morning, without any incident of interest. One witness after another
came upon the stand, was examined, and dismissed; each adding something
to the weight of evidence against the prisoner, Unwick. The son of the
murdered man, Varley by name, sat nearly opposite to Bergan, by the
side of the prosecuting attorney; and being of a restless temperament,
as well as gifted with extraordinary facility in the use of a pencil,
he busied himself, as he listened to the monotonous drone of a witness,
with mechanically sketching the faces of the witnesses or the
spectators, or scenes and places that he had visited, recalled to his
mind by the evidence, or by his own roving thoughts. One of these
caught Bergan's eye, and he furtively watched its progress, while
seeming to be occupied with his papers. When finished, it was
carelessly dropped on the floor, like those which had preceded it; and
the skilful pencil quickly set to work on a new subject. In a moment
or two, Bergan dropped one of his papers, in a way to take it well
under the table, and immediately stooped to get it. When he
reappeared, a close observer might have noticed that the look of
patient watchfulness, which his face had worn so long, was gone; but
the keenest eyes would have been puzzled to read his present
expression. Was it triumph, or thankfulness, or perplexity, or a
mixture of all?
Mr. Varley was now put upon the stand, to furnish some small link in
the chain of evidence that the prosecution was drawing so skilfully
around the prisoner. The little that he was desired to say being said,
the opposing counsel politely inquired if Mr. Arling had any questions
to ask.
"One or two, if you please," answered Bergan, quietly; and rising, and
turning toward the witness, he said:--
"I believe you stated, Mr. Varley, that you had never seen the place
where your father died?"
"No; he bought it, and removed to it after I went abroad."
"Have you visited it, since your return?"
"I have not. I only got here just before the commencement of this
trial, and I have been kept too busy since to find time for the trip."
"Then you have never seen the room where your father came to his death?"
"No, certainly not," returned the witness, beginning to look a little
startled by this unaccountable persistency.
"Has it ever been very minutely described to you?"
Varley hesitated;--more, it was evident, to consider what could be the
possible drift of the question, than to search his memory for a correct
answer. He finally ventured to say that to the best of his
recollection he had been favored with no such description.
"According to my notes of the evidence taken during this trial,"
pursued Bergan, "the only facts about the room brought out with much
distinctness, were the positions of the bedstead and the window near
it;--does your memory serve you with any additional particulars?"
"N--o," faltered the witness, with symptoms of growing uneasiness.
"Then," said Bergan, with very distinct and deliberate emphasis, "if,
as you say, you never have seen this room, nor heard it minutely
described, how is it that you have been able to make so accurate a
representation of it as this which I hold in my hand?"
There was a breathless silence, while Bergan held up a small, but
distinct, pencil sketch to the view of the pale and trembling witness.
"This sketch," continued Bergan, after waiting a few moments for the
answer that did not come, "as I can vouch, and as many of these
witnesses can testify, is an exact representation of the room in
question, as it would appear from the head of the bedstead;--the very
spot in which, it will be remembered, the prosecution has assumed that
the murderer must have been concealed; and where, doubtless, he
remained long enough to fix all the details of this sketch in his
memory. Here is the peculiar double window, facing the east, and
wreathed round with vines, which is so marked a feature of the room,
yet which there has been no need to mention, during this trial, except
in the most casual way; and here, on the right, are the round table and
large armchair, where Mr. Varley wrote, and, on the left, an
old-fashioned chest of drawers, with a plaster cast of Shakespeare on
top;--all in their proper places, just as I saw them when I visited the
room, after undertaking the defence of this case. How is it, I ask
again," he went on, turning to the witness, "how is it that you could
make this sketch, if you never saw the room?"
"Who says he made it?" demanded the opposing counsel, sharply.
"I say it," calmly replied Bergan. "I saw him draw it, not half an
hour ago, on a piece of the same paper that you are using for your
notes, as you can satisfy yourself, if you choose to compare them.
Besides," he added, looking keenly at the witness, "Mr. Varley will not
deny that he made it."
No, plainly he would not, for he was physically incapable of speech.
He was shivering as with an ague fit, his knees knocked together, his
lips trembled convulsively, but no articulate sound came forth. In
another moment, he fell forward heavily on the rail that divided the
witness-stand from the lawyers' table.
