Part 18

"I think not," said Astra, coolly. "Mr. Arling is pretty well used to my ways, by this time. We were speaking," she continued, "of that ineffable combination of snow and sunshine, lily and rose, saint and angel, known among mortals by the name of Carice Bergan. Can you even imagine being on familiar terms with her? Or would you if you could? Does she not seem fitter for a pedestal or a shrine,--some place a little above, or remote from, life's ordinary round?"

"She does, indeed," replied Bergan, earnestly. "There is a half-unearthly purity about her, that keeps even one's thoughts at a reverent distance. Snow and sunshine!--yes, she has something of both, a kind of soft, white chill, interfused with a rich brightness, half-golden, half roseate;--but it is impossible to put the idea into words!"

And Bergan turned, musingly, toward his office door.

Astra looked after him, for a moment, and then glanced smilingly at her mother.

"Fortunately, there are such things as household divinities," said she.

"Eh?" said Mrs. Lyte, wonderingly.

But Astra did not explain.

XIII.

DINNER-TABLE TALK.

Late wisdom is apt to taste of the flower of folly whence it is distilled. So, at least, thought Mrs. Bergan, when, months afterward, she looked back upon her dinner-party, and seemed to see in it the beginning of trouble. But it is probable that nothing which she could have done, or left undone, would have availed to alter the natural, irresistible course of events. At the most, she may have hastened its current a little. Her dinner-party only furnished a convenient point of meeting for lives inevitably tending toward each other, for influences long converging, and certain to meet at last, in clash or harmony. Without it, there must needs have been a swift birth of friendship between Carice and Astra, at their next meeting; which meeting could not have been much longer deferred. Without it, Doctor Remy would assiduously have spun his web for self-advantage, fastening his threads indifferently to whatever or whomsoever seemed to promise the best support, and quickly unfastening them whenever a prop failed him. Without it, the hearts of Bergan and Carice would sooner or later have inclined toward each other, by reason of an instinct truer and surer than maternal foresight or forestalling.

The dinner was, _per se_, a success. The table was elegant with glass, silver, and flowers; the viands were the creation of one of those round, greasy Africanesses, who are born to the gridiron not less indubitably than a poet to the lyre; and white-haired old Sancho waited with a blending of obsequiousness and pomposity, wonderful to behold. There were neither culinary failures to harrow the soul of the hostess, nor glass-fractures or sauce-spillings to disconcert her guests.

The conversation was bright, easy, and desultory, as well as interlocutory and general by turns, as dinner-table talk should be. Only once, and that quite at the last, did it take a graver turn than was well suited to the occasion, or seem to stir any ill-feeling. In a pause of the more general conversation, Doctor Remy was heard saying to Carice, who sat next him;--

"You are fortunate in being able to believe so implicitly, without ampler proof."

"Do you think the proof insufficient, then?" asked Carice, with a little look of wonder in her blue eyes.

"To some minds," answered Doctor Remy, evasively.

"Perhaps," interposed Mr. Islay, whose ears had been open for some moments toward this conversation,--"perhaps such minds find the proof insufficient only because they have not yet been able to look at it in the right light."

"What light do you mean?" asked Doctor Remy, a little doubtfully.

"The light of a renewed heart and an obedient life. No man apprehends the truths of Christianity clearly, nor believes them with a belief that is worth anything, until he feels his own personal need of them. When that time comes, he catches hold of them, without proof, as it were,--or, at least, without other proof than their felt adaptation to that intense need,---just as a man who is hungry and thirsty accepts convenient food without troubling himself about its chemical analysis. Then, holding them fast, and feeling how perfectly they meet his wants, what strength and satisfaction they give to his mind, and what symmetry and dignity they impart to his life, he begins to look back over the long line of prophecy and testimony for proof, and finds it ample. Men are prone to forget, Dr. Remy, that the natural order--as we see in children--is through the heart to the intellect, not through the intellect to the heart."

"But," objected Doctor Remy, "if a man is not sensible of any such personal need, how is he to be made to feel it?"

