Part 23
"Never!" repeated Astra, with proud emphasis. "I was engaged," she went on, after a moment, in an altered and tremulous tone, "to a MAN,--a calm, wise, noble man,--not a monster, nor a piece of mechanism. I was engaged to an earnest seeker after truth, a courageous grappler with problems that other men shunned, an honest speaker of his own thoughts and moulder of his own opinions,--a man who, though he might be temporarily led astray by the very excess of his virtues of candor, boldness, and integrity, would be sure to come right in the end. He is dead,--or he never lived, except in my imagination,--_requiescat in pace_. But to _you_,--a body without a soul, an intellect without a heart, a will without a faith, a kind of human beast of prey, intent on nothing but the gratification of his own selfish ends,--to you I was never pledged. I would as soon have bound myself to a corpse, or a calculating machine."
"This is plain talk, Astra," said Dr. Remy, growing pale with anger and mortification. "If you were not a woman, it would be easier to answer it."
"It is not only plain talk, but plain sight," replied Astra. "The scales have fallen from my eyes; at last, I see you as you are. The most that can be said for you, as well as in excuse for my late infatuation (for I would not seem altogether despicable in my own eyes), is that great and rich capabilities have been miserably perverted, in your person. A grand soul has somehow been strangled within you. Some hidden canker--beginning I know not when nor where, but to which your surgeon's knowledge ought to have impelled you long ago to put the surgeon's knife--has slowly eaten out everything that was sound and good, in your moral system, and left nothing but rottenness. And it is now too late for remedy. If it were not,--if there were any hope that I could help to save you, by clinging to you,--I think I have the strength and courage to do it. As it is, I should only corrupt myself. Indeed, I fear it will be long ere I get rid of the virus of doubt and captiousness, which, I find, you have already introduced into my mind; and of which that figure" (she pointed to the statue of clay) "is the legitimate outcome. You have given a bias to my mode of thought, which has already shaken my faith to its foundations,--and might, in time (but for the scathing commentary of your life upon your opinions), have destroyed it. Leave me now. We have done with each other."
Perhaps Dr. Remy's good angel, absent from his side for many years, hovered, at that moment, above his head, with a wistful--almost a hopeful--face. For, at last, the strong man was visibly affected. Some chance word of Astra's had found a joint in his iron armor, and penetrated to the living flesh. His lip trembled,--it may have been with an unshaped prayer to Astra to make that effort to save him, of which she had declared herself capable,--it may have been with a sudden perception of the barrenness of his life, and the valuelessness of its ends, disposing him, for a moment, to try whether any richer realities were to be reaped from an unselfish human affection and an unquestioning heavenly faith.
But not thus easily and quickly was the whole bent of a life to be changed, not thus the holding of the cords of evil to be loosed! Suddenly, between him and Astra, rose a vision of Bergan Hall, with its immense revenues, its ancient and aristocratic _prestige_, the vast power and influence that it would impart to capable hands, the abundant means and leisure that it would allow for scientific pursuits. For, if Doctor Remy lived for anything besides himself, it was for science. He had managed to persuade himself that the interests of the two were identical. He had embodied his selfishness, as it were, in a theory; for the development, confirmation, and proclamation, of which, he believed that he desired leisure and wealth, far more than for himself; and through which he meant to be a benefactor to his race, as well as to wreathe his own name with undying laurels. On the one hand, then, was this wide prospect of wealth, freedom, usefulness, and fame; on the other, Astra, and a life of restrictions and limitations, narrowed down to the daily necessity of daily bread. Quickly he made his choice. The angel spread his white wings, and flew upward,--never to return!
Doctor Remy turned to Astra, and held out his hand. "Let us part friends," said he.
"Not so," replied Astra; "let us part--as we are to remain--strangers. No need to mock the sacred past with the commonplace civilities of ordinary intercourse. The relation that once existed between us is simply dead, not changed into something else."
"As you will," returned Doctor Remy, after a pause. "At least let me wish you a short mourning, and a bright thereafter. Adieu."
He went out as he spoke, closing the door behind him. In his excitement, he used more force than he was aware of, and it fell to with a clangor that reverberated loudly through the large, uncarpeted room, and jarred painfully upon Astra's nerves. She shivered, and her eyes fell upon the clay figure. Apparently, it was trembling with sympathetic emotion; it even bent toward her, as if suddenly endued with life; for one moment, the old fable of Pygmalion seemed coming true, in her modern experience. Then, the limbs gave way, the trunk fell forward, down went Bearer and Child together, the faces of each giving her one last, distorted look of malign meaning, ere they crushed into fragments on the platform.
"It is not the only ruin that he has left behind him," murmured Astra to herself, with a sad and bitter smile.
