Bergan Arling, on quitting his uncle, had flung himself into the surrounding darkness, without aim, without hope; conscious only of an intolerable burden of grief and despair. Coming to the river, he had mechanically strode down its bank. Mechanically, too, he had crossed the foot-bridge, when it came in his way; and was scarcely aware that its last rotten plank, on the Hall end, had given away under his feet, and that he had narrowly missed being precipitated into the water. In due time, he found himself standing before the deserted mansion, looking up to its dark front with eyes just beginning to be capable of intelligent vision, and acknowledging to himself that, though his path had been but blindly chosen, it had brought him to a fitting goal.
A ruined home, and a ruined life, he murmured, with a kind of bitter mournfulness,—"they will suit each other well!"
The door was locked, but there was a dilapidated flight of steps leading to the rotten upper piazza, and the window of his old room yielded readily to pressure. The lamp, too, was in its remembered place, and, having lighted it, he threw himself into a chair, to sum up the record of his past life, and strike the balance.
Not that he did this consciously. Although he felt intuitively that he had reached a turning-point in his path, from whence its course and circumstance, if not its aim, might well be changed, it was with the future only—the consideration of the question what to do next—that he purposed to occupy himself. But the sight of the familiar room, and the ancient furniture and ornaments wherewith he had filled it, having inevitably recalled the period of his first occupancy, and the occasion of his sudden departure, he could not fail to see how all his life since had seemed to hinge on that one deplorable incident. Had he resisted Major Bergan's will in the single particular of entering that vile tavern, or refused, first as well as last, to drink at his bidding, doubtless he would have lost his favor all the same, but he would scarcely have been so completely subjugated by his own fierce temper, he would not have commenced his career in Berganton under such a cloud, he would not have been left to drift in so inauspicious an intimacy with Doctor Remy, his Uncle Godfrey would not have become so deeply prejudiced against him,—possibly, even, the course of his love might have run smooth, despite the verdict of the immortal poet, nor yet have vitiated its claim to be a "true" one. What a pregnant commentary was all this upon that wonderful text of Mr. Islay's memorable sermon. How tightly had he been "holden with the cords of his sins" to a long and wearisome discipline, and a final mystery of retribution,—a retribution involving, alas! the innocent not less than the guilty. Poor, poor Carice! how much easier would it be to bear his own portion, if only hers could be remitted!
Hark! was not that a cry from the direction of the river? He leaned out of the window, and listened attentively; but the sound—if sound it were, and not the simple product of his own disordered fancy—was not repeated. Nothing was to be heard save the low sough of the rising wind, and the melancholy voices of the trees, as one solemn old oak-top leaned toward another, and talked mysteriously of some woful event that it had witnessed—perhaps a century ago, perhaps later—or recounted drearily the long list of human sorrows and sins and retributions stored up in its dreamy old memory. There might have been heard, too, in its further talk, if only the ear were fine enough that listened,—something of patience born of sorrow, and blessedness wrenched from the hand of suffering; of lofty hopes blossoming out of the ashes of despair, and fair, new temples, vocal with the anthem of glory to God and good will to man, built over and out of heaps of ruins. A few words, too, might have been added of love—human love—as the crowning grace and gladness of a man's life,—the delicate carving beautifying the arches, capitals, and pinnacles of the temple, the thick greenery softening its sharp outlines, and the odorous blossoms rooting themselves in its angles and hollows; but neither its strong foundations, its majestic walls, nor the upward spring of its spire,—and never, in any sense, the object of its rightful worship.
Perhaps Bergan heard something of all this; at any rate, that cry from the river, whether real or imagined, had broken the thread of his review of the past, and brought back his mind to the question of the future. What was to be done? Leave Berganton, of course. The place was not wide enough to hold Carice and himself, with comfort to either. If her marriage had been brought about in the way that he suspected, the sight of him would scarce conduce to her peace; while the sight of her, in her new relation, could only cause him useless pain. Moreover, he had seen, from the first, that Berganton afforded little scope for talent; none whatever for ambition. And, now that his life seemed likely to be limited to its public side, and to have no sweet, compensating domestic one, he felt the necessity of directing its course to some quarter where there was room for proper expansion.
Happily, the way was open. Only a short time ago, he had received a most favorable offer, which he still held under consideration,—an invitation to enter into partnership with an eminent lawyer of Savalla, beginning to succumb to the infirmities of old age, and likely, ere long, to surrender to him all the active business of the firm. Nothing could suit him better. Here was scope for all his talent, employment for all his energy. He would be near enough to Berganton, too, for any good name that he might win to reach thither, and clear away whatever prejudice against him still lingered there; yet not near enough to be necessarily brought into contact with its inhabitants.
So much for the future; what of the present?
First, he would see Mrs. Lyte and Astra, bid them farewell, and arrange for the removal of his effects. Then he would hasten to Savalla, to do the last kindness that it was in his power to do for Carice, even though it would seem to justify her father's late incredulity and contemptuous treatment,—namely, meet Doctor Trubie, and dissuade him from any further proceedings against Doctor Remy. There was still room for a doubt that the latter was the murderer of Alec Arling;—let it remain forever a doubt! No weapon should be lifted against him, that must needs fall most heavily upon Carice!
It was gray dawn when this conclusion was reached. The stars were fading from the sky, as a hint that it was time to extinguish his lamp. The East showed a broad rim of light,—only a silver one now, but with some mystic intimation of the gold to which it would soon be transmuted. Was any similar change beginning to show itself in Bergan's heart?
If so, he was in nowise conscious of it. His mind having attained to a comparative degree of composure, his body began to press its claims upon him with some pertinacity. It was twenty-four hours since he had taken food, and nearly double that time since he had slept; this, too, on the end of a long, tedious journey, and while undergoing sore anxiety and distress of mind. No wonder that his head was aching furiously at the temples, and seemed to have a ponderous weight on top, nor that he had a sensation of dizziness at times, while a blinding mist came before his eyes.
He prepared to leave Bergan Hall. That, too, was to be henceforth, so far as he was concerned, a thing of the past. It had given him needful solitude and shelter, in his hour of deep despair; it had been the fittest possible place wherein to take leave of the old life and its shattered hope; but for the new, it had nothing to offer,—except, perhaps, a warning. The stream of active, expansive, beneficent life must forever flow away from its faded splendor, its crumbling massiveness, its dusty traditions and aristocratic genealogies, and its corrupt feudal laws and customs, as well as from that moral ruin, its selfish, tyrannic, besotted master. Together, they might well be likened to a half-buried, decomposing corpse; showing still, through the overspreading mould and fungi, some faint trace of its former grace and nobility of shape and feature, but chiefly impressing the spectator with the carelessness of its exposure and the unsightliness of its decay.
And yet, how strong a hold, after all, had both master and mansion upon his heart! Some time, surely, when he should have won fame and fortune enough to be above all suspicion of self-seeking, he might come back to visit them, and see what could be done for both.
With this thought in his mind, he was about to quit the room as he had entered it, by the window, when a light knock on the door arrested his attention. Almost immediately, Rue entered, and bade him good morning.
How did you know I was here? was Bergan's first startled inquiry.
I heard you when you came, she answered, quietly, "and I knew your step. I always spend this night in the old house; it is the anniversary of your mother's wedding; and she comes back to me in all her youth and beauty, and the rooms light up, and flowers sweeten the air, and there is music and dancing, and the sound of gay young voices; and then, all goes out, and I remember that earth grows dim as heaven draws near. Yes, Master Bergan, I heard you when you came, and I should have come to you at once, only that there was something in your step which told me you came with a heavy heart, and would not like to be disturbed. It is lighter now?"
A little, maumer; though it is heavy enough yet.
And nothing will lighten it but time,—and that means the Lord, for time is the Lord's servant, and does His will.
You know, then,—began Bergan, and stopped, unable to finish the sentence.
I know much, Master Bergan; more than you think. Many voices come to whisper in the old blind woman's ear.
Do you know, asked Bergan, suddenly, "why Doctor Remy has married Carice?"
Certainly,—to make himself master of Bergan Hall. The more fool he! Rue could have told him it was written on the stars that it should have another and a better master; and the stars do not lie. But I am sorry for Miss Carice; I would have saved her if I could, but there the stars were silent.
I could have helped the stars in that matter, if I had known, thought Bergan. But he only asked, doubtfully;—"How should Doctor Remy expect to get the Hall by marrying Carice?"
Because your Uncle Harry has made his will, giving it to her. Never doubt me, Master Bergan, I know what I am talking of; and when I tell you that you shall yet own Bergan Hall, and all the gold that is hidden in it, and every foot of land that belongs to it, you may believe it as implicitly as if it were written in your Bible.
Bergan shook his head; the Hall had ceased to have any value in his eyes, as a possession of his own, or any place in the future that he proposed to himself. Apparently, Rue understood his silence as well as if he had spoken, for she did not press the subject.
She next inquired into his plans, and he explained them to her, as far as they concerned himself.
It is well, she said, after a moment of reflection. "You could not stay here, of course,—you would be eating your heart out in this dull place. Do your duty in the path that lies so straight before you, and trust God for the rest."
As he quitted the old Hall it occurred to him how strangely events were repeating themselves. Once more, Rue stood in the doorway, in the gray light of the dawn, and promised him its future ownership; once more, he took the road to Berganton, leaving behind him one phase of his life, and entering upon a new one.
Arrived at the hotel he learned that the horse, which he had left at Oakstead on the previous evening, had been sent to the stables, with strict injunctions that he should be notified accordingly, immediately on his arrival,—the friendly act, no doubt, of old Bruno.
Here, too, he first learned the absence of Mrs. Lyte and her family; a piece of information which he received with much unmistakable surprise and wonder, that the landlord, who, like most of the Berganton folk, had suspected him of some connection with their departure, was constrained to believe him innocent.
There being now nothing to detain him in Berganton, he ordered his horse for an immediate return to Savalla. First, however, he went to the breakfast-room, but found that he was unable to eat; food was like ashes in his mouth; the most that he could do was to swallow a cup of coffee.
That ride to Savalla remained always a horrible nightmare in his memory. Sometimes he was riding through the darkness of infinite space; sometimes through whirling trees, over a road heaving as with the throes of an earthquake, and seemingly interminable. Now and then, his senses seemed slipping entirely from his grasp, and were only dragged back by the convulsive effort of an iron will. Reaching the office of the Pulaski House, where he was well known, he just managed to hold them together long enough to scratch a few lines on a sheet of paper, and give directions for its delivery. Then, with a wan smile of relief, he relaxed his hold, and let them slide swiftly away into oblivion.