"Who can tell?" responded Mr. Islay, solemnly. "If the eye sees no comeliness in Christ, to desire Him, if the heart feels no void which craves His fulness, no pang which needs His healing, who can tell when the one will be opened, the other emptied or smitten? 'The wind bloweth where it listeth.' But I can tell you, Doctor Remy, how a man can postpone the time of conviction to the last moment, perhaps to the very end."

"Indeed," answered Doctor Remy, lifting his eyebrows. "May I ask for the formula?"

"Simply by leading a life of deliberate, habitual sin and selfishness. There is nothing like sin for blinding the eyes, and misleading the judgment, in regard to spiritual things. Indeed, if I desired to shake my own faith in Christ to the very centre, I know no way in which I could do it so surely as by committing some dreadful crime--murder, for instance. All my views of life and death, earth and heaven, would at once become distorted and confused, just as all my thoughts and aims would immediately take a new direction."

Mr. Islay being on the same side of the table as his interlocutor, could not observe the latter's sudden change of countenance; but Bergan, sitting opposite, was surprised to see the doctor's face darken with some powerful emotion, while he shot a furtive, suspicious glance at the speaker. Yet his voice, when he spoke, was studiously low and even, so much so that its latent venom was unnoticed by the majority of the party.

"Inasmuch," said he, "as Mr. Islay is able to speak so intelligently of religious faith, because of his thorough acquaintance therewith, so, doubtless, his remarks upon crime and its effects are the outcome of his own personal experience."

Bergan colored with indignation, and was about to say something in sharp rebuke of the covert insult; but Mr. Islay stopped him by a look, and a slight, yet decided gesture.

"You are thinking, doubtless," said he, mildly, turning to Dr. Remy, "of the deep truth that he who would teach successfully, must know something of his subject by experience as well as theory. A clergyman certainly does find in his own heart both the suggestion and the proof of the truths which he seeks to enforce upon others. Herein lies his fitness for his office. Out of seeming weakness comes real strength. Feeling, or having felt, in his own person, the power both of sin and of redeeming love, he can the better set forth the hatefulness of the one, and the efficacy of the other."

There was a slight pause; then, Mrs. Bergan made haste to break the silence, and to do it in such a manner as to induce a speedy change of subject. And Dr. Remy, after a brief moodiness, which seemed to indicate some lingering effect of the preceding discussion, suddenly unbent his brow, and threw himself into the new theme with animation, to the immediate enlivenment of the party, and the gradual extinction of his hostess's resentment. She acknowledged to herself that he could be exceedingly agreeable, when it pleased him. If he would but spice his conversation a little less freely with sarcasm!

And then she gave the signal for the ladies to leave the table.

As has been already hinted, the more immediate and visible result of the dinner-party at Oakstead, was a swift budding and blossoming of friendship between Carice and Astra. Despite the playful disclaimer of the latter, when the probability of such a consummation had been mentioned by her mother, no sooner did the two girls meet face to face, the gray eyes and the blue ones looking straight into each other's depths, than there was an instant, unlooked-for revival of their childish affection and confidence; quickly informed by a deeper sympathy and fuller comprehension. It was much like sisters--unavoidably separated for years, but in whom the instinct of kinship cannot be lost--that they sat talking together, in a twilight corner of the parlor, until the gentlemen came from the dining-room. Not only were there pleasant childhood memories to recall, but the life-story of each was to be brought fairly up to the present time, for the enlightenment of the other. Astra's was the more eventful; it embraced all her art-education and life, with its toils, pleasures, difficulties, ambitions, and disappointments. Carice's was more like that of a flower; she had lived and grown in the home-precinct, she had fed on sunshine and dew, sweet and right thoughts had been as natural to her as perfume to a rose, she had made a little space very delightsome with her beauty and her sweetness; and that was all. Each felt a very genuine admiration for the other;--Carice bent loyally before Astra's crown of genius; Astra held her breath, half in awe, half in tenderness, before the aureola that she saw encircling the fair head of Carice. As for the "chill" of which she had spoken to Bergan, she had ceased to think of it. Carice's affections were warm enough, she saw, when they were reached. Yet there was something about her too, which she would still have been forced to call chill, for want of a better word,---that indefinable quality which is inseparable from anything at once white and pure,--a pearl, a star, or the white wing of a dove.

