her usual straightforward candor:--"I was never taught to pray;--my
mother died when I was born, and my father believed none of these
things. I have no habit of prayer."
"Does no one pray for you?"
"I don't know--Coralie, perhaps."
Bergan looked down upon her, and a sudden moisture dimmed his eyes.
His heart was taken complete possession of, for the moment, by a vast,
sorrowful pity for this beautiful and gifted woman, who masked so empty
and aching a heart with so cold a demeanor, impelling him irresistibly
to help her, as he could.
"When you are next asked that question," said he, and there was a deep,
rich melody in his voice, "do not say that you 'don't know,' for I
promise to put up a prayer for you daily, from henceforth, until you
send me word that you have learned to pray habitually and gladly for
yourself. Hereafter, when you lie down to rest, remember that
another--claiming no title of friend, but simply that of neighbor--has
asked forgiveness for your day, protection for your night, and every
strength that you need for your morrow."
The proud heart was touched at last. That is to say, Bergan's words
were the effectual "last drop" in the full cup of the evening's varied
emotions,--comparatively insignificant perhaps in itself, but none the
less inevitably productive of overflow. Miss Thane's lips parted with
a kind of gasp, scarcely distinguishable as sound, but profoundly
suggestive of pain; and a perceptible tremor ran over her from head to
foot. Suddenly releasing Bergan's arm, she sat down on a fallen tree
by the side of the path, and covered her face with her hands, while
tears, dripping through her slender fingers, glistened gem-like in the
moonlight.
Yet it argued much for her power of self-control, that she made no
sound, nor shook with any sob. Grief must be content to exercise over
her limited, not absolute dominion.
Bergan withdrew to a little distance, and waited silently, looking out
over the shadowy valley to the fair, flowing outline of the
moon-silvered hills. Those womanly tears, he was certain, would afford
most safe and seasonable relief to whatever pain and excitement,
whatever distressful memories or dismal forebodings, had resulted from
the evening's events. For himself, comparative stranger as he was, he
had no right to give Miss Thane more than the silent sympathy of a
heart itself not unacquainted with sorrow.
Suddenly, the deep silence was broken by the soft whirr of wings. A
bird, flying as straight over the moonlighted fields as if let loose by
an unseen hand for that purpose, alighted in the boughs over the two
motionless figures, and shook down upon them a shower of liquid
notes,--sweet, clear, and joyous,--a very prophecy of hope.
The song being sung, the bird soon spread its wings and flew back to
its nest and its mate. Then Diva rose, and held out her hand to Bergan.
"I accept your offer," said she. "Something tells me that the time
will come when I can repay you in degree, if not in kind."
And Bergan, as he took the white, cool hand--empty now, except perhaps
of a half-reluctant gratitude, and a moderate measure of good-will--had
a singular intuition that some day it would be held out to him with an
inestimable gift in it.
V.
INTERCEPTED.
"You are up early," said Diva Thane, when she entered Coralie's room on
the morrow, and found her standing by the window, enjoying the fresh,
fragrant air, and the innumerable sweet and cheery sounds of the summer
morning. "I thought that you would sleep late after your accident,--or
what came so near to being one."
"How could I sleep late, when I was ordered off to bed so early?"
rejoined Coralie, smiling brightly, and turning her clear brown eyes on
her friend. "Besides, I had so much to think about," she added, softly
and gravely, letting her glance go back to the flower-beds on the lawn.
But it was evident that her reflections, though possibly not without an
occasional deep bass note of solemnity, had for the most part sung her
a very siren's song of pleasantness and hope; none the less entrancing
because a song without words of definite purport. The smile and the
flush, with which she had listened, still brightened her face; and a
corresponding light was seen shining from what seemed an interminable
depth in her eyes,--eyes never so deeply illumined till now. Indeed,
it struck Diva with a kind of vague amaze and sadness, that she had
never seen this Coralie before! There was an unfamiliar freshness and
softness about her, as if she were newly created. The brightness of
her face, too, was such as to make her seem more nearly akin to the
summer sunshine falling on her through the window, than to mortal
shadows and sorrows. In truth, Diva found herself fancying that the
sunshine was a good deal the brighter for the happy glow that it caught
from her features.