In another moment, she too began to sink. The long fever of suspense was ended; the excitement that had carried her through the late trying interview was over; the inevitable time of reaction and depression had come. The thought of the terrible blank left in her heart and life, of the woful loss of affection, faith, and hope, that she had suffered, of the miserable waste in her past, and of the chaotic emptiness in her future, came over her with awful force. Slowly she sank, as if an invisible weight were pressing her to the earth. Settling upon her knees, she leaned her head on the ruins of her statue, and shook with sobs of tearless agony.
She knew not how long a time went by thus; it seemed to her to stretch its slow length over an age. But it is a merciful provision that acute sorrow soon exhausts itself. The mind, like the body, has beneficent limits to its power of endurance. In due time, Astra exchanged the anguish of wretchedness for its torpor. Her sobs died away, the convulsive trembling of her frame ceased, she sat up and looked around her with a face of quiet misery. Perhaps it was a little hard, too. Her pride was coming to her aid in bearing the burden for which, she told herself, she was largely accountable, and must therefore struggle along with as best she could. It was miraculously heavy, it would tax all her strength and resolution, she saw that plainly enough; but she forgot to look into it for any sign of divine origin, or promise of divine help. The baleful effect of Doctor Remy's influence still followed her, making God an overhanging Law, instead of a surrounding Love. She could not even read aright the lesson of her own fragments of clay!
She was struggling up to her feet, when Mrs. Lyte hurriedly entered, holding an open letter in her hand, and looking both frightened and bewildered. Perhaps nothing could have been better for either mother or daughter, at that moment, than to see the other's troubled face. In both countenances, there was a quick change of expression,--something of sorrow and anxiety gone, something of loving sympathy in its place,--as each uttered the eager inquiry;--
"What is the matter?"
Fortunately, Astra was not obliged to answer. Mrs. Lyte instantly discovered the fallen statue, and connected it, though not without a degree of surprise, with her daughter's woe-begone face. For Astra had been wont to bear disaster with more fortitude! Still, this was the largest work that she had yet undertaken; besides, she had seemed so far from well, of late! Mrs. Lyte's heart thrilled with motherly sympathy.
"I am so sorry!" she said, pityingly. "Is it an utter ruin?"
"Utter," replied Astra, with dreary emphasis. "But never mind about it now. What has happened to distress you?"
Mrs. Lyte put the letter into Astra's hand. "Read that," said she, "and see what you can make of it."
It was not without difficulty, under the pressure of her own misery, that Astra made herself comprehend the purport of the document before her, through the disguise of the legal terms wherein it had duly been couched by the lawyer employed by Major Bergan. With enlightenment, however, strange to say, came a quick sense of relief. Here, at least, was a necessity for action; and the trouble which is attended by that, is never so great as one which calls only for patient endurance. Besides, how glad would she be to leave Berganton at this juncture, to escape at once from its curiosity, its sympathy, or its censure, to be spared the pain of meeting Doctor Remy's altered face, and the irksomeness of going on with the old life, in the old scene, after it had lost all the old color and substance. Her face brightened so much, as she looked up from the letter, that Mrs. Lyte gave a sigh of relief.
"Then it is not so bad as I thought," said she.
Astra's heart smote her for her selfishness. She reflected what grief it would cause her mother to be thrust out from the home endeared to her by so many and sacred associations. Her face fell, and her heart sank again. Covering her eyes with her hands, she burst into a sudden passion of tears,--a softer agony than had shaken her before, but still so plainly an agony disproportionate to the occasion, that Mrs. Lyte's eyes suddenly opened to the perception of some hitherto unsuspected sorrow. She put her arms round her daughter, and drew her head on to her bosom, as in the days of her childhood.
"What is it, darling?" she asked.
The soft tone, the affectionate touch, the motherly sympathy, were irresistible. Before she well knew what she was doing, Astra was pouring forth all her sad story.
"Oh, mother!" she moaned, as she finished, "if we could only go away,--just for a time, at least, until I have recovered myself a little! If we could only go at once, too, without explanations or farewells!"
"We will, my child," returned Mrs. Lyte, soothingly,--"that is, if I can manage it."
Then followed a long consultation.
VIII.
A BUSINESS LETTER.
From Astra's studio, Doctor Remy went to his office, and devoted an hour to the task of writing a letter; which seemed to make an unusual demand upon his skill, either of composition or penmanship. Three different sheets were defaced and destroyed, ere the work was accomplished to his mind. The epistle was addressed to Mrs. Lyte, enclosing what purported to be the amount of an old, outlawed debt to her deceased husband; of which the debtor, having recently met with a stroke of good fortune, was glad to relieve his conscience. In good time, after making a short _détour_, it arrived at its destination; and played an important part in events, by furnishing Mrs. Lyte with an opportune sum of ready money.