Two days later, Doctor Trubie, arriving at the same hotel, according to previous agreement, was met by the information that Mr. Arling was lying dangerously ill with that fever which guards, like a flaming sword, the gates of the sunny South; and the letter was put into his hands. Tearing it open, he read:—
I charge you, by everything that is sacred, to take no further step in the business that brings you here, until I recover, and we can consult together; and, if I die, I charge you, as you would have me rest quietly in my grave, to take none at all. BERGAN.
Doctor Trubie flung down the letter with a most disgusted face. "To think that Roath should escape me thus!" he exclaimed, discontentedly. "That is, to be sure, if Bergan does not recover. He shall recover!"
Upstairs he sprang, two steps at a time. But, once in Bergan's chamber, his heart failed him. The patient lay in a stupor that seemed very near of kin to death. Two physicians stood by the bed, and the first words that met his ear were,—"No hope."
Rarely does a man go down to the verge of the grave, and look into its profound and pregnant depths, without carrying from henceforth traces of the journey. His views of life will be truer, if not sadder, forever afterward. The laws of moral perspective, though they do not change, will be better understood; so that objects at a distance are no longer dwarfed to the understanding, however they may appear to the eye. Character becomes the central "point of sight," toward which duty continually draws converging right lines, by the aid of which happiness, fame, and wealth, fall into their proper places, and assume their true proportions.
Bergan Arling was seated in his office at Savalla. At first sight, it might seem that he was little changed, but a closer inspection would have awakened some surprise that the lapse of little more than a year could have changed him so much. The youthfulness had gone out of his face,—that half-eager, half-wistful look which says so plainly, "The world is all before me, where to choose;"—it was now the face of a man among men, who had found his place and his work, who had grappled with many hard problems, and solved some, who was accustomed to deal with serious subjects in a serious way, and who had withal, a definite rule and object of life. In short, it was informed with a positive and noble individuality, born out of suffering, and not yet wholly oblivious of the pangs that had given it birth, but certain, in good time, to attain to the fulness of an inward joy, which, having a deep wellspring of its own, would be little dependent upon the ebb and flow of outward circumstance.
Nor had the year been fruitless of exterior results. Scarcely had Bergan mastered the details of his new office, when his partner, Mr. Youle, was taken sick, and he was left to conduct its affairs pretty much alone. Several cases of importance being in hand, he was thus afforded a rare opportunity to achieve a rapid fame. His reputation already overshadowed that of many of his legal brethren who had greatly the advantage of him in years and experience.
From the first, he had made it an invariable rule never to speak against his clear convictions of right; and it was curious to observe what an influence the knowledge of this fact was beginning to have upon the community. The cause which he embraced, however hopeless its aspect, always commanded a degree of respect, and was watched with a certain reservation of judgment, in consideration of his acknowledged integrity of purpose; while, as a necessary sequence (from which Bergan, in his humility, would have been glad to escape), the cause which he was understood to have declined was apt to be pronounced suspicious in the popular judgment, however it might go in the courts. So certain is the talent which is known to be conjoined with a pure aim and an upright life, to win, soon or late, high place and strong influence, even in a world that disallows its very principle of being! The visible fruits of righteousness commend themselves to all lips, whatever is thought of the root from whence they spring.
Bergan's desk was littered with papers, but his eyes were studying only the opposite wall, half in abstraction, half in perplexity. Nor did their expression alter much when the door opened, and he rose to greet Mr. Youle, who came in slowly and feebly, leaning on a cane. He was of medium height, with gray hair, a thin face, and a kindly blue eye; and it was easy to see, was on the best of terms with his talented young partner. No room in that ripe intellect and gentle nature for so ignoble a passion as jealousy!
There, that will do, Arling, he said, humorously, when Bergan had helped him carefully to a chair; "the old gentleman is as comfortable as he's likely to be,—or deserves to be, for that matter. Well, how goes on our case?"
Bergan shook his head, with a faint smile. "Very badly, I should say,—if anything can be said to go badly, which is so entirely in the hands of Providence. I confess that I can make nothing of it."
Mr. Youle looked grave. "I warned you in the beginning," said he, "that there was not a reasonable peg to hang a line of defence on."
But I believe the man to be innocent, rejoined Bergan. "And," he added, smiling, "'I warned you, in the beginning,' that I should never advocate a cause which seemed to be unrighteous, nor refuse one that seemed to be just, though the one should offer me a fortune in fees, and the other not a cent."
Yes, yes, I know, replied Mr. Youle. "And I must admit that your two rules have worked miraculously well thus far; we have lost but one case, I believe, since you came into the office. Well, well, such a vein of good luck cannot be expected to last forever,—after the nugget, the rock or the sand. But I don't see how it is that you are so strongly persuaded of Unwick's innocence."
You would easily understand, if you had looked into his face once; it is a clean passport to confidence. Besides, there is the unvarying testimony of his past life, as set forth by everybody that knows him.—sober, honest, frank, kind, religious, everything that is desirable. A man does not become a murderer in cold blood, all at once; he has to prepare himself for it by vice, or intemperance, or a course of hard, cold, selfish living. There is always a downward slope, before the final plunge.
Granted; but I doubt if you can make the jury see it clearly enough to ground a verdict of acquittal upon it, in the face of all that terribly strong circumstantial evidence.
Bergan mused for a little time without answering. "I cannot rid myself," he said, at length, "of a conviction that that son of the murdered man could throw some light on the subject, if he chose."
Mr. Youle stared. "I did not know that he had been suspected, for a moment," said he.
Nor has he. But he is the one who profits most by the murder, since he is heir-at-law. And what a reckless and disobedient youth he has been!—always on bad terms with his father, when he was at home, and doing nothing but write letters for money, while he was in Europe. By the way, I can't help wondering if he was in Europe, all this past year; though really, I don't know why I should doubt it. Well,—rising and looking at his watch,—"it is time to go to court."
And, as I am feeling better to-day, I think I'll go along, said Mr. Youle. "Since you seem to think that Providence has the case very specially in His hands,—indeed, I don't mean it irreverently,—I'd like to see how He conducts it."
I am glad to think that He is conducting it, said Bergan, in a low voice; "else I should be utterly discouraged."
The trial dragged its slow length through the greater part of the morning, without any incident of interest. One witness after another came upon the stand, was examined, and dismissed; each adding something to the weight of evidence against the prisoner, Unwick. The son of the murdered man, Varley by name, sat nearly opposite to Bergan, by the side of the prosecuting attorney; and being of a restless temperament, as well as gifted with extraordinary facility in the use of a pencil, he busied himself, as he listened to the monotonous drone of a witness, with mechanically sketching the faces of the witnesses or the spectators, or scenes and places that he had visited, recalled to his mind by the evidence, or by his own roving thoughts. One of these caught Bergan's eye, and he furtively watched its progress, while seeming to be occupied with his papers. When finished, it was carelessly dropped on the floor, like those which had preceded it; and the skilful pencil quickly set to work on a new subject. In a moment or two, Bergan dropped one of his papers, in a way to take it well under the table, and immediately stooped to get it. When he reappeared, a close observer might have noticed that the look of patient watchfulness, which his face had worn so long, was gone; but the keenest eyes would have been puzzled to read his present expression. Was it triumph, or thankfulness, or perplexity, or a mixture of all?
Mr. Varley was now put upon the stand, to furnish some small link in the chain of evidence that the prosecution was drawing so skilfully around the prisoner. The little that he was desired to say being said, the opposing counsel politely inquired if Mr. Arling had any questions to ask.
One or two, if you please, answered Bergan, quietly; and rising, and turning toward the witness, he said:—
I believe you stated, Mr. Varley, that you had never seen the place where your father died?
No; he bought it, and removed to it after I went abroad.
Have you visited it, since your return?
I have not. I only got here just before the commencement of this trial, and I have been kept too busy since to find time for the trip.
Then you have never seen the room where your father came to his death?
No, certainly not, returned the witness, beginning to look a little startled by this unaccountable persistency.
Has it ever been very minutely described to you?
Varley hesitated;—more, it was evident, to consider what could be the possible drift of the question, than to search his memory for a correct answer. He finally ventured to say that to the best of his recollection he had been favored with no such description.
According to my notes of the evidence taken during this trial, pursued Bergan, "the only facts about the room brought out with much distinctness, were the positions of the bedstead and the window near it;—does your memory serve you with any additional particulars?"
N—o, faltered the witness, with symptoms of growing uneasiness.
Then, said Bergan, with very distinct and deliberate emphasis, "if, as you say, you never have seen this room, nor heard it minutely described, how is it that you have been able to make so accurate a representation of it as this which I hold in my hand?"
There was a breathless silence, while Bergan held up a small, but distinct, pencil sketch to the view of the pale and trembling witness.
This sketch, continued Bergan, after waiting a few moments for the answer that did not come, "as I can vouch, and as many of these witnesses can testify, is an exact representation of the room in question, as it would appear from the head of the bedstead;—the very spot in which, it will be remembered, the prosecution has assumed that the murderer must have been concealed; and where, doubtless, he remained long enough to fix all the details of this sketch in his memory. Here is the peculiar double window, facing the east, and wreathed round with vines, which is so marked a feature of the room, yet which there has been no need to mention, during this trial, except in the most casual way; and here, on the right, are the round table and large armchair, where Mr. Varley wrote, and, on the left, an old-fashioned chest of drawers, with a plaster cast of Shakespeare on top;—all in their proper places, just as I saw them when I visited the room, after undertaking the defence of this case. How is it, I ask again," he went on, turning to the witness, "how is it that you could make this sketch, if you never saw the room?"
Who says he made it? demanded the opposing counsel, sharply.
I say it, calmly replied Bergan. "I saw him draw it, not half an hour ago, on a piece of the same paper that you are using for your notes, as you can satisfy yourself, if you choose to compare them. Besides," he added, looking keenly at the witness, "Mr. Varley will not deny that he made it."
No, plainly he would not, for he was physically incapable of speech. He was shivering as with an ague fit, his knees knocked together, his lips trembled convulsively, but no articulate sound came forth. In another moment, he fell forward heavily on the rail that divided the witness-stand from the lawyers' table.
Carry him out! Give him air! cried a dozen voices; "he has fainted."
Yes, carry him out, said Bergan gravely, and not without a touch of compassion in his voice; "since he is not on trial, we have no further need of him. But let me recommend that he be not lost sight of, till this present trial is over."
And it was over very quickly. The influence of the scene just witnessed was not to be ignored nor overcome. Prosecution and defence were alike glad to waste no time on the road to a foregone conclusion. The summing up, on both sides, was brief almost beyond precedent, the judge's charge was correspondingly so, and the jury returned a verdict of "Not Guilty," without leaving their seats.