Surprised, ere long, at Diva's silence, Coralie lifted her eyes, and
encountered her friend's intent gaze. Immediately she seemed to become
aware that a wonderfully subtle and delicate insight was making, not
her face only, but her heart, the subject of its deep regard. The
moment before, she did not know that there was anything in either which
she cared to hide. Now, as if the existence of some secret were
suddenly suggested to her by the fear of another's perception of it,
she let her eyes fall, and a deep flush overspread her features.
Diva turned away with a sigh. She felt scarcely less lonely than she
had seen herself in the vision of the preceding evening, when Coralie
had seemed to be passing swiftly beyond her reach and ken, in a chariot
of flame.
Nor was her sadness wholly for herself. She was gifted with a singular
clearness of intuition, in regard to the relations of others; and
Coralie's face affected her much as it would have done to find a rose
suddenly budding out on a sunny winter's day, and mistaking it for the
beginning of summer. Still, as is often the case with persons thus
endowed, she did not fully trust her own intuitions, for the reason
that they could give no clear account of themselves to her intellect.
She now told herself, therefore, that her impressions were doubtless
wrong, inasmuch as they were destitute of solid basis; she was even
glad to believe so, quickly losing the thought of herself in that of
her friend. Or it might be that she was seized with a diviner
selfishness,--the certainty that, if any winter's night of frost and
dusk were in store for Coralie, she herself must needs partake largely,
through sympathy, of its chill and gloom.
As the friends stood thus silent, each busy with her own impressions
(for they were of much too thin a consistency to be called thoughts),
certain sounds from below, coming up to the window, attracted their
notice. A horse was brought round to the side door, and, soon after,
Bergan's voice was distinctly heard, speaking to Mr. Youle.
"That will do, thank you. I shall quite enjoy my ride through the
valley, this lovely morning. Present my adieux to Miss Coralie; I
trust that her night's rest has obliterated every trace of her last
evening's experience. Good-bye."
"Why, that is Mr. Arling!" exclaimed Coralie, in sudden consternation.
"What can have happened to take him away so suddenly?"
"I heard him telling your father, last night," answered Diva, calmly,
"that he would be forced to return to town early this morning on
business of importance."
"And he did not bid me good-bye!" murmured Coralie, discontentedly.
"Besides, I have not half thanked him for saving me from those dreadful
flames,"--and she shuddered at the recollection. "Oh, I _must_ speak
to him, before he goes."
She leaned out of the window, apparently with the intention of calling
to him, but it was too late; he was already trotting down the avenue,
followed by the groom who was to bring back the horse. She looked
after him with a wistful gaze, and her eyes filled with tears.
Diva watched her thoughtfully,--intent, it would seem, upon some deeper
and more perplexing phase of the matter than that immediately presented
to her. Finally, she said, as if struck by a sudden thought:--
"If you want to speak to him so much, there is a way. You know the
shorter path through the shrubbery to the entrance gate; we can
intercept him."
"Oh, no! I could not do that," exclaimed Coralie, shrinking back and
blushing deeply, "he would think--that is, it would look like thrusting
myself in his way."
"He would think nothing," affirmed Diva, coolly, "except that we are
out for a morning walk, as we have a good right to be; there never was
a lovelier sky or earth to tempt one forth. Come, we must be quick."
And, without waiting for consent, or listening to remonstrance, Diva
seized Coralie's hand, and hurried her down the stairs, and out through
a different door from that by which Bergan had taken his
departure,--where Mr. Youle still lingered,--so that they reached the
shrubbery unobserved. Here, Diva slackened her pace a little, though
she still kept hold of her half reluctant, and nearly breathless
companion. They reached the gate before Bergan came in sight.
"Let us go back a little way," pleaded Coralie; "I don't want to be
found waiting here."
"Why not?" asked Diva, composedly, seating herself on a low, broad
stump by the way-side. "Mr. Arling is not a vain man, he will never
suspect us of waiting for _him_. But if you must have an excuse for
lingering here,--why, there are some exquisite ferns yonder,--gather
them for your parlor vases."
Coralie hesitated, doubtful whether to stay or flee. Diva plucked a
dainty leaf of wood-sorrel, and put it between the perfect curves of
her own lips.
"Coralie," she suddenly asked, "how old am I?"
Despite her perplexity, Coralie could not help smiling at the absurdity
of the question. "Are you losing your memory?" she inquired; "you are
two years older than I."
"Oh, is that all? I thought I must have been at least a hundred,--it
seemed such an age since I used to eat this green stuff with relish.
But you are certainly young yet, though you do look a year or two older
than you did yesterday."
Coralie quickly stooped over the ferns to hide her deeply-diffused
cheeks. Diva continued, apparently without noticing her confusion:--
"However, if the little plant has lost much to the taste, it has gained
more to the eye. I never noticed, in those days, what a delicately
outlined leaf, and slender, translucent stem it had, nor how fresh was
its tint of green. If Mr. Arling were here, now, he would turn that
into a simile,--something about a spiritual sense developed out of an
earthly one, or a refined enjoyment only to be attained through some
loss of the capacity for commoner pleasures;--isn't that a little in
his style? Ah! there he is."
Bergan was looking straight before him, so much absorbed in his own
thoughts that he did not see the friends until he was close at hand.
He immediately dismounted, flung his bridle to the groom, and came
toward them with extended hand.
"So you were going to leave without bidding us good-bye," said Miss
Thane, coolly, ignoring the offered hand, but looking him searchingly
in the eyes.
If Bergan felt a little embarrassment under that look, he did not
betray it.
"I supposed that you were not up," he answered, with perfect composure.
"And whoever travels at this season of the year, had best do it betimes
in the morning, before the sunbeams are hot as well as bright. Miss
Coralie, I am glad to see you looking so fully yourself."
His sentence ended a little abruptly, as if whatever else he had
intended to say was suddenly put out of his head. He, too, had become
dimly aware of some subtle change or development in Coralie, since the
evening before,--a more womanly grace, a new character of beauty;
which, however, only served to bring the image of Carice vividly before
him--Carice, as he had seen her last, and would never see her again,
under the shadowy pines, by the dreaming river, with the newborn
love-light in her eyes, and the dawn-rose of love in her cheeks.
Scarce knowing what he did, he lifted his hand, to see if, haply, he
might shut out both images together.
Coralie's eyes fell on that hand, which was carefully bandaged from
wrist to knuckles; and the unconquerable shyness which had seized her,
on Bergan's appearance, was instantly dissipated.
"What is that?" she asked;--"oh, Mr. Arling, were you burned last night
in trying to save me?"
Bergan looked at Diva and smiled. "It is nothing," said he,
lightly,--"only your aunt and Miss Thane insisted upon binding it up
after I got home; and the least that I can do is to wear their kindly
handiwork for a day or two."
"Oh, Diva," exclaimed Coralie reproachfully, the quick moisture coming
into her eyes, "why did you not tell me?"
"Why should I?" replied Diva, with somewhat bitter emphasis; "_hands_
heal quickly."
"Miss Thane is quite right," said Bergan; "the matter was not worth
mentioning. Certainly, it was not worth one of those tears, Miss
Coralie; you will make me too proud of having gotten a small scratch in
the fray. If it were ten times as much, it would in nowise offset what
I owe your father. Now I must bid you farewell, or I shall miss the
train."
"Will you not come up again soon?" asked Coralie, coloring a little,
but strong in the certainty that she could not err in showing her
preserver the most cordial courtesy. "It must be good for you to leave
the city as often as you can. And you have certainly earned the right
to consider Farview as your home, whenever it suits you to do so."
"Thank you," said Bergan, bowing in acknowledgment of the kind and
thoughtful invitation. "But I am necessarily a busy and homeless man,
and it is the truest wisdom for me not to stray too far out of my
proper orbit, lest I get dissatisfied with it. When I become more
fully and firmly settled therein, a day's absence may not matter so
much; and then, if your invitation still holds good, I shall be only
too happy to avail myself of it."
"It must always hold good, just as a kindness once done is done
forever," replied Coralie warmly, turning a deaf ear to the
unseasonable inner voice that cried out against the coolness and
reserve of Bergan's response, and holding out a tremulous little hand,
by way of signature and seal to her promise.
Bergan gave the hand a friendly pressure, and bowed low to Miss Thane.
"A pleasant summer to you both," said he, "full of flowers and
sunshine, both material and metaphorical. Farewell."
He lifted his hat as he rode through the gate; very soon a turn of the
road hid him from sight. Coralie stood looking somewhat wistfully at
the point where he had disappeared.
"Peace go with him!" said Diva lightly. "He was in a great hurry to
leave us, but he said 'Farewell' in a way to indicate that he should
not be in a hurry to return. Fortunately, we are not the sort of
damsels to pine after an unwilling knight."
Coralie turned instantly, and, with heightened color, signified her
readiness to go home.
For some days her spirits were fitful and changeable; nothing now so
gay, nothing now so sad, as her smile. During this time Diva watched
over her with a silent, patient, careful devotion that surrounded her
like the atmosphere, viewless, but beneficent. She saved her from
annoyance; she shielded her from observation; she stood between her and
her guests, taking up the burden of their entertainment in a way that
would have seemed incredible to those accustomed to see her only
languidly indifferent or coldly haughty. Though her heart might be
narrow, it was certainly deep.
By and by, Coralie began to smile naturally once more, and Diva was
satisfied that, though the rose could not "shut and be a bud again," it
had received no lasting blight. If it could be kept from further harm,
it might be expected to develop naturally into perfection of bloom and
beauty,--not the hasty and one-sided maturity that comes of a worm at
the heart.
She could now think of herself. Unselfish anxiety and effort had been
very good for her thus far, there was not a doubt of that.
Nevertheless, she was beginning to feel urgent need of
quiet,--opportunity to commune with her own heart, and be still,--time
to deal justly and thoroughly with questions seething in her mind ever
since her talks with Bergan. But it was vain to look for quiet at
Farview; the house was fast filling up with gay guests; and having once
dropped her ice-mantle of reserve, she could not resume it without
giving pain to her hosts. So, as Coralie was now quite capable of
taking her rightful place as queen of the festivities, and as she had
already stayed twice as long as had been contemplated at first, Diva
went back to her studio.
VI.
AN AIMLESS STROLL.
Late one afternoon, about a month after Bergan's return to Savalla, he
quitted the office, which seemed to have grown unaccountably barren and
dreary of aspect, and set out for an aimless stroll through the city.
The air was fresh and moist from a recent shower, and the slanting
sunbeams were working alchemic wonders in the streets and squares;
turning the polished leaves of the oak and olive trees to silver, and
hanging them with prismatic jewels, enriching the grass with a vivider
green, and the earth with a rich golden brown, and imprinting the
sensitive surface of every tiny rain-pool with a lovely picture of blue
sky, fleecy clouds, and pendent sprays of foliage.
Through all these pleasant sights Bergan moved slowly and half
absently, occupying himself less with their beauty than with the sober
monologue of his own thoughts. Yet his gaze was not without occasional
moments of intelligence, and in one of these he noticed a child,
attended by a large dog, standing with a curiously doubtful, undecided
air, in the midst of the square that he was crossing. Suddenly making
up her mind, it would seem, she held out her hand to a gentleman coming
from the opposite direction, who took no further notice of the mute
appeal than was implied by a shake of the head. The sight was a
comparatively strange one in those days, when begging was resorted to
as an occasional resource, rather than followed as a regular trade; and
Bergan continued to observe the child with a certain degree of
interest, though not with a wholly unpreoccupied mind, as he advanced
toward her.
All at once, it struck him that there was something oddly familiar
about her slender little figure. As for the dog, he was certainly an
old acquaintance, as could easily be proven; and Bergan's lips emitted
a low, peculiar whistle. There was an instant pricking up of the
canine ears, and an inquisitive turning sidewise of the canine head,
but the faithful animal would not leave his young mistress until he was
absolutely certain that he recognized a friend. She, meanwhile, seemed
to notice neither the whistle nor its effect; nor could she distinctly
see what manner of man drew near, her eyes being dazzled by the level
sun-rays, but she again mutely held out her hand.
It was instantly taken possession of. "Cathie," said Bergan,
wonderingly, "what does this mean?"
