexpected delight that the information which he had hoped to gain only at cost of some deep and difficult scheming, was thus placed within easy reach. "I only wonder that you have not done it before."
I don't see why I should, replied Major Bergan, sharply; "I've always been strong and hearty,—what had I to do with making wills? And, now that I think of it, what have I to do with it now? I'm not in a decline yet, by any means."
So much the better for your work, replied Doctor Remy, composedly. "Deathbed wills are often contested. No one will question your soundness of mind, at present."
I should think not, said the Major, decidedly. "If he did, he wouldn't be apt to doubt the soundness of my sinews,—I'd horsewhip him into instant conviction."
Are you provided with witnesses? asked the Doctor, when the Major's chuckle had subsided.
Witnesses? How many does it want?
Two are necessary.
The Major mused for a moment. "I can have them here by the time they are needed," said he. "My new overseer at Number Two will do for one, and I'll send for Proverb Dick for the other. Step into the cottage, and make yourself at home for a moment, while I see about it."
Doctor Remy flung himself into the first chair that presented itself, and sank into a fit of thought. A vague disquietude oppressed him, notwithstanding that events seemed to be shaping themselves so much in accordance with his wishes. He believed himself to be on the eve of victory, or at least of a certain measure of present success which would insure victory; but both religion and philosophy, he knew, were agreed in representing human expectations as of the nature of the flower of the field, in various danger from the frost, the knife, and the uprooting wind. To this general testimony he could add the special confirmation of his own experience. Like most men, Doctor Remy had the sobering privilege of looking back upon a career of which the successes were few, and the failures and disappointments many. The track of his earthly pilgrimage, thus far, he bitterly thought, was tolerably well strewn with wrecks and abortions.
A better man, trying to spell out the meaning and tendency of his life by the aid of a higher inspiration, might have found some comfort in the review, nevertheless. He might have discovered some evidences of harmony and design amid seeming discord and confusion, some solid foundations showing underneath abortive ruins, some steady inward growth of patience and strength and hope, in lieu of an outward harvest of earthly possessions. He might have discerned, with awe and humility, that sometimes he had builded better than he knew, because building in accordance with a certain overruling design, of which he now first began to catch faint and partial glimpses. But such consolation was not allowed to Doctor Remy. In his past, all was incomplete, confused, and unsatisfactory. He had not gained what he sought, and nothing better had come to him through its loss. For many years of time, and an uncommon measure of talent, he had scarce anything to show of what he considered life's highest prizes—wealth, position, influence. He set himself seriously to discover why. And, for one moment, he, too, had a chill perception of a certain unity and sequence in the debris left behind him, unperceived before; which seemed to show that, though he had served his own ends but poorly, he had none the less helped to forward some extended scheme, whereof he had known nothing at the time, and could now discern only the most fragmentary outline. But Doctor Remy quickly shook himself free of this notion, with a smile at his own absurdity.
Why, then, he asked himself, had he failed? Because of his mistakes, no doubt. Let every man bear the blame of his own acts, and not try to throw it off on his neighbors, or that convenient scapegoat, Providence. Looking back, he could discern many a point (and notably one), where he had committed a grave error. But his mistakes had been his instructors, nevertheless. He had gained from them knowledge that should stand him in good stead yet. To his former qualities of boldness, energy, perseverance, and skill, he now added the experience that could use them to better effect. It would be strange, indeed, if he could not henceforth command success.
He had just reached this conclusion when Major Bergan joined him. Ample provision of lights, paper, pens, and ink, being then placed upon the table, together with the inevitable brandy bottle, the two gentlemen sat down opposite each other, and Doctor Remy began his task of drawing up the will. He first wrote the usual legal preamble, in a clear, rapid hand, and read it aloud for Major Bergan's approval. Some small legacies followed, taken down nearly verbatim from the Major's dictation. Doctor Remy then waited, for some moments, with his pen suspended over the paper, while the Major seemed trying vainly to arrange his thoughts.
I don't quite know how to word the next, said he, at length, "you must put it into shape yourself. I hold a mortgage of the place where Catherine Lyte lives; and I want it cancelled, at my death, in her favor, or, if she does not survive me, in favor of her daughter Astra."
You surprise me, remarked Doctor Remy, as he began to write; "I have always understood that the place was free from incumbrance."
You understood wrong, then, replied Major Bergan. "Though, for anything that I know, Catherine Lyte may think so herself. You see, Harvey got into difficulties eight or nine years ago, and I lent him money, and took a mortgage on the place. He kept the interest paid up until his death; and since then, nothing has been said to me about either interest or principal; from which I concluded that Catherine did not know of the fact. And as I felt sorry for her, I decided to say nothing about it myself, as long as I was not in need of the money, nor likely to be. But it will not do her any harm to know, after I am dead, that I have been kinder to her than she knew of."
Doctor Remy looked up with a smile. "I suspect," said he, "that it would not be well for her to offend you."
I don't know about that, replied Major Bergan, complacently. "She did offend me, when she took my nephew in; and I came pretty near foreclosing then. But Maumer Rue convinced me that she could not afford to refuse a good offer for her rooms; and moreover, as Harry only had his office there, and took his meals at the hotel, she need not have much more to do with him than I did, if she did not choose."
Doctor Remy did not think it necessary to enlighten the Major in regard to Bergan's familiarity with the family of Mrs. Lyte, since such a disclosure must needs militate directly against his own ends. He silently put the Major's wish into correct legal phrase and form, and then lifted his head with the question;—
What next?
Major Bergan's face grew grave and troubled. Thus far, it had been easy work, merely giving away what he did not care for, and should not miss. But now that the bulk of his property, real and personal, was to come in question, he groaned inwardly at the necessity of bequeathing it to any one. Did it not represent all the hopes, energies, labors and results of his whole life? What a naked, shivering, miserable soul he would be without it! He had a feeling that he should never be quite certain of his own identity, in eternity, without the houses and the lands, the negroes and the gold, for which he had lived in time.
Well! said Dr. Remy, by way of reminding him that he was still waiting.
The Major frowned; nevertheless, after another moment, he resumed his dictation.
I give and bequeath, said he, slowly, "my house known as Bergan Hall, with all the lands thereto pertaining, including the rice-plantation known as 'Number Two;' also my three houses in the town of Berganton; also my block in the city of Savannah; also my negroes, horses, mills, and plantation implements; also, my household furniture and other personal property, including all bonds, mortgages, moneys, and all other property whereof I die possessed, to——-"
Doctor Remy had written down the items of this comprehensive inventory with a delight that he could scarcely keep from shining out in his face; and he now held his pen over the paper, while the Major paused, in real enjoyment of so timely an opportunity for pleasurable recapitulation and anticipation. The pause being a long one, however, he finally raised his eyes to the rugged features opposite, and saw that they were tremulous with emotion. Words, too, soon began to break from the Major's lips, according to the habit which had grown upon him in his solitude;—he had forgotten for the time, that he was not alone.
He is the natural heir, as Maumer Rue insists, he muttered, "and the only one justified by the old family precedents. But," he went on, as Dr. Remy began to tremble, vicariously, for Astra's prospects, "he left me without so much as saying 'good bye;' he did just what he knew I was most bitterly opposed to; and he has never come near me since. No, he shall not have it!—he never shall have it, in spite of Maumer Rue's prophecies—I'll take care of that!"
And he began to repeat slowly, "bonds, mortgages, moneys, and all other property whereof I die possessed, to—to—"
Again he paused.
Why can't he say 'to Astra Lyte,' and done with it? thought Dr. Remy, impatiently, as he suddenly checked his pen in the midst of the first curve of the letter A.
The Major made another effort;—"To my niece, Carice Bergan," he concluded, with a sigh.
Doctor Remy's face fell so suddenly, that it attracted the Major's attention.
Well! what is the matter now? he demanded, sharply.
