were laid, and its walls arose, as a kind of necessary adjunct to
Bergan Hall. And his successors, with rare exceptions, had felt it a
duty to add to its interior attractions, as well as to make it a
continuous family record, by memorial windows of stained glass, mural
tablets of bronze or marble, and thank-offerings of font, communion
plate, and other appliances and adornments. Some of these, no doubt,
were merely self-laudatory, the fitful outgrowth of family pride;
others might have sprung from a sense of what was beautiful and
fitting,--which was a very good thing, as far as it went, though it
went not much below the surface; but a few there were, doubtless, which
had been consecrated to their use by heartfelt tears of sorrow, of
penitence, or of gratitude. Be this as it may, they all helped (at
least, in human eyes) to give the interior of St. Paul's a certain
completeness, and even a degree of beauty and harmony.
Still, both in its size and its decorations, the church was far
inferior to the Hall. There was a vast disproportion, both in amount
and quality, between the space and the furniture set apart for the
service and pleasure of a single household, and that consecrated to the
worship of God, and the spiritual nurture of His people. But, in the
matter of preservation, as well as in answering a definite end, the
advantage was greatly on the side of the church and its appointments.
Wherever the Bergan hands had grown slack, or had been withdrawn, in
that work, others had taken it up, for the love of Christ, and carried
it forward to completion, or kept it from lapsing back into chaos.
And so, Bergan--remembering how surely the merely secular memorials of
Sir Harry and his successors had been overtaken by the slow feet of
decay, while these others had been saved by their connection with an
institution having a deeper and broader principle of life--was led into
a natural enough, though for him a most unusual, train of thought. He
asked himself if Sir Harry would not have done better, even for his own
selfish end, to have given the larger share (or, at least, an equal
one) of his time, care, and money, to the edifice which had the surest
hold upon permanency, and was most likely to be sacredly kept for its
original purpose. In our country, more than almost anywhere else,
people build houses for other people to dwell in, and Time delights to
blot family names from his roll, at least on the page where they were
first written. All family mansions, however fair and proud, are surely
destined to fall into stranger hands, or to be given over to the Vandal
occupation of decay. All families, of however lofty position, are
certain to sojourn, at times, in the valley of humiliation, if they do
not lose themselves in the deeper valley of extinction. Would it not
have been better, then, to have foregone somewhat of the frail and
faithless magnificence of Bergan Hall, and linked the dear family name
and memory more closely with the indestructible institution which
belongs to the ages?
And, as he thus questioned, the narrow walls, the low roof, and the
insignificant adornments of the little church seemed slowly to widen
and lift themselves to the grand proportions of a vast, pillared
temple; and the small chancel window--doing so little, nor doing that
little well, to keep alive the fair memory of "Elizabeth, wife of Sir
Harry"--became a great glory of pictured saints and angels, through
whose diaphanous bodies the rainbow-light fell softly among a crowd of
kneeling worshippers;--unto whom the sculptured mural tablets, the
jewel-tinted glass, the stately walls, the soaring arch, told over and
over again the lovely story, and held up to view the noble example, of
a race whose labor and delight it had been to build strong and
beautiful the walls of Zion; and which, in so doing, had raised up to
itself the most enduring, as well as the most precious of earthly
monuments. How much better this than the crumbling splendors of Bergan
Hall, and the fading glory of an almost extinct name!
"The Lord is in His holy temple," was here breathed through Bergan's
visioned fane, in appropriately awed and solemn tones. Nevertheless,
they broke the slender thread of its being. As Bergan rose to his
feet, with the rest of the congregation, its majestic vista, its
pictured windows, and all its rich array, vanished like the filmy
imagery of a dream, at the moment of awakening. But it was not without
a keen sense of the contrast that he brought his mind back to the real
St. Paul's, and the service going on under its lowlier roof.