She looked at him a moment in blank bewilderment, but ended by
recognizing him and flinging herself into his arms exactly as the
Cathie of a year before would have done; but with a deep, long-drawn,
repressed sob, implying a profounder sorrow than had ever darkened the
horizon of even that child of many and incomprehensible moods.
Yet Bergan was considerably relieved by her first words;--"Oh, Mr.
Arling, don't tell mamma--don't tell Astra--please don't!" It seemed
probable that the episode of the begging was simply one of the child's
strange freaks.
"Did you do it for fun, then?" he asked.
"Fun?" repeated Cathie, with indignant emphasis, "do you think it's fun
to beg, Mr. Arling? I don't. I was so ashamed that I wanted to hide
my face with both hands."
"Then why did you do it?" asked Bergan, gravely.
The child's lip assumed its most sorrowful curve. "To get some money
to give Astra," she answered. "We are very poor now; the Bank went and
got broke, with all mamma's money in it; and she was taken sick, and
Astra couldn't get much to do, and we've had to move into a little mean
house, in a dirty little street, where there are no flowers, nor trees,
nor anything that's nice. And this morning I saw Astra take the last
money out of her purse, to pay the rent, and she looked--oh! I can't
tell how she looked,--something like that big gray man, with the little
boy on his back, that she made so long ago; and I did so wish that I
could do something to help her, just a little bit. So, when she sent
me out to take a walk with Nix, it came into my head that I could beg
for her, if I couldn't do anything else, and I thought I'd try it. Was
it doing wrong?"
Bergan did not answer except by stooping to kiss the child's upturned
face. His eyes grew moist.
"I know it must be wrong," pursued Cathie, innocently, "if it makes you
cry, Mr. Arling."
"No, Cathie," replied Bergan, smiling reassuringly. "I do not think it
was wrong,--at least, you did not mean to do wrong, and that makes a
great difference. But I don't think that you will need to try it
again. Now, certainly you can do something better; that is, take me
home with you."
On the way, Cathie, secure in the sympathy of this trusted friend of
better days, gave a more detailed account of the misfortunes that had
befallen the little family, since it left Berganton. His heart ached
as he pictured to himself the weary and wasting struggle with poverty
that Astra had maintained so bravely, yet so hopelessly; heavily
weighted, on the one hand, with the burden of disappointed affection,
and, on the other, with the anxiety caused by her mother's severe
illness. For works of art, there had been no demand; for portrait
busts and medallions, there had been only a scanty and fitful one. Her
last resource had been pupils in drawing, but these had now failed her,
in consequence of the usual summer exodus of the city's wealthier
population; by reason of which she was reduced to the bitter straits
shadowed forth by Cathie's earlier communications. It was touching,
too, to see what real nobleness of character had all along been hidden
under the child's caprice and waywardness, as evinced by the fact that
she said little of the privations that had fallen to her own lot, but
dwelt chiefly on her mother's lack of accustomed comforts, and the
forlorn face that Astra wore, when out of that mother's sight.
The house was reached before the story had come to an end. It was a
little better than Bergan's fears, but far worse than his hopes. It
smote him to the heart to contrast it with the comfortable and spacious
mansion that had opened its doors so readily to him at Berganton, and
wherein he had come to feel himself so pleasantly at home.
Cathie ushered Bergan into the dingy little room that served both for
parlor and studio, and then rushed through the opposite door, full of
the importance of the news that she had to impart. There was a
smothered exclamation of surprise from the adjoining room, followed by
a murmured consultation; and then Astra appeared in the doorway.
But it was by no means the Astra of Bergan's remembrance. The features
were the same, to be sure, but the light, the hope, the energy, that
had animated them, and informed them with such rich and varied
expression, was utterly lacking. There was a perceptible line between
the eyebrows, as if the brow were wont to be knit over difficult
problems; and the mouth expressed a settled melancholy, which a smile
seemed only to vary slightly, not to displace. Nor could Bergan help
detecting a little hardness in it,--the look of a defeated general,
forced to lay down his weapons, but still unsubdued in will.
What he most marvelled at, however, was that it immediately brought
Diva Thane's face before him, as if there were some subtle relation
between them, though there was not the slightest resemblance.