Well, exclaimed Mr. Youle, when he and Bergan had finally succeeded in escaping from the gratitude of Unwick, and the congratulations of friends. "I must say, I never saw such a sudden turn of events as that, in all my legal experience." And after a moment, he added, with unusual gravity, "It does seem as if the blessing of God were with you, and your two rules, Arling."
I hope so, rejoined Bergan, quietly, "for I have learned that I can do nothing worth doing, without it."
I really think, mused Mr. Youle, "if I were to live my life over again, I would adopt your plan. I am afraid that I have helped to save many a scoundrel from deserved punishment, as well as to rob an honest man, now and then, of his just rights; and when one comes to look back on it all, from the stand-point of my age, it does seem as if one might have been in better business. Yes, I believe you are right, Arling; and you have my cordial consent from this time forth, to keep on as you have begun. I confess I thought it was a freak, a whim at first, that would soon give way to the temptations—what we usually call the necessities—of actual, steady practice; but I see that you have a solid principle at the bottom which there's no shaking. Nevertheless, Arling, you can't expect that your judgment is going to be infallible,—that you will never mistake the guilty man for the innocent one, and vice versa."
I do not expect it, answered Bergan, seriously. "Errors in judgment, I take it for granted that I shall make, being mortal; but errors in will, I mean to do my best, with God's help, to avoid."
A plain carriage, with a trim African on the box, was in waiting when the two gentlemen descended the courthouse steps.
Come, Arling, said Mr. Youle, in a tone of command rather than invitation, "go home and dine with me; there are several things I want to talk to you about."
Bergan hesitated; it was easy to see that the plan did not commend itself to his taste.
Never rack your brain for excuses; they won't serve, pursued Mr. Youle, with good-natured peremptoriness; "I mean to take you with me, whether you will or no. It is time for you to overcome your morbid dislike of society; besides, you will see no one but my own family."
Thus urged, Bergan could only take a seat in the carriage, and be driven off; albeit, in direct contravention of his inclinations and habits. For, although, on coming back to life and health from the borders of death, he had been quick to hear, and to heed, the plain, stern call of Duty to work while it is yet day, there had been no gracious response in his heart, as yet, to that softer voice wherewith she enjoins brotherly kindness, as well in gentle, social courtesies and amenities as in deeds of benevolence. Life had become too serious a thing, he thought, to be wasted in trifles such as these. Busy at the centre of the circle, he had lost sight of the circumference; intent upon the weightier matters of the law, he forgot the tithes of mint, anise and cummin, which yet, said the Master, ought not to be left undone. But it was a natural mistake, under the circumstances; and there was still time for him to learn that, in every well-ordered life, there is a place for little things,—little courtesies, little duties, little friends.
Well, Coralie, said Mr. Youle, an hour later, as he preceded Bergan into the drawing-room of the fine old family mansion that had been the home of the Youles for many years, "bring out your laurels, I have brought you a conquering hero."
Oh! it is Mr. Arling; he is very welcome. And Coralie, who had seen Bergan two or three times in her father's office, greeted him with marked cordiality, and gave him her small, soft hand.
It is odd how strong a resemblance can co-exist with perfect dissimilarity of features and complexion. Though she was very lovely—this Coralie Youle—and with a blithesome and bewitching loveliness all her own, Bergan had never been able to look upon her, nor could he see her now, without some deep, keen pain, as from an unhealed wound. There were tones in her voice which reminded him of one that he would hear no more; and she had ways and gestures which continually awakened memories not yet softened by distance into lines and tints of perfect purity and peace. And yet, what an irresistible, subtle charm in her was this very power to pain him!
You said that Mr. Arling was a conquering hero, papa, she went on, turning to Mr. Youle. "Have you gained the case, then, after all? That is wonderful indeed! How did it happen? Tell me all about it."
Nothing loath, Mr. Youle gave a sufficiently graphic account of the scene in the court-room, taking occasion to lavish no small amount of hearty encomium upon Bergan's share in it.
How I wish I could have been there to see! exclaimed Coralie, when the recital was ended, her cheeks glowing with sympathetic excitement; "it sounds like a chapter out of a novel, rather than a bit of real life. Mr. Arling does, in truth, deserve the laurels of victory; and, by the way—Diva! where are you?—here is some one who is worthy to give them to him."
No one had noticed, until now, that a lady was standing in the window, half concealed by the curtain. But, as she came forward everything else seemed to fade out of sight, for the moment, and leave only her, standing there alone in the clear, cold light of her marvellous beauty.
Before this, Bergan's ideal of proud and queenly beauty had been painted with dark hair and eyes; he now saw reason to change it at once and forever. The lady was the most perfect blonde that he had ever seen. Her hair was of the palest brown, with only a faint gold light in it; her eyes were blue or gray, he could not tell which, at the moment, nor would he have been less puzzled after a much longer acquaintance; and her complexion was fair and colorless, almost, as marble; yet never had he beheld anything so stately, so proud, so calm, and—it must needs be said—so cold. She came forth from the shadow of the curtain as Galatea might have done, had she been endowed with life only, not with love.
Worthy she might be to crown a victor, in right of her queenliness, but the laurels from her hands, Bergan thought, would be very chill!
Miss Thane! exclaimed Mr. Youle, "why this is a surprise, and a most pleasant one. It is seldom that you allow any of us to see you here, except Coralie."
Because my visits are usually morning visits, replied Miss Thane, in a low, yet singularly musical monotone, that harmonized perfectly with her face, "when I know that you are sure to be better engaged than in gossipping with me."
Mr. Youle slightly raised his eyebrows, in good-humored recognition of the possibly careless, possibly studied, ambiguity of this explanation; but he let it pass without comment, as Coralie hastened to present her guests to each other.
Bergan bowed low, with the graceful deference which always marked his bearing toward women; but Miss Thane was guilty of no waste of civility. She slightly inclined her head, vouchsafed him a single glance out of her wondrous eyes, and coolly turned back to the window, to lose herself, a moment after, in a fit of abstraction.
Miss Youle—Mr. Youle's maiden sister, and the mistress of his household since his wife's death, many years ago—now appeared, clad in a thick, black silk that rustled like a field of corn in the wind, and dropped Bergan her stately, old-time courtesy. And Coralie immediately began to repeat the story of the trial to her, aided and abetted by Mr. Youle; from which embarrassing iteration Bergan would have been glad to escape, by joining Miss Thane at her window, had not her manner seemed to indicate so clearly that she was amply sufficient to herself, and did not care to be anything to anybody else. But the eloquence of Coralie and Mr. Youle finally came to a pause, if not to an end; Miss Thane roused from her abstraction; and the party went down to dinner.
Bergan was inclined to be somewhat silent, at first. Lonely dweller in offices, hotels, and restaurants, that he had been, for the year past, he had half lost the habit of conversation; besides, Coralie's tones continually swept the chords of association in a way to thrill him with a sombre mixture of pain and pleasure, and keep his mind confusedly vibrating between the present and the past. But he was too conscientiously courteous to allow himself long to remain a dead weight upon his hosts; and, though it cost him an effort, he was soon talking with the old ease and fluency, enriched by a profounder thoughtfulness, and a subtler play of imagination. In his hands, commonplace subjects discovered hidden treasures; while loftier themes gleamed and glowed like stained windows seen against a golden western sky. Miss Thane lost something of her apathetic manner, after awhile, and paid him the compliment of listening with attention, if not with interest. And opposite to him was Coralie's listening, speaking face, full of such quick comprehension and sympathy, that he could scarcely help being beguiled into a fuller, freer expression of thought, opinion, and feeling, than he would have believed possible, an hour before.
But was it not Miss Thane's subtle management, rather than Coralie's sympathy, which finally led the talk into the sombre channels dug by human disappointments, losses, and failures, and kept it there until they had returned to the drawing-room? Then Bergan said, by way of dismissing the subject:—"But all these things are to be looked at as materials, not results. Happy the prophetic vision which sees the perfect form of the Future rising from the chaos of past and present!—as a sculptor sees before him, not a rough block of marble, but the finished statue,—an architect, not shapeless heaps of stone and mortar, but the grand completed temple."
Let him but look far enough, rejoined Miss Thane, "and he can behold a sadder phase,—the statue broken and defaced, the temple overthrown and prostrate; once more a rough block of marble, and shapeless heaps of stone."
Nay, replied Bergan, "it is at that very point that Prophecy should spread her whitest wings, and soar to the temple not made with hands, and the jewelled walls of the city let down from the clouds. Miss Coralie," he continued, glancing at the open piano, "do you sing?"
Not much; I play mostly. But Miss Thane does. Dear Diva, won't you sing for us?
Miss Thane looked at Bergan, but he said nothing. If he had added a word to Coralie's entreaty, the chances are that she would not have sung. But since she had only Coralie to oblige—Coralie, who alone seemed to have found the deep way to her heart, and to whom she rarely refused anything—she went straight to the piano, took the first music that presented itself, which happened to be Rossini's "Cujus Animam," and began to sing, not only with perfect method—that might have been expected—but with exquisite feeling. Her voice was a rich contralto, deep and broad as a river flowing to the sea, and bearing the listener whither it pleased. There were tears in the eyes of her auditors, when she had finished, and would have been, doubtless, had she sung anything else, for the quality of her voice touched that point of perfection, which, in this world, gives a pleasure closely akin to pain.
She waited a moment, but no one spoke; then she put her fingers again on the keys, and, looking far out into the evening dusk, sang a dismal, hopeless dirge, which Bergan felt intuitively to be her own; and which wrung his heart with passionate longing and pain. She would sing no more.
Yet no one could talk after those heartbreaking strains. So Bergan quietly took his leave.
Coralie wound her arm round her friend's waist, and drew her to the window, to watch him down the street. "What do you think of him?" she asked.
I think—that he has a genius for conversation, replied Miss Thane, coolly.
Oh, Diva, you know that is not what I mean! How do you like him?
I like no one—but you. I think I might respect him in time. As for you, little one, take care you do not like him too well.
Why? asked Coralie, blushing.
Because he has buried his heart—the best part of it—in somebody's grave.
Diva Thane, it is perhaps needless to say, was a child of the North. Her peculiar type of beauty blossoms only out of soil, which, for half the year, withdraws its warmth into its deep heart, and wraps itself in a chill, white robe of snow. She had made her appearance in Savalla, about a twelvemonth before, unheralded and unknown, had rented the parlor of a decayed aristocratic mansion as a studio, and had tacked on the door a card signifying to the public that she was a painter in oils. She had thenceforth been an example of that freedom and independence of life which Art makes possible for its votaries, of either sex, as a compensation, in some sort, for the sacrifices that they are bound to make to her.