"Carry him out! Give him air!" cried a dozen voices; "he has fainted."
"Yes, carry him out," said Bergan gravely, and not without a touch of
compassion in his voice; "since he is not on trial, we have no further
need of him. But let me recommend that he be not lost sight of, till
this present trial is over."
And it was over very quickly. The influence of the scene just
witnessed was not to be ignored nor overcome. Prosecution and defence
were alike glad to waste no time on the road to a foregone conclusion.
The summing up, on both sides, was brief almost beyond precedent, the
judge's charge was correspondingly so, and the jury returned a verdict
of "Not Guilty," without leaving their seats.
"Well," exclaimed Mr. Youle, when he and Bergan had finally succeeded
in escaping from the gratitude of Unwick, and the congratulations of
friends. "I must say, I never saw such a sudden turn of events as
that, in all my legal experience." And after a moment, he added, with
unusual gravity, "It does seem as if the blessing of God were with you,
and your two rules, Arling."
"I hope so," rejoined Bergan, quietly, "for I have learned that I can
do nothing worth doing, without it."
"I really think," mused Mr. Youle, "if I were to live my life over
again, I would adopt your plan. I am afraid that I have helped to save
many a scoundrel from deserved punishment, as well as to rob an honest
man, now and then, of his just rights; and when one comes to look back
on it all, from the stand-point of my age, it does seem as if one might
have been in better business. Yes, I believe you are right, Arling;
and you have my cordial consent from this time forth, to keep on as you
have begun. I confess I thought it was a freak, a whim at first, that
would soon give way to the temptations--what we usually call the
necessities--of actual, steady practice; but I see that you have a
solid principle at the bottom which there's no shaking. Nevertheless,
Arling, you can't expect that your judgment is going to be
infallible,--that you will never mistake the guilty man for the
innocent one, and _vice versa_."
"I do not expect it," answered Bergan, seriously. "Errors in judgment,
I take it for granted that I shall make, being mortal; but errors in
will, I mean to do my best, with God's help, to avoid."
A plain carriage, with a trim African on the box, was in waiting when
the two gentlemen descended the courthouse steps.
"Come, Arling," said Mr. Youle, in a tone of command rather than
invitation, "go home and dine with me; there are several things I want
to talk to you about."
Bergan hesitated; it was easy to see that the plan did not commend
itself to his taste.
"Never rack your brain for excuses; they won't serve," pursued Mr.
Youle, with good-natured peremptoriness; "I mean to take you with me,
whether you will or no. It is time for you to overcome your morbid
dislike of society; besides, you will see no one but my own family."
Thus urged, Bergan could only take a seat in the carriage, and be
driven off; albeit, in direct contravention of his inclinations and
habits. For, although, on coming back to life and health from the
borders of death, he had been quick to hear, and to heed, the plain,
stern call of Duty to work while it is yet day, there had been no
gracious response in his heart, as yet, to that softer voice wherewith
she enjoins brotherly kindness, as well in gentle, social courtesies
and amenities as in deeds of benevolence. Life had become too serious
a thing, he thought, to be wasted in trifles such as these. Busy at
the centre of the circle, he had lost sight of the circumference;
intent upon the weightier matters of the law, he forgot the tithes of
mint, anise and cummin, which yet, said the Master, ought not to be
left undone. But it was a natural mistake, under the circumstances;
and there was still time for him to learn that, in every well-ordered
life, there is a place for little things,--little courtesies, little
duties, little friends.
II.
NEW ACQUAINTANCES.
"Well, Coralie," said Mr. Youle, an hour later, as he preceded Bergan
into the drawing-room of the fine old family mansion that had been the
home of the Youles for many years, "bring out your laurels, I have
brought you a conquering hero."
"Oh! it is Mr. Arling; he is very welcome." And Coralie, who had seen
Bergan two or three times in her father's office, greeted him with
marked cordiality, and gave him her small, soft hand.
It is odd how strong a resemblance can co-exist with perfect
dissimilarity of features and complexion. Though she was very
lovely--this Coralie Youle--and with a blithesome and bewitching
loveliness all her own, Bergan had never been able to look upon her,
nor could he see her now, without some deep, keen pain, as from an
unhealed wound. There were tones in her voice which reminded him of
one that he would hear no more; and she had ways and gestures which
continually awakened memories not yet softened by distance into lines
and tints of perfect purity and peace. And yet, what an irresistible,
subtle charm in her was this very power to pain him!
"You said that Mr. Arling was a _conquering_ hero, papa," she went on,
turning to Mr. Youle. "Have you gained the case, then, after all?
That is wonderful indeed! How did it happen? Tell me all about it."
Nothing loath, Mr. Youle gave a sufficiently graphic account of the
scene in the court-room, taking occasion to lavish no small amount of
hearty encomium upon Bergan's share in it.
"How I wish I could have been there to see!" exclaimed Coralie, when
the recital was ended, her cheeks glowing with sympathetic excitement;
"it sounds like a chapter out of a novel, rather than a bit of real
life. Mr. Arling does, in truth, deserve the laurels of victory; and,
by the way--Diva! where are you?--here is some one who is worthy to
give them to him."
No one had noticed, until now, that a lady was standing in the window,
half concealed by the curtain. But, as she came forward everything
else seemed to fade out of sight, for the moment, and leave only her,
standing there alone in the clear, cold light of her marvellous beauty.
Before this, Bergan's ideal of proud and queenly beauty had been
painted with dark hair and eyes; he now saw reason to change it at once
and forever. The lady was the most perfect blonde that he had ever
seen. Her hair was of the palest brown, with only a faint gold light
in it; her eyes were blue or gray, he could not tell which, at the
moment, nor would he have been less puzzled after a much longer
acquaintance; and her complexion was fair and colorless, almost, as
marble; yet never had he beheld anything so stately, so proud, so calm,
and--it must needs be said--so cold. She came forth from the shadow of
the curtain as Galatea might have done, had she been endowed with life
only, not with love.
Worthy she might be to crown a victor, in right of her queenliness, but
the laurels from her hands, Bergan thought, would be very chill!
"Miss Thane!" exclaimed Mr. Youle, "why this _is_ a surprise, and a
most pleasant one. It is seldom that you allow any of us to see you
here, except Coralie."
"Because my visits are usually morning visits," replied Miss Thane, in
a low, yet singularly musical monotone, that harmonized perfectly with
her face, "when I know that you are sure to be better engaged than in
gossipping with me."
Mr. Youle slightly raised his eyebrows, in good-humored recognition of
the possibly careless, possibly studied, ambiguity of this explanation;
but he let it pass without comment, as Coralie hastened to present her
guests to each other.
Bergan bowed low, with the graceful deference which always marked his
bearing toward women; but Miss Thane was guilty of no waste of
civility. She slightly inclined her head, vouchsafed him a single
glance out of her wondrous eyes, and coolly turned back to the window,
to lose herself, a moment after, in a fit of abstraction.
Miss Youle--Mr. Youle's maiden sister, and the mistress of his
household since his wife's death, many years ago--now appeared, clad in
a thick, black silk that rustled like a field of corn in the wind, and
dropped Bergan her stately, old-time courtesy. And Coralie immediately
began to repeat the story of the trial to her, aided and abetted by Mr.
Youle; from which embarrassing iteration Bergan would have been glad to
escape, by joining Miss Thane at her window, had not her manner seemed
to indicate so clearly that she was amply sufficient to herself, and
did not care to be anything to anybody else. But the eloquence of
Coralie and Mr. Youle finally came to a pause, if not to an end; Miss
Thane roused from her abstraction; and the party went down to dinner.
Bergan was inclined to be somewhat silent, at first. Lonely dweller in
offices, hotels, and restaurants, that he had been, for the year past,
he had half lost the habit of conversation; besides, Coralie's tones
continually swept the chords of association in a way to thrill him with
a sombre mixture of pain and pleasure, and keep his mind confusedly
vibrating between the present and the past. But he was too
conscientiously courteous to allow himself long to remain a dead weight
upon his hosts; and, though it cost him an effort, he was soon talking
with the old ease and fluency, enriched by a profounder thoughtfulness,
and a subtler play of imagination. In his hands, commonplace subjects
discovered hidden treasures; while loftier themes gleamed and glowed
like stained windows seen against a golden western sky. Miss Thane
lost something of her apathetic manner, after awhile, and paid him the
compliment of listening with attention, if not with interest. And
opposite to him was Coralie's listening, speaking face, full of such
quick comprehension and sympathy, that he could scarcely help being
beguiled into a fuller, freer expression of thought, opinion, and
feeling, than he would have believed possible, an hour before.