Doctor Remy could not immediately answer. His mind was in a whirl of confusion, disappointment, and anxiety. Mechanically, he put his hand to his brow; and the gesture helped him to a plausible explanation.
A sudden pain, said he, in a low, shaken voice; "I have felt it several times of late. Wait a minute, it will soon be over."
And covering his eyes with his hands, he addressed himself at once to the task of answering the difficult question;—
What is to be done now?
It was well for him that he was accustomed to think rapidly and clearly, in the immediate presence of danger, that he was tenacious of purpose too, and that his instinct, in the midst of overthrow and ruin, was to commence at once to rebuild. Yet, for some moments, not an available suggestion presented itself, not a shadow of help for the exigency that had so unexpectedly arisen.
"Then, suddenly, a thought came to him, and with it, a gleam of hope. He took his hands from his eyes, and looked the Major gravely in the face. Before we go any farther,"" said he, ""I feel bound in honor to make a confession. If I had supposed that writing your will was going to put me in such an awkward position, I should certainly have desired you to look elsewhere for a lawyer. However, it cannot be helped now. Well, the truth is""—he stopped for a moment, as if to overcome an excessive reluctance,—""the truth is, I have long admired your niece; and now, as my practice is steadily increasing, and I think I could take care of a wife, I had made up my mind to ask permission to pay her my addresses.""
"Major Bergan uttered a prolonged "Whew!" and settled himself back in his chair. "That alters the case, certainly," said he, after a brief consideration of this new phase of the matter.
I am glad to hear it, exclaimed Dr. Remy, eagerly. "Pray—if it is not too selfish in me to ask it—pray give Bergan Hall to the next most eligible claimant, and leave me Miss Carice."
The Major raised his eyebrows, and leaning forward, fixed his eyes on Doctor Remy, as if he had found a new and interesting subject of study.
Do you mean to say, he asked, gravely, "that you would rather have Carice without Bergan Hall than with it?"
Decidedly, replied Doctor Remy. "I prefer an equal match to an unequal one. I prefer to be credited with honorable motives, rather than mercenary ones. I don't want to be a pensioner on my wife's bounty. It is doubtful if I could ever make up my mind to address the heiress of Bergan Hall. And thus, you see, if you persist in making Miss Bergan your legatee, you are playing the mischief with my hopes and plans."
Major Bergan continued to stare, thoughtfully, at the doctor. He was beginning rather to like this disinterested suitor.
Have you any reason to think that Carice favors you? he asked, finally.
Doctor Remy hesitated. "I really don't know how to answer that question. If I should say 'yes,' in view of the 'trifles light as air,' from which I have ventured to draw some slight encouragement, I should seem, even to myself, to be a conceited ass; and yet, if you would only be good enough not to throw Bergan Hall into the scale against me, I should not be absolutely without hope."
Major Bergan gave a short laugh. "Who will know," he asked, "that Carice is to have Bergan Hall? I expect you to keep my counsel in this matter. That is why I asked you to do the business. I had an idea that you were closer-mouthed, both by nature and training, than those lawyers in Berganton."
I shall know it, replied Doctor Remy, virtuously, answering the Major's question, and taking no notice of the compliment which followed it. "And I shall know, too, that the heiress of Bergan Hall, if she were aware of her position, might reasonably expect to find a better match than a mere country physician."
On my soul, exclaimed the Major, heartily, "I think she might 'go farther and fare worse!' Go on, doctor and win her, if you can;—you have my best wishes for your success. Leave Bergan Hall out of the question; indeed, it may never come into it, after all. Carice may refuse you——"
("Little doubt of that," thought the doctor.)
I may alter my will a dozen times, or make a new one,—
("You will have to be in a hurry, if you do," thought the doctor again, grimly.)
At any rate, I expect you to frame that one so that Carice's husband, whoever he may be, can have no control whatever over the property. It is to be hers, and her children's, only. So scribble away there, at your best pace, or Proverb Dick will be here before we get through.
But your brother Godfrey,—began Doctor Remy, in despair, racking his brains for some consideration that would be likely to shake the Major's purpose.
My brother Godfrey, interrupted Major Bergan, sternly, "has nothing to do with this matter. I don't give the property to him, but to Carice. Perhaps, on the whole, I had better just give her a life-interest in it, and then have it go to her eldest son, who shall take the name of Bergan, and be christened Harry. Yes, that will be the better way. Write it down so."
But—began Doctor Remy again.
Save your 'buts,' until we get through, broke in Major Bergan, sharply. "I tell you, Carice shall have the place. If you don't want her with it, you can let her alone. And if you can't, or won't, write my will to suit me, I'll scud for some one who can and will."
This threat effectually silenced Doctor Remy. It was essential that the matter should not be taken out of his hands, till he had satisfied himself that it could in nowise be turned to his account. "If it comes to the worst," said he to himself, "it is something to have the document in my own handwriting. That gives me a better chance to furnish a substitute, at need."
With the rigid self-control that always characterized him, therefore, he now put aside, as far as might be, his own hopes and plans, and set himself diligently to the work of completing the will, in accordance with the Major's instructions, and to his entire satisfaction. He did not even move a muscle when, in due time, the Major dictated a paragraph to the effect that if Carice should not survive him, or should die without issue, the estate should fall to a distant cousin, now in Europe, whose sole claim to his consideration appeared to be that he bore the family name. The doctor was proof against any further shocks, this evening. Fate had done her worst for him, in forcing him to write "Carice Bergan," where he had confidently expected to write "Astra Lyte," and to find his account in so doing.
At the end of an hour, three closely written sheets lay upon the table, ready for the signatures of the witnesses, whenever they should appear; and the Major, drawing a long breath of relief, to see his lugubrious business so nearly finished, applied himself to the brandy bottle for appropriate refreshment. Doctor Remy sat silent, abstractedly toying with the pen that had been making such havoc with his plans.
Suddenly he raised his eyes to Major Bergan's face with the question;—
How did that medicine suit you?
Admirably, replied the Major. "I have had one attack since you were here,—a tolerably severe one, too,—but the second powder acted like a charm."
The second powder! thought the doctor. "I am afraid that I gave him too many! At that rate, if chance favors him, he may hold on for a year, or more."
He was opening his lips for another remark, when the door shook under a vigorous rap; and scarce waiting for the Major's invitation, Dick Causton entered.
The new comer opened his eyes wide at sight of Doctor Remy, and the table littered with writing materials; and looked with evident curiosity at the closely written sheets of the will, the character of which he seemed at once to discover or divine.
I see, said he, sententiously, nodding his head,—"'Our last garment is made without pockets.'"
Major Bergan shivered as if he had felt a chill breath from the mouth of a tomb. It was hard to be so often reminded that he and his possessions must soon part, with small prospect of meeting again.
If you must quote proverbs, Dick, he exclaimed peevishly, "pray don't quote such cold-blooded ones as that!"
How could I help it, when 'it came to my hand like the bow o' a pint stoup?' answered Dick Causton coolly, with his eyes fixed hungrily on the Major's brandy bottle.
The hint was successful. Bottle and glass were immediately placed within his reach, and he made haste to warm and quicken his age-frosted blood with a deep draught of the potent liquor. It was both strange and sad to see how his eye brightened, his face grew more animated, his figure became more erect, his whole frame seemed to gather vigor and energy, under its influence, while his air became, if possible, more mean and slouching than before. It was as if he felt conscious himself, and knew that any beholder would be sure to discover, that his proper strength and manhood had long since died out of him, and he was now drawing unworthy breath and life from a source of which he was thoroughly ashamed, though unable to do without it.
Major Bergan, meanwhile, briefly explained why he had sent for him, adding, in a tone that was meant to be courteous, but narrowly escaped condescension;—
I knew that you would be glad to do a favor to an old friend like me, Dick.
Certainly, replied Richard Causton, heartily; "especially as I suspect that I shall also be doing a favor to my young friend, Mr. Arling. 'He that loves the tree, loves the branch,' you know."
