his wrath to this timely object, if he could only find a reasonable
excuse. But, discovering not the shadow of one in the doctor's polite,
careless manner, he contented himself with growling,--
"Out, is he? I wish he were out of the county--and a good riddance!
When will he be in?"
"Not under an hour or two," answered the doctor, wisely postponing the
era of Bergan's return to the utmost limit.
"Umph! that's the way he spends his time, is it? loafing about the
country when he should be in his office! Well, I've got something to
do, besides wait for him. Just tell him, will you? that I owe him a
good, sound horse-whipping, and I'll pay it to him the first time I
meet him."
"I will take charge of your kind message with pleasure," returned the
doctor, blandly. "Any further commands?"
"No!" roared the Major, with a dim suspicion that he was being made to
appear ridiculous,--"not unless you like to come out and take the
horsewhipping yourself. On the whole, I'd just as soon give it to you."
"Many thanks," replied the doctor, with imperturbable coolness. "But I
could not consent to appropriate anything designed for Mr. Arling."
"If it hurts your conscience, you can pass it over to him," rejoined
Major Bergan, with grim humor.
"It would lose its flavor at second-hand," said the doctor, smiling.
"It would be your own fault, if it did," responded the Major. "At any
rate, take care that my message don't lose anything, on the way. And
while you're about it, just tell him that he shall never have Bergan
Hall, nor an inch of ground that belongs to it, never! I'll give it
to--Astra Lyte, first!"
The doctor slightly shrugged his shoulders, as an intimation that the
Major's disposition of his property was a matter that did not interest
him; but the latter mistook it for a sign of incredulity.
"I will! I swear I will!" he repeated, with an oath. "And why
shouldn't I?" he went on, after a slight pause, as if the sudden idea
had unexpectedly commended itself to him,--"why shouldn't I? Her
father was my cousin; and he had Bergan blood in his veins, too,
through his mother; and he was a right good fellow, besides. Where is
she?"
"Miss Lyte is in New York, on a visit," replied the doctor.
"Umph! I should like to see her. Is she growing up bright and
handsome?"
"She is both," returned the doctor, briefly.
"Then, she shall have it!" exclaimed the Major, with sudden decision.
"I'll go home, and make my will. Tell Harry so, for his comfort, when
he comes back."
And the Major, delighted that he had bethought himself of a revenge so
swift and ample, mounted his horse, and rode off.
On Bergan's return, the scene was described to him by Doctor Remy, with
a minuteness and accuracy of detail and coloring that did great credit
to that gentleman's powers both of observation and description.
Nevertheless, there was something of cynicism, or of satire, that
grated on his listener's ear; and he finally stopped the doctor's flow
of eloquence with the question,--
"Who is Astra Lyte?"
The doctor looked at him, with much surprise. "Is it possible that you
have not yet heard of her?" he asked. "She is Mrs. Lyte's eldest
daughter; and a genius, too,--or, at least, an artist;--they are not
always synonymous terms, I believe. But where have you been living,
not to have become acquainted with her name before this? It is always
on Mrs. Lyte's lips; at least, she is ready to talk of her by the hour,
with a little encouragement."
"My conversations with Mrs. Lyte have not been many nor long," replied
Bergan. "An artist, did you say?"
But Doctor Remy had fallen into a fit of thought. He merely answered
the question by a nod; and very shortly, he left Bergan to his own
reflections.
V.
UNDER THE OAKS.
Not many weeks after the preceding incidents, Bergan went out, early
one afternoon, for a long, solitary ramble. It was not his wont to
leave his office before dusk, but his head ached with study, and his
heart with loneliness and discouragement; an intolerable weariness and
irksomeness had taken possession of him; his book seemed meaningless,
and his brain paralyzed; there was nothing for it but to turn from the
world of thought, that had suddenly grown so insufferably arid and
dead, to the living, breathing world of nature. Forest, and field, and
wave, if they could not give him intelligent sympathy, could at least
furnish him gentle distraction.
And, oftentimes, there was a subtile harmony, almost amounting to
sympathy, between his lonely moods, and the soft, rich, yet melancholy,
Southern landscape,--for melancholy it always seemed to him, though
that effect may have been partly owing to the gray medium of isolation
and depression through which he viewed it. But, whatever its origin,
this gentle mournfulness was the landscape's consummate charm,--at
least, for any burdened human heart. It is possible that Eden wore a
soft grace of pensive beauty, after the fall, which Adam and Eve,
wandering back thither, would have counted a dearer delight, in their
then mood, than its old, unshadowed brightness.
On his way out, Bergan found Nix stretched at full length across the
threshold. With the usual preference of his race for masculine over
feminine society, the dog had early attached himself to the young man,
as much as was consistent with a different ownership. He now rose,
shook himself, wagged his tail, and looked wistfully in Bergan's face.
Meeting with no rebuff, he made bold to follow him.
Leaving the town behind as quickly as possible, Bergan first struck
into a long, lonely lane, shut in, on either side, by a thick border of
multifarious foliage. Trees and shrubs, both deciduous and evergreen,
not only mingled their boughs along its sides, but were tied together
in an intricate polygamous knot by tangled vines. There was an endless
diversity of form and color,--every shape of leaf, and every hue and
shade of green and brown, with occasional tints of red, purple, and
orange, both pale and bright,--and everywhere the gray fringe of the
Spanish moss.
By and by, the lane terminated in the inevitable pine barren, which
frames all Southern landscape pictures. It stretched away, in every
direction, as far as the eye could reach,--a vast, dim solitude, with a
thick, blue-green roof, upheld by innumerable slender columns, and a
carpet of fallen needles, on which the foot fell without a sound. A
mysterious sigh pervaded it, even when no breeze was astir; its light
was but a gentle gloom; and it had a soft, aromatic atmosphere of its
own, as if it were another world. No fitter place could have been
found for the indulgence of a youthful day dream, with enough of
inherent light and color to overcome the prevailing sombreness, or, at
least, to set itself in stronger relief against so darksome a
background. But to Bergan, the vast, dim monotony, with its suggestive
correspondence to the circumstances of his own life, brought only added
heartache. The chance openings into the sky were so few, and the
sunshine never fell save flickeringly, at the farther extremity of some
long vista! He soon began to yearn for outlook and aspiration, some
spot affording at least a glimpse of the surrounding world, as well as
a fair look at the open sky. Happily, he knew where to find it.
Long since, he had discovered for himself a convenient and attractive
out-door haunt,--a kind of natural amphitheatre, on the edge of one of
the numerous bays, or creeks, of the vicinity. Great, patriarchal
live-oaks, with hoary beards of moss trailing even to the ground, had
ranged themselves in a semi-circle, on a high bank, overlooking the
water. Standing in attitudes of ponderous grace, each one scattered
shade and quietude over fifty, sixty, or, it might be, an hundred, feet
of sward. Through a broad opening, in the midst of the dignified
circle, the cheerful sunshine fell unbrokenly; and on the water-side,
there was a fair stretch of blue waves, with a sea-green horizon-line
afar; and over all, a wide half-dome of sky, with its changeable
tracery of clouds, and its transparent concord of color. It was hard
to believe that the hand of man had not wrought with that of nature, to
produce a spot so perfect. Many a sunset had Bergan enjoyed there;
many a twilight had he mused away, under the rustling oak-boughs; many
a time, the rising moon had found him there, and surrounded him with
weird enchantment.
All along, this spot had been the goal of his steps, though--by way of
trying first what help and heart were to be found in exercise--he had
chosen to reach it by a most circumlocutory route. So far as he knew,
it was his own, by right of occupancy, as well as discovery; never had
it showed a sign that it knew the pressure of any other human foot.
As he drew near, the sun was sending long, slanting beams of ruddy
light athwart the amphitheatre, and dyeing the polished oak-leaves in
rich tints of gold and orange. He quickened his steps, the sooner to
reach the point whence sunset-splendors were to be seen to the best
advantage; and upon which he had taken occasion to construct a low,
rustic seat.
To his amazement, it was already occupied. A lady was quietly seated
therein, her cheek resting on her hand, her eyes (as he judged from her
pose, for her back was toward him) fixed on the glowing sky.
He stopped short, uncertain whether to advance or retreat.
Nix--who had lingered behind, to make a feint of hunting a
squirrel--settled the question for him. Coming upon the scene, he
first sniffed the air, and then dashed at the intruder. Fearing lest
his intentions might be unfriendly,--or, at least, that the lady would
be startled by his sudden appearance,--Bergan sternly called after
him;--
"Nix! Nix! Here! Come back, you scamp!"