But was it not Miss Thane's subtle management, rather than Coralie's
sympathy, which finally led the talk into the sombre channels dug by
human disappointments, losses, and failures, and kept it there until
they had returned to the drawing-room? Then Bergan said, by way of
dismissing the subject:--"But all these things are to be looked at as
materials, not results. Happy the prophetic vision which sees the
perfect form of the Future rising from the chaos of past and
present!--as a sculptor sees before him, not a rough block of marble,
but the finished statue,--an architect, not shapeless heaps of stone
and mortar, but the grand completed temple."
"Let him but look far enough," rejoined Miss Thane, "and he can behold
a sadder phase,--the statue broken and defaced, the temple overthrown
and prostrate; once more a rough block of marble, and shapeless heaps
of stone."
"Nay," replied Bergan, "it is at that very point that Prophecy should
spread her whitest wings, and soar to the temple not made with hands,
and the jewelled walls of the city let down from the clouds. Miss
Coralie," he continued, glancing at the open piano, "do you sing?"
"Not much; I play mostly. But Miss Thane does. Dear Diva, won't you
sing for us?"
Miss Thane looked at Bergan, but he said nothing. If he had added a
word to Coralie's entreaty, the chances are that she would not have
sung. But since she had only Coralie to oblige--Coralie, who alone
seemed to have found the deep way to her heart, and to whom she rarely
refused anything--she went straight to the piano, took the first music
that presented itself, which happened to be Rossini's "Cujus Animam,"
and began to sing, not only with perfect method--that might have been
expected--but with exquisite feeling. Her voice was a rich contralto,
deep and broad as a river flowing to the sea, and bearing the listener
whither it pleased. There were tears in the eyes of her auditors, when
she had finished, and would have been, doubtless, had she sung anything
else, for the quality of her voice touched that point of perfection,
which, in this world, gives a pleasure closely akin to pain.
She waited a moment, but no one spoke; then she put her fingers again
on the keys, and, looking far out into the evening dusk, sang a dismal,
hopeless dirge, which Bergan felt intuitively to be her own; and which
wrung his heart with passionate longing and pain. She would sing no
more.
Yet no one could talk after those heartbreaking strains. So Bergan
quietly took his leave.
Coralie wound her arm round her friend's waist, and drew her to the
window, to watch him down the street. "What do you think of him?" she
asked.
"I think--that he has a genius for conversation," replied Miss Thane,
coolly.
"Oh, Diva, you know that is not what I mean! How do you like him?"
"I like no one--but you. I think I might respect him in time. As for
you, little one, take care you do not like him too well."
"Why?" asked Coralie, blushing.
"Because he has buried his heart--the best part of it--in somebody's
grave."
III.
FARVIEW.
Diva Thane, it is perhaps needless to say, was a child of the North.
Her peculiar type of beauty blossoms only out of soil, which, for half
the year, withdraws its warmth into its deep heart, and wraps itself in
a chill, white robe of snow. She had made her appearance in Savalla,
about a twelvemonth before, unheralded and unknown, had rented the
parlor of a decayed aristocratic mansion as a studio, and had tacked on
the door a card signifying to the public that she was a painter in
oils. She had thenceforth been an example of that freedom and
independence of life which Art makes possible for its votaries, of
either sex, as a compensation, in some sort, for the sacrifices that
they are bound to make to her.
It soon became known that the Youles endorsed Miss Thane to the fullest
extent, both socially and financially; else society might have given
her a cool reception. But it could scarcely, in its haughtiest mood,
have meted out to her a fuller measure of scornful indifference than
she accorded to it, when, in due time, it made up its mind to hold out
a condescending hand to her. She declined its invitations, she took no
notice of its calls, she would none of its patronage. Just in
proportion as it grew more eager, piqued by her indifference, and
curious to penetrate the mystery which surrounded her, she became
colder and more distant. Finally, society was compelled to understand
that the sole favor which she would accept at its hands, was
forgetfulness of her existence.