Five days afterward, as Major Bergan was about to sally forth for his customary morning visit to his beloved rice fields, a letter was put into his hands. It ran as follows:
"DEAR MAJOR BERGAN: I duly received your notice of foreclosure, and I thank you for the measure of forbearance that you have hitherto exercised toward me. As you are doubtless aware, I have no means of paying off the mortgage, except by the sale of the property which it covers. As I am about to leave Berganton, for a time, on account of my daughter's health, I hereby surrender my house and grounds into your hands, to be sold, or otherwise disposed of, as you may deem best for our mutual interests. If they sell for more than the amount of the mortgage (as I hope they will), I know I may safely trust to you, as a man of honor, and a good friend of my late husband, to hold the balance subject to my order. You will find the house in charge of my old and faithful servant, Cato; whom I also venture to commend to your kind care, until I shall be able to send for him. I cannot find it in my heart to sell him; besides, he is too old to be of much value, though still quite able to earn his bread, on your plantation.
"This is not a man's way of doing business, I am well aware; it is only a woman's way of shirking responsibility, in matters that she does not understand. I know that my interests are safer in your hands than in my own. As soon as I am comfortably settled anywhere, I will let you know my address. Till then, believe me,
"Very truly yours, "CATHERINE LYTE."
It will be seen that this epistle was a masterpiece of diplomacy, in its way. Though it proved Mrs. Lyte to be a most unbusiness-like woman, it none the less evinced her thorough knowledge of the one-sided and contradictory character of the man with whom she had to deal. Grasping and impracticable as Major Bergan would be sure to be, with a surly and obstinate debtor who met him squarely on his own ground, she believed that he would not fail to show himself scrupulously just, and even generous, to the woman who, without a word of reproach or remonstrance, quietly resigned herself and her affairs into his hands, to be dealt with according to his good pleasure.
In this conclusion, she was justified by the event. A more astonished and disgusted man than Major Bergan, after he had mastered the contents of her letter, it would be hard to find. For once, even his brandy bottle was empty of comfort. He could only partially relieve his mind, while his horse was being saddled, by pouring forth volley upon volley of curses; distributed, impartially, at first, among Mrs. Lyte, Doctor Remy, his nephew, his frightened servants, and himself. Later, his wrath began to concentrate itself on Doctor Remy. That personage had undoubtedly influenced him to the commission of the act which he now stigmatized, in his most emphatic manner, as unworthy a Bergan and a gentleman. In return, he threatened to break every bone in the doctor's body, and grimly consigned the fragments to a place of deposit always much in favor with men of his habits. Finally, he mounted his horse, and trotted rapidly toward Berganton.
His first visit was, of course, to Doctor Remy. With the most imperturbable good humor, that gentleman listened to the flow of his oaths and objurgations, until it had partially exhausted itself by its own fury. He then assured the Major that his surprise and regret at Mrs. Lyte's departure were fully equalled by his own. The thing had been managed so quietly and adroitly, that he had not suspected it, until his attention had been attracted by the deserted look of the house. At the same time, he must acknowledge that it was only a short time since he had advised Mrs. Lyte to try a change of air, both for herself and her daughter; and doubtless that had had its share in influencing her action. Besides, it was on the whole the best thing that could do to take Miss Astra out of the way, until the present cloud of gossip had blown over. Finally, he threw out a suggestion that the twain had possibly gone to join Mr. Arling.
Hereupon, Major Bergan's wrath broke out afresh. It was not in human nature--certainly not in that particular species of human nature represented by the Major--to hear with equanimity that the very measure which he had taken to prevent what he considered to be an unsuitable marriage, had possibly availed to hasten it forward. The walls of the doctor's office trembled with the oral thunderbolts launched at the offenders. In due time, however, these also subsided into the low growl of the exhausted tempest; dying away, at last, in muttered imprecations upon that curious turn of events--the grim humor of which the Major was now quite capable of appreciating--which had made him the trustee of Mrs. Lyte's affairs, and the guardian of her interests.
To the Major's credit be it spoken, that he was incapable of betraying the trust thus committed to him. Quitting Doctor Remy's office, he went in search of old Cato, put the premises in his charge during the absence of his mistress, promised him an occasional visit of inspection (and a sound thrashing if all was not found in complete order), made due provision for his maintenance, and then took himself grumblingly home, to drown the remnant of his chagrin in the Lethean glass that had already swallowed up so many of his better thoughts, impulses, and characteristics.
Of course, Mrs. Lyte's departure--or flight, as it was not infrequently termed--made the nine days' