sympathy and regret, the other with passionate tears and lamentations.
"He will not come back! He will not come back!" she screamed, wringing
her hands, as he rode away; and the mournful cry followed him down the
street, like a prophecy of woe.
A little farther on, he discovered that Nix was trotting quietly
alongside of his horse. And so intimately had the dog been connected
with all his sojourn under Mrs. Lyte's roof, that, in sending him back,
he seemed to close the final page of this whole epoch of his life.
His road skirted a retired portion of the grounds of Oakstead.
Suddenly, he espied Carice, standing on the bank of the creek, with her
eyes thoughtfully fixed upon its rippling flow. His sad heart yearned
towards her with irresistible force. Glancing at his watch, he saw
that there was yet time for a brief, parting word. He flung himself
from his horse, threw the bridle over a gatepost, and ran quickly
towards her.
"I am so glad to find you here!" he exclaimed, as he drew near.
"Otherwise, I must have gone without saying good-bye. I am sent for,
in great haste; my mother is very ill, and--"
He stopped; his grave face said the rest.
"I am very, very sorry!" putting her hand in his, with quick, earnest
sympathy. "When did you hear?"
"This morning. She insisted that I should be sent for, as soon as she
was taken ill; she believed that she could not recover. It is the
typhoid fever."
Carice's face blanched suddenly. "Ah! that has a fearful sound," she
said, shiveringly. "My two brothers"--
Her voice failed, and her slight frame shook with sudden emotion. It
was the first time that Bergan had heard her allude to the only sorrow
which she had yet known; but the effect of which had been all the more
keenly felt, doubtless, because, for her parents' sake, she had shut it
resolutely into the depths of her heart, never allowing its shadow to
be seen for a moment on the face wherein they now looked for
consolation and cheer.
Much moved, Bergan put his arm round the slender, tremulous form. At
first, it was only the blind, manly instinct of help and support that
prompted him; but with the act there came a swift revelation, a great
rush of tenderness, that almost took his breath away. Though he had
never suspected it till now, he knew, in an instant, beyond the
possibility of a doubt, not only that he loved Carice, but that he had
loved her long.
Carice, on her part, was quick to feel the sudden, subtile change in
the character of the support given her, and made a fluttering movement
of escape. But Bergan would not let her go.
"Carice," said he, gravely, "if I should return sorrowing, will you
console me?"
"If I can," she answered, simply, raising her blue eyes to his face.
"If you can!" he repeated, with a deep tender intonation,--"oh, Carice!
it must be a heavy sorrow indeed that you cannot console!"
As he spoke, the day, which had hitherto been cloudy, suddenly broke
into a smile, pouring a flood of golden light on the river, trickling
through the boughs of the overhanging trees in great, shining drops,
and flinging a yellow gleam far down their gray trunks. Wondrous
sympathy of Nature with the bliss of two spirits made one,--the tender
joy that keeps, throughout the musty years, the freshness and fragrance
of its Eden birth! Yet, had the day still held its gloom, it would
have been bright in Carice's eyes, and bright in Bergan's! Wherever
Love is newly born, it creates a sunshine of the heart, which overflows
upon the outward world, and fills it with celestial radiance.
Five minutes later, and Carice was alone by the river's bank, blushing
to hear how persistently the little stream kept whispering and singing
of what it had just seen and heard. The leaves, too, seemed to be
softly talking it over among themselves; and a red bird and a gray one
were gossiping merrily about it among the branches.
Still more plainly, Carice's face told the story, when she sought her
parents. They saw at once that it was not the same face which had gone
out from them an hour before. It had changed as an opening rosebud
must have changed in the same time, under the balmy breathing of the
warm south wind. Its merely girlish loveliness was over; playing about
the mouth, and shining from the eyes, there was a bright and tender
smile that seemed gushing from the very heart of awakening womanhood.
Never had she seemed so lovely, never so radiant. Looking upon her, it
was easy to divine the secret of angelic beauty. The heavenly
existences are immortally beautiful because immortally happy.
"Did you engage yourself to him?" asked Mr. Bergan, almost sternly,
when her brief tale was told.