Nor was the public treated much better, in her capacity of artist.
Visitors at her studio found free admission, and opportunity to
examine, at their leisure, the pictures, sketches, and studies, which
crowded the walls; but rarely did she turn from her easel, to give them
more than the briefest glimpse of her statuesque beauty, or the most
concise of answers to their questions. Generally, she found some
reason for declining their orders; and fully one half of the pictures
on her walls were labelled, "Not to be Sold," while the sale of the
remainder was plainly a matter of the profoundest indifference to her.
It must needs be inferred that she had means of subsistence other than
her art, amply sufficient for her quiet, inexpensive mode of life.
Nevertheless, she worked with indefatigable industry, as well as
undeniable talent. If her pictures evinced some lack of technical
skill, they were endued with a force and feeling which more than atoned
for its absence; since the one would address itself chiefly to
connoisseurs, while the other went straight to the universal heart.
They covered a wide range of subjects, yet a profound observer would
have traced a certain connection and sequence in them all. The earlier
and cruder efforts of her pencil were pleasant outdoor
scenes,--children wading in a sunshine brook, farm youths and maidens
tossing about new-mown hay, and village girls dancing under
wide-spreading boughs,--scenes so perfect in their idealization as to
seem familiar to every eye, yet never without that inestimable
something added or eliminated, which constitutes the difference between
the picturesque and the commonplace. After these came works not only
marked by greater skill of design and felicity of color, but informed
with a deeper feeling;--yet so delicately indicated that none but the
finest instinct would have perceived how softly Love illumined the
landscape, or shone in the smile of the youth, or looked up to the
maiden from her own downcast eyes reflected in the water. Then came a
sudden change,--pictures and sketches wherein the artist's pencil must
have been driven by some terrible intensity of feeling, to have wrought
with such sombre power;--such as an illimitable desert, with a man
riding fast toward a wan, setting sun, and his long, backward shadow
falling upon a woman's outstretched, yearning hands,--or the black
silhouette of a drifting and dismantled ship, seen against a blood-red
moon, setting in a dun and angry sea,--or a deep and dismal cavern,
with a female figure lying bruised and broken at the bottom of a
fissure, and a man, also torn and bleeding, seen at the end of a long
vista, searching for what he will not find. These pictures affected
the spectator like a nightmare; there was such a fell shadow of
immitigable fate in them all, and so notable an absence of anything
like hope or faith, that while he acknowledged their power, he
shuddered at their spirit.
Of course, Rumor could not help busying herself with a subject so
inviting as the artist, though so bare of definite results. She was
variously reported to be an escaped nun, a bride that had nearly lost
her life at the hands of an insane bridegroom, a widow--barely one
month a wife--seeking to throw off an intolerable burden of grief by
the help of new scenes, new faces, and a new manner of life, and an
heiress, fled from the importunities of harsh guardians and an
unwelcome suitor. It will serve as an indication of the occasional
correctness of the popular instinct, that not one of these conjectures
cast any shadow upon the whiteness of her fame. Not more inevitably
did her face suggest snow, marble, and whatever was at once white and
cold, than her demeanor suggested their chill purity. Moreover,
notwithstanding that she led so unfettered and independent a life, as
compared with the majority of her sex--dwelling under her own
guardianship, and ordering her day's routine to her own liking--the
closest scrutiny could not detect anything therein, that was not
austere, lonely, and laborious enough to suit the cell of an anchorite.
Yet, though there was so little in her way of living to suggest
affluence, it soon became known that her hands were open, and her purse
deep, to any claim upon her benevolence. While it never appeared that
she set herself to seek out objects of charity, to such as came to her,
either in person or by proxy, her bounty was generally far in excess of
the demand. The only grace which it lacked, was that subtle element of
the giver in the gift, which imparts a sympathetic warmth to the silver
or the gold, as it is dropped in the outstretched hand; augmenting, to
a degree incalculable by any known arithmetic, its power of relieving
the distressed heart. Though Miss Thane gave generously, she gave none
the less carelessly and coldly.