It soon became known that the Youles endorsed Miss Thane to the fullest extent, both socially and financially; else society might have given her a cool reception. But it could scarcely, in its haughtiest mood, have meted out to her a fuller measure of scornful indifference than she accorded to it, when, in due time, it made up its mind to hold out a condescending hand to her. She declined its invitations, she took no notice of its calls, she would none of its patronage. Just in proportion as it grew more eager, piqued by her indifference, and curious to penetrate the mystery which surrounded her, she became colder and more distant. Finally, society was compelled to understand that the sole favor which she would accept at its hands, was forgetfulness of her existence.
Nor was the public treated much better, in her capacity of artist. Visitors at her studio found free admission, and opportunity to examine, at their leisure, the pictures, sketches, and studies, which crowded the walls; but rarely did she turn from her easel, to give them more than the briefest glimpse of her statuesque beauty, or the most concise of answers to their questions. Generally, she found some reason for declining their orders; and fully one half of the pictures on her walls were labelled, "Not to be Sold," while the sale of the remainder was plainly a matter of the profoundest indifference to her. It must needs be inferred that she had means of subsistence other than her art, amply sufficient for her quiet, inexpensive mode of life.
Nevertheless, she worked with indefatigable industry, as well as undeniable talent. If her pictures evinced some lack of technical skill, they were endued with a force and feeling which more than atoned for its absence; since the one would address itself chiefly to connoisseurs, while the other went straight to the universal heart. They covered a wide range of subjects, yet a profound observer would have traced a certain connection and sequence in them all. The earlier and cruder efforts of her pencil were pleasant outdoor scenes,—children wading in a sunshine brook, farm youths and maidens tossing about new-mown hay, and village girls dancing under wide-spreading boughs,—scenes so perfect in their idealization as to seem familiar to every eye, yet never without that inestimable something added or eliminated, which constitutes the difference between the picturesque and the commonplace. After these came works not only marked by greater skill of design and felicity of color, but informed with a deeper feeling;—yet so delicately indicated that none but the finest instinct would have perceived how softly Love illumined the landscape, or shone in the smile of the youth, or looked up to the maiden from her own downcast eyes reflected in the water. Then came a sudden change,—pictures and sketches wherein the artist's pencil must have been driven by some terrible intensity of feeling, to have wrought with such sombre power;—such as an illimitable desert, with a man riding fast toward a wan, setting sun, and his long, backward shadow falling upon a woman's outstretched, yearning hands,—or the black silhouette of a drifting and dismantled ship, seen against a blood-red moon, setting in a dun and angry sea,—or a deep and dismal cavern, with a female figure lying bruised and broken at the bottom of a fissure, and a man, also torn and bleeding, seen at the end of a long vista, searching for what he will not find. These pictures affected the spectator like a nightmare; there was such a fell shadow of immitigable fate in them all, and so notable an absence of anything like hope or faith, that while he acknowledged their power, he shuddered at their spirit.
Of course, Rumor could not help busying herself with a subject so inviting as the artist, though so bare of definite results. She was variously reported to be an escaped nun, a bride that had nearly lost her life at the hands of an insane bridegroom, a widow—barely one month a wife—seeking to throw off an intolerable burden of grief by the help of new scenes, new faces, and a new manner of life, and an heiress, fled from the importunities of harsh guardians and an unwelcome suitor. It will serve as an indication of the occasional correctness of the popular instinct, that not one of these conjectures cast any shadow upon the whiteness of her fame. Not more inevitably did her face suggest snow, marble, and whatever was at once white and cold, than her demeanor suggested their chill purity. Moreover, notwithstanding that she led so unfettered and independent a life, as compared with the majority of her sex—dwelling under her own guardianship, and ordering her day's routine to her own liking—the closest scrutiny could not detect anything therein, that was not austere, lonely, and laborious enough to suit the cell of an anchorite.
Yet, though there was so little in her way of living to suggest affluence, it soon became known that her hands were open, and her purse deep, to any claim upon her benevolence. While it never appeared that she set herself to seek out objects of charity, to such as came to her, either in person or by proxy, her bounty was generally far in excess of the demand. The only grace which it lacked, was that subtle element of the giver in the gift, which imparts a sympathetic warmth to the silver or the gold, as it is dropped in the outstretched hand; augmenting, to a degree incalculable by any known arithmetic, its power of relieving the distressed heart. Though Miss Thane gave generously, she gave none the less carelessly and coldly.
The only person whom she distinguished by any mark of affection, or measure of confidence, was Coralie Youle. The two had been classmates at a Northern boarding-school, where the native girl had first soothed and petted the stranger through a severe attack of homesickness, and then had been devotedly nursed, in her turn, during a trying dispensation of scarlet fever; in consequence of which a friendship of more than ordinary warmth and tenacity had grown up between them; manifesting itself on Coralie's part, by a half worshipping admiration, and on Diva's, by the strong, yearning clasp of a nature that puts forth no slender, fragile tendrils, but clings only in virtue of a bend or coil of its own tough fibre. To Coralie she was never cold, never unresponsive; the girl knew that there was no veiled, inner chamber of her friend's heart to which she had not some time penetrated, and which she would be allowed to enter again, whenever her presence could throw one ray of light across its dusk. With that she was satisfied. One thing the two possessed in common—the most absolute trust in each other.
Still, though Diva always received Coralie at her studio with deep-lit eyes of welcome, and a hand-clasp into which she had the power of putting more tenderness than ordinary women would express by a close embrace, and though she often joined her in long walks through the city and suburbs, it was rarely that she could be persuaded to visit her in her own home. If she did so, it was usually at an hour when she would be little likely to meet the other members of the family. It was as a great favor, therefore, that she had consented to stay to dinner, on the day when Bergan had met her. Nevertheless, when Coralie really set her heart upon anything in her friend's power to give, she always gained her point. And so it came to pass that, a few weeks later, when the family left for their summer residence of Farview, in the hill-region of the State, she carried Diva with her, for a visit of a fortnight.
Thither, also, after awhile, came Bergan; yielding to Mr. Youle's entreaty that he would close the office, for at least a day or two, and give himself a breath of fresh air. Secure in his dearly bought acclimation, he had not purposed to leave the city; anticipating no worse effect from its summer atmosphere than a kind of dreamy languor, which, in his present state of mind, was perhaps more to be desired than any bracing of his energies. Nevertheless, he had come to feel for Mr. Youle a degree of filial affection; and he would not pain him by a churlish disregard of his kindness.
He reached Farview about sunset. For the last three or four miles, he had seen the low roof and broad piazzas of his goal looking down upon him from the hill top, as he journeyed up the valley, and when he finally stood on the green and flowery lawn, he felt as if his own being were suddenly and sympathetically magnified an hundred degrees, so wide was the lovely and luxuriant Southern landscape outspread before him. Field and forest spotted it with various verdure; a river drew a bright, wavy line across it; here, the yellow sunshine brought out clearly every line and tint; there, the clouds dimmed it with patches of shadow; and all around was a massive framework of sunset-gilded hills.
Half involuntarily, Bergan took off his hat. "How good are the works of God, and how harmonious in their relations to one another, when we get high enough to command a wide view of them!" he reverently thought. "So, too, I doubt not, I shall find it with the dealings of His providence, when once I have climbed to a proper standpoint whence to view them as a whole. Till then, let faith accept the truth which is hidden from sight!"
A larger party than he had expected to see, was gathered in the dining-room. A legal brother, who had received a general invitation from Mr. Youle to visit him during the Summer, had hit upon this occasion; one planter from the neighborhood was present by appointment, and another by accident; and there was also a lady friend of Miss Youle, with her young daughter, Nina, besides Miss Thane. The latter signified her remembrance of Bergan by a cool bow; but it was not until dinner was over, and the evening tolerably well advanced, that he found himself in her immediate vicinity. Coralie had been led to the piano, leaving him in a somewhat isolated position, near one of the long windows; and, while the notes of a fairy-like waltz seemed to be dropping from her slender fingers, as they flitted up and down the ivory key-board, he thought he might venture to step out on the moonlit piazza, for a few moments, without being missed. Suiting the action to the thought, he discovered that Miss Thane had made her escape before him. She was leaning against a pillar, looking out over the moon-silvered valley with a weary and wistful expression scarcely in keeping with the calm, icy indifference of her wonted aspect. With a brief apology for interrupting her, he was about to retire, when she spoke, in a tone that seemed to accord him permission to stay if he chose.
Coralie's music sounds sweeter outside than within.
Bergan drew near to her, not to let his voice penetrate to the parlor.
That is true, I suspect, of many things in life. To feel their full sweetness, one must get a little out of their immediate sphere.
Is that true of persons, also? she asked, with a keen glance.
Some moments elapsed before Bergan could answer. Compelled by the question to make a sudden, rapid investigation into the deeper things of the heart, he was confounded at the unexpected result. Too truthful, however, to attempt to hide it, he finally answered, thoughtfully;—
In some measure, I think it is. Miss Thane, did you ever experience quite that deep delight in the presence of a friend, which you sometimes (please remember, I say only, sometimes) derive from the thought of him or her in absence?
She did not answer the question. She only said, in a tone of cool irony;—"You do not flatter your friends, Mr. Arling." But in another moment, she exclaimed, with a sudden, startling intensity of passion and longing;—"Is there, then, nothing,—neither love, nor friendship,—absolutely nothing, which answers expectation, and satisfies desire? Horrible, horrible thought!"
I do not think so, replied Bergan, gently; "though I confess that I was troubled, at first, by the necessity of answering your question as I did. But I now recognize the fact thus revealed to me as very satisfactory evidence that our affections, our friendships, are to know a richer and lovelier development than they can ever attain to on this earth. In heaven there must be room for every lofty ideal."
Then, with a sudden deep intuition of the real necessities of the soul beside him, he went on to say;—"Yet there, as here, I suppose, the one satisfying, completing thing will be the love of God. The soul was made to look up, not along a level; it can only find its highest joy in something superior to itself."
She turned, and looked him intently in the face.
Do you believe what you say? she asked, doubtfully.
Very solemnly Bergan answered;—"I do."
Belief is nothing, she rejoined, after a pause, "action is the test. Do you live your belief?"
Bergan drew a deep breath. "I try to do so, Miss Thane."
She went on, seemingly so intent upon her own train of thought as to be utterly unmindful of the solemn and searching nature of the questions that she was putting;—
You feel, then, this all-satisfying love of God in your heart?
In some measure, I trust I do.
And when the sun suddenly dropped, or faded, out of your sky, and the past became a corpse, and the present a burden, and the future a blank, what comfort did it give you?