Major Bergan frowned. "I don't see what my nephew has to do with it," said he, surlily.
Dick Causton gave him a look of surprise. "De vrucht valt niet ver van den stam," said he, shaking his head. "That is to say, The fruit falls near the stem. It isn't nature for a man to leave his property away from his own blood. It isn't right, either, in my opinion."
I am not going to leave mine away from my blood, replied Major Bergan, austerely; "though, if I were, I do not see that it is anybody's affair but my own."
Nor I either, rejoined Dick Causton, coolly, "unless your dead ancestors should imagine it to be theirs. Os demos á os suyos quieren,—The devils are fond of their own,—and so, doubtless, are the saints, if any such are to be found in your pedigree. It is reasonable to suppose that they would all prefer to see their earthly possessions go down in the channel marked out by nature. Anyway, I'm right glad to know that Mr. Arling is to have his rights, some day, fine fellow that he is! I've always had a kindness for him, ever since I first gave him a lift, on his way to you."
Major Bergan looked very grim. "Yes, Mr. Arling will have his rights," said he, with stern emphasis,—"I've seen to that."
Dick Causton glanced from the Major's face to the will, with an instinctive feeling that all was not right, but could make nothing of either. The one was dark and impenetrable; the other was upside down, from his point of view. Apparently, nothing invited attack but the brandy bottle. That, he was glad to see, was not yet empty.
I am wasting words, said he, shrugging his shoulders. "A chose faite conseil pris. 'Advice after action is like medicine after death'—or brandy after one has ceased to be thirsty."
Take another glass, said Major Bergan.
Dick obeyed with alacrity. The dram was scarcely swallowed, ere a tap at the door announced the arrival of the overseer from "Number Two,"—a tall, lank, taciturn Texan, whom the Major had recently taken into his employ, as a short cut to that avoidance of the rice fields which Doctor Remy had recommended.
The ceremonies of signing and sealing the will immediately followed. Dick Causton was greatly disappointed that the document was not read in his hearing, as he had expected.
Never buy a pig in a poke, nor sign a paper without reading it, said he, as he took the pen into his hand. "How am I to tell what will I really signed, if I know nothing of the contents? However, it's your risk, not mine," he added, hastily, seeing that Major Bergan was beginning to look impatient. And, forthwith, he bent his energies to the task of writing his name in a large, angular, and very tremulous hand; and then shook his head dubiously over the result.
It looks like nothing that ever I wrote before, he remarked, as he laid down the pen. "But Hund er hund om han er aldrig saa broget,—A dog, is a dog whatever be his color,—and so, a signature must be a signature though it wiggle across the paper like a tipsy eel. Perhaps I shall know it by that token, when I see it again. But I can't promise."
I shall know mine, observed the overseer, confidently, as he lifted the pen.
Doctor Remy leaned forward with sudden interest. The name was written in commonplace fashion enough, but it was finished with an odd, complicated flourish.
Do you always sign your name in that way? he asked.
Always.
It looks very difficult; yet you seemed to do it with much ease. Let me see the process again. And he pushed a piece of paper over to the man, who, gratified to find his skill so heartily appreciated, scrawled it all over with his sign-manual, in wearisome repetition. The paper was then passed from one to another, for a brief examination, and was finally left in the hands of Doctor Remy; who first began absently to roll it round his fingers, and ended by tearing it in three or four pieces, in a fit of apparent abstraction. Nobody noticed that one of these found its way into his pocket as a thing of possible utility, in the future.
He then rose. "I am sorry to be obliged to go so soon," said he, courteously, "but a physician's time is not his own. Good evening, Major Bergan, I am always at your service, and in any capacity. Good evening, Mr. Causton, doubtless, we shall meet again."
Dick glanced at the brandy bottle, and, seeing that it was empty, was taken with a sudden fancy for the doctor's society.
I'll walk along with you, doctor, at least as far as our road is one, said he, rising. "Good company makes short miles."
I came in the saddle, answered Doctor Remy, "but we can be companions as far as the gate, if you like."
Nevertheless, the pair did not separate at the gate. Their conversation had become too interesting, apparently, to both; and Dick Causton continued to walk on by the side of the doctor's horse.
It was late when he reached his cabin, that night. Very suggestively, too, he reeled across the threshold, and, missing the bed, deposited himself heavily on the floor.
Tidt meder man ei did som man vil skyde, A man does not always aim at what he means to hit,—he muttered, resignedly, merely changing his position for a more comfortable one, and dozing off to sleep.
Somewhere, on the way—or out of it—apparently, he had found a supplementary brandy bottle, and had not left it until it was as empty as the Major's.
It was late, too, when Doctor Remy laid his head on his pillow, that night. And, perhaps, in all Berganton, there was no wearier nor sadder man than he. One apparently well-constructed plan had just gone to pieces in his hands, without note of warning. Another was now to be built up out of the fragments, pitilessly rejecting whatever had been an element of weakness in the first. Already, its outline had begun to shape itself dimly against his mental horizon. Yet he did not allow himself to linger upon it to-night. With the rigid self-control which he habitually exercised, he put aside disappointment, care, and hope, and soon slept as soundly as if no anxiety rested on his mind, no stain on his conscience.
He was early astir. With the morning light came quickness and clearness of thought. His scheme began to look more distinct and feasible. By way of getting it in hand at once, he tapped lightly at the door of Astra's studio.
He was somewhat surprised to find her before an easel, palette and brushes in hand. She smiled and blushed at his approach.
I know what you would say, she began, apologetically,—"'A Jack at all trades,' et caetera, but I really wanted color for this subject." She pointed to her canvas. "Do you recognize it?"
I can see that those are Miss Bergan's eyes, replied Doctor Remy;—"all else is delightfully vague and suggestive."
And what eyes they are! exclaimed Astra, admiringly,—-not without a pleasant perception, too, that she had succeeded wonderfully well in putting them on canvas.
Doctor Remy did not answer immediately. He was regarding the portrait with a gravity that Astra could not understand,—unless, indeed, his thoughts were elsewhere. Nevertheless, when he spoke, it was sufficiently to the point.
Yes, they are very fine eyes, said he. "And Miss Bergan is altogether very pretty,—in an uncommon style, too. It is surprising that she has remained heartfree so long."
Astra looked at him with soft, smiling, amused eyes. "Heartfree! As much as I am," said she.
Doctor Remy gave her a questioning look.
I am not going to tell you anything about it, said she, laughingly. "Use your eyes, sometimes, in watching your neighbors, as I do."
Who is my neighbor? asked Doctor Remy, smiling.
The proper question! laughed Astra. "In this case, you need not journey beyond this roof, to find him."
Doctor Remy's eyes lit with a sudden, strange gleam. "Do you know it is so?" he asked, quickly.
Ho, I cannot quite say that;—I doubt if she knows it herself yet. But I believe it, all the same.
Doctor Remy watched her absently for some moments, then made a few curt, critical remarks about her work, bade her a cool good morning, and withdrew.
Astra looked after him, with a troubled, wondering expression.
What has come over him? she asked herself. "How have I offended him? Or was it only my fancy that he seemed so cold and strange?"
Before Doctor Remy began his professional rounds, that morning, he had sketched, in outline, the main features of a new plan for the acquisition of Bergan Hall. The minor details he wisely left to the suggestions of time and circumstance.
One of these proved to be very close at hand. As he drove mechanically through the principal street of Berganton, revolving various probabilities and possibilities in his mind, and trying to make some provision for each, he espied Miss Ferrars coming up the sidewalk,—easily recognizable, at almost any distance, by her peculiarly mincing and swaying gait. In all similar encounters with the slightly faded maiden,—whom he shrewdly suspected of designs upon his bachelor liberty,—it had been his wont to slide swiftly past, with a low and deprecatory bow, suggestive of his deep regret that the urgency of his haste denied him the pleasure of stopping to inquire after her health. On this occasion, therefore, she was agreeably surprised to see him rein his horse up to the sidewalk, with the obvious intention of speaking to her. Perhaps her heart beat a little more quickly, as she stopped to listen.