As a natural consequence of this friendship, Carice came often to Astra's studio. Not infrequently she met Bergan there. Remembering Miss Ferrar's statement, and giving it more credit than she was really aware of, she wondered, sometimes, that she could detect no sign of a secret, or tacit, understanding between him and Astra. Their manner to each other was most frank and kind, but it seemed totally devoid of any lover-like quality. She finally settled it in her mind that no engagement existed as yet; but she also decided that, inasmuch as they were admirably fitted for each other, it was sure to come, in good time. Nothing better, she thought, in her innocent heart, could well be devised for either.

Astra, meanwhile was watching Bergan and Carice with as warm an interest, and a far more penetrating glance; and often she smiled to herself over the discoveries that she made. To her, they appeared to be drifting as surely, if unconsciously, down the smooth, gliding current of love, as could be desired. She was glad to have it so. She believed them to be true counterparts, needing each to be completed by the other. Bergan had strength, nobleness, enthusiasm; Carice had sweetness, purity, repose; how beautiful and fit the union, how symmetrical the result! There was a genuine artistic joy in the thought.

And then, all at once, she forgot to watch them. Suddenly, or gradually, she knew not which, a magical change had been wrought in her surroundings; old things had vanished, all things had become new. A new sky, a new earth,--stars and cloud-shapes of bewitching vagueness and softness,--scenery of wondrous coloring and surpassing loveliness,--lights that were tenderer than any shadows, and shadows that were only subdued lights;--of what were these things the signs? Had she also been drifting, and whither?

PART THIRD.

THE IN-GATHERING.

I.

UNFOLDINGS.

Spring was abroad in the land. No one could tell just when she had stolen into the woods and gardens, and begun her pleasant labors, but there was no question about the fact of her presence and industry. Everywhere, there were the tender green of newborn foliage, and the varied odors of opening buds and blossoms. The new leaves of the ilex trees had quietly pushed off the old ones. The hedges were thick-sown with the white stars of the Cherokee rose. The passion-vine trailed its purple garments along the fences. Houstonias spread a soft blue haze over the grass. Wild plum and cherry trees flung drifts of fragrant snow along the road side. The air was faint with perfume from the ivory censers of the magnolia, swinging dreamily overhead. Wherever a vine could cling and climb, there was a seemingly miraculous outburst of foliage and flowers; every dry stick and stem became a leafy thyrsus, every crumbling stump a green and garlanded altar.

Mrs. Lyte's great, irregular thicket of a garden was quick to feel the genial influence, and to twine and twist itself into a denser tangle than ever. Rose bushes laughed the virtue of economy to scorn, with their perfumed affluence of pink and crimson and yellow. Pomegranates burst into scarlet flames; mimosas tossed aloft feathery balls of many hues. Jessamines and honeysuckles, holding up vases of gold, to catch every sunbeam, ran hither and thither at their own sweet will. So did tiny green lizards, with scarlet throats, and swift chameleons, with curious intelligent eyes. The air was tuneful with the flight and song of bees and humming-birds, cooing doves, and shining-winged spindles. Manifold, in truth, were the garden's delights: varied sound and color and perfume, cheerful radiance and gentle gloom, unobtrusive companionship and soft seclusion, were all to be found within its pleasant compass.

And, as the days grew long and warm with the Spring's advance, Bergan now and then, growing weary of the confinement and monotony of his office, took his Blackstone, or Kent, or whatever might be the legal authority under examination, and gave himself the refreshment of an hour's reading, in one of the garden's shady, sequestered nooks. Doing this, one sultry afternoon in May, the drowsy influence of the atmosphere, and the soothing murmurousness of the insects' song, soon proved too potent for the logical connection of the learned legal thesis; there were unaccountable gaps between fact and deduction; and, going back to pick up the broken thread, Bergan lost it altogether. Sleep had stolen upon him through the dusky foliage, and she held him fast until the latest sunbeam, through a convenient aperture in the verdant walls, laid its light finger on his eyelids.

Waking suddenly, but completely, hushed voices, proceeding from a neighboring thicket, met his ear.

"Impossible, Felix."

"But, Astra,--"

Had there been danger in those low, earnest accents, Bergan could scarcely have started up more quickly and cautiously, nor have fled from them faster. As he expected and desired, the low boughs closing and rustling behind him, made what followed inaudible. He was loath to hear another word. He felt almost guilty for having heard so much. Those subdued, confidential tones, those quietly spoken Christian names, had, of themselves, been a startling revelation. For, notwithstanding her frank, easy, affable deportment toward those who came within her sphere, Astra Lyte knew well how to hedge herself round with a maidenly dignity that kept familiarity at a distance. She was not the kind of girl whose Christian name finds its way easily to unaccustomed lips. Despite his own residence, for a considerable time, under the same roof, and the frank and friendly intercourse which had grown out of it,--despite, too, the fact that Mrs. Lyte often called him her son, and Cathie was wont to spring to his arms as to those of a brother,--it had never occurred to himself to call her anything less formal than "Miss Lyte." Nor would it have done to Dr. Remy, he felt sure, without the sufficient warrant of a close and tender relation. This premise being established, the conclusion that such a relation existed was unavoidable.

And, looking back over the events of the past few weeks, Bergan was amazed to see with what an amount of corroboratory evidence he was unexpectedly furnished. Not only did numberless glances, tones, and actions, bearing directly upon the case, start suddenly into view, but, just as the landscape through which one passes presents new outlines, new features, and a new sentiment, in a backward survey, so these things assumed new faces and a new meaning, in his review of them. Once or twice, of late, it had occurred to him that Astra was scarcely at her ease, in Dr. Remy's presence; he now understood that this constraint came of affection, fearful of betraying itself, and not, as he had imagined, of some newborn distrust or dislike. Anterior to this, he had observed that the doctor's visits to Miss Lyte's studio were much more frequent than formerly, and that he was making an obvious enough attempt to commend himself to her favor by a more cordial and constant interest in her work, as well as by exercising a more careful circumspection over his conversation. His cynicism vanished, or veiled itself, before the rich glow of her enthusiasm. His satire spared her generous ambition. His scepticism, though not less frank, was less hostile and inveterate; and often it resolved itself into a kind of weary and wistful sadness, as if it were less a choice than a misfortune, and would gladly exchange itself for something better, if it only knew how. At such times, Bergan himself was sensible of a singular charm in his conversation, a kind of autumn-night splendor; chill, lustrous moonlight, mystical shadow, and vague mournfulness, blending into one, irresistible fascination. No doubt, Astra had been made to feel it still more keenly; no doubt, too, she had been led to believe that whatever was amiss in the doctor's beliefs would yield readily to her influence,--that he would prove scarcely less plastic in her hands than the clay wherewith she was wont to deal so cunningly.

Yet Bergan could not help wondering a little at the doctor's ready success. Astra's genius, he thought, should have saved her from any hasty bestowal of her affections. He did not know that, in this regard, a woman of genius differs little from the most commonplace of her sisters. She gives her affections as trustfully, and flings herself away as freely, as the silliest of them all.

Having gotten to this point in his meditations, and also to the middle of the open field, back of the garden, Bergan could not help turning and looking toward the thicket, the neighborhood of which he had so hastily quitted. His face grew troubled and anxious, as he gazed. Was Doctor Remy anywise worthy of the heart that he had won? Bergan shook his head ruefully, as he asked himself this question. Without intent or wish of his own--in spite, even, of some strenuous efforts to the contrary--a deep distrust of the doctor had rooted itself in his mind. Though it gave but scanty justification of itself to his intellect, and was not allowed to show itself in his actions; though, now and then, he made a sturdy effort to uproot it, and cast it out, as an ungenerous return for kindness, or something that looked like it; it, nevertheless, kept its ground, and quietly strengthened itself there. It did not fail, now, to thrust itself into view, as a partial answer to his question. The bright spring landscape, with its crowded leaf and bloom, and its rich promise of fruit, seemed to darken with a shadow from Astra's future, as thus revealed to him. Must the promise of seed-time and harvest fail, then, only in the moral world?