The comfort of knowing that all things work together for the good of those that love God, responded Bergan, not without a momentary wonder at the curious appositeness of the question to his recent experiences, but quickly divining that she was looking more into her own heart than his, in asking it.
Good, she repeated, musingly; "you did not say, happiness."
Good is a better word than happiness, in this world. In the world to come, they will be synonyms.
She gave him another long, penetrating look. Then she said, quite simply, and evidently with no thought or intention of paying him compliments;—"You have talents, you have culture, you have a clear and powerful intellect (I heard Judge Emly begin an argument with you just now, and you soon cut the very ground from under his feet), you have been wonderfully successful, too, considering your years,—yet you do not hesitate to bind yourself to these narrow theories."
Narrow, do you think them? Broad, rather, since they link eternity to time, and give one the long outlook and overlook which alone reveal things in their true relations. No one can construe this world aright, or even satisfactorily, without doing it by the light of the next. As for intellect, Miss Thane, some of the most commanding intellects of the world have been defenders of the 'faith once delivered.' And, if such had been lacking, there is a certain Book that Time has not been able to make obsolete, nor Science to nullify, which tells how, aforetime, God chose the foolish things of the world to confound the wise: and He can do it again, when the necessity arises.
You are content, then, to feel that your intellect, your learning, give you no advantage, in these matters, over the most ignorant of your neighbors?
I am content to know that, in religion as in most other things, though books may help, thorough knowledge is of experience. The man who feels most of the Spirit of God in his heart, and makes it most clearly manifest in his life, is the man most competent, other things being equal, to analyze its operations and effects. Political economy, Miss Thane, is not the only subject about which men may prate very learnedly, and know very little.
Coralie's music ceased suddenly. There was a little stir in the parlor, and a murmur of voices, as if some subject of interest were under discussion.
Go, commanded Miss Thane, "they will be looking for you. I will follow you in a few moments."
He stepped back through the window. Coralie came toward him. "We are talking," said she, "of going down to the negroes' camp-meeting, a little below here; Mr. Sypher was just telling us that it is a sight well worth seeing, by night. Will you go?"
I am entirely at your service, replied Bergan, courteously.
And Diva!—where is she? Oh, there she comes.
Bergan turned. Miss Thane was standing between the curtains, with her usual expression of calm indifference.
Coralie explained what was wanted. "Would you like it?" she inquired, twining her arm round her friend. "There will be some fine artistic effects."
Miss Thane looked down upon her, with a softness that Bergan had never before seen in her face, and which gave it a marvellous beauty. "I like whatever you like, child," she answered, evasively.
In the hall, she stopped, and took a shawl from the rack.
Oh, Diva, exclaimed Coralie, "you will not need that, it is so warm."
Miss Thane stood doubtful, with the shawl in her hand. Bergan took it from her quietly, and threw it across his broad shoulder. "It is always safe to carry a shawl, if not to wear it," said he, lightly.
There was no formal arrangement of the party. The path lay through the fields, and was often too narrow to admit more than one person; at other times, partnerships of two or three were formed or broken, very much by chance. A broad glory of moonshine not only lighted them on their way, but surrounded them with enchantment,—softening lines, and deepening shadows, and turning the whole earth into a new creation of silver and ebony.
Ere long, the shadowy wood-line was reached, and very soon a red twinkle of light became visible through the trees, broadening and brightening as they advanced. The sweet and solemn notes of a hymn, sung by many voices, next pervaded the air; and in a few minutes more, they were standing on the edge of the camp-ground, interested observers of a singularly picturesque scene.
Opposite to them was the speaker's stand, well lighted, covered with evergreen boughs, and affording accommodation to a goodly company of preachers, but too distant to be unpleasantly prominent. Between them and it, the whole vast space was crowded with negro worshippers; some sitting, some kneeling; here, an uncouth figure bowed in an attitude of absorbed meditation (or, it might be, indulging in a peaceful sleep); there, a dusky, upturned face, intent, or agonized, or rapturous, according as the owner was devoutly receptive, torn with conviction of sin, or blissfully assured of pardon. From among them the brown trunks of the forest trees rose straight and shapely as the pillars of a vast temple; and overhead, the under surfaces of the leaves showed gray and spectral against the sombre night sky. Here and there, lanterns were fastened to the trees, but the place was chiefly illuminated by great fires of pitch pine, whence clouds of smoke arose ever and anon, and hung trembling in the tree-tops; and the flames of which, as they rose and fell, cast alternate glow and gloom upon the upturned faces, and seemed to work corresponding changes of expression,—sudden transitions of joy and sorrow for which there was no apparent cause. Outside of these fires, scattered groups of spectators now came out into bold relief, and now lost themselves in shadow; strong profiles caught the eye, and then vanished; here and there, too, white faces offered an effective contrast to their darker neighbors.
Altogether, it was a picture to delight an artist's eye; yet Miss Thane seemed scarcely to enjoy it. On the way hither she had been silent, shut up within herself, neither seeking nor giving amusement; and she now stood a little apart, letting her eyes rove absently from point to point, but without appearing to take intelligent cognizance of any! Yet she seemed to be listening, after awhile, to the voice of the white-haired negro preacher who occupied the stand, and talked of the comfort of religious faith in a way to argue profound personal knowledge of the subject,—albeit, his phraseology was illiterate, and occasionally absurd, calling a smile to some faces in the party. But Diva did not smile; her thoughts were evidently far below the surface of the subject, in depths where the gleaming ripple of the comic was unfelt and unseen.
The party was considerably scattered. Miss Youle and her friend, tired with their walk, had found a seat on the outermost of the benches, watched over by Judge Emly; the youthful Miss Nina and one of the planters had gone round to get a view from the other side; Coralie stood near a fire, listening to the low comments of Mr. Sypher; and Mr. Youle and Bergan were quite in the background, silent spectators, for the most part, of what was going on.
The white-haired speaker brought his brief address to a close; and a number of negroes quitted the benches and came up the path. Mechanically, Coralie stepped back to make way.
Take care, exclaimed Mr. Sypher, in a warning voice, "you will catch fire."
But he was too late. She had moved within reach of the draft, and her light muslin robe was wafted into the blaze. Instantly, she felt the heat, saw over her shoulder a rising tongue of flame, and with the insane impulse which usually seizes upon those in like peril, turned to flee from the danger which it was so impossible to distance. But scarcely had she taken a step, before Bergan's strong arm caught her, and flung her, face downward, on the ground; with a deft movement of the other hand and arm, Miss Thane's shawl was shaken out and thrown over her; and, in spite of her frantic struggles, she was held fast by one knee, while he applied both hands to the task of smothering the flames. Miss Thane was the first to come to his aid; then the rest of the party woke from their momentary stupor of alarm, and joined their efforts to hers. In very brief space of time, the work of extinguishment was complete, and Coralie, being lifted to her feet, still enveloped in the friendly shawl, was found to be comparatively uninjured. Her floating curls were singed at the ends, one arm was slightly reddened and smarting, and her nerves were considerably shaken—that was all;—all I where there might so easily have been death, or torture and disfigurement worse than death.
The whole thing had taken place so suddenly and swiftly, that only such persons as were in the immediate vicinity had been aware either of the peril or the rescue; so that it was by chance, as it were, that the whole vast multitude now burst forth with the solemn old Doxology;—
Praise God from whom all blessings flow.
The great wave of sound flowed round and over the little breathless party, and charitably veiled or soothed its emotions. Mr. Youle, standing with his arm round his daughter, bowed his face on her head, and a large tear glistened on her soft curls; Miss Youle sank on her knees by the bench where she had been sitting, and wept silently; others of the party bent their heads, or lifted their hats; Diva Thane held one of Coralie's hands close clasped in hers, but her face was turned away. Suddenly, she threw her voice into the last line of the Doxology,—
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,
with a richness and power that were like the swell of an organ. It appeared to pervade and sustain the whole chorus of voices, and impressed them inevitably with its own character; which, to Bergan's ear, seemed not so much an expression of thankfulness, as the irresistible outbreak of a feeling that would gladly have given itself the more effectual relief of moaning aloud, had the opportunity been afforded it.
A bystander now considerately offered Mr. Youle the loan of his horse and buggy, and Coralie and her aunt were swiftly driven homeward. The remainder of the party walked back as they had come, Miss Thane and Bergan being in the rear. As they turned into the narrow wood-path, she motioned him to precede her; and he quietly obeyed, understanding, better than she knew, her desire to feel herself free from observation. Yet he failed not to listen for the sound of her light footsteps behind him, and to adapt his pace to hers. Meanwhile, his mind busied itself, almost against his will, with a new and serious question. In the little interval before the starting of the buggy, Coralie had taken his hands in hers, and thanked him for the service rendered her, with a look that haunted him still. There had been nothing in that look but what was most delicate and maidenly,—an involuntary attempt to help out with her eyes the broken words which yet expressed her gratitude so well; nevertheless, it had been possessed of some indefinable quality which had touched him deeply at the time, and now set him gravely to question within himself whether he had any right to be the object of a second look of the kind; at least, while the past was still a desolate grave, over which no grass yet grew green, no flowers bloomed. Trained to look difficult questions in the face, stripping them of all confusing or meretricious appendages, it did not take him long to arrive at an emphatic "No," as the only possible answer to this one. Fortunately, he had not committed himself to any particular length of stay at Farview, and the sudden recollection of an important paper that he had locked up in his desk, instead of committing it to the safer guardianship of the fire-proof safe, suggested itself as an excellent excuse for a speedy departure. He decided that he would take his leave early in the morning, and see Coralie no more until he had determined that the past had become so far a dream as to admit of a new dream of the future.
This honorable decision being reached, his mind was sufficiently at ease to allow him to notice that his pace had gradually become a very slow one, in half unconscious conformity to the lagging footsteps behind him,—footsteps which spoke so unmistakably of a troubled mind or an exhausted frame. It even appeared that Miss Thane stopped altogether, now and then, by reason of absorbing thought, or from the necessity of taking breath. Bergan hesitated for a moment, divided between the fear of being intrusive, and the kindly impulse to afford timely help; but the latter prevailed, and, the path having widened somewhat, he turned and offered her his arm. She shook her head absently, at first; then seemed to become suddenly aware that support was needful, and accepted it.
We are privileged to be silent, I believe, said Bergan, as they moved on together, "only in the presence of strangers or friends. Count me in either category, as you please, and do not trouble yourself to talk. I see you are tired."
Thank you, returned Miss Thane, in a cool tone of acquiescence.
