scarcely have started up more quickly and cautiously, nor have fled
from them faster. As he expected and desired, the low boughs closing
and rustling behind him, made what followed inaudible. He was loath to
hear another word. He felt almost guilty for having heard so much.
Those subdued, confidential tones, those quietly spoken Christian
names, had, of themselves, been a startling revelation. For,
notwithstanding her frank, easy, affable deportment toward those who
came within her sphere, Astra Lyte knew well how to hedge herself round
with a maidenly dignity that kept familiarity at a distance. She was
not the kind of girl whose Christian name finds its way easily to
unaccustomed lips. Despite his own residence, for a considerable time,
under the same roof, and the frank and friendly intercourse which had
grown out of it,--despite, too, the fact that Mrs. Lyte often called
him her son, and Cathie was wont to spring to his arms as to those of a
brother,--it had never occurred to himself to call her anything less
formal than "Miss Lyte." Nor would it have done to Dr. Remy, he felt
sure, without the sufficient warrant of a close and tender relation.
This premise being established, the conclusion that such a relation
existed was unavoidable.
And, looking back over the events of the past few weeks, Bergan was
amazed to see with what an amount of corroboratory evidence he was
unexpectedly furnished. Not only did numberless glances, tones, and
actions, bearing directly upon the case, start suddenly into view, but,
just as the landscape through which one passes presents new outlines,
new features, and a new sentiment, in a backward survey, so these
things assumed new faces and a new meaning, in his review of them.
Once or twice, of late, it had occurred to him that Astra was scarcely
at her ease, in Dr. Remy's presence; he now understood that this
constraint came of affection, fearful of betraying itself, and not, as
he had imagined, of some newborn distrust or dislike. Anterior to
this, he had observed that the doctor's visits to Miss Lyte's studio
were much more frequent than formerly, and that he was making an
obvious enough attempt to commend himself to her favor by a more
cordial and constant interest in her work, as well as by exercising a
more careful circumspection over his conversation. His cynicism
vanished, or veiled itself, before the rich glow of her enthusiasm.
His satire spared her generous ambition. His scepticism, though not
less frank, was less hostile and inveterate; and often it resolved
itself into a kind of weary and wistful sadness, as if it were less a
choice than a misfortune, and would gladly exchange itself for
something better, if it only knew how. At such times, Bergan himself
was sensible of a singular charm in his conversation, a kind of
autumn-night splendor; chill, lustrous moonlight, mystical shadow, and
vague mournfulness, blending into one, irresistible fascination. No
doubt, Astra had been made to feel it still more keenly; no doubt, too,
she had been led to believe that whatever was amiss in the doctor's
beliefs would yield readily to her influence,--that he would prove
scarcely less plastic in her hands than the clay wherewith she was wont
to deal so cunningly.
Yet Bergan could not help wondering a little at the doctor's ready
success. Astra's genius, he thought, should have saved her from any
hasty bestowal of her affections. He did not know that, in this
regard, a woman of genius differs little from the most commonplace of
her sisters. She gives her affections as trustfully, and flings
herself away as freely, as the silliest of them all.
Having gotten to this point in his meditations, and also to the middle
of the open field, back of the garden, Bergan could not help turning
and looking toward the thicket, the neighborhood of which he had so
hastily quitted. His face grew troubled and anxious, as he gazed. Was
Doctor Remy anywise worthy of the heart that he had won? Bergan shook
his head ruefully, as he asked himself this question. Without intent
or wish of his own--in spite, even, of some strenuous efforts to the
contrary--a deep distrust of the doctor had rooted itself in his mind.
Though it gave but scanty justification of itself to his intellect, and
was not allowed to show itself in his actions; though, now and then, he
made a sturdy effort to uproot it, and cast it out, as an ungenerous
return for kindness, or something that looked like it; it,
nevertheless, kept its ground, and quietly strengthened itself there.
It did not fail, now, to thrust itself into view, as a partial answer
to his question. The bright spring landscape, with its crowded leaf
and bloom, and its rich promise of fruit, seemed to darken with a
shadow from Astra's future, as thus revealed to him. Must the promise
of seed-time and harvest fail, then, only in the moral world?