"Of course not," answered Carice, opening wide her blue eyes at the
unusual tone,--"not until you and mamma are consulted. Only, we know
that we love each other."
At the same time, Dr. Remy stood smiling to himself, in his office,--a
dark, ominous smile.
"I am sure of three months," said he. "And, in three months, tact and
perseverance can accomplish a great deal."
At the same time, too, Astra rose suddenly from the chair, where Bergan
had left her sitting, and began to pace up and down the room.
"I have been idle too long," she said to herself; "I have let myself
dream till my world is peopled with shadows, and I cannot distinguish
the false from the true. Work is what I want. Work will exorcise
these phantoms, and make my brain clear and strong again."
She stopped and looked fixedly into vacancy, striving to recall a
former conception that had been dazzled out of sight in the golden dawn
of her love. In a moment, it rose again before her; a great, stalwart,
straining figure,--a man struggling up out of the waves that had
wellnigh worsted him, with a little child on his shoulders.
Quickly she improvised a kind of platform, and brought out her fertile
box of clay. Nervously, she fastened her supports together; rapidly
around them rose the soft, gray, plastic material in the rude, rough
resemblance of a human form.
VI.
WITH A DOUBLE HEART.
Now and then, on a summer's day, the air is suddenly filled with
minute, swarming insects of the genus _ephemera_. They come unnoticed
and unheralded; the air is thick with them ere one is aware; ears,
mouths, and nostrils are filled with them, despite all efforts to the
contrary; they are variously regarded from the scientific, the poetic,
and the moral point of view, or merely as nuisances; by and by, they
are gone as they came.
In just such wise, a swarm of rumors prejudicial to the reputation of
Bergan Arling suddenly filled the air of Berganton; coming no one knew
whence, but quickly circulating everywhere, to be variously met with
surprise, doubt, belief, regret, anger, and indifference. It was
averred that he had gone home deeply in debt, at least to his good
friend Doctor Remy, who certainly deserved better treatment at his
hands. It was alleged that he was hopelessly the victim of a depraved
appetite for strong drink, although, by the help of the same good
friend, he had managed, thus far, to save himself from public exposure.
It was affirmed that he had persuaded Astra Lyte into a secret
engagement, perhaps for the sake of mere pastime, perhaps with a view
to the ultimate possession of the roof which had so long sheltered him,
or to the union of his own with Astra's chances for the future
ownership of Bergan Hall. Finally, it was shrewdly suspected that,
having grown weary alike of the debts, the engagement, and the measure
of constraint which he had hitherto exercised over himself, he had
suddenly broken away from all three, with the trumped-up excuse of his
mother's illness, and taken himself off, not to return.
Coming, as has been said, no one knew from whence, and having no
apparent voucher, these rumors nevertheless penetrated to
counting-rooms and boudoirs, to offices and to bar-rooms, to Major
Bergan on his vast estate, and Dick Causton in his narrow cabin, to
Godfrey Bergan at his desk, and Carice beside her mother,--everywhere,
save to the two persons most directly interested; namely, Bergan Arling
on his rapid way homeward, and Astra Lyte in her studio.
Astra was hard at work now. Every hour, her clay model grew in
strength or symmetry under her rapid touches. Yet her hope of finding
clearness and quietness of mind in the exercise of her beloved art, had
been wofully disappointed. The phantoms of doubt and anxiety which had
haunted her idleness were not laid by her industry, but only held in
abeyance until the inevitable moment of exhaustion, or of suspended
inspiration, brought them upon her again, with tenfold power to annoy.
Do what she would, she could not shut her eyes to the fact that a
change had come over Doctor Remy, nor prevent herself from speculating
as to its nature and cause. At first, it was only that miserable and
dream-like change of look and manner which forbids one to complain,
because it gives no lucid explanation of itself to the intellect,
however it may disturb and depress the heart. Its effect was magical,
nevertheless, in clearing Astra's vision from that soft, transfiguring
haze of the imagination through which love delights to gaze at its
object, and in giving her occasional glimpses into the depths and
intricacies of Doctor Remy's character. Unconsciously, whenever he
came near her, she fell to watching his words, his tones, his looks,
even his motions and attitudes, for indications of the hidden, inner
man, upon whose qualities and tendencies her happiness so largely
depended. The object of this scrutiny was too keen-witted not to be
aware of it, and too subtile not to avail himself of it to further his
own ends. With apparent carelessness, but consummate art, he allowed
more and more of his true character to come to the surface; he showed
himself scornful toward religion, faithless toward mankind, indifferent
and unsympathizing toward herself, in the hope of quickly transforming
her affection into disgust, and forcing her to put a speedy end to
their engagement. Doing this whenever he met her, he none the less
took good care to make it manifest that he avoided her as far as
possible.