Though Bergan, driven by a nice sense of honor, had fled so precipitately from the voices and the neighborhood of the lovers, there is no reason why the reader may not return thither, and see what is to be learned from their conversation.

"I cannot think it right," said Astra, "to leave mother in ignorance any longer."

"Do you think, then," asked Doctor Remy, reproachfully, "that I would ask you to do anything wrong?"

Astra hesitated for a moment. Perhaps it then and there occurred to her, for the first time, that the doctor's standard of right was likely to differ from her own, in the same ratio as his religious faith.

Doctor Remy did not wait for the tardy answer. Putting his arm round Astra, he drew her head on to his shoulder. The movement might have been prompted by tenderness; none the less, it had the effect to take his face out of her line of vision.

"All my life long, Astra," said he, in a deep, moved tone--(it is often easier to put a desired note into the voice, than a corresponding expression into the face)--"all my life long, I have had a strange desire to be trusted,--trusted implicitly. Faith without sight--blind, unquestioning faith--is to me one of the most beautiful as well as desirable things on earth; all the more so, perhaps, that it is not given to me to feel it. But it has always been my dream, my hope, to inspire it. In my ideal picture of the woman whom I should love, it was always her consummate, irresistible charm. Must I now make up my mind to do without it?"

Astra was touched. "If it did not seem to be wrong!" she exclaimed.

The doctor shook his head. "_That_ is not trust," said he, "at least, not the trust that I mean. Who can so order circumstances that they shall never seem to condemn him? But the faith of which I speak, having once assured itself of the integrity of its beloved, never again admits it to be an open question."

Astra was silent. The doctor heaved a heavy sigh. "I see that I am not to realize my ideal," said he. "Well, it cannot be helped. I will give you the explanation that you need. Perhaps, being satisfied, in this instance, that I have a good reason for what I do, you will be able to trust me hereafter."

"I will, indeed I will!" exclaimed Astra, eagerly.

"The worst of it is," pursued the doctor, "that you compel me to betray a trust--your mother's trust."

Astra's cheek flushed. She had been miserable at the idea of keeping anything from her mother; was she, then, the one really excluded from confidence?

"Stay," said she, proudly, "I do not wish to hear anything that my mother desires to conceal from me."

"Then," replied the doctor, "it is impossible for me to explain why our engagement must not be made known, at present, to your mother."

Astra looked bewildered, as well she might, at this apparently inscrutable complication.

Doctor Remy seemed to take pity on her perplexity. "Listen, dear," said he, "and you will soon understand. Your mother consulted me professionally, a fortnight since."

Astra's cheek grew white with sudden fear. "What is it?" she gasped.

"There is no immediate danger," said the doctor, "and may not be, for years, with due precautions. But there is a tendency to heart disease; and it is imperative, just now, that she should not be agitated. And this, Astra, is the reason why she must not hear of our engagement, for some time to come."

Astra looked down thoughtfully. "I think you are mistaken," said she. "I believe it would be a relief to her to know that my future is in such good hands."

"Doubtless, that would be the ultimate effect," replied Doctor Remy; "but there would be emotional excitement, at first, more than is good for her;--so much that I, as a physician, am bound to forbid it."

Astra could not but admit that the prohibition was just. Mrs. Lyte had seemed very fragile and feeble, of late. Astra had urged that application to Doctor Remy which, it now appeared, her mother had made, but in regard to the results of which she had chosen to keep silence,--from a loving wish, probably, to save her daughter from unavailing anxiety. Astra's heart swelled at the thought.

"Are you _sure_," she asked, "that there is no immediate danger?"