Though Bergan, driven by a nice sense of honor, had fled so
precipitately from the voices and the neighborhood of the lovers, there
is no reason why the reader may not return thither, and see what is to
be learned from their conversation.
"I cannot think it right," said Astra, "to leave mother in ignorance
any longer."
"Do you think, then," asked Doctor Remy, reproachfully, "that I would
ask you to do anything wrong?"
Astra hesitated for a moment. Perhaps it then and there occurred to
her, for the first time, that the doctor's standard of right was likely
to differ from her own, in the same ratio as his religious faith.
Doctor Remy did not wait for the tardy answer. Putting his arm round
Astra, he drew her head on to his shoulder. The movement might have
been prompted by tenderness; none the less, it had the effect to take
his face out of her line of vision.
"All my life long, Astra," said he, in a deep, moved tone--(it is often
easier to put a desired note into the voice, than a corresponding
expression into the face)--"all my life long, I have had a strange
desire to be trusted,--trusted implicitly. Faith without sight--blind,
unquestioning faith--is to me one of the most beautiful as well as
desirable things on earth; all the more so, perhaps, that it is not
given to me to feel it. But it has always been my dream, my hope, to
inspire it. In my ideal picture of the woman whom I should love, it
was always her consummate, irresistible charm. Must I now make up my
mind to do without it?"
Astra was touched. "If it did not seem to be wrong!" she exclaimed.
The doctor shook his head. "_That_ is not trust," said he, "at least,
not the trust that I mean. Who can so order circumstances that they
shall never seem to condemn him? But the faith of which I speak,
having once assured itself of the integrity of its beloved, never again
admits it to be an open question."
Astra was silent. The doctor heaved a heavy sigh. "I see that I am
not to realize my ideal," said he. "Well, it cannot be helped. I will
give you the explanation that you need. Perhaps, being satisfied, in
this instance, that I have a good reason for what I do, you will be
able to trust me hereafter."
"I will, indeed I will!" exclaimed Astra, eagerly.
"The worst of it is," pursued the doctor, "that you compel me to betray
a trust--your mother's trust."
Astra's cheek flushed. She had been miserable at the idea of keeping
anything from her mother; was she, then, the one really excluded from
confidence?
"Stay," said she, proudly, "I do not wish to hear anything that my
mother desires to conceal from me."
"Then," replied the doctor, "it is impossible for me to explain why our
engagement must not be made known, at present, to your mother."
Astra looked bewildered, as well she might, at this apparently
inscrutable complication.
Doctor Remy seemed to take pity on her perplexity. "Listen, dear,"
said he, "and you will soon understand. Your mother consulted me
professionally, a fortnight since."
Astra's cheek grew white with sudden fear. "What is it?" she gasped.
"There is no immediate danger," said the doctor, "and may not be, for
years, with due precautions. But there is a tendency to heart disease;
and it is imperative, just now, that she should not be agitated. And
this, Astra, is the reason why she must not hear of our engagement, for
some time to come."
Astra looked down thoughtfully. "I think you are mistaken," said she.
"I believe it would be a relief to her to know that my future is in
such good hands."
"Doubtless, that would be the ultimate effect," replied Doctor Remy;
"but there would be emotional excitement, at first, more than is good
for her;--so much that I, as a physician, am bound to forbid it."
Astra could not but admit that the prohibition was just. Mrs. Lyte had
seemed very fragile and feeble, of late. Astra had urged that
application to Doctor Remy which, it now appeared, her mother had made,
but in regard to the results of which she had chosen to keep
silence,--from a loving wish, probably, to save her daughter from
unavailing anxiety. Astra's heart swelled at the thought.
"Are you _sure_," she asked, "that there is no immediate danger?"
"As sure as one can be, in such cases--_if_ she is kept quiet."
"And is there any probability that the disease may be eventually cured?"
"There is a possibility,--with the same indispensable condition."
Doctor Remy waited for a moment, in order that Astra might be duly
impressed with this answer; then, he asked with a kind of proud
humility;--
"Have I justified myself, in this matter?"
"Forgive me," said Astra, penitently. "Of course I never really
distrusted your motives; I only fancied that my duty to my mother could
not be affected by them."
"You see," suggested Doctor Remy, "how easy it is to be misled by
appearances, even with the best intentions. The faith, of which I used
to dream, would never have fallen into that error."
"I will try to have it, hereafter," said Astra.
"And yet," returned Doctor Remy, "you will doubtless insist upon a
further explanation of the reason why I do not wish our engagement to
be known to the outside world."
"Indeed, I shall not," returned Astra, glad of an opportunity of
proving that she was neither so distrustful, nor so curious, as he
believed. "Of course, the outside world must wait till mother is
informed; she has the right to the first telling. If you have any
other reason for keeping the matter secret, I do not seek to know it."
Could Astra have seen the look of triumph in Doctor Remy's face, she
would have been startled. But he only said, quietly,--
"Thank you for so much trust." And, after a moment, he added,--"As you
say, it is your mother's right to know first. Of course, then, you
will not indulge in any confidences to intimate friends."
"Certainly not," said Astra, a little surprised. "Indeed, I have
none,--except, perhaps, Carice Bergan."
"I would not mention it, even to her," said the doctor.
"I do not intend to," replied Astra, decidedly. "But I must go in;
mother will miss me."
II.
THE FOUNDATIONS FAIL.
Astra's light form being quickly lost behind the intervening foliage,
Doctor Remy turned slowly and meditatively toward his office; which,
inasmuch as it had been built for the use and behoof of the late Doctor
Lyte, possessed its own door of convenient communication with the
garden.
Given opportunity, social equality, and a fine, unremitting tact, and
it would seem that any man can marry any woman, whose affections are
free. Else, it would be hard to understand how Doctor Remy could have
found his way into the heart of Astra Lyte; unless indeed, as is
frequently the case, their very dissimilarity should have constituted a
principle of attraction; character has its own laws of effective
contrast. Astra was enthusiastic, generous, affectionate, with strong
religious instincts and aspirations; Doctor Remy was cold, selfish,
austere, without reverential sentiment, and, in matters of faith, an
utter sceptic. But these traits need not be supposed to have exhibited
themselves to Astra in their naked unloveliness. To her imagination,
doubtless, they took the fairer form of a calm temperament, and great
force and firmness of character, allied to a keen and critical
intellect; which last must needs be allowed to take its own appropriate
time and road to belief (except as it seemed willing to owe something
to her loving guidance). And Astra was of the age and character which
are most prone to fall down and worship human intellect; failing, as
yet, to understand that it is, in itself, of the earth earthy, and
really noble and admirable only as it is enlightened by the spirit of
God. She was dazzled and fascinated by the extent and variety of
Doctor Remy's attainments, and the range and freedom of his ideas. To
talk with him was like drawing the curtain and opening wide the window
on a wintry evening, admitting free, frosty air, and giving a far
outlook over bleak, white hills and leafless forests. Nor did it alarm
her that the air was much too fresh and chill to be breathed long with
comfort or safety, and the landscape drearily bare and skeleton-like,
since the doctor was always ready, at her slightest sign, to drop
window and curtain, and turn back with her to warmer precincts and
gentler themes.
And so, it had come to pass that, as Doctor Remy walked up the shady
garden walk, he had good reason to congratulate himself upon the
success, thus far, of his plans. Not only was Astra won, but she had
consented to keep silence about the wooing, for awhile. Thus he was
saved from the awkwardness of having to account to Mrs. Lyte for his
unwillingness to have the engagement made public. It would be
difficult to invent a reason likely to commend itself to her judgment;
yet it was out of the question to give her the real one,--namely, his
reasonable doubt whether he should be altogether acceptable to Major
Bergan as the future husband of that gentleman's heiress, and so, in
some sense, as his heir; and his consequent fear lest the will in her
favor should be set aside. Such a confession might give a mercenary
tinge to his suit, in Mrs. Lyte's eyes, which he wisely deprecated. So
far as he knew, neither she nor her daughter had ever heard of the
Major's declaration of his gracious intentions toward the latter; or,
if they had, they regarded it only as a meaningless ebullition of his
rage at Bergan Arling. Such, in truth, would the doctor himself have
thought it, except for certain later inquiries respecting Miss Lyte,
put to himself by the Major; which seemed to show that the matter had
not escaped his memory. Besides, in consideration of the Major's
bitter resentment toward his brother and nephew,--extending,
apparently, to everybody connected with either,--no more eligible heir
to the Bergan estate was to be found, than Astra Lyte. If the Major
had made his will, as he threatened, there was no one, in the whole
Bergan connection, with so strong a claim upon his favorable
consideration.