Under these circumstances, no wonder that Astra grew pale and thin,
that alternately she worked as in a fever, or stood idle as in a dream,
that her old, cheery alacrity gave place to sombre restlessness, and
her glow of happy spirits to pale depression, that, in short, she
speedily became so unlike herself as greatly to alarm Mrs. Lyte, who
finally appealed to Doctor Remy. He was only too glad to prescribe
immediate change of air and scene.
Mrs. Lyte stood aghast.
"I do not see how I can manage it," said she, slowly. "My income is
just sufficient for our present mode of life; there is no surplus to
meet the added expense of a health trip."
Doctor Remy mused for a moment. "We will talk over this matter again,"
said he, at length, looking at his watch; "just now I have an
engagement. But trust my assurance that wherever there is a plain
necessity for a thing, there is a way to obtain it. Good morning."
Doctor Remy's engagement did not prevent him from repairing straightway
to Bergan Hall, whither the rumors already alluded to had preceded him.
And so artfully did he work upon Major Bergan's hasty and arbitrary
temper as to induce him forthwith to warn Mrs. Lyte of the existence of
the forfeited mortgage, and his intention to foreclose at an early day.
Be it said, however, in the Major's behalf, that he graciously designed
said warning to play somewhat of the part of a blessing in disguise.
For, having first shown Mrs. Lyte how completely she was in his power,
it was his generous intention to offer her the largest mercy
thereafter, even to the immediate relinquishment of every claim against
her estate, on the easy condition that she, and her daughter should at
once break off all relations and engagements with his nephew, Bergan
Arling. Thus, he would save Astra from what he was easily persuaded
would turn out to be a most unhappy marriage; at the same time that he
would gratify a certain odd itching in his fingers to meddle in
Bergan's affairs. The whole business was arranged in less than an
hour, and Doctor Remy returned homeward triumphant.
Nor was his elation at all shadowed by any thought of the suffering
about to be inflicted at his instigation. Men of his naturally hard
and forceful character, intensified by long culture of the intellect at
the expense of the sensibilities, are apt to take a terribly straight
path in one sense, if a wofully crooked one in another, to whatever end
they have in view. The feelings of others, where they cannot be made
to subserve their purposes, are regarded as so many obstructions in
their way; to be pushed aside, or trampled under-foot, as the case may
be.
Possibly, too, they do not credit others with a greater depth of
feeling than they are conscious of in themselves. Certainly, Doctor
Remy, knowing nothing, by experience, of the tender and sacred
associations that cluster around the home of years, was not likely to
concern himself about the probable grief of Mrs. Lyte, at leaving hers,
except as it might hinder or prevent her departure. For, go she
must,--at least, for a time,--since Astra would not be likely to go
without her. His present task was so to smooth and clear the way for
them, on the one hand, while he furnished the necessary degree of
motive power, on the other, that they should be gone ere Major Bergan
was aware, or had submitted his terms of compromise to their
consideration.
In furtherance of this design, he had tapped lightly at the door of
Astra's studio, ere the sound of voices from within told him that she
was not alone. Carice Bergan was with her, and both were discussing
Astra's statue of clay; unto the creation of which she had lately
turned--with such scanty measure of success--for distraction, if not
for comfort. With a slight bow and a word of greeting to Doctor Remy,
Carice went on with what she was saying, in her own singularly gentle,
yet frank and fearless, fashion.