Across the next two fields, their own linked shadows, sliding slowly over the ground in advance of them, were not more silent than they. The voices of their companions, who had far outstripped them, reached their ears only in subdued and harmonious murmurs. The moonlight lay over the earth like a visible blessing of peace; and even threw a kind of reflected brightness into Miss Thane's heart, by the aid of which she was better able to try to find some pathway out of its shadows. In that one terrible moment, when she had seemed to see Coralie wrapped in flames, a swift vision of herself, left standing alone in the world—without relative, without friend, without human affection, hope, or solace—a lonely, empty, unsatisfied heart—had risen before her, and left her appalled, even in the midst of her thankfulness that it was only a vision as yet, and not a reality. For, how easily, through the agency of a boat or an engine, a fever or a chill, a thousand every-day accidents, it might still become a reality! With what was she then to supply Coralie's place in her heart and life?
Awhile ago, she would have answered confidently, "With Art." Now, she knew better. For two years she had been testing Art's capacity to fill and satisfy an empty human heart, and her soul was exceeding bitter with the unexpected result. She had painfully experienced the truth (though she could hardly be said to understand it as yet) that he who embraces Art with a thought of self and not of service, will find it turn to ice or to ashes in his arms. In itself, it has neither balm for affliction, nor skilful surgery for remorse, nor sunshine to throw athwart the black gloom of despair.
Out of this bitter knowledge Miss Thane finally spoke, apparently recurring in thought to their previous talk on the piazza;—
Mr. Arling, how is one to love God, if one does not?
It was perhaps the most difficult of all questions to answer. How are the blind eyes to be opened, and the deaf ears unstopped? How is the frozen heart to be softened, and the slumbering affection to be wakened into leaf and bloom? How is the Father to be made acceptable to the children that are insensible of His goodness, and will none of His reproof? And how is the Saviour to be presented unto those to whom He has hitherto been without form or comeliness, in such beauty as that they shall desire Him?
I think, where it is not spontaneous, Bergan answered, after a moment's consideration, "that such love is most surely to be attained through prayer and service;—a frequent lifting up of the heart to Him whom it would fain love; a constant endeavor to do His will, as the best means of developing and manifesting love."
Miss Thane looked down thoughtfully. "I have known—a man,"—she began slowly, with a shade of irrepressible sadness in her tone,—"a man not less gifted with talent and intellectual power than yourself, and with a somewhat longer and more varied experience in the use of his gifts, who would have laughed at the idea of any virtue in prayer, except as affording a pleasant illusion to a weak mind."
I, too, have known such a man, replied Bergan, the image of Doctor Remy rising irresistibly before his mind, and causing a dull ache in his heart; "but was he—was this man of whom you speak—or had he ever been, in the devout, habitual use of prayer?"
She shook her head. "I do not know; probably not."
Miss Thane, you would scarcely need to have me warn you that no man is to be accepted as authority, in law or medicine, who is not thoroughly conversant with the subject, both by study and practice. So those, and those only, who pray themselves, humbly, devoutly, persistently, have any right to pronounce upon the efficacy of prayer.
She looked up at him quickly and keenly. "Pardon me, but—have you the right to speak with authority?"
In some small measure, yes. I can certify you that the medicine is good, because I have taken it; that the staff is strong, because I have leaned upon it; that the weapon is efficient, because I have fought with it. Allow me to hope that you do not need the certification.
Her eyes fell, and her cheek flushed slightly, but she answered with her usual straightforward candor:—"I was never taught to pray;—my mother died when I was born, and my father believed none of these things. I have no habit of prayer."
Does no one pray for you?
I don't know—Coralie, perhaps.
Bergan looked down upon her, and a sudden moisture dimmed his eyes. His heart was taken complete possession of, for the moment, by a vast, sorrowful pity for this beautiful and gifted woman, who masked so empty and aching a heart with so cold a demeanor, impelling him irresistibly to help her, as he could.
When you are next asked that question, said he, and there was a deep, rich melody in his voice, "do not say that you 'don't know,' for I promise to put up a prayer for you daily, from henceforth, until you send me word that you have learned to pray habitually and gladly for yourself. Hereafter, when you lie down to rest, remember that another—claiming no title of friend, but simply that of neighbor—has asked forgiveness for your day, protection for your night, and every strength that you need for your morrow."
The proud heart was touched at last. That is to say, Bergan's words were the effectual "last drop" in the full cup of the evening's varied emotions,—comparatively insignificant perhaps in itself, but none the less inevitably productive of overflow. Miss Thane's lips parted with a kind of gasp, scarcely distinguishable as sound, but profoundly suggestive of pain; and a perceptible tremor ran over her from head to foot. Suddenly releasing Bergan's arm, she sat down on a fallen tree by the side of the path, and covered her face with her hands, while tears, dripping through her slender fingers, glistened gem-like in the moonlight.
Yet it argued much for her power of self-control, that she made no sound, nor shook with any sob. Grief must be content to exercise over her limited, not absolute dominion.
Bergan withdrew to a little distance, and waited silently, looking out over the shadowy valley to the fair, flowing outline of the moon-silvered hills. Those womanly tears, he was certain, would afford most safe and seasonable relief to whatever pain and excitement, whatever distressful memories or dismal forebodings, had resulted from the evening's events. For himself, comparative stranger as he was, he had no right to give Miss Thane more than the silent sympathy of a heart itself not unacquainted with sorrow.
Suddenly, the deep silence was broken by the soft whirr of wings. A bird, flying as straight over the moonlighted fields as if let loose by an unseen hand for that purpose, alighted in the boughs over the two motionless figures, and shook down upon them a shower of liquid notes,—sweet, clear, and joyous,—a very prophecy of hope.
The song being sung, the bird soon spread its wings and flew back to its nest and its mate. Then Diva rose, and held out her hand to Bergan.
I accept your offer, said she. "Something tells me that the time will come when I can repay you in degree, if not in kind."
And Bergan, as he took the white, cool hand—empty now, except perhaps of a half-reluctant gratitude, and a moderate measure of good-will—had a singular intuition that some day it would be held out to him with an inestimable gift in it.
You are up early, said Diva Thane, when she entered Coralie's room on the morrow, and found her standing by the window, enjoying the fresh, fragrant air, and the innumerable sweet and cheery sounds of the summer morning. "I thought that you would sleep late after your accident,—or what came so near to being one."
How could I sleep late, when I was ordered off to bed so early? rejoined Coralie, smiling brightly, and turning her clear brown eyes on her friend. "Besides, I had so much to think about," she added, softly and gravely, letting her glance go back to the flower-beds on the lawn.
But it was evident that her reflections, though possibly not without an occasional deep bass note of solemnity, had for the most part sung her a very siren's song of pleasantness and hope; none the less entrancing because a song without words of definite purport. The smile and the flush, with which she had listened, still brightened her face; and a corresponding light was seen shining from what seemed an interminable depth in her eyes,—eyes never so deeply illumined till now. Indeed, it struck Diva with a kind of vague amaze and sadness, that she had never seen this Coralie before! There was an unfamiliar freshness and softness about her, as if she were newly created. The brightness of her face, too, was such as to make her seem more nearly akin to the summer sunshine falling on her through the window, than to mortal shadows and sorrows. In truth, Diva found herself fancying that the sunshine was a good deal the brighter for the happy glow that it caught from her features.
Surprised, ere long, at Diva's silence, Coralie lifted her eyes, and encountered her friend's intent gaze. Immediately she seemed to become aware that a wonderfully subtle and delicate insight was making, not her face only, but her heart, the subject of its deep regard. The moment before, she did not know that there was anything in either which she cared to hide. Now, as if the existence of some secret were suddenly suggested to her by the fear of another's perception of it, she let her eyes fall, and a deep flush overspread her features.
Diva turned away with a sigh. She felt scarcely less lonely than she had seen herself in the vision of the preceding evening, when Coralie had seemed to be passing swiftly beyond her reach and ken, in a chariot of flame.
Nor was her sadness wholly for herself. She was gifted with a singular clearness of intuition, in regard to the relations of others; and Coralie's face affected her much as it would have done to find a rose suddenly budding out on a sunny winter's day, and mistaking it for the beginning of summer. Still, as is often the case with persons thus endowed, she did not fully trust her own intuitions, for the reason that they could give no clear account of themselves to her intellect. She now told herself, therefore, that her impressions were doubtless wrong, inasmuch as they were destitute of solid basis; she was even glad to believe so, quickly losing the thought of herself in that of her friend. Or it might be that she was seized with a diviner selfishness,—the certainty that, if any winter's night of frost and dusk were in store for Coralie, she herself must needs partake largely, through sympathy, of its chill and gloom.
As the friends stood thus silent, each busy with her own impressions (for they were of much too thin a consistency to be called thoughts), certain sounds from below, coming up to the window, attracted their notice. A horse was brought round to the side door, and, soon after, Bergan's voice was distinctly heard, speaking to Mr. Youle.
That will do, thank you. I shall quite enjoy my ride through the valley, this lovely morning. Present my adieux to Miss Coralie; I trust that her night's rest has obliterated every trace of her last evening's experience. Good-bye.
Why, that is Mr. Arling! exclaimed Coralie, in sudden consternation. "What can have happened to take him away so suddenly?"
I heard him telling your father, last night, answered Diva, calmly, "that he would be forced to return to town early this morning on business of importance."
And he did not bid me good-bye! murmured Coralie, discontentedly. "Besides, I have not half thanked him for saving me from those dreadful flames,"—and she shuddered at the recollection. "Oh, I must speak to him, before he goes."
She leaned out of the window, apparently with the intention of calling to him, but it was too late; he was already trotting down the avenue, followed by the groom who was to bring back the horse. She looked after him with a wistful gaze, and her eyes filled with tears.
Diva watched her thoughtfully,—intent, it would seem, upon some deeper and more perplexing phase of the matter than that immediately presented to her. Finally, she said, as if struck by a sudden thought:—
If you want to speak to him so much, there is a way. You know the shorter path through the shrubbery to the entrance gate; we can intercept him.
Oh, no! I could not do that, exclaimed Coralie, shrinking back and blushing deeply, "he would think—that is, it would look like thrusting myself in his way."
He would think nothing, affirmed Diva, coolly, "except that we are out for a morning walk, as we have a good right to be; there never was a lovelier sky or earth to tempt one forth. Come, we must be quick."
And, without waiting for consent, or listening to remonstrance, Diva seized Coralie's hand, and hurried her down the stairs, and out through a different door from that by which Bergan had taken his departure,—where Mr. Youle still lingered,—so that they reached the shrubbery unobserved. Here, Diva slackened her pace a little, though she still kept hold of her half reluctant, and nearly breathless companion. They reached the gate before Bergan came in sight.
Let us go back a little way, pleaded Coralie; "I don't want to be found waiting here."
Why not? asked Diva, composedly, seating herself on a low, broad stump by the way-side. "Mr. Arling is not a vain man, he will never suspect us of waiting for him. But if you must have an excuse for lingering here,—why, there are some exquisite ferns yonder,—gather them for your parlor vases."
Coralie hesitated, doubtful whether to stay or flee. Diva plucked a dainty leaf of wood-sorrel, and put it between the perfect curves of her own lips.
Coralie, she suddenly asked, "how old am I?"
Despite her perplexity, Coralie could not help smiling at the absurdity of the question. "Are you losing your memory?" she inquired; "you are two years older than I."
Oh, is that all? I thought I must have been at least a hundred,—it seemed such an age since I used to eat this green stuff with relish. But you are certainly young yet, though you do look a year or two older than you did yesterday.
Coralie quickly stooped over the ferns to hide her deeply-diffused cheeks. Diva continued, apparently without noticing her confusion:—
However, if the little plant has lost much to the taste, it has gained more to the eye. I never noticed, in those days, what a delicately outlined leaf, and slender, translucent stem it had, nor how fresh was its tint of green. If Mr. Arling were here, now, he would turn that into a simile,—something about a spiritual sense developed out of an earthly one, or a refined enjoyment only to be attained through some loss of the capacity for commoner pleasures;—isn't that a little in his style? Ah! there he is.
Bergan was looking straight before him, so much absorbed in his own thoughts that he did not see the friends until he was close at hand. He immediately dismounted, flung his bridle to the groom, and came toward them with extended hand.
So you were going to leave without bidding us good-bye, said Miss Thane, coolly, ignoring the offered hand, but looking him searchingly in the eyes.
If Bergan felt a little embarrassment under that look, he did not betray it.
I supposed that you were not up, he answered, with perfect composure. "And whoever travels at this season of the year, had best do it betimes in the morning, before the sunbeams are hot as well as bright. Miss Coralie, I am glad to see you looking so fully yourself."
His sentence ended a little abruptly, as if whatever else he had intended to say was suddenly put out of his head. He, too, had become dimly aware of some subtle change or development in Coralie, since the evening before,—a more womanly grace, a new character of beauty; which, however, only served to bring the image of Carice vividly before him—Carice, as he had seen her last, and would never see her again, under the shadowy pines, by the dreaming river, with the newborn love-light in her eyes, and the dawn-rose of love in her cheeks. Scarce knowing what he did, he lifted his hand, to see if, haply, he might shut out both images together.
Coralie's eyes fell on that hand, which was carefully bandaged from wrist to knuckles; and the unconquerable shyness which had seized her, on Bergan's appearance, was instantly dissipated.
What is that? she asked;—"oh, Mr. Arling, were you burned last night in trying to save me?"
Bergan looked at Diva and smiled. "It is nothing," said he, lightly,—"only your aunt and Miss Thane insisted upon binding it up after I got home; and the least that I can do is to wear their kindly handiwork for a day or two."
Oh, Diva, exclaimed Coralie reproachfully, the quick moisture coming into her eyes, "why did you not tell me?"
Why should I? replied Diva, with somewhat bitter emphasis; "hands heal quickly."
Miss Thane is quite right, said Bergan; "the matter was not worth mentioning. Certainly, it was not worth one of those tears, Miss Coralie; you will make me too proud of having gotten a small scratch in the fray. If it were ten times as much, it would in nowise offset what I owe your father. Now I must bid you farewell, or I shall miss the train."
Will you not come up again soon? asked Coralie, coloring a little, but strong in the certainty that she could not err in showing her preserver the most cordial courtesy. "It must be good for you to leave the city as often as you can. And you have certainly earned the right to consider Farview as your home, whenever it suits you to do so."
Thank you, said Bergan, bowing in acknowledgment of the kind and thoughtful invitation. "But I am necessarily a busy and homeless man, and it is the truest wisdom for me not to stray too far out of my proper orbit, lest I get dissatisfied with it. When I become more fully and firmly settled therein, a day's absence may not matter so much; and then, if your invitation still holds good, I shall be only too happy to avail myself of it."
It must always hold good, just as a kindness once done is done forever, replied Coralie warmly, turning a deaf ear to the unseasonable inner voice that cried out against the coolness and reserve of Bergan's response, and holding out a tremulous little hand, by way of signature and seal to her promise.
Bergan gave the hand a friendly pressure, and bowed low to Miss Thane. "A pleasant summer to you both," said he, "full of flowers and sunshine, both material and metaphorical. Farewell."
He lifted his hat as he rode through the gate; very soon a turn of the road hid him from sight. Coralie stood looking somewhat wistfully at the point where he had disappeared.
Peace go with him! said Diva lightly. "He was in a great hurry to leave us, but he said 'Farewell' in a way to indicate that he should not be in a hurry to return. Fortunately, we are not the sort of damsels to pine after an unwilling knight."
Coralie turned instantly, and, with heightened color, signified her readiness to go home.
For some days her spirits were fitful and changeable; nothing now so gay, nothing now so sad, as her smile. During this time Diva watched over her with a silent, patient, careful devotion that surrounded her like the atmosphere, viewless, but beneficent. She saved her from annoyance; she shielded her from observation; she stood between her and her guests, taking up the burden of their entertainment in a way that would have seemed incredible to those accustomed to see her only languidly indifferent or coldly haughty. Though her heart might be narrow, it was certainly deep.
By and by, Coralie began to smile naturally once more, and Diva was satisfied that, though the rose could not "shut and be a bud again," it had received no lasting blight. If it could be kept from further harm, it might be expected to develop naturally into perfection of bloom and beauty,—not the hasty and one-sided maturity that comes of a worm at the heart.
She could now think of herself. Unselfish anxiety and effort had been very good for her thus far, there was not a doubt of that. Nevertheless, she was beginning to feel urgent need of quiet,—opportunity to commune with her own heart, and be still,—time to deal justly and thoroughly with questions seething in her mind ever since her talks with Bergan. But it was vain to look for quiet at Farview; the house was fast filling up with gay guests; and having once dropped her ice-mantle of reserve, she could not resume it without giving pain to her hosts. So, as Coralie was now quite capable of taking her rightful place as queen of the festivities, and as she had already stayed twice as long as had been contemplated at first, Diva went back to her studio.
Late one afternoon, about a month after Bergan's return to Savalla, he quitted the office, which seemed to have grown unaccountably barren and dreary of aspect, and set out for an aimless stroll through the city. The air was fresh and moist from a recent shower, and the slanting sunbeams were working alchemic wonders in the streets and squares; turning the polished leaves of the oak and olive trees to silver, and hanging them with prismatic jewels, enriching the grass with a vivider green, and the earth with a rich golden brown, and imprinting the sensitive surface of every tiny rain-pool with a lovely picture of blue sky, fleecy clouds, and pendent sprays of foliage.
Through all these pleasant sights Bergan moved slowly and half absently, occupying himself less with their beauty than with the sober monologue of his own thoughts. Yet his gaze was not without occasional moments of intelligence, and in one of these he noticed a child, attended by a large dog, standing with a curiously doubtful, undecided air, in the midst of the square that he was crossing. Suddenly making up her mind, it would seem, she held out her hand to a gentleman coming from the opposite direction, who took no further notice of the mute appeal than was implied by a shake of the head. The sight was a comparatively strange one in those days, when begging was resorted to as an occasional resource, rather than followed as a regular trade; and Bergan continued to observe the child with a certain degree of interest, though not with a wholly unpreoccupied mind, as he advanced toward her.
All at once, it struck him that there was something oddly familiar about her slender little figure. As for the dog, he was certainly an old acquaintance, as could easily be proven; and Bergan's lips emitted a low, peculiar whistle. There was an instant pricking up of the canine ears, and an inquisitive turning sidewise of the canine head, but the faithful animal would not leave his young mistress until he was absolutely certain that he recognized a friend. She, meanwhile, seemed to notice neither the whistle nor its effect; nor could she distinctly see what manner of man drew near, her eyes being dazzled by the level sun-rays, but she again mutely held out her hand.
It was instantly taken possession of. "Cathie," said Bergan, wonderingly, "what does this mean?"
She looked at him a moment in blank bewilderment, but ended by recognizing him and flinging herself into his arms exactly as the Cathie of a year before would have done; but with a deep, long-drawn, repressed sob, implying a profounder sorrow than had ever darkened the horizon of even that child of many and incomprehensible moods.
Yet Bergan was considerably relieved by her first words;—"Oh, Mr. Arling, don't tell mamma—don't tell Astra—please don't!" It seemed probable that the episode of the begging was simply one of the child's strange freaks.
Did you do it for fun, then? he asked.
Fun? repeated Cathie, with indignant emphasis, "do you think it's fun to beg, Mr. Arling? I don't. I was so ashamed that I wanted to hide my face with both hands."
Then why did you do it? asked Bergan, gravely.
The child's lip assumed its most sorrowful curve. "To get some money to give Astra," she answered. "We are very poor now; the Bank went and got broke, with all mamma's money in it; and she was taken sick, and Astra couldn't get much to do, and we've had to move into a little mean house, in a dirty little street, where there are no flowers, nor trees, nor anything that's nice. And this morning I saw Astra take the last money out of her purse, to pay the rent, and she looked—oh! I can't tell how she looked,—something like that big gray man, with the little boy on his back, that she made so long ago; and I did so wish that I could do something to help her, just a little bit. So, when she sent me out to take a walk with Nix, it came into my head that I could beg for her, if I couldn't do anything else, and I thought I'd try it. Was it doing wrong?"
Bergan did not answer except by stooping to kiss the child's upturned face. His eyes grew moist.
I know it must be wrong, pursued Cathie, innocently, "if it makes you cry, Mr. Arling."
No, Cathie, replied Bergan, smiling reassuringly. "I do not think it was wrong,—at least, you did not mean to do wrong, and that makes a great difference. But I don't think that you will need to try it again. Now, certainly you can do something better; that is, take me home with you."
On the way, Cathie, secure in the sympathy of this trusted friend of better days, gave a more detailed account of the misfortunes that had befallen the little family, since it left Berganton. His heart ached as he pictured to himself the weary and wasting struggle with poverty that Astra had maintained so bravely, yet so hopelessly; heavily weighted, on the one hand, with the burden of disappointed affection, and, on the other, with the anxiety caused by her mother's severe illness. For works of art, there had been no demand; for portrait busts and medallions, there had been only a scanty and fitful one. Her last resource had been pupils in drawing, but these had now failed her, in consequence of the usual summer exodus of the city's wealthier population; by reason of which she was reduced to the bitter straits shadowed forth by Cathie's earlier communications. It was touching, too, to see what real nobleness of character had all along been hidden under the child's caprice and waywardness, as evinced by the fact that she said little of the privations that had fallen to her own lot, but dwelt chiefly on her mother's lack of accustomed comforts, and the forlorn face that Astra wore, when out of that mother's sight.
The house was reached before the story had come to an end. It was a little better than Bergan's fears, but far worse than his hopes. It smote him to the heart to contrast it with the comfortable and spacious mansion that had opened its doors so readily to him at Berganton, and wherein he had come to feel himself so pleasantly at home.
Cathie ushered Bergan into the dingy little room that served both for parlor and studio, and then rushed through the opposite door, full of the importance of the news that she had to impart. There was a smothered exclamation of surprise from the adjoining room, followed by a murmured consultation; and then Astra appeared in the doorway.
But it was by no means the Astra of Bergan's remembrance. The features were the same, to be sure, but the light, the hope, the energy, that had animated them, and informed them with such rich and varied expression, was utterly lacking. There was a perceptible line between the eyebrows, as if the brow were wont to be knit over difficult problems; and the mouth expressed a settled melancholy, which a smile seemed only to vary slightly, not to displace. Nor could Bergan help detecting a little hardness in it,—the look of a defeated general, forced to lay down his weapons, but still unsubdued in will.
What he most marvelled at, however, was that it immediately brought Diva Thane's face before him, as if there were some subtle relation between them, though there was not the slightest resemblance.
Astra's manner to him was scarcely less altered than her face. It was not exactly cold, but it lacked much of the old warmth and heartiness. Bergan took no notice of it; he readily divined what chords of painful association were thrilled at the sight of him, and how inevitably her pride revolted against being seen in her present surroundings. Her hand was so cold, when he took it in his, that he pressed it between both his own, with a vague idea of warming it; then, stirred by a sympathy too deep for ordinary expression, he bent over and touched it with his lips.
You are not wise, said Astra, with a faint smile; "you should not do homage to a fallen princess."
Neither do I, rejoined Bergan, with a deep music in his voice. "She is not fallen, but holding out most bravely against the time when she may expect succor."
Succor? responded Astra, with a mixture of pride and mournfulness,—"from what or whom could acceptable succor come?"
Bergan smiled, and pointed upward. "From the Source of all succor, whatever be the channel."
Astra shook her head, and the lines of her mouth grew set and hard. "Acceptable succor comes in season," said she, "and through legitimate channels."
Bergan was confounded. This lack of faith, this arraignment of Providence, argued a more amazing change in Astra than he had yet suspected. At the same time it afforded him a clue to that mysterious connection, in his mind, between her face and Miss Thane's. Under the hardness of the one and the coldness of the other, the same scepticism lay hidden,—possibly engendered by similar causes. In Astra's case, he had no hesitation in attributing it to Doctor Remy's influence; and he could not but wonder at the singular and fatal power of the man over the minds of those who were brought into close contact with him. Was this deadly poison to be also instilled into the pure mind of Carice? He shuddered at the thought. Better for her to lie dead at the bottom of the river, by which he had last seen her soft, rapt face.
Feeling that this was no time to argue with Astra, Bergan turned to the table, which was littered with drawings and sketches, plaster reliefs, and small clay models, to a degree that implied no lack of patient industry, despite the want of encouragement, and the absence of faith.
What are you doing? he asked.
Nothing, just now, she answered, mournfully. "I believe my hands have lost their cunning,—if ever they had any. That is the last." She pointed to a small bas-relief.
It represented a child, skipping lightly down a flowery slope, trailing a vine behind her. The face was turned so far away from the beholder, as to show only the rounded outline of the youthful cheek and brow, but the figure expressed a wonderful joyousness. In more senses than one, it was plainly, "In the Sunshine;" which title was lightly scratched in the plaster.
Bergan studied it attentively. "It is as fresh as a rose," said he, "and as sweet."
The analogy, if there be any, goes deeper than that, rejoined Astra, bitterly. "A rose is born out of darkness and dampness and decay, and this is the offspring of pain and discouragement, and all that makes the hand weak and the heart sick."
And that is probably the secret of its perfection, remarked Bergan, meditatively. "The loveliest graces of character—such as charity that thinketh no evil, and hope that lives by faith, not by sight—are the legitimate children of suffering. Then why not the finer works of art?"
Astra's eyes fell, and she did not answer.
At any rate, pursued Bergan, "this 'Sunshine' is just what I want to brighten my office. I was thinking, this very day, that something must be done to make it less dismal. I suppose it is for sale?"
Astra bent her head a little stiffly. She doubted the reality of this new-born desire for office decorations.
He took out his purse, and laid a folded bank-note on the table. He expected that she would not look at it, until after he had gone, but she immediately took it up, opened it, and tendered it back to him.
It is too much, said she proudly. And her look added, "I am no beggar."
Is it? inquired Bergan, with apparent surprise. "I thought it agreed tolerably well with the prices that you used to mention as the least you would receive for your works, in the future."
I have lived to grow wiser, replied Astra,
It is all the same, rejoined Bergan composedly, "I was about to say that, as my mother has long been entreating me to send her some sort of a portrait, it occurs to me that I cannot do better than to get you to make a medallion or a bust of me, whichever you please. The balance of the note can go toward the first payment. We will arrange for the sittings, as soon as you are at leisure."
Astra's lip trembled. Put in this way, the note might be retained; and no one knew so well as herself what an amount of relief to her, and of comfort to her mother, it ensured. But her pride was very sore, nevertheless, and her face was little grateful, as she dropped the note on the table, somewhat as if it had burned her fingers.
Bergan hastened to change the subject. "I am sorry not to see your mother," he began; but Astra interrupted him.
She would like to see you very much, said she, "if you don't mind coming to her room. It is several days since she has left it; though I really think that she is better to-day."
Why should I mind? asked Bergan, smiling. "She used to call me her son sometimes; though you do take such pains to give me to understand that you utterly repudiate me as a brother."
Astra turned her face aside, to conceal the sudden unbending of the set mouth. "Indeed, I do not," she faltered.
Bergan drew her toward him, just as a brother would have done. "Then you will help me to persuade her to move into more comfortable quarters, at once. I promise you that it shall be arranged so carefully as to give her the least possible fatigue."
Astra shook her head. "It cannot be; it would excite her too much. Her disease is of the heart; and joy kills as surely as sorrow. When I moved her here,—being imperatively forced to do so, because I could not afford to stay where we were,—I determined that, let come what would, she should not be stirred again, until she is a great deal better or—worse. Thank you for the kind thought, but indeed she is best off here, for the present,—now that I have the means of making her tolerably comfortable."
In the last sentence, there was some trace of Astra's old self; and, glad to have gained thus much, Bergan followed her to Mrs. Lyte's bedside.
If he still cherished any belief in the feasibility of removing her, it vanished with the first sight of her face. He wondered what could have led Astra to think her better. Even to his inexperienced eyes, the struggling breath, the beaded forehead, the ashy pallor, indicated but too plainly that the thread of her life was wellnigh spun.
Yet she was less changed, in some respects, than Astra. Her smile had the old sweetness; her face—when the excitement caused by his unexpected visit was calmed a little, and she could breathe easier—had the old expression of gentle resignation. It lighted up, too, at sight of him;—as he had reminded Astra, she had come to regard him with a half-motherly affection, during his residence in her house.
It is very good of you to come to us, she said, gratefully; "it seems a great while since I have seen any friendly face."
If I had only known that you were in Savalla, I should have come much sooner, answered Bergan.
And if I had known that you were here, she responded, "I should certainly have sent for you. It is strange, Astra, that we never happened to hear of him."
Astra's face flushed a little. "We are not in the way of hearing news," she replied, evasively. "But now that he is here, to sit with you a few minutes, I will run out and get that prescription filled, which the doctor left this morning."
Bergan rose instantly. "Let me go, rather," said he.
N-o, no, said Mrs. Lyte, "it will do her good to have a little run. Besides, I want to talk with you."
Bergan sat down again, and Cathie nestled to his side. Nix, too, came and lay down at his feet, quite in the old Berganton fashion.
I am very glad to see you, continued Mrs. Lyte, when Astra had left the room, "but I am afraid it is largely a selfish gladness. I am so certain that you will see what can be done for my children after I am gone."
Bergan opened his lips to speak, but she lifted her hand with a deprecating gesture, and went on:—
Let me say what I want to say; I shall be so much easier in my mind. Do you know how we came to leave Berganton?
I do not; I only heard of it when I went back there, in the Fall.
Mrs. Lyte briefly explained the circumstances which had led to the removal. She stated, furthermore, that she had written to Major Bergan, upon the failure of the Bank where her money was invested, and inquired if he had sold the house, and whether there was any balance in her favor. To which he replied that he had done nothing about the matter, and proposed to do nothing, at present; he only wished that she would come back, and live in it, as before. But this was impossible, she had now no means of maintaining so large and expensive a place. She had, therefore, written again, to the effect that she asked nothing better than the immediate foreclosure of the mortgage, and the sale of the property. Would he attend to it at his earliest convenience, and forward her the balance? To this letter there had been no reply; she took it for granted that a purchaser had not been found. What she desired of Bergan, in the event of her death, which she believed to be near at hand, was to hurry forward the sale of the place, and secure something for Astra, if possible. This he promised to do; and he added, in a tone that brought instant conviction to her mind, and tears of gratitude to her eyes, that, however this matter terminated, neither Astra nor Cathie should lack friendly aid, at need.
When he finally took his leave, Bergan beckoned Astra to the door. "Are you alone here?" he inquired. "Is there no one to share your labors and your cares?"
We brought our old Chloe with us, replied Astra; "she would not be left behind, and indeed, I do not know what we should have done without her. But lately the good old creature has insisted upon going out to do a day's washing, now and then, to bring something into the family purse; she is out to-day. When she is home, she does all she can."
Bergan recollected the old slave, and doubted nothing of her fidelity. But, in the woful event that he foresaw, Astra would need other help, other sympathy, he thought.
Is there no one you can send for,—no relative, no friend, in Berganton, or elsewhere? he persisted.
None, replied Astra. "And what accommodations have we for such a friend, if we had one?"
There was nothing more to be said. He shook her hand warmly, told her that he had promised her mother to come again on the morrow, lifted his hat, with his usual courtesy, and went down the street, in such a maze of pity and perplexity, that he forgot to notice which way he went.
When he became cognizant of his whereabouts, he was standing before a large, old-fashioned mansion fronting on one of the principal squares of the city. On the door was a silver plate, bearing the name of "DIVA THANE, ARTIST."