Here the doctor paused, for a moment, in his slow walk. "If!" he
muttered, peevishly. "To think that the whole thing turns on a
miserable 'if!' I must contrive some way of finding out whether that
will--or any will--was ever made. There must be no defective nor
missing links in this chain, nothing to invite the meddling of the
cursed fate which has followed me so long. The Major must not be
permitted to die, one of these days,--by the interposition of
Providence and delirium tremens, or something vastly like it,--and
leave me with an abortive plan and a portionless _fiancée_. To be
sure, I should not be long in getting rid of the latter, but there
would be no help for the former."
His soliloquy had brought him to his office door. Suddenly bethinking
himself, then, that a certain patient had been overlooked in the
catalogue of the day's duties, he called for his horse, and set out to
make good the omission.
His road led past the Bergan estate. As he was galloping swiftly
onward, absorbed in his own reflections, he heard an energetic
"Halloo!" Pulling up his horse, and looking back, he beheld Major
Bergan leaning over a small gate, which opened into the fields near the
quarter.
"Are you deaf?" was his angry salutation, duly emphasized with an oath.
"Here I've been hollering after you, till I'm black in the face. I
wish I had saved myself the trouble!"
"All the fault of my horse's hoofs," replied the doctor,
good-humoredly, as he turned his horse toward the gate; "they made such
a clatter under me that I could not well hear anything else. How can I
serve you?"
Major Bergan hesitated. Apparently his business did not come readily
to his lips.
"Perhaps you are on your way to a patient," he finally observed, as if
he would be well enough suited to find an excuse for not broaching it
at all.
His reluctance only stimulated the doctor's curiosity. "The case is
not urgent," said he, carelessly; "by and by, or even to-morrow
morning, will do just as well. There is no reason why I should not be
entirely at your service--as I am."
"Come in, then," returned the Major, in a tone that was far from
gracious; but swinging open the gate, nevertheless, for Doctor Remy's
admission.
The latter dismounted, led his horse through, and slipping the bridle
over his arm, walked by the Major's side to the cottage. On the way,
the latter vouchsafed a brief explanation of his wishes.
"I've been thinking a good deal of the advice that you gave me awhile
ago," said he, "and--and--I've concluded to make my will. So, seeing
you riding by, just as my mind was full of the subject, it occurred to
me that I might as well call you in, and have the thing over with."
"And a very sensible decision," returned Doctor Remy, as quietly as if
he were not filled with unexpected delight that the information which
he had hoped to gain only at cost of some deep and difficult scheming,
was thus placed within easy reach. "I only wonder that you have not
done it before."
"I don't see why I should," replied Major Bergan, sharply; "I've always
been strong and hearty,--what had I to do with making wills? And, now
that I think of it, what have I to do with it now? I'm not in a
decline yet, by any means."
"So much the better for your work," replied Doctor Remy, composedly.
"Deathbed wills are often contested. No one will question your
soundness of mind, at present."
"I should think not," said the Major, decidedly. "If he did, he
wouldn't be apt to doubt the soundness of my sinews,--I'd horsewhip him
into instant conviction."
"Are you provided with witnesses?" asked the Doctor, when the Major's
chuckle had subsided.
"Witnesses? How many does it want?"
"Two are necessary."
The Major mused for a moment. "I can have them here by the time they
are needed," said he. "My new overseer at Number Two will do for one,
and I'll send for Proverb Dick for the other. Step into the cottage,
and make yourself at home for a moment, while I see about it."
Doctor Remy flung himself into the first chair that presented itself,
and sank into a fit of thought. A vague disquietude oppressed him,
notwithstanding that events seemed to be shaping themselves so much in
accordance with his wishes. He believed himself to be on the eve of
victory, or at least of a certain measure of present success which
would insure victory; but both religion and philosophy, he knew, were
agreed in representing human expectations as of the nature of the
flower of the field, in various danger from the frost, the knife, and
the uprooting wind. To this general testimony he could add the special
confirmation of his own experience. Like most men, Doctor Remy had the
sobering privilege of looking back upon a career of which the successes
were few, and the failures and disappointments many. The track of his
earthly pilgrimage, thus far, he bitterly thought, was tolerably well
strewn with wrecks and abortions.