"As I said just now, it is simply wonderful, in its way; but, Astra, I
don't like its way at all. The Offero (for I suppose he is not to be
called Saint Christopher yet,) is much too near to falling and fainting
under his burden,--"
"Perhaps he may literally do so," interrupted Astra, with a sad and
bitter smile. "Nay, you need not look so startled, I only mean that I
fear his supports are not strong enough; I did not realize what would
be the gravitation of such a huge mass of clay. The figure is
certainly settling more than I like to see."
"I did not allude to material supports," replied Carice, steadily, "but
to that spiritual aid which the Christ-Child would be sure to give to
one who bore Him so cheerfully and bravely as Offero did, however
heavily He might be pleased to burden him. There should be more of
steady hope and courage, as well as of wonder at the supernatural
weight of his small burden, instead of that terrible strain and agony
of effort, and that dreary, dogged sort of resolve."
"You forget," said Astra, "that he does not yet understand the nature
of his burden, nor wherefore it is laid upon him;--neither," she added
mournfully to herself, "neither do I."
Carice shook her head. "You have forgotten," she replied, "that he is
not bearing the burden _for himself_, but for love of that far-off,
mighty King of whom he has heard; which feeling ought to strengthen his
heart and his sinews, and shine out in his face."
Astra turned away her head. As she had unconsciously wrought her own
wretched, despondent moods of the past week into the sensitive clay, so
Carice's comments upon the result had their sidelong application to
herself.
"As for the Christ-Child," continued Carice, raising her eyes from the
Bearer to the Burden, "how did you ever get that look of immitigable
fate into a child's rounded face? As a piece of work, it is almost
miraculous; but, as a conception of the Christ-Child--I beg your
pardon, Astra--it is absolutely dreadful."
"It may stand for Offero's idea of the face which he cannot see,"
suggested Astra, in a low voice.
"Well, perhaps it might, if he were thinking of the face, which I
doubt. That is to say, the true Offero would be thinking of the King
whom he was trying to serve, rather than the burthen that he was
bearing. At any rate, it is just because he cannot see the face that
he has such an idea of it. But to us, who can see it, it ought to show
itself most benignant, most pitying, most tender and satisfying in
every respect. Else, we miss the only really helpful lesson that your
Offero is calculated to teach."
Astra looked at her friend half sadly, half-wonderingly. "Let no one
trust your gentle, innocent look, Carice," said she; "you are a
sharp-sighted critic, and as severe as you are sharp-sighted."
"On the contrary," returned Carice, "I am not criticising at all; I am
merely telling you how your statue looks to me, in its unfinished
condition. No doubt every stroke of that magical scraper of yours will
take away something of the look which I do not like, and put in
something of that which I long to see."
"I do not know," responded Astra drearily, shaking her head. "I have
not your singular depth and simplicity of vision, in spiritual things."
"Nay," Carice, "you have something more than that,--the power to
create; I have only the power to discern. That cherub yonder, for
instance;--I am glad that I am able to see that it is lovely beyond
expression, but the power to make it so, ah! that is beyond me!"
And Carice moved away to the object of her admiration, and seemed to
forget herself and all around her, in contemplating it.
Doctor Remy remained, looking critically at the clay figure.
"You have not yet said what you think of it," said Astra, turning and
looking him intently in the face.
"I had nothing to say--from the spiritual side," he answered, coolly.
"Miss Bergan exhausted that; besides, it is not in my line. But, if
you are pleased to desire my sort of criticism, here it is. That arm
is too long, and that clavicle is not sufficiently raised, and this
muscle is too flat. For the rest," he added, after a slight pause, "it
is a sufficiently ambitious work."
There was a touch of mockery in his tone which did not escape the
sensitive ear of his listener. "You think it too ambitious, perhaps,"
she said, quietly, yet not without a keen glance at his face.
He gave the clay figure another comprehensive look; then he turned to
Astra with a gentler expression than she had seen in his eyes for many
days past.
"Poor child!" said he, pityingly, "what disadvantages your genius has
to labor under, in this little, remote town, where you never see a work
of art, nor an artist, from month's end to month's end! Why do you not
go--for awhile, at least--where you can find something for your genius
to feed upon? It is a law of life that there can be no good growth
without proper food."