But Nix, if he heard, certainly did not heed. He was fawning upon the
lady, in a way to indicate a previous acquaintance of considerable
standing and intimacy. She, on her part, received his rude caresses
quite as a matter of course, and cordially patted his rough head. Then
she turned to Bergan.
"Nix does not mean to be disobedient," said she, apologetically.
"Only, he recognizes in me an older friend than Mr. Arling, and,
perhaps,"--she smiled,--"a superseding authority."
Bergan bowed. "He is fortunate," said he,--"that is, in finding a
friend, old or new, where he did not look for one."
He spoke with a slight bitterness of tone, in involuntary recognition
of the fact that no such pleasant discovery was ever the reward of his
own aimless rambles. At the same time, he looked curiously at the
lady, seeking a clue to her identity. She had seemed to know him; yet
he could not remember that he had ever met her before.
Apparently, she was young; certainly, she was small, and somewhat
slender. Without being absolutely pretty, her face was exceedingly
interesting, by reason of its mobility and vivacity of
expression;--albeit, its changes were not always to be easily
understood, nor its language at once interpreted. Her eyes were of the
darkest gray, with a clear and penetrative glance, that seemed to go
straight to the depths of whatever object they sought. Her manner,
though perfectly feminine, had an air of strength and energy, in marked
contrast with the languid grace which is the more frequent product of
Southern soil. She was very simply dressed,--in some soft, gray
material, the one beauty of which was its ability to fall in artistic
folds about her figure;--nevertheless, there was a certain pleasant
peculiarity, a kind of sober picturesqueness, about her attire, that
lifted it more surely out of the region of the common-place than any
richness of texture, or newness of fashion, could have done. Moreover,
it satisfied the eye with a sense of fitness; it was plainly the
legitimate outgrowth of the wearer's character. Not that it bid
defiance to fashion, but it did not conform to it to the extent of a
complete sacrifice of individuality.
Her only ornament was a cluster of bright scarlet leaves, that she had
doubtless found on her way thither, and fastened on her breast; and
which an opportune sun-ray now touched into vivid splendor. This, too,
suited her. It seemed the subtile outward expression of some
correspondingly warm and rich characteristic within; glowing soft
against the gray texture of an otherwise grave, earnest, almost severe
character. It might be sparkling wit, or warm affections, or both,
that were thus pleasantly symbolized.
She met Bergan's curious glance with a quiet smile, that seemed to
understand its object, and enjoy, beforehand, its discomfiture. She
even answered it with a brief scrutiny, that was hardly less in
earnest, though not at all puzzled,--scarcely, even, inquiring.
At this moment, the sun suddenly disappeared. The two faces, that had
been so clearly and ruddily lit up by his declining beams, were left
pale and shadowed, looking at each other under the solemn old trees;
through the branches of which the wind now began to whisper softly, as
if moved to utter some sombre prediction, which yet it could not make
quite plain.
"Do you believe in omens?" asked the young lady, with a kind of playful
shiver.
"Not at all," answered Bergan, looking a little surprised.
"It is as well that you do not. For I suspect that they are like
certain modes of medical treatment; they require a large element of
faith to make them efficacious. And, to say truth, neither do I
believe in them--except in a poetical way. If I did, I should say that
this sudden shadow augurs but badly for our future acquaintance, and
influence upon each other."
"If it means," replied Bergan, "that we are to know sunshine and shade
together, little more could be predicted--or desired--of any earthly
acquaintance."
"Perhaps not. Still, as I _do_ believe in omens, as I said before, in
a poetical way, I am glad to see that the sun is not really set, after
all. He only sank into a deceptive line of cloud. There! he comes
forth again, to give us another bright glance before his final
leave-taking. And, in order to leave the omen in its present
satisfactory state, I will anticipate his departure. Good evening."
Slightly inclining her head, as she passed Bergan, she quickly
disappeared under the low-hanging oak boughs.
Nix looked after her, for a moment; then he turned to Bergan, as if
wondering why he did not go, too. Seeing no sign of departure, he was
about to fling himself upon the ground, when a clear, sweet whistle
suddenly sounded from the direction which the young lady had taken.
Pricking up his ears, he instantly set off at a great pace; leaving
Bergan with a vague sadness, as having been deserted by his last friend.
