way, it seemed to her--to a period in her childhood, when she had been
under the care of a certain faithful nurse, afterwards discharged by
her father for putting foolish, superstitious notions--as he
averred--into her head. There she found two or three hymns; keeping
tenacious hold of her memory, in virtue of their early grafting
therein; which she sang in such soft, even tones, that Mrs. Lyte was
first calmed, and then irresistibly lulled to sleep.
The two cousins stole out of the room together. In the studio, Diva
put her arms around Astra and kissed her tenderly.
"Having found you, my little cousin, my art sister," said she, smiling,
"I shall never let you go!"
VIII.
THOUGH HE SLAY.
Miss Thane had all along understood that a meeting with her mother's
only and twin sister, either by accident or design, was quite within
the scope of possibilities. She had even regarded it as perhaps the
brightest prospect which the future afforded her, in case her present
experiment in life should fail to give her satisfaction, or her heart
should suddenly utter an importunate cry for that cup of cold water of
human affection, which is only to be tasted in the society of one's own
kin. Amid the gray monotony of her existence, she had often pictured
that meeting to herself in a variety of pleasant coloring and dramatic
shapes; but never, it is safe to say, in the solemn lights and sober
shadows in which it finally took its place among the memorable scenes
of her life.
Yet in no other way could it have operated so powerfully to awaken the
instinct of kinship within her, to melt her reserve, to draw out her
dormant sympathies,--in short, to call forth whatever was deepest,
richest, and womanliest in her nature. And certainly, in no other way
could it have brought so strong and subtle an influence to bear upon
the sombre doubts and chill infidelities of her mind; setting over
against her cool, speculative belief in a blind Chance or an inflexible
Fate, Mrs. Lyte's calm trust in the goodness of God's providence,
against the blighting, chilling, unbeauteous effects of suffering on
her own heart, the gracious fruitage of patience, contentment, and
love, ripening under its touch in Mrs. Lyte's, against her own dim
outlook into an unknown future, her aunt's firm expectation of the
eternal weight of glory. The contrast was too striking not to be
noticed, its testimony in favor of faith over unbelief too strong to be
ignored. Daily, as she watched by her aunt's bedside, questions that
she had once settled, or laid aside as incapable of settlement, came up
again, to be examined in new and diviner lights. Daily the good work
which Bergan had been instrumental in beginning in her heart, went
forward,--not like the work of doubt, tearing down what it could not
rebuild, and taking away bread to give a stone,--but bringing order out
of confusion, proportion out of inequality, solidity out of
disintegration.
On the other hand, her advent was no less beneficial, in its way, to
her aunt and cousins. Not to speak of the material comforts and
luxuries which she managed so delicately to introduce into the
sick-room, as to make them seem much like direct gifts of Providence,
without any intervening hand, she brought into their forlorn, narrow,
monotonous life an element of variety and interest, as well as of
personal helpfulness, that was sorely needed. Mrs. Lyte soon grew to
depend upon her constant presence and care scarcely less than upon
Astra's. She never wearied of searching her beautiful face for fitful
touches of resemblance to the darling twin sister, whose runaway
marriage and subsequent death had been the great grief of her own
earlier years, nor of drawing out such facts in relation to that
sister's short married life, and Diva's birth, as the latter had been
able to gather from others, and store in her memory. She was deeply
interested, too, in Diva's own history,--her motherless childhood, her
long sojourn in Europe, her art studies, her reasons for the isolated
life that she had been leading of late. Especially did she delight in
hearing her sing. Diva might busy herself in whatever part of the
house's narrow precinct she pleased, if only her voice floated into the
sick-room, and sweetened the air with the notes and words of some
favorite "hymn of the ages," or the soft Italian melodies that she had
learned in their native land. While the lovely voice kept on, Mrs.
Lyte lay lapped in smiling content, or slept in perfect tranquillity,
lulled more effectually than by any anodyne.
Nor was Astra any less ready to accept her kinswoman as a timely boon
and blessing. It was not only an unspeakable relief to feel a part of
her heavy burden of care lifted from her shoulders by hands so willing,
so tender, and with so undoubted a right to the privilege; it was also
a rare delight to have such thoroughly congenial companionship. As for
Cathie, her heart was easily won,--all the more that she never seemed
to quite rid herself of her first impression that the new-comer was
celestial rather than human, and to be adored accordingly. In short,
Diva soon found for herself so fit, definite, and essential a place in
all these hearts and lives as to suggest the idea that it must have
been prepared expressly, and kept waiting for her--she knew not how
long. Nay, more,--_she_ must have been prepared for _it_; carefully
fitted, by many sad and stern circumstances, for this exchange of
helpful influences, for her part in that solemn symphony of events
which was rolling its profound harmonies through Mrs. Lyte's
sick-chamber.
For the invalid did not rally. After one week of apparent pause, her
life's lapse went steadily on. Day by day, she weakened and wasted;
day by day, the spirit loosened its mortal garments, and made itself
ready to put on immortality; day by day, her mind let go something of
earthly cares, anxieties, wishes, and fears, and fixed itself more
firmly upon the Rock of Ages, and the rest that remaineth. Nothing of
life seemed left, by and by, but love; making manifest, by this true
"survival of the fittest," its Divine origin and destiny.
One summer afternoon, when the sun was flooding all the earth and sky
with the glory of his departure, Bergan knocked at the door of Astra's
studio, according to his daily habit, to inquire if he could be of any
service. No answer being returned to his knock, he let himself in and
went softly to the bedroom door. A scene too beautiful to be called
sad, though infinitely solemn, met his view.
Astra was seated on the bed, holding her mother in her arms, to afford
her a grateful change of position. Cathie lay curled up at the
invalid's feet, with her large eyes fixed on the rapt, hushed
face,--the half-closed eyes and slightly parted lips of which suggested
a soft sinking into that sweet slumber, which is yet not so much
slumber as a happy dream. Diva knelt by the bedside, with her aunt's
hand in hers, singing in tones that thrilled him through and through,
much as he had learned in these days, of the marvellous beauty and
pathos of her voice;--
"When I rise to worlds unknown,
And behold Thee on Thy Throne,
Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee!"
As the last note died away, he stepped forward and lifted the
unconscious form from Astra's arms. She looked up at him wonderingly.
"The earthly hymn was very sweet," said he gently, "but the song of the
redeemed in Paradise is sweeter still."
Still she seemed not to understand. What words were at once tender and
solemn enough for the full explanation? None but those of inspiration;
at once old and fresh; having poured their balm all along down through
the centuries, yet falling on each newly bereaved heart, as if still
moist and cool with the dew of their birth. Reverently he quoted:--
"'Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord from henceforth: Yea,
saith the Spirit, that they may rest from their labors; and their works
do follow them.'"
Mrs. Lyte was taken to Berganton, and laid in the churchyard by her
husband's side, amid much kindred dust. Bergan accompanied the small
funeral train to within two or three miles of the village, and then
turned back; in obedience to Astra's wish, as expressed to him through
Diva Thane. The poor girl remembered in what way her name and his had
been connected, and naturally shrank from anything that might seem to
give it confirmation. But as the train passed the avenue to Bergan
Hall, the Major wheeled into the vacant place behind the carriage of
the chief mourners, assisted them out at the gate of the cemetery, and
offered Astra his arm.
"I am your father's nearest living relative," said he, huskily, "and
though I behaved like a brute to your mother at one time, I have been
sorry enough for it since, to have a right to follow her to the grave."
Many of Mrs. Lyte's old friends and neighbors gathered round to assist
in the last solemn rites, and some of them came afterward to say a few
words of sympathy and regret to Astra. She was not surprised that
Doctor Remy was not of the number, but she did wonder a little that she
saw nothing of Carice. She had observed Mrs. Bergan standing near the
foot of the grave, looking strangely old and altered; but she seemed to
have disappeared as soon as the service was ended.
Having conducted her back to the carriage, and seated her therein,
Major Bergan took a folded paper from her pocket, tore it in pieces,
and laid the fragments on her lap.
"There it is," said he; "and I wish that my hand had been sawed off
before I ever wrote to your mother, to tell her of its existence. The
place is yours now, free and unincumbered, to do what you like with.
Good bye; and don't bear malice, if you can help it."
He gave her no opportunity to reply, but signalled to the coachman to
drive on. Looking back, she saw him standing on the same spot, with
uncovered head, watching the carriage until it was out of sight.
She was in nowise disposed to bear malice. She remembered too well how
glad she had been, at the time, of an available pretext for leaving
Berganton; besides, the Major had certainly made all possible amends
for his hasty action.
Moreover, Mrs. Lyte's death-bed had not been without its softening and
salutary effect upon her mind, also. Although she had fallen, for a
time, into that saddest of all infidelities--a distrust of God's
goodness to His children--the last lovely moments of her mother's life,
the last grateful, joyous words from her mother's lips, and the still
brightness of her mother's dead face, had set her feet--for a little
while at least--on those Heights of Contemplation, whence life is seen
to be good and valuable, not for what it is, but for what it shapes
out; not for the materials that it heaps together, or the tools that it
uses, but for the character which it moulds unto perfection, the soul
which it slowly chisels into beauty and dignity and strength. So
viewed, these last months of adversity became but the fine, finishing
touches of the Master's hand, to Mrs. Lyte's already lovely spirit, and
Major Bergan but one of the blind, necessary instruments, operating
better than he knew or willed.
And come what would, Astra could nevermore forget that broad view of
the real work and object of life's events; faith would ever after be
easier for those moments of clear sight. She came back from her
mother's grave with a bereaved heart, but with a spirit more at rest
than it had been for many months; and her face wore the same expression
of gentle, sweet resignation, which had been the prevailing
characteristic of her mother's for years.
She came back--but not to the dingy little house, nor the desolate
rooms, and certainly not to the straitened circumstances. Miss Thane
had taken Bergan into her confidence, on the day before, and asked the
favor of his superintendence of certain final steps toward the
accomplishment of a plan that she had conceived and partly executed.
Money and good-will, working together, usually achieve wonders in
comparatively short space of time; as the result of their present
cooperation, Astra was set down at Miss Thane's door on her return from
Berganton, late at night, and ushered into a suite of rooms, opposite
Diva's own, handsomely fitted up for the accommodation of herself and
Cathie. One was a studio, to which all her own pictures, statues, and
other artistic belongings had been carefully transferred, and skilfully
arranged to produce an accustomed and home-like effect. Another was a
pleasant little parlor, with her books and her work-basket on the
centre-table, to lend it a familiar grace; and in the bedroom beyond,
her faithful old Chloe was waiting, with joyful tears in her eyes, to
welcome and to attend upon her.
Astra turned to her cousin, and tried to speak; but the too heavily
freighted words were slow in coming forth, and Diva anticipated them by
taking both her hands in hers, and saying gently;--
"We are sisters, now, Astra: children of twin mothers, and left alone
in the world,--I more completely, even, than you; what better thing can
we do, at least for the present, than to unite our forces, having one
home, and living, loving, and laboring together for the same, or
kindred ends? And Cathie shall be our joint charge; that, having two
watchful elder sisters, she may never know, even partially, what I know
so well, the misery of a motherless childhood. Is it a compact?"
Astra bowed her head in acquiescence, and her eyes shone bright through
grateful tears. She was relieved beyond measure, to know that she was
not to face the world single-handed. The loneliness that she had so
dreaded was not to be encountered, the heavy responsibility of her
little sister's care and training was to be, in some degree, shared.
In Diva's strength and steadfastness of character, which she felt by
intuition, and in its sweetness, which she had found out at her
mother's bedside, as very few had done before her, there would be all
needful protection, aid, and comfort; while, in its subtle quality of a
wise and delicate reserve, there was ample assurance of respect for her
own individuality, freedom for her own way of thought and work.
Finally, thanks to Major Bergan's generous action in respect of the
mortgage, she need not fear to be a burden on her cousin. Either by
sale or lease, the place could be made to yield her a fixed moderate
income, and her own labor would do the rest.
She did not suspect the extent of Diva's resources, nor what pleasant
plans for her own and Cathie's happiness and advantage she was turning
over in her mind. Of these things Diva would breathe no word, until
the sisterhood of which she had spoken had become so real and firm a
bond as to preclude any sense of obligation.
Meanwhile, the fact of living no more to herself, of having some one
else to think of, to care for, to comfort and cheer, was doing
wonderfully effective work in clearing and softening Diva's own
character,--in uprooting the weeds which had chiefly testified to the
richness of the underlying soil heretofore, and giving the plants of
grace leave to branch out and blossom and bear fruit. Daily, as Bergan
met her, in his visits to Astra's studio, or his walks, he saw that
something was gone from the chill pride and weariness of her old
expression, something added of sweetness, softness, and benignity, yet
without any loss of that still and stately grace, in which had
subsisted so potent a charm. Daily, too, he marvelled at her
increasingly magnificent beauty; over which, none the less, still
lingered some faint shadow from the past, like the soft haze hanging
over an autumn landscape, and constituting its last, consummate grace.
He could not help wondering whence that shadow came, and how it was to
go, since it always gave him an indefinable impression of being
connected with his own destiny.
One day he met her in the street alone, but, as he never presumed in
the least upon the half confidential relations into which circumstances
had thrown them, he was passing on with a courteous bow, when she
stopped him.
"Mr. Arling," she said, flushing slightly, but in very clear, musical
tones, "I have much to thank you for, but most of all for the promise
which you made me at Farview, some weeks ago; and which, I doubt not,
you have conscientiously performed. How much that performance has had
to do with the important events that have taken place since, I cannot
tell; but it is certain that I discern an order, a sequence, a relation
of means to an end, during these last weeks, which I have never before
been able to discover in the events of my life,--perhaps because my
days have never before been so regularly and earnestly recommended to
loving Divine guidance. Be that as it may, the time of which you spoke
has come; I have learned to pray for myself--and for others. Thank you
again, and good evening."
It was one of her peculiarities, resulting probably from some years of
residence abroad, that she seldom gave her hand to a gentleman. Now,
however, she offered it to Bergan, for the second time, as he
remembered; and again, as before, he had a curious presentiment that
within that white hand there lay an invisible, but precious gift for
him, waiting its appointed time.
IX.
MISTAKES.
The summer ran its course, and came to an end. With the first frost of
autumn, Hubert Arling arrived in Savalla, to pay a visit of indefinite
extent to his brother. A few days after, Coralie, newly returned from
Farview, called at the office, expecting to find her father there,
according to appointment; but found only Bergan, as it appeared,
writing in his usual place. He rose, bowed, and finally took her
offered hand, with what seemed to her an odd mixture of hesitation and
embarrassment, while she poured forth greetings, thanks, and questions.
"You are looking wonderfully well," she concluded; "one would think you
had been rusticating in the mountains, instead of spending a hot and
lonely summer in the city. But I suppose that you are lonely no
longer; you must be very glad to have your brother with you; my father
told me of his arrival."
He looked much amused. "I suspect that I am my brother," said he,
smiling. "But I am not my brother whom you take me for. I wish I
were,--to have the honor of your acquaintance."
It was Coralie's turn to look embarrassed. "I thought--is it not Mr.
Arling?" she stammered.
"It is Mr. Arling--Hubert Arling, at your service. Can I do anything
for you?"
Coralie was so much amazed, that it would have been difficult for her
to decide, at the moment, whether he could do anything for her or not.
But the entrance of Mr. Youle and Bergan relieved her from the
necessity of answering, and gave her opportunity to compare the
brothers at her leisure. Unquestionably, they were singularly alike,
in personal appearance, manner, and somewhat, even, in mind. Only,
when seen together, Bergan was found to be so much older and graver of
aspect--far more than was justified by his two years of seniority--that
she wondered how she could ever have mistaken one for the other. And,
certainly, there was a rare charm about Bergan's gravity, a singular
fascination in looking into his deep, thoughtful, all-observant eyes,
and conjecturing what disappointment or sorrow lay darkly underneath.
Still, Hubert's buoyancy and animation were wonderfully taking, too, in
their way; and her youthfulness sprang involuntarily forward to meet
his. On the whole, she was glad to know that Mr. Arling had a brother
every way so worthy of him.
Before she left, the brothers received and accepted an invitation from
Mr. Youle to dine with him. But for Hubert's sake, Bergan would gladly
have declined it. Having once introduced his brother into pleasant
society, however, he could leave him to make his own way in it,--as he
was fully qualified to do.
When the door closed on the father and daughter, Hubert looked at his
brother, and smiled meaningly.
"Why did you not tell me?" he asked.
"What should I tell?" rejoined Bergan, composedly.
"That your future was likely to atone so prettily and pleasantly for
your past."
Bergan looked grave. "Not another word of that, Hubert, if you please.
The past is not atoned for, in that sense; in another, I hope it may
be. Miss Coralie is, to me, simply my kind old partner's very
admirable and estimable daughter."
Hubert looked half incredulously into his eyes, but there was no
resisting the strong confirmation of their quiet, steady, answering
gaze.
"But, Bergan, you are a goose!" he broke out.
"At your service," was the reply, with a bow of mock courtesy.
"Pshaw! Then, if I go and trade on your capital, you will never call
me to account?"
"Never."
Hubert held out his hand; Bergan gave it a firm, strong clasp. There
was not another word; they understood each other.
In the midst of the desultory chat that followed, there came a knock at
the door; and in answer to Bergan's prompt "Come in," his former
client, Unwick, entered.
"My brother," explained Bergan, as the new comer looked a little
hesitatingly at Hubert. "Would you like to see me alone?"
"As you please," replied Unwick. "It is your business rather than mine
that brings me here; if anything so vague and indefinite can be called
business."
"Then, proceed. I have no secrets from my brother. Will you take a
chair?"
Unwick sat down, and cleared his throat.
"It is a long story; but I will make it as brief as I can. You know
that my cousin Varley is now in prison, under sentence of death for the
murder of which I came so near to being convicted myself,--and should
have been, but for you. Well, he sent for me a few days ago, to ask my
pardon, and to beg me to take charge of a certain child of his. It
seems that, two or three years ago, he was inveigled into a marriage
with a beautiful but unprincipled girl, belonging to one of the worst
families in this vicinity; her parents keep a low tavern, generally
known, I believe, as the 'Rat-Hole,' about a mile out of town, on the
Berganton road. Do you know it?"
"Yes, it has been pointed out to me," replied Bergan.
"Well, the girl is dead; but there is a child, left in the
grandmother's hands, which Varley wants me to get possession of, and
bring up in a respectable way. Poor fellow! he has seen what is the
result of evil associations, and desires to save his child from a
similar fate. Still, he wishes the matter to be arranged quietly, if
possible. So, yesterday, I went out to see the grandmother--that
explains how I came to be in so vile a place. Well, I was made to wait
for a half hour in a dirty little back room; and having nothing else in
the world to interest me, my attention was attracted by a conversation
on the other side of the thin board partition which divided the room
from the next one. Still, I doubt if I should have taken the trouble
to try to make it out, if I had not heard your name spoken. Then it
occurred to me that I might possibly be able to do you a good turn, in
part payment of what you had done for me. So, swallowing my scruples
as best I could, I put my ear to one of the cracks, and listened.
There were two men on the other side, but they were wise enough not to
call names,--I did not get the least clue to whom or what they were.
One talked quite low, but in a clear, though rather thin voice, which
made it comparatively easy to catch what he was saying. The other
talked louder, but pretty thick, as if he were a good deal the worse
for liquor; and he mixed up everything that he said with such a queer
medley of proverbs--"
"Proverbs!" interrupted Bergan, starting, and beginning to look
interested.
"Yes,--proverbs in every language under the sun,--Latin, Greek,
Spanish, German, and all the rest,--a regular Tower-of-Babel
performance. Do you recognize him?"
"I suspect that I do. Go on."
"Well, his companion,--have I given you any clue to _him_?"
"None as yet. Perhaps I may get one as your story progresses."
"_He_ was persuading this old proverb-spouter to sign some paper,--a
will, I think; but it was only after a good deal of arguing, and
bribing, and threatening, that he succeeded in doing so. Now comes
your part in the matter; the old fellow's great objection seemed to be
that he didn't want to injure you."
"Me!" repeated Bergan, in much astonishment; "what had I to do with it?"
"That is exactly what I couldn't find out; but I thought you might be
able to tell. You cannot?"
"Not in the least. What else was there?"