Nothing remained but the harmonious voice, which had at once perfected
and broken the spell. Glancing toward the chancel, Bergan saw a
clergyman, with a face that would have been simply benignant, but for
the vivid illumination of a pair of deep-set, dark-blue eyes,--a light
never seen save where a great heart sends its warm glow through all the
chambers of a grand intellect.
There is something marvellous in the inexhaustible adaptation of the
Church service to the wants of the soul. At the same time that it is a
miracle of fitness for the ends of public worship, it has its adequate
word for every secret, individual need. Though Bergan had heard it
hundreds of times before, and always with a hearty admiration of its
beauty and comprehensiveness, never had its rhythmic sentences fallen
upon his heart with such gracious and grateful effect. Doubtless, this
was owing, in great measure, to the subdued frame of mind induced by
the events of the last week; but it was also due, in some degree, to
the perfection with which the service was rendered. It was neither
hurried nor drawled, neither grumbled nor whined, neither a rasping
see-saw nor a dull monotone. It was not overlaid with the arts of
elocution; nor was it robbed of all life and warmth by the formal
emphasis and intonation of the merely correct reader. But, in Mr.
Islay's mouth, it became the living voice of living hearts. The dear
old words, without losing one whit of the accumulated power, and the
sacred associations, of long years of reverent use, came as freshly and
as fervently from the speaker's lips, as if they were the heart-warm
coinage of the moment.
As an inevitable consequence, Bergan's responses were uttered with
answering fervor. And how perfectly they met his wants! How
wonderfully they expressed his sense of weakness and failure, his
depression and humiliation, his new-born self-distrust, his earnest
desire and determination to be stronger against future temptations. In
some sentences, there was a depth of meaning and of fitness, that
seemed to have been waiting all these years for this moment of complete
interpretation. Continually was he startled by subtile references to
his peculiar circumstances, by the calm precision with which his sores
were probed, and the tender skill which applied to them healing balm.
Especially was he struck by the Collect for the day,--so clearly did it
express thoughts and feelings too vague in his own mind to have shaped
themselves into words:--
"O Lord, we beseech Thee, absolve Thy people from their offences; that
through Thy bountiful goodness, they may all be delivered from the
bands of those sins which by their frailty they have committed."
Never before could he have so clearly understood what was meant by the
"bands" of sins, committed, not of deliberate intent, but through
frailty. How painfully he felt the pressure of those bands! how
certainly they would cramp his efforts and hinder his progress! And
how singularly distinct they had become to his sight, both in their
nature and their effects, by means of that old, oft-repeated, yet ever
new, Collect!
With a half-unconscious attempt at divination, Bergan turned over the
leaves of his Prayer Book, during the short pause before the psalm,
wondering what other mystic meanings were waiting under familiar words,
for his future needs. It was not without a little chill at his heart
that his eye caught the opening sentences of the burial anthem.
There could be no question about that. Whatever else might or might
not be waiting for him, that was certain, some day, to be said over his
dead body, and vainly to try to find entrance into his deaf ears. But
when? At the end of a long life; in the midst of his days; or ere his
work was scarce begun?
His work. What was it? To walk in a vain shadow? To disquiet himself
in vain? To heap up riches for an unknown gatherer? To write his name
high on the temple of Fame? To become a philanthropist, or a reformer?
No; but to "apply his heart unto wisdom."
It was both a deep and a hard saying. Bergan felt that he could not
fathom it, even while he saw how ruthlessly it struck at the roots of
human pride, and lopped the boughs of personal ambition.
Meanwhile, the psalm had been sung, and with a rustling of leaves and
garments, the congregation had settled themselves into their seats.
Through the succeeding hush, Mr. Islay quietly sent the words of his
text: "Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might, for
there is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor _wisdom_, in the grave
whither thou goest."
It was the word in season!
Bergan left the church that day, not only with a deeper sense of his
own mortality, and consequent weakness, than ever before; but also with
a modified view of life's work and duty. In one sense, it was a
narrower view,--with that narrowness which feels the need of some true,
fixed centre, from which to work outward, with any degree of safety and
system, and, consequently, of success. He began to see that he who
would influence others for good, and through them the world, must first
be certain of the point where his influence begins, and that toward
which it tends.
Not that Bergan understood, or would ever be likely to understand, the
full measure and real character of the change that had been wrought in
him under that lowly church-roof. Up to this point, his life had been
from without, inward; henceforth, it was to be from within outward.
The inner life of the soul was really begun in him,--feebly,
half-unconsciously, it is true,--yet possessing a hidden power of
assimilation and growth, that would soon bend all things to itself.
Storm and sunshine, darkness and light, success and failure, would
alike minister to its wants, and help it to grow fair and strong.
Things most inimical to it, at first sight, would but give it tougher
fibre and lovelier grain; in the drought, it would but send its roots
down deeper in pursuit of hidden wells; under the pruning-knife, it
would but burst forth into fairer blossoms and richer fruit.
Yet it was no sudden change, for all his life had been a preparation
for it. Oftenest the kingdom of God cometh without observation. The
stones of the spiritual temple may be fashioned amid clamor and
discord, but they are laid in their places with a silence that is full
of meaning.
III.
SEEING, BUT UNDERSTANDING NOT.
The service being ended, Bergan naturally turned to his kinsfolk for an
ampler and friendlier greeting than had been possible at their hurried
meeting in the crowded vestibule. Especially--with a grateful
remembrance of her yesterday's cordiality--did he look to his aunt for
a word of familiar kindness, that should make him feel less alone, less
of a stranger, amid the friendly chorus of salutations and
leave-takings coming to his ears from the departing congregation. But,
to his surprise and pain, the same indefinable chill which had made him
so vaguely uncomfortable with her husband and daughter, had now taken
possession of her also, and woven a thin film of ice over the manner
that yesterday was so kind.
The change was so unaccountable that he could not believe in it. He
told himself that the real thing at fault was his own sickly
imagination, that he was morbidly sensitive, as well as foolishly
exacting. He convinced his understanding, but could not silence his
heart. That Cassandra of the depths continually smote his unwilling
ear with her lugubrious voice, calling upon him to observe how
strangely Mrs. Bergan had been transformed overnight, from the
interested, cordial, even affectionate aunt, into the polite and
practised woman of the world, doing merely what courtesy required for
the entertainment of the guest that circumstances had flung upon her
hands.
In this state of affairs, Bergan would gladly have exchanged the dinner
at Oakstead for a quiet afternoon in his room and a sober talk with his
thoughts. But the invitation being already accepted, he must needs
abide by the event. Accordingly, he took the vacant seat in his
uncle's carriage, and was soon set down at the cottage steps.
Before dinner, the two gentlemen were left to a quiet chat by
themselves on the cool, shady piazza. Bergan embraced this opportunity
to explain, more fully than he had yet done, his motives and aims. He
told his uncle,--a little proudly, it might be, for he wished it to be
understood that he had come hither with a self-respecting purpose of
independence, and not with any idea of leaning upon his friends,--he
told his uncle that his choice of Berganton as the starting-point of
his professional career, was due to the influence of his mother. Her
childhood's home, and its vicinity, had always kept a tenacious hold on
her affections, despite the fact that more than two-thirds of her
womanhood had been spent elsewhere, and all the deeper joys and sorrows
of her life had blossomed and fruited in different soil. When,
therefore, it became necessary for one of her sons to go out into the
world, in search of a better field of labor than was afforded in his
native village, her thoughts naturally turned to the spot so haloed in
her memory, and where her ancestry had sent such deep, old roots into
the soil, as to create a kind of kinship for evermore between their
descendants and the locality. It would be a pleasant thing for Bergan,
she thought, to make a home and a name for himself in a place where he
possessed so strong a claim to residence; it would be equally pleasant
for the old town to recognize the familiar mould of features and
character in its streets; and it would be pleasantest of all for
herself to know that her son was with her kinsfolk, amid well-known
scenes, rather than among strangers, on ground where her thoughts could
find no foothold. Some day, she hoped to visit him there, and feed her
mother's pride upon his success, at the same time that she renewed her
girlhood amid old associations.
Bergan then touched lightly upon his disappointment in the dull old
town--finding it so much duller and older, even to decrepitude, than he
had expected, and consequently, so little eligible to his purpose. And
here, if he had been met by a more interested glance, and a fuller
sympathy, he would have gone on to speak of the disgraceful scene into
which he had been betrayed by his uncle--the Major--and the obligation
under which he felt himself placed thereby to remain in Berganton, at
least long enough to efface any unfavorable impression which it might
have caused. But, though his uncle Godfrey heard him patiently and
courteously enough, there was so little of the hearty interest of
kinship in his manner, that Bergan could not bring himself to open the
subject. Not only was it unpleasant in itself, but it touched at many
points on deep things of his nature, which instinctively refused to
pour themselves into any but a friendly, sympathetic ear.
If he had known whence came the cloud between his relatives and
himself, he would have spoken, as a matter of course, at whatever cost
of feeling. But this explanation of the matter suggested itself to
him, only to be inevitably rejected. Although it might serve to
account for the coolness that had characterized his uncle's manner from
the first, it seemed to throw no light whatever upon the difficult
problem of the sudden change from cordiality to reserve, in Mrs. Bergan
and Carice. A much more natural supposition appeared to be, that
something in his own manner or conversation had unfortunately awakened
prejudice or created dislike. For that, there was no remedy save in
time. He could hope that, when his kinsfolk should come to know him
better, they might be fain to reverse their hasty judgment, and account
him worthy of a place in their liking. But, until that time should
arrive,--though he would do anything in reason to help it on,--there
was nothing to encourage or to warrant any overflow of personal
confidences.
It was scarcely possible, under the circumstances, that Bergan should
have reached a different conclusion. Of his meeting with Mr. Bergan
and Carice, during his frenzy of rage and intoxication, he retained but
the vaguest recollection; and he had totally failed to recognize either
his uncle or cousin as his co-actors in the dim and misty adventure.
Nor was this the only missing link in the chain of events. Dr. Remy's
casual talk, in the visit immediately preceding his own, which had
first made Mr. Bergan acquainted with the fact of his nephew's presence
in the neighborhood, and gradually led to his identification with the
intoxicated cavalier of whom he entertained so disagreeable an
impression; Carice's subsequent recognition of him, as soon as his
features were distinctly revealed to her; and his aunt's later
discovery of the same lamentable identity;--all these facts were
necessary to a clear understanding of the situation, and its
requirements. Without them, no wonder that Bergan was led astray both
in his conclusions and his acts; the former being the inevitable result
of the false logic of the few facts of which he knew, and the latter
going to help the equally false logic of the facts known to others, of
which he knew nothing.
So, after Mr. Bergan had politely assented to his observations upon the
dulness of Berganton, and somewhat pointedly remarked that perseverance
and energy, when conjoined with upright habits, were pretty sure to
command a reasonable measure of success anywhere, the conversation
turned aside into other channels. The opportunity for a frank
explanation--which could alone have placed him upon his proper footing
with his new-found relatives--was lost. It would not return until it
was too late to be of any considerable service.
Nevertheless, at the dinner-table, the moral atmosphere cleared a
little. Mr. Bergan could not, in justice to himself, allow any guest
at his board--much less his sister's son--to shiver long in an
impalpable mist of coolness and reserve. His wife gladly seconded his
efforts toward geniality and cheerfulness. Under this opportune
sunshine, Bergan's manner soon lost its reflected touch of constraint,
and sparkled with pleasant humor, or was warmed through and through
with a rich glow of enthusiasm. Despite their prejudices, his
relatives could not but feel its potent charm. Under protest, as it
were, they yielded him a portion of their liking, even while they
refused him their confidence. "What a pity," they thought, "that he is
so dissipated, when he can be so captivating! What a fine character
his might be, but for its one miserable, ruinous flaw!"