However, the feeling was but momentary. Very quickly he turned to the
consideration of the interesting question who his late interlocutor
might be. Running over in his mind all the branches of the family of
Bergan, in the neighborhood (of which there were several, more or less
direct), he soon decided that she did not harmonize with what he knew
of any of them. Yet she had seemed to know him; and to think, and even
to intimate, that they were likely to meet again, and possibly to exert
a degree of influence upon each other's lives. And still, as he
pondered and questioned, the oak trees kept whispering overhead, with
all their multitudinous tongues, an apparently full, but
unintelligible, explanation.
He bewildered himself with conjectures, until all the sunset tints had
faded from the sky, and darkness was fast gathering under the oak
boughs. Then he rose, and went his solitary way homeward.
Arrived at Mrs. Lyte's gate, it seemed to him that there was an unusual
stir and liveliness about the house. Certainly, a broad beam of light
was shining across the hall, from a door that he had never before seen
open. Ere he could think what these things betokened, Cathie came
running to meet him, with a great piece of news in her beaming face.
"Oh! Mr. Arling!" she exclaimed, in almost breathless delight, "Astra
has come!"
The mystery was at an end. Indeed it could scarcely have been a
mystery, but for two concurrent circumstances. In the first place,
knowing Miss Lyte to be an artist,--or at least, an art-student,--and
possessed of a sufficiently independent character and spirit, he had
unconsciously sketched a portrait of her in his fancy, very different
from the original,--taller, larger, with more color, and, certainly,
less feminine. And, secondly, only the day before, he had heard Mrs.
Lyte lamenting that her daughter would not be at home for another month.
A sudden turn of circumstances, however, had wrought an equally sudden
change in Miss Lyte's plans; and, taking advantage of the opportune
escort afforded by a business trip of a friend, she had journeyed
southward with such celerity as to outstrip the letter of announcement
that she had dispatched, a day before her departure from New York.
Reaching home almost immediately after Bergan had gone out for his
solitary stroll, she had spent the afternoon in a long, earnest,
circumstantial talk with her mother,--discussing her plans and
prospects,--throwing off, with careless fluency, vivid picture upon
picture of her art life and work in the city,--listening eagerly to
interjectional items of home news,--and cheering Mrs. Lyte's heart,
through and through, with her bright spirits, her ready, yet healthful,
sympathy, and the inspiring energy both of her manner and mind. With
the very sight of her, more than half the widow's burden of sorrow and
care had slipped unconsciously from her shoulders.
Finally, toward sunset, foreseeing an unusual amount of sky-splendor,
she had gone forth for a brief enjoyment of it to her old, favorite
haunt,--the oak glade which Bergan had also discovered and taken into
favor. Meeting the young man there, she had instantly recognized
him,--by reason of Nix's suggestive companionship, and her mother's
recent description,--and had taken an innocent pleasure in subjecting
him to a transient mystification.
"She gave us _such_ a surprise," went on Cathie, joyously. "Mamma
almost fainted, and I--guess what I did, Mr. Arling."
To please her, Bergan guessed what he supposed to be the most unlikely
thing; and so, in consequence of the child's peculiar character, he
guessed right.
"Doubtless, you cried," said he.
"So I did," replied Cathie, opening her eyes wide, "though I can't see
how you knew it. But I thought I was laughing, all the time, till
Astra asked me why I was so sorry to see her, and offered to go away
again if the sight of her was so painful!' And _that_ made me laugh,
in good earnest! And oh! Mr. Arling, do come and see her little white
boy! She has just been unpacking him, to show him to mamma."
"Willingly," replied Bergan, "if you are sure that she would like me to
see him."
"I'll ask her," replied Cathie, darting through the open doorway at the
left, whence came the broad beam of light aforementioned, and through
which Bergan caught a glimpse of Mrs. Lyte's black-draped figure,
seated at the farther corner of the room, in an attitude of pleased
contemplation of some object not within his range of vision.
The next moment, Miss Lyte herself appeared on the threshold, and,
seeing by his face that his mystification was over, she frankly held
out her hand to him.
"So you have found me out!" said she, laughing. "Was it wicked in me
not to answer that look in your eyes, which said so plainly, 'Who on
earth _can_ she be?' Can you pardon my selfish enjoyment of your
perplexity?"
"A perplexity that ends so pleasantly deserves thanks rather than
pardon," returned Bergan.
And having answered Mrs. Lyte's cordial greeting, and congratulated her
upon the event which had brought such unaccustomed radiance into her
face, Bergan turned, with a pardonable curiosity--or it might more
fitly be termed, an inevitable interest,--to glance around the room in
which he found himself. Never before had he happened to enter that
middle ground between the airiest ideal and the earthliest real, which
is occupied by a sculptor's studio.
VI.
OF CLAY.
Bergan's first glance around the studio was necessarily a comprehensive
one, dealing with general effect, rather than minute detail. A large
(though not a lofty) room; a bare floor; walls crowded with designs and
studies; four or five busts and statues standing around the sides, and
the life-size figure of a child in the middle, of the room;--this was
what that first glance revealed to him.
Cathie gave him no time for a second. "Look at the dear little boy,
Mr. Arling; do look at him!" she exclaimed, joining her hands over her
head, and executing a rapturous _pas seul_ around the object of her
delight. "See his cunning little whip, and his funny little feet, and
isn't he a little white darling!"
Thus besought, Bergan turned his attention to the statue in the midst.
At first sight, it seemed to represent merely a pretty and playful
human child, with a toy-whip in his hand, his head half-turned over one
shoulder, and an arch and roguish expression, as if bent on some errand
of mischief. But, while Bergan continued to gaze, fascinated, the
small physiognomy seemed to grow wily and malign, as well as arch; and
an intelligence, far more swift and subtle than ever infant of mortal
race was gifted withal, informed the tiny features. The light feet,
too, were plainly moved by deliberate purpose of guile, rather than
childish impulse; and on their soles, broad sinuate leaves were bound,
either for protection or disguise.
Bergan looked at the figure long and earnestly, enjoying its delicate
freshness and piquancy, but trying in vain to fathom its meaning.
"What will-o'-the-wisp is it?" he finally asked. "And what is he
doing, with his soft cunning and smiling malice?"
"He is a god," replied Astra. "As to his errand, it is the laudable
one of cattle-stealing."
"It seems to be a case of very early depravity," said Bergan, smiling,
yet puzzled.
"Early enough to be termed 'original sin,'" returned Astra. "For
'The babe was born at the first peep of day * *
And the same evening did he steal away
Apollo's herds.'--
Did you ever read Homer's 'Hymn to Mercury?'"
"Never. Indeed, I am not quite sure that I ever heard of it," replied
Bergan. "Is it usually counted among his works?"
"I think so; though it is fair to say that his authorship of it has
been questioned. At any rate, Shelley has put it into very musical
English verse; and there I found my subject. The circumstances of
Mercury's birth being first narrated, the newborn immortal is described
as 'a babe all other babes excelling,' and also a subtle schemer and
thief. He first invents the lyre, and accompanies his own impromptu
song of 'plastic verse,' with it; then he is 'seized with a sudden
fancy for fresh meat,' and betakes himself to the Pierian mountains,
where Apollo's 'immortal oxen' are feeding. Separating fifty from the
herd,
'He drove them wandering o'er the sandy way,
But, being ever mindful of his craft,--'
that is to say, his inborn guile,--
'Backward and forward drove he them astray,
So that the tracks, which seemed before, were aft:
His sandals then he threw to the ocean-spray,
And for each foot he wrought a kind of raft
Of tamarisk and tamarisk-like twigs,'"--
"I see," said Bergan, smiling. "The consummate little rogue!"
Astra went on:--
"'And on his feet he bound these sandals light,
The trail of whose wide leaves might not betray
His track; and then, a self-sufficing wight, * *
He from Pieria's mountain bent his flight,--'
driving the stolen cattle before him, of course. And this is the
moment at which I have sought to represent him."
"And very perfectly you have succeeded," said Bergan, admiringly. "The
arch cunning and malice of the face is simply wonderful. Indeed, it
seems to me that the statue lacks but one thing."
"And what is that?" said Astra, quickly; at the same time flashing a
swift, searching glance at her work, as if she would fain have
anticipated the criticism.
"It does not tell how the story ended."
"Oh!" said Astra, looking both relieved and amused. "I am glad that
you did not keep me waiting so long as Michael Angelo did poor
Domenico."
"How long was that, pray?"