A better man, trying to spell out the meaning and tendency of his life
by the aid of a higher inspiration, might have found some comfort in
the review, nevertheless. He might have discovered some evidences of
harmony and design amid seeming discord and confusion, some solid
foundations showing underneath abortive ruins, some steady inward
growth of patience and strength and hope, in lieu of an outward harvest
of earthly possessions. He might have discerned, with awe and
humility, that sometimes he had builded better than he knew, because
building in accordance with a certain overruling design, of which he
now first began to catch faint and partial glimpses. But such
consolation was not allowed to Doctor Remy. In his past, all was
incomplete, confused, and unsatisfactory. He had not gained what he
sought, and nothing better had come to him through its loss. For many
years of time, and an uncommon measure of talent, he had scarce
anything to show of what he considered life's highest prizes--wealth,
position, influence. He set himself seriously to discover why. And,
for one moment, he, too, had a chill perception of a certain unity and
sequence in the debris left behind him, unperceived before; which
seemed to show that, though he had served his own ends but poorly, he
had none the less helped to forward some extended scheme, whereof he
had known nothing at the time, and could now discern only the most
fragmentary outline. But Doctor Remy quickly shook himself free of
this notion, with a smile at his own absurdity.
Why, then, he asked himself, had he failed? Because of his mistakes,
no doubt. Let every man bear the blame of his own acts, and not try to
throw it off on his neighbors, or that convenient scapegoat,
Providence. Looking back, he could discern many a point (and notably
one), where he had committed a grave error. But his mistakes had been
his instructors, nevertheless. He had gained from them knowledge that
should stand him in good stead yet. To his former qualities of
boldness, energy, perseverance, and skill, he now added the experience
that could use them to better effect. It would be strange, indeed, if
he could not henceforth command success.
He had just reached this conclusion when Major Bergan joined him.
Ample provision of lights, paper, pens, and ink, being then placed upon
the table, together with the inevitable brandy bottle, the two
gentlemen sat down opposite each other, and Doctor Remy began his task
of drawing up the will. He first wrote the usual legal preamble, in a
clear, rapid hand, and read it aloud for Major Bergan's approval. Some
small legacies followed, taken down nearly verbatim from the Major's
dictation. Doctor Remy then waited, for some moments, with his pen
suspended over the paper, while the Major seemed trying vainly to
arrange his thoughts.
"I don't quite know how to word the next," said he, at length, "you
must put it into shape yourself. I hold a mortgage of the place where
Catherine Lyte lives; and I want it cancelled, at my death, in her
favor, or, if she does not survive me, in favor of her daughter Astra."
"You surprise me," remarked Doctor Remy, as he began to write; "I have
always understood that the place was free from incumbrance."
"You understood wrong, then," replied Major Bergan. "Though, for
anything that I know, Catherine Lyte may think so herself. You see,
Harvey got into difficulties eight or nine years ago, and I lent him
money, and took a mortgage on the place. He kept the interest paid up
until his death; and since then, nothing has been said to me about
either interest or principal; from which I concluded that Catherine did
not know of the fact. And as I felt sorry for her, I decided to say
nothing about it myself, as long as I was not in need of the money, nor
likely to be. But it will not do her any harm to know, after I am
dead, that I have been kinder to her than she knew of."
Doctor Remy looked up with a smile. "I suspect," said he, "that it
would not be well for her to offend you."
"I don't know about that," replied Major Bergan, complacently. "She
did offend me, when she took my nephew in; and I came pretty near
foreclosing then. But Maumer Rue convinced me that she could not
afford to refuse a good offer for her rooms; and moreover, as Harry
only had his office there, and took his meals at the hotel, she need
not have much more to do with him than I did, if she did not choose."
Doctor Remy did not think it necessary to enlighten the Major in regard
to Bergan's familiarity with the family of Mrs. Lyte, since such a
disclosure must needs militate directly against his own ends. He
silently put the Major's wish into correct legal phrase and form, and
then lifted his head with the question;--
"What next?"