"You know," replied Astra, very gravely, "that I cannot leave my home
and my mother."
"Then," returned Doctor Remy, with equal gravity, "it would be a kindly
blast--though it might not seem so, at first--that should blow you all
to some point where your genius could find fuller and freer
development. If such an one should ever come to you, I hope you will
be able to regard it as--what Miss Bergan would doubtless call a
providence."
Carice was looking towards them, now; and his last words were spoken
with a smiling glance that was apparently meant to draw her into the
conversation.
"And what would Doctor Remy call it?" she asked, but without any
answering smile.
"Doctor Remy does not concern himself about names, but things," he
replied, pleasantly.
"Things answer to names," she rejoined, quickly; "and if Doctor Remy to
call a providence a chance, for instance, let him not wonder if it
prove a chance--to him."
"I am afraid that I am wofully obtuse," returned the doctor, with the
air of a man who asks for a further explanation.
"From the hand of Chance," she answered briefly, "one gets little good,
and much harm; from the hand of Providence, only good, however
disguised. The difference is in the taking and the using."
She turned towards the window as she finished, with the air of who
dismisses the subject.
Astra, meanwhile, stood gazing at the doctor with a most anxious,
disturbed expression. She was beginning to understand too well that
under many of his seemingly most careless utterances, there lurked a
deep significance and design. In the tone of his last speech to her,
there had been something which caused her a vague alarm.
"What did he mean?" she asked herself, wearily putting her hand to her
brow,--"What did he mean?"
VII.
OVERBURDENED.
Carice Bergan was gifted with instincts singularly quick and delicate.
She had not long breathed the same atmosphere with Astra and Doctor
Remy before she felt it growing heavy around her with some intensity of
emotion which she neither shared nor understood. It might be sympathy,
it might be aversion; in either case, its effect was to make her feel
confused and constrained, in their presence. At one moment, she seemed
to behold them afar off, as it were, in a sphere of their own, whither
she had neither the right nor the ability to follow them; at another,
she felt herself standing between them, barring their way to a free and
satisfactory interchange of thought and feeling; and again, she
believed that Doctor Remy alone was responsible for her discomfort,
interrupting, by his presence, the cordial flow of sympathy between
Astra and herself. At any rate, it would be a relief to escape from so
oppressive an atmosphere; accordingly, she took her departure, leaving
the lovers--if such they can be called--together.
Certainly, there was nothing lover-like in the manner with which they
faced each other, a few moments after the door had closed behind her.
That brief interval had been spent by both in preparation for the
crisis which the one knew, and the other felt, to be approaching.
Astra awaited it with a mixture of eagerness and dread; she was weary
of wearing the checkered tissue of suspense and anxiety; she would be
glad to know exactly what was in store for her, even though the bitter
fruit of such knowledge should be mortification and anguish. Doctor
Remy's face was set and hard; over it a sombre emotion, like the gray
shadow of a cloud on a rock, now and then passed swiftly, taking
nothing from its sternness, but adding much to its gloom. He looked
like a man who, at no slight cost to himself, has braced his soul with
iron for the performance of some heavy, but necessary, task. Little as
he likes it, he will carry it out pitilessly to the end.
With an inauspicious frown on his brow--none the less dark because it
must have been assumed--he now opened the conversation by saying,
abruptly;--
"Astra, I have heard some very strange rumors, of late."
"Indeed!" she returned, with a note of disappointment, as well as of
surprise, in her voice. This was but a roundabout road to explanation,
she thought; it would have pleased her better had the doctor chosen a
more direct one. She looked round for a chair, and sat down wearily,
as if to wait his pleasure with such patience as she could command.
However, Doctor Remy was going as straight to the point--his point, at
least--as could be wished. "Perhaps you will be less indifferent to
these rumors," he continued, insinuatingly, "when you understand that
they concern you, and your good name, much."
A slight flush rose to Astra's face, and her eyes lit; but she kept her
seat, and she answered not a word, though Doctor Remy waited a moment,
as if he expected her to speak. Seeing her silent, however, he went
on, slowly, and with seeming reluctance; yet, to a keen and
disinterested observer, it might have appeared that he was trying his
best to provoke her.