Apparently, however, he had nothing of more importance to communicate than a commonplace enough observation about the heat of the weather, and a friendly caution not to walk far in so fervid a sunshine as was flooding the town with its golden waves. Then, he gathered up his reins, as if to signify that his say was said, and he was ready to proceed. Nevertheless, he lingered a moment longer, to add, carelessly,—
By the way, I ought to acknowledge that you were right, and I was wrong, the other day. It is not the first time that man's reason has had to admit the superior correctness, as well as quickness, of woman's intuition.
Miss Ferrars looked both pleased and puzzled. "It is very good of you to say so," she answered, simpering;—"but really, I can't think what you allude to."
When you called at my office, a few days ago, explained the doctor, "you did me the honor to confide to me your impressions with regard to my friends, Miss Lyte and Mr. Arling. I thought you were mistaken, and told you so. It turns out, however, that the mistake was on my part, not yours. I was really blind—not wilfully so, as you had the charity to suppose. I mention the matter the more readily because it must soon be patent to everybody. Good morning."
And without waiting for a reply, Doctor Remy courteously lifted his hat, and went his way, with a curious smile on his lips.
That last intimation ensures speed, said he to himself. "Miss Ferrars will do her best to be beforehand with the news. Before to-morrow morning, it will be known throughout the town. Then, I can easily manage so that it shall reach the Major's ears, and—by the help of my loving commentary—produce the desired effect. Astra must be gotten out of the way, for the present, at least. So must Arling; last night's business convinced me that he is more dangerous than I imagined. The Major deceives himself, but he does not deceive me; his bitterness towards his nephew is nothing more than piqued and smothered affection,—affection undergoing fermentation, as it were, and certain to work itself clear and sweet, in time. If Arling remains in the neighborhood, the Major will soon be seizing upon some pretext for a reconciliation. Failing of that, Miss Carice is certain to inherit his estate; just because he wooed—and did not win—her mother, some twenty-five or thirty years ago! No doubt, a marriage between the two would suit him exactly, if he once got hold of the idea. Yes, Arling must be gotten rid of. But how?"
He bent his brows moodily. Some expedient, apparently, soon suggested itself to him, and was immediately rejected with a shake of the head.
No, not that way, he muttered. "I'm determined against actual, point-blank crime, so called,—except as a last resource. Besides, it is not necessary; I only want to get rid of him until the Major is dead, and Miss Carice is my wife. There must be some way to dispose of him, by lawful means, if I could only hit upon it! Really, if there were a Devil, as some people believe, he would strain a point now in my favor! At all events, I think I see my way clear with Astra."
He was silent, for an instant; his brow grew sombre with unwonted regret.
Poor Astra! he murmured, as he drove into the cathedral-like gloom of the far-stretching pine barren,—"I am really loath to give her up! But her chance of the Hall, I see now, is not worth a picayune. And it won't do to trust to the possibility of substituting a manufactured will for the real one, as long as I cannot find out where the latter is deposited. The Major was very close-mouthed about that matter. No, Miss Carice is my safest resort. Yet Astra would suit me much better, on the whole." And once again, looking absently up the long, columned vista of the narrow road, he murmured regretfully;—
Poor Astra!
The next day was Sunday. It came to the earth, as it comes always, with kindly, hallowed hands full of blessings, but found not everywhere hearts and minds open to receive them. Carice Bergan, to be sure, knelt in her accustomed place, in the little church of her fathers, with a face which might almost have rivalled that of an angel in its bright peacefulness, and with all the windows of her soul plainly open to the heavenly sunshine. Bergan Arling, too, conscious that each one of these holy days had its own special gift or grace for him, its own kind and measure of spiritual food, which he could ill afford to lose, knelt in his proper place, and reverently lent his full, rich voice to swell the solemn flow of common prayer, or the harmonious burst of choral praise. And Mrs. Lyte, in her widow's weeds, looking upward in spirit, to the long peace of Paradise, and the shining faces of the redeemed, was glad to believe in "the communion of saints," and rejoiced in the day that was both a foretaste and a promise of the "life everlasting." Even Astra Lyte, though suffering from a vague and nameless depression,—a burden of which, as yet, she felt only the weight and chill, without comprehending, or daring to try to comprehend, whence it came or what it meant,—was sensible of a dim delight, and possibly a latent helpfulness, in the sweet and solemn influences of the day and the place. Here and there, moreover, a soul bowed under the weight of recent affliction, or shaken with the terrors of a newly-awakened conscience, was both awed and glad to be able to give itself audible expression in words so fit and forcible as those of the Confession and the Litany, and thankful if it might pick up so much as a crumb of pardon and peace from the Master's bountiful table.
But, to Doctor Remy, paying an unwilling tribute to public opinion by showing himself at church, on this morning, after many weeks of absence, and leaving it to be inferred that, but for his professional duties, he would be seen there regularly; to Miss Ferrars, mingling solemn words of confession and penitence with frivolous thoughts of dress and gossip; to Dick Causton, slinking shame-facedly into the rear pew, to listen to the conclusion of the sweet, old, familiar hymn, the first sounds of which had fallen enticingly upon his ear, as he was staggering up the street;—to these, and many others like them, doubtless, Sunday brought only present irksomeness and future condemnation.
The hymn being finished, Mr. Islay ascended the pulpit, and, laying his manuscript open before him, looked round on the crowded congregation, with serious, almost melancholy, eyes. Perhaps he sought, amid those upturned faces, for some sign of human sympathy, to lighten a little his heavy sense of responsibility; perhaps he wondered to which of these souls his words were now to prove a savor of life unto life, and to which, a savor of death unto death. Deep and clear, and full of a solemn music, his voice broke the silence.
"In the fifth, chapter of Proverbs, and in the twenty-second verse, it is written: 'HE SHALL BE HOLDEN WITH THE CORDS OF HIS SINS.'
"Three faces were at once alive with interest. Doctor Remy, indeed, gave a slight and almost imperceptible start, as if his intellect not only, but his memory or his conscience, had felt an awakening touch. Bergan Arling merely fixed his eyes more intently on the speaker, with the aspect of a man who was glad to find that the coming discourse was likely to link into, and carry on, some previous train of thought. As for Dick Causton, the word "Proverbs" was sufficient to command his earnest, and even critical, attention. He believed that he knew a good deal about proverbs himself; he had made a lifelong study of their characteristics and principles of interpretation; he had often declared those of Solomon—such as were strictly proverbs—to be of the best; he would stay and hear what a tyro like Mr. Islay had to say about this particular one.
This, briefly, was what the clergyman said.
"Many texts are like rosebuds. They have a simple form, and an obvious signification. But if you steep them in the dew of meditation and the sunshine of faith, they begin to unfold meaning after meaning, as the rosebud petal after petal; and in the centre there is a golden heart,—the gracious blessing of God on the fervent and prayerful spirit, and the inquiring and teachable mind. Let us pray that the text which we are considering, may prove such an one to each of us. A man's sin is sure to find him out. It may have been committed in secret, muffled thickly with caution, and finally buried deep under time and distance and circumstance; it may remain hidden for years; it may have been forgotten, except for an occasional dark moment, by the sinner himself; yet, some time, some day, what seems to be a chance, but is truly a providence, lifts the veil, and takes hold of the clue,—or death throws the lurid light of his inverted torch over the dark transaction,—and the liar, the thief, the adulterer, the murderer, or whatever may be the miserable man's miserable name, is brought to the bar either of human or divine justice. And there is no escape. The bands of his iniquity are around him; they bind him hand and foot; he is holden with the cords of his sins.
" "This is perhaps the first and most obvious meaning of the text. It assures us that, 'though punishment be lame, it arrives.' It warns us not to make cords which are certain to be used, some day, for our own binding. But men are apt to think lightly of a remote evil. The present monopolizes their fears, as it does their labors. Moreover (they say), there are dozens of little, everyday sins, which entail no such fearful consequences. Let us see how our text bears upon these points.
" "Sin is not a simple, but a complex, thing. It is a cord twisted of many threads, and some of them begin very far back. A man is seldom taken in the toils of a sudden, single temptation, or bound with the cords of an utterly unimagined and unpremeditated sin. He has made the way and work easy to each of them, by yielding to preliminary temptations, and carelessly allowing the binding of preparatory sins. He is holden with the cords of the evil thought to the unhallowed desire and the foul gratification. He is holden with the cords of that seemingly venial sin to this final burden of guilt and shame, by that unbridled passion to this startling, terrible crime. The slender cord draws the stout one after it: at sight of that, the man may start and shrink, but he is already half-bound, and his resistance is feeble. Having taken the first step, he is committed to the second; having admitted the premise, he is bound to the logical conclusion. Here, as before, he is holden with the cords of his sins. Moreover, there are few things stronger, for good or ill, than habit. And every sin, however small, may begin an evil habit, and is sure to confirm one. Round and round goes the slender cord, till it binds as strongly as a chain of iron. One part after another yields to the subtle, stealing influence; first, the will succumbs; then, the reason; finally, the conscience. Day by day, good ceases to attract, and evil to repel. Day by day, the right becomes more difficult, and the wrong easier. The habit soon becomes fixed; the man is firmly bound. To the side of evil, and the service of Satan, he is holden with the cords of his sins.
" "Again: If thought be the spring of action, action is also the spring of thought. If it be true that, 'as a man thinks, he is,' so it is true that as he is, he thinks. Thought is by turns cause and effect. If a man's sins are the result of his evil thoughts, so his evil and erroneous thoughts are sometimes the result of his sins. He cannot long continue to think right if he act wrong. After breaking the Sabbath awhile, he ceases to think of it as a holy day. After committing murder, he ceases to regard life as sacred. Violating human law, it becomes a terror instead of a protection. Defying the Divine law, he soon denies its authority. Sin distorts his views, as well as his life. The truths of religion lose their clearness to his mind with their power to influence his action. Doubts, scepticism, infidelity, find an open door, and an easy road, to his heart. If a man would keep fast hold of his Christian faith, let him take care to order his actions, as far as possible, in conformity to its precepts. But, on the other hand, let him give free rein to his appetites and ambitions,—yea, even to the commission of absolute crime,—if he wishes to become a mocker and an infidel, without love of God or man, without correct views of time or clear ones of eternity. For, to all these things, he will be sure to be holden with the cords of his sins. Finally; All men love liberty. But sin, though it may seem, at first, to be the wildest liberty, soon proves to be the narrowest bondage. The sinner is the slave of appetites, of habits, of thoughts, that are hard task-masters; and the wages of which are every kind of death. For there are many kinds,—social, political, moral, before the final, everlasting death;—and one, or all, of these, he is sure to taste, as the reward of his faithful service of Satan. His health is undermined, or his reputation destroyed; his fortune is dissipated, or his gold corroded in the using; he is shaken with the terrors of conscience, or hardened into the semblance of stone; he is without adequate consolation in the day of trouble, and without strengthening hope in the day of death; but his slavery is abject and absolute. He neither will nor can escape. He is holden with the cords of his sins.
" "Thus you will see, beloved, that our text has a word of solemn warning for the present, as well as for the future. The holding of sin is to be dreaded in life, not less than at death. One sin holds fast to another. Single sins twist together into the strong cord of habitual sin. The sinful act draws after it evil thoughts and loose opinions. Sin is a continual, daily bondage, as well as a final retribution. Beware then, oh, ye young! how you bind yourselves with cords of sinful thoughts, or habits, or opinions, or passions, to the exclusion of that blessed liberty which is in Christ Jesus. Beware, oh, ye adults! how you go on adding sin to sin, and cord to cord, till you are bound hand and foot, thought and will, body and soul; and are finally cast down to perdition, in bonds of your own industrious forging—holden with the cords of your sins!
"But,—do you say?—we are all sinners, we are all 'holden,' how are we to break from the cords of our sins? Go to Christ. At His feet, all bonds are broken, all slavery ends. He leads captivity captive, and His service is perfect freedom. He is our righteousness, and the man that trusteth in Him, shall no more be holden with the cords of His sins.
Such was the substance of the sermon. But in the delivery, there was a warmth and an earnestness, a happiness of expression and illustration, and a deep solemnity, that held the congregation spell-bound with interest, to the end!
Perhaps no one had listened more attentively, or humbly, than Bergan Arling. So recently had he felt the irksome holding of the cords of his sins! And he would still, no doubt, be holden to their consequences, all the days of his life, if not to their guilt.
As for Doctor Remy, there was an unusual pallor in his face, when he rose, at the singing of the last hymn. But it was quickly gone; he came out of the church with much of his usual cold, composed demeanor. His sins had held him too long to loosen their stricture at one transient quake of conscience.
Dick Causton had listened for some time with marked attention, and apparent approval. Then, a kind of haze had slowly bedimmed his sight and beclouded his brain. When the congregation came down the aisles, he was fast asleep, with his head drooping heavily on his breast. If anything could have added to the effect of the sermon, this sight ought to have done so. Most certainly, poor Dick was "holden with the cords of his sins."
When the church was empty, he was shaken rudely by the sexton, and turned out, muttering caustic proverbs by way of retaliation.
Bergan and Doctor Remy walked home from the church, as they had gone thither, side by side; yet, for a considerable time, neither spoke. If not altogether congenial spirits, they were on sufficiently easy and familiar terms, in virtue of their almost daily association, to allow each to pursue his own train of thought, on occasion, without reference to the other.
To Bergan, Mr. Islay's sermon had been interesting and effective, not only for what it contained, but for what it suggested. Naturally, therefore, his mind was now busy in following out those suggestions to the point where they bore upon his own experience, and unfolded their lessons for his own soul.
But Dr. Remy's thoughts had long since strayed away from any channel into which the sermon was calculated to lead them. There had been some brief moments, during its delivery, to be sure, when he had shrunken inwardly, iron-nerved though he were, from the deep, sharp probing of certain of its sentences; and there had been a single instant, perhaps, wherein he had been made dimly to see, or to suspect, that his own life and character—much as he had prided himself upon being the independent artificer of them both—were really the results to which he had been holden by the cords of former, half-forgotten sins. But he had made haste to shake himself free from both the idea and its effect, with one smile of scorn at his own folly, and another at what he chose to consider the weak superstition of the clergyman and his awed, interested flock. He thanked God—using the phrase in a vague, general sense which, perhaps, was only equivalent to thanking himself—that he was not as these men were. And no sooner was he in the open air than he set his busy mind to the consideration of his own projects. Some clue to its workings may perhaps be afforded by the question with which he finally broke the silence.
Have you ever had the yellow fever, Arling?
No; it does not visit our western villages.
Then, I advise you to take refuge in one of them, for the next three months. It is certain to visit Berganton ere long.
Indeed! said Bergan, with more curiosity than alarm. "Why do you think so?"
From the weather, the atmosphere, the present type of disease,—a dozen indications patent to the eye of experience. Besides, I am informed by a private letter that it has already appeared in New Orleans. Its arrival here is but a question of time. And I assure you that its acquaintance is to be avoided.
Doubtless. And I shall do my best to avoid it—except by running away.
You might as well say, answered Doctor Remy, dryly, "that you will take every precaution against drowning—except to keep your head above water. Don't be fool-hardy, Arling. Yellow Jack has a keen appetite for strangers,—that is to say, for all who are not native born. If he spares any, it is usually the sickly and feeble, not the strong and vigorous. He would consider you a toothsome morsel. Take my advice, and go home, or go North, or take a sea-voyage,—do anything rather than remain here during the last of summer and the beginning of autumn. It will be no loss to you. After the first of next month, there will be absolutely nothing for a lawyer to do here but try to keep cool."
And you? asked Bergan.
Oh, I stay, of course. An epidemic is a physician's harvest time. Besides, I have had the yellow fever.
Then the native-born do not all escape?
By no means. Besides, I lost my birthright by many years' absence in Europe. It was immediately after my return that I was taken. Now I may consider myself acclimated.
As I must be, replied Bergan, "if, as is likely, I am to spend the remainder of my life at the South. Thank you for your friendly warning, but I think I must stay."
Doctor Remy shrugged his shoulders, and said no more. He had merely tried the first and simplest expedient which occurred to him, for removing Bergan from the neighborhood. He was not surprised nor troubled that it had failed. He had expected as much. But there were other and surer means to his end, he believed, at his command.
However, he was not obliged to resort to them. Early next morning Bergan came into his office, with an open letter in his hand, and a most anxious face.
Read that, said he, huskily, "and tell me if there is any hope."
Doctor Remy obeyed, reading the letter not once only, but twice, and looking long and meditatively at the signature. Then he lifted his eyes to Bergan's face.
Plenty of hope, in my opinion, said he; "I do not attach as much importance as this Doctor Trubie does to your mother's fancy that she is going to die. It only argues a depressed state of mind, corresponding to a low state of body. Nevertheless, it is well to do whatever can be done to raise her spirits; and I suspect that your presence at her bedside will avail much to that end. Of course, you set out at once?"
Certainly. Can you tell me at what hour the next train leaves Savalla?
Doctor Remy glanced at his watch. "In an hour and a half. That gives you ample time;—fifteen minutes to throw a few things into a portmanteau, and tell me what I can do for you while you are away; five minutes for adieux, and an hour and ten minutes to reach Savalla, in the saddle, with a swift horse."
If I can find one at such short notice, said Bergan, doubtfully.
Doctor Remy pulled a bell-wire, and Scipio's black head appeared as instantaneously as if he had been attached to the other end of it.
Saddle the roan, and take him round to the front gate, said Doctor Remy. "Mr. Arling will ride him to Savalla, You will go after him, by the stage, this afternoon. Quick now!"
The head ducked, and disappeared.
How can I thank you! exclaimed Bergan, wringing the doctor's hand.
By attending to the portmanteau business at once. I will come with you; we can talk while you work. I want to ask something about this Doctor Trubie. Does he keep up with the times,—in medicine, that is?
I don't know—I believe so.
H'm; there have been some recent discoveries of great value in the treatment of typhoids, when they run long and low, as they are apt to do. Suppose I write down a few suggestions, which, if there is grave need, you can commend to Doctor Trubie's favorable consideration. Otherwise, don't interfere.
Bergan tried once more to express his gratitude, as the folded paper was put in his hand; but Doctor Remy cut him short.
If you really want to thank me, said he, "do it by staying away until the sickly season is over; I shall have yellow fever patients enough without you. Indeed, you must; having left, it would be suicidal to come back before the first of November. Tell your mother that I said so, when she is convalescent."
When she is convalescent, repeated Bergan, quickly. "Then you do hope!"
Of course I do. There is every reason for it. Your mother, being a Bergan, has a sound constitution, and an almost indomitable vitality; and she is not yet old. If Trubie makes a good fight, he is sure to win. At any rate, never despair till the breath is out of the body; nor even then, till you are certain that it cannot be brought back.
Bergan could not but feel a pang of self-reproach for his long-smothered dislike and distrust of the man who was thus loading him with obligations,—help on his way to his mother, ready encouragement, and valuable professional advice. It did not occur to him that there is such a thing as doing good that evil may come!
Doctor Remy looked after him with a triumphant smile. "One out of my way already!" he exclaimed. "It would seem that the Devil (another name for Fate or Chance) has helped me!"
Bergan next sought Mrs. Lyte and Astra, for a parting word. He found the latter in her studio, sitting idly by a window, with her hands folded listlessly in her lap, and a weary, dejected face that went to his heart. Never before had he seen her otherwise than busy, bright, and earnest; never had she met his look with so faint and transient a smile.
I am sorry that you are going, said she, sombrely; "sorrier, perhaps, than the occasion may seem to warrant. But I cannot rid myself of a suspicion that this phase of our life and friendship is finished; and who can tell what the next may be! Do you remember our first meeting under the oaks, and the red sunset light, and the dark sunset cloud? You interpreted them to mean that we were to know sunshine and shade together, did you not? Well, we have had the sunshine; now, it is time for the shade."
You forget, said Bergan, kindly, "that the cloud was but for a moment, and the sunshine returned."
No, I remember it well. But the cloud was very dark while it lasted, and the shine was not quite so bright afterward. It was nearer to its setting.
Bergan could scarcely believe that it was Astra who spoke. Hitherto, she had been the moral sunshine of the house, felt even where it did not directly fall. Her spirit, in its potency of cheer, resembled the sunbeam which, though it kindle but one little spot on the floor into actual brightness, diffuses its light and cheerfulness throughout a whole room. As every article of furniture, every picture, every face, in the room, is the brighter for the sunbeam, so every inmate of Mrs. Lyte's rambling old dwelling had been the happier for Astra's presence and influence. The sound of her clear, buoyant voice, the thought of her light, busy figure, just across the hall, had always served to quicken and brighten his own energies. It had been very much his wont to bring all his shadows, discouragements, and despondencies, to be dissipated by contact with her breezy activity and cheery hopefulness. What had come over her, that she met him now with such dreary premonition of ill, such persistent dwelling upon the dark side? He looked down upon her with the question in his eyes, if not on his lips.
She understood and answered it.
It is only a dark mood, said she, passing her hand over her brow, "not an actual trouble,—at least, not yet. But forgive me for afflicting you with it now, when you are under the shadow of a real cloud. Let us hope that it will pass quickly. When you reach home, may the sunshine be already there!"
Thank you. I shall expect to hear from you through Doctor Remy—all of you, I mean. He has promised to let me know how everything goes on here.
Astra lifted her eyes searchingly to his face. Her fine perceptions had not failed to take note of his inadvertent linking together of Doctor Remy and herself, and his quick attempt to conceal it. She divined that he knew her secret. Her eyes fell, and her face flushed.
Bergan took her hand, and lifted it, in gentle, chivalrous fashion, to his lips. "I wish you every happiness," said he, in a tone that said more than the words,—"every sunshine, and few clouds. Good-bye."
Good-bye, she answered, withdrawing her hand, yet not without a certain lingering pressure, that seemed even sadder than her face, and that Bergan felt long afterwards. And he left her sitting where he found her.
Mrs. Lyte and Cathie followed him to the door, the one with much quiet sympathy and regret, the other with passionate tears and lamentations.
He will not come back! He will not come back! she screamed, wringing her hands, as he rode away; and the mournful cry followed him down the street, like a prophecy of woe.
A little farther on, he discovered that Nix was trotting quietly alongside of his horse. And so intimately had the dog been connected with all his sojourn under Mrs. Lyte's roof, that, in sending him back, he seemed to close the final page of this whole epoch of his life.
His road skirted a retired portion of the grounds of Oakstead. Suddenly, he espied Carice, standing on the bank of the creek, with her eyes thoughtfully fixed upon its rippling flow. His sad heart yearned towards her with irresistible force. Glancing at his watch, he saw that there was yet time for a brief, parting word. He flung himself from his horse, threw the bridle over a gatepost, and ran quickly towards her.
I am so glad to find you here! he exclaimed, as he drew near. "Otherwise, I must have gone without saying good-bye. I am sent for, in great haste; my mother is very ill, and—"
He stopped; his grave face said the rest.
I am very, very sorry! putting her hand in his, with quick, earnest sympathy. "When did you hear?"
This morning. She insisted that I should be sent for, as soon as she was taken ill; she believed that she could not recover. It is the typhoid fever.
Carice's face blanched suddenly. "Ah! that has a fearful sound," she said, shiveringly. "My two brothers"—
Her voice failed, and her slight frame shook with sudden emotion. It was the first time that Bergan had heard her allude to the only sorrow which she had yet known; but the effect of which had been all the more keenly felt, doubtless, because, for her parents' sake, she had shut it resolutely into the depths of her heart, never allowing its shadow to be seen for a moment on the face wherein they now looked for consolation and cheer.
Much moved, Bergan put his arm round the slender, tremulous form. At first, it was only the blind, manly instinct of help and support that prompted him; but with the act there came a swift revelation, a great rush of tenderness, that almost took his breath away. Though he had never suspected it till now, he knew, in an instant, beyond the possibility of a doubt, not only that he loved Carice, but that he had loved her long.
Carice, on her part, was quick to feel the sudden, subtile change in the character of the support given her, and made a fluttering movement of escape. But Bergan would not let her go.
Carice, said he, gravely, "if I should return sorrowing, will you console me?"
If I can, she answered, simply, raising her blue eyes to his face.
If you can! he repeated, with a deep tender intonation,—"oh, Carice! it must be a heavy sorrow indeed that you cannot console!"
As he spoke, the day, which had hitherto been cloudy, suddenly broke into a smile, pouring a flood of golden light on the river, trickling through the boughs of the overhanging trees in great, shining drops, and flinging a yellow gleam far down their gray trunks. Wondrous sympathy of Nature with the bliss of two spirits made one,—the tender joy that keeps, throughout the musty years, the freshness and fragrance of its Eden birth! Yet, had the day still held its gloom, it would have been bright in Carice's eyes, and bright in Bergan's! Wherever Love is newly born, it creates a sunshine of the heart, which overflows upon the outward world, and fills it with celestial radiance.
Five minutes later, and Carice was alone by the river's bank, blushing to hear how persistently the little stream kept whispering and singing of what it had just seen and heard. The leaves, too, seemed to be softly talking it over among themselves; and a red bird and a gray one were gossiping merrily about it among the branches.
Still more plainly, Carice's face told the story, when she sought her parents. They saw at once that it was not the same face which had gone out from them an hour before. It had changed as an opening rosebud must have changed in the same time, under the balmy breathing of the warm south wind. Its merely girlish loveliness was over; playing about the mouth, and shining from the eyes, there was a bright and tender smile that seemed gushing from the very heart of awakening womanhood. Never had she seemed so lovely, never so radiant. Looking upon her, it was easy to divine the secret of angelic beauty. The heavenly existences are immortally beautiful because immortally happy.
Did you engage yourself to him? asked Mr. Bergan, almost sternly, when her brief tale was told.
Of course not, answered Carice, opening wide her blue eyes at the unusual tone,—"not until you and mamma are consulted. Only, we know that we love each other."
At the same time, Dr. Remy stood smiling to himself, in his office,—a dark, ominous smile.
I am sure of three months, said he. "And, in three months, tact and perseverance can accomplish a great deal."
At the same time, too, Astra rose suddenly from the chair, where Bergan had left her sitting, and began to pace up and down the room.
I have been idle too long, she said to herself; "I have let myself dream till my world is peopled with shadows, and I cannot distinguish the false from the true. Work is what I want. Work will exorcise these phantoms, and make my brain clear and strong again."
She stopped and looked fixedly into vacancy, striving to recall a former conception that had been dazzled out of sight in the golden dawn of her love. In a moment, it rose again before her; a great, stalwart, straining figure,—a man struggling up out of the waves that had wellnigh worsted him, with a little child on his shoulders.
Quickly she improvised a kind of platform, and brought out her fertile box of clay. Nervously, she fastened her supports together; rapidly around them rose the soft, gray, plastic material in the rude, rough resemblance of a human form.
Now and then, on a summer's day, the air is suddenly filled with minute, swarming insects of the genus ephemera. They come unnoticed and unheralded; the air is thick with them ere one is aware; ears, mouths, and nostrils are filled with them, despite all efforts to the contrary; they are variously regarded from the scientific, the poetic, and the moral point of view, or merely as nuisances; by and by, they are gone as they came.
In just such wise, a swarm of rumors prejudicial to the reputation of Bergan Arling suddenly filled the air of Berganton; coming no one knew whence, but quickly circulating everywhere, to be variously met with surprise, doubt, belief, regret, anger, and indifference. It was averred that he had gone home deeply in debt, at least to his good friend Doctor Remy, who certainly deserved better treatment at his hands. It was alleged that he was hopelessly the victim of a depraved appetite for strong drink, although, by the help of the same good friend, he had managed, thus far, to save himself from public exposure. It was affirmed that he had persuaded Astra Lyte into a secret engagement, perhaps for the sake of mere pastime, perhaps with a view to the ultimate possession of the roof which had so long sheltered him, or to the union of his own with Astra's chances for the future ownership of Bergan Hall. Finally, it was shrewdly suspected that, having grown weary alike of the debts, the engagement, and the measure of constraint which he had hitherto exercised over himself, he had suddenly broken away from all three, with the trumped-up excuse of his mother's illness, and taken himself off, not to return.
Coming, as has been said, no one knew from whence, and having no apparent voucher, these rumors nevertheless penetrated to counting-rooms and boudoirs, to offices and to bar-rooms, to Major Bergan on his vast estate, and Dick Causton in his narrow cabin, to Godfrey Bergan at his desk, and Carice beside her mother,—everywhere, save to the two persons most directly interested; namely, Bergan Arling on his rapid way homeward, and Astra Lyte in her studio.
Astra was hard at work now. Every hour, her clay model grew in strength or symmetry under her rapid touches. Yet her hope of finding clearness and quietness of mind in the exercise of her beloved art, had been wofully disappointed. The phantoms of doubt and anxiety which had haunted her idleness were not laid by her industry, but only held in abeyance until the inevitable moment of exhaustion, or of suspended inspiration, brought them upon her again, with tenfold power to annoy. Do what she would, she could not shut her eyes to the fact that a change had come over Doctor Remy, nor prevent herself from speculating as to its nature and cause. At first, it was only that miserable and dream-like change of look and manner which forbids one to complain, because it gives no lucid explanation of itself to the intellect, however it may disturb and depress the heart. Its effect was magical, nevertheless, in clearing Astra's vision from that soft, transfiguring haze of the imagination through which love delights to gaze at its object, and in giving her occasional glimpses into the depths and intricacies of Doctor Remy's character. Unconsciously, whenever he came near her, she fell to watching his words, his tones, his looks, even his motions and attitudes, for indications of the hidden, inner man, upon whose qualities and tendencies her happiness so largely depended. The object of this scrutiny was too keen-witted not to be aware of it, and too subtile not to avail himself of it to further his own ends. With apparent carelessness, but consummate art, he allowed more and more of his true character to come to the surface; he showed himself scornful toward religion, faithless toward mankind, indifferent and unsympathizing toward herself, in the hope of quickly transforming her affection into disgust, and forcing her to put a speedy end to their engagement. Doing this whenever he met her, he none the less took good care to make it manifest that he avoided her as far as possible.
Under these circumstances, no wonder that Astra grew pale and thin, that alternately she worked as in a fever, or stood idle as in a dream, that her old, cheery alacrity gave place to sombre restlessness, and her glow of happy spirits to pale depression, that, in short, she speedily became so unlike herself as greatly to alarm Mrs. Lyte, who finally appealed to Doctor Remy. He was only too glad to prescribe immediate change of air and scene.
Mrs. Lyte stood aghast.
I do not see how I can manage it, said she, slowly. "My income is just sufficient for our present mode of life; there is no surplus to meet the added expense of a health trip."
Doctor Remy mused for a moment. "We will talk over this matter again," said he, at length, looking at his watch; "just now I have an engagement. But trust my assurance that wherever there is a plain necessity for a thing, there is a way to obtain it. Good morning."
Doctor Remy's engagement did not prevent him from repairing straightway to Bergan Hall, whither the rumors already alluded to had preceded him. And so artfully did he work upon Major Bergan's hasty and arbitrary temper as to induce him forthwith to warn Mrs. Lyte of the existence of the forfeited mortgage, and his intention to foreclose at an early day. Be it said, however, in the Major's behalf, that he graciously designed said warning to play somewhat of the part of a blessing in disguise. For, having first shown Mrs. Lyte how completely she was in his power, it was his generous intention to offer her the largest mercy thereafter, even to the immediate relinquishment of every claim against her estate, on the easy condition that she, and her daughter should at once break off all relations and engagements with his nephew, Bergan Arling. Thus, he would save Astra from what he was easily persuaded would turn out to be a most unhappy marriage; at the same time that he would gratify a certain odd itching in his fingers to meddle in Bergan's affairs. The whole business was arranged in less than an hour, and Doctor Remy returned homeward triumphant.
Nor was his elation at all shadowed by any thought of the suffering about to be inflicted at his instigation. Men of his naturally hard and forceful character, intensified by long culture of the intellect at the expense of the sensibilities, are apt to take a terribly straight path in one sense, if a wofully crooked one in another, to whatever end they have in view. The feelings of others, where they cannot be made to subserve their purposes, are regarded as so many obstructions in their way; to be pushed aside, or trampled under-foot, as the case may be.
Possibly, too, they do not credit others with a greater depth of feeling than they are conscious of in themselves. Certainly, Doctor Remy, knowing nothing, by experience, of the tender and sacred associations that cluster around the home of years, was not likely to concern himself about the probable grief of Mrs. Lyte, at leaving hers, except as it might hinder or prevent her departure. For, go she must,—at least, for a time,—since Astra would not be likely to go without her. His present task was so to smooth and clear the way for them, on the one hand, while he furnished the necessary degree of motive power, on the other, that they should be gone ere Major Bergan was aware, or had submitted his terms of compromise to their consideration.
In furtherance of this design, he had tapped lightly at the door of Astra's studio, ere the sound of voices from within told him that she was not alone. Carice Bergan was with her, and both were discussing Astra's statue of clay; unto the creation of which she had lately turned—with such scanty measure of success—for distraction, if not for comfort. With a slight bow and a word of greeting to Doctor Remy, Carice went on with what she was saying, in her own singularly gentle, yet frank and fearless, fashion.
As I said just now, it is simply wonderful, in its way; but, Astra, I don't like its way at all. The Offero (for I suppose he is not to be called Saint Christopher yet,) is much too near to falling and fainting under his burden,—
Perhaps he may literally do so, interrupted Astra, with a sad and bitter smile. "Nay, you need not look so startled, I only mean that I fear his supports are not strong enough; I did not realize what would be the gravitation of such a huge mass of clay. The figure is certainly settling more than I like to see."
I did not allude to material supports, replied Carice, steadily, "but to that spiritual aid which the Christ-Child would be sure to give to one who bore Him so cheerfully and bravely as Offero did, however heavily He might be pleased to burden him. There should be more of steady hope and courage, as well as of wonder at the supernatural weight of his small burden, instead of that terrible strain and agony of effort, and that dreary, dogged sort of resolve."
You forget, said Astra, "that he does not yet understand the nature of his burden, nor wherefore it is laid upon him;—neither," she added mournfully to herself, "neither do I."
Carice shook her head. "You have forgotten," she replied, "that he is not bearing the burden for himself, but for love of that far-off, mighty King of whom he has heard; which feeling ought to strengthen his heart and his sinews, and shine out in his face."
Astra turned away her head. As she had unconsciously wrought her own wretched, despondent moods of the past week into the sensitive clay, so Carice's comments upon the result had their sidelong application to herself.
As for the Christ-Child, continued Carice, raising her eyes from the Bearer to the Burden, "how did you ever get that look of immitigable fate into a child's rounded face? As a piece of work, it is almost miraculous; but, as a conception of the Christ-Child—I beg your pardon, Astra—it is absolutely dreadful."
It may stand for Offero's idea of the face which he cannot see, suggested Astra, in a low voice.
Well, perhaps it might, if he were thinking of the face, which I doubt. That is to say, the true Offero would be thinking of the King whom he was trying to serve, rather than the burthen that he was bearing. At any rate, it is just because he cannot see the face that he has such an idea of it. But to us, who can see it, it ought to show itself most benignant, most pitying, most tender and satisfying in every respect. Else, we miss the only really helpful lesson that your Offero is calculated to teach.
Astra looked at her friend half sadly, half-wonderingly. "Let no one trust your gentle, innocent look, Carice," said she; "you are a sharp-sighted critic, and as severe as you are sharp-sighted."
On the contrary, returned Carice, "I am not criticising at all; I am merely telling you how your statue looks to me, in its unfinished condition. No doubt every stroke of that magical scraper of yours will take away something of the look which I do not like, and put in something of that which I long to see."
I do not know, responded Astra drearily, shaking her head. "I have not your singular depth and simplicity of vision, in spiritual things."
Nay, Carice, "you have something more than that,—the power to create; I have only the power to discern. That cherub yonder, for instance;—I am glad that I am able to see that it is lovely beyond expression, but the power to make it so, ah! that is beyond me!"
And Carice moved away to the object of her admiration, and seemed to forget herself and all around her, in contemplating it.
Doctor Remy remained, looking critically at the clay figure.
You have not yet said what you think of it, said Astra, turning and looking him intently in the face.
I had nothing to say—from the spiritual side, he answered, coolly. "Miss Bergan exhausted that; besides, it is not in my line. But, if you are pleased to desire my sort of criticism, here it is. That arm is too long, and that clavicle is not sufficiently raised, and this muscle is too flat. For the rest," he added, after a slight pause, "it is a sufficiently ambitious work."
There was a touch of mockery in his tone which did not escape the sensitive ear of his listener. "You think it too ambitious, perhaps," she said, quietly, yet not without a keen glance at his face.
He gave the clay figure another comprehensive look; then he turned to Astra with a gentler expression than she had seen in his eyes for many days past.
Poor child! said he, pityingly, "what disadvantages your genius has to labor under, in this little, remote town, where you never see a work of art, nor an artist, from month's end to month's end! Why do you not go—for awhile, at least—where you can find something for your genius to feed upon? It is a law of life that there can be no good growth without proper food."
You know, replied Astra, very gravely, "that I cannot leave my home and my mother."
Then, returned Doctor Remy, with equal gravity, "it would be a kindly blast—though it might not seem so, at first—that should blow you all to some point where your genius could find fuller and freer development. If such an one should ever come to you, I hope you will be able to regard it as—what Miss Bergan would doubtless call a providence."
Carice was looking towards them, now; and his last words were spoken with a smiling glance that was apparently meant to draw her into the conversation.
And what would Doctor Remy call it? she asked, but without any answering smile.
Doctor Remy does not concern himself about names, but things, he replied, pleasantly.
Things answer to names, she rejoined, quickly; "and if Doctor Remy to call a providence a chance, for instance, let him not wonder if it prove a chance—to him."
I am afraid that I am wofully obtuse, returned the doctor, with the air of a man who asks for a further explanation.
From the hand of Chance, she answered briefly, "one gets little good, and much harm; from the hand of Providence, only good, however disguised. The difference is in the taking and the using."
She turned towards the window as she finished, with the air of who dismisses the subject.
Astra, meanwhile, stood gazing at the doctor with a most anxious, disturbed expression. She was beginning to understand too well that under many of his seemingly most careless utterances, there lurked a deep significance and design. In the tone of his last speech to her, there had been something which caused her a vague alarm.
What did he mean? she asked herself, wearily putting her hand to her brow,—"What did he mean?"