Especially was this thought prominent in the mind of Carice, as she
listened delightedly to the pleasant flow of his talk, and her youthful
enthusiasm involuntarily sprang forward to meet his. Two or three
times, he caught her eyes fixed upon him with an expression that not
only puzzled, but pained him. But for the absurdity of the
supposition, he would have said that it was pity!
In the hope of finding a clue to the mystery, he took a position near
her, when they rose from the table,--leaning with an easy grace against
the mantel, while she occupied the low window-seat,--and the two were
soon deep in a conversation of absorbing interest. Beginning with
books, if slowly led, by the way of the morning's service and sermon,
up to vital questions of duty and morals. In its course, it developed
so many points of sympathy between the colloquists,--such happy
correspondence of opinion, without lifeless unanimity,--so many
dove-tailed segments of thought, glad to meet in close and completing
union,--that Mr. and Mrs. Bergan, listening, at first, with indulgent
interest, finally began to exchange uneasy glances, and, at length,
withdrew to the piazza for a hurried consultation.
For this fair daughter of theirs--this blue-eyed Carice, with the
lily-like _pose_, and the rose-like face--was their idol. Not
specially congenial on other points, they were yet made one by their
engrossing devotion to her. She was at once their exceeding joy and
their exquisite pain. Although she had scarcely been ill a day in her
life, she had a seeming delicacy of constitution that kept them in a
constant quake of terror. She had also a sensitiveness of temperament,
as well as a singular purity and simplicity of character, that filled
them with nameless forebodings for her happiness. All their days were
spent in keeping safe watch and ward between her and the first
threatenings of evil, of whatever nature. Every coming shadow, every
adverse influence, was foreseen or forefelt, and turned aside, before
it could reach her.
Especially, of late,--seeing her continual growth in loveliness, of a
character at once so rare and so attractive,--they had charged
themselves with the duty of watching against any unwise bestowal of her
affections, and consequent misery. And, up to this time, there had
been no cause for alarm. But now, as Mrs. Bergan glanced back through
the window at the rapt talker and listener, noting the earnestness and
heightened color of the one, and the unwonted brightness half-hidden
under the drooping lashes of the other, she turned to her husband with
an anxiety that needed no further explanation.
"They are cousins, remember," said Mr. Bergan, snatching at the first
thread of hope, though not without a sufficient sense of its fragility.
"Only half-cousins, at best,--or rather, at worst," replied his wife.
"And so utterly different in type and temperament, that the
relationship could never be set up as an insurmountable barrier.
Besides, having never met before, they now meet as strangers."
"Then it will not do to encourage him in coming here," said Mr. Bergan,
after a pause. "I could never give Carice to a drunkard, though he
were fifty times as handsome and talented."
At this moment, Carice, awaking as from a dream, looked round for her
parents. Seeing them on the piazza, she quickly rose, and came toward
them, followed by Bergan. There was something in the action
inexpressibly reassuring to the troubled spectators. The engrossing
spell of the young man's conversation was so suddenly broken, when she
missed her father and mother from her side! They looked at each other
with a smile, and Mrs. Bergan playfully whispered,--
"I suspect that we are two fools!"
Nevertheless, enough of the effect of these few moments of parental
anxiety remained, to fling a slight shadow over the party. Carice felt
it first, in her quick sympathy with all her parents' moods; and Bergan
caught it from her as speedily as if there were already some invisible
bond between the two. Without knowing why, he very soon became aware
that the atmosphere was again growing chill around him. He had been
basking, not in a broad glory of summer, but only in a flicker of
winter sunshine.
Under these circumstances, Mr. Bergan's announcement that it was time
to set forth for the five o'clock service, was heard as a relief.
Almost immediately, however, it was followed by an unreasoning pang of
regret. It needed no soothsayer to tell him that moments like those
just passed, were to be rare in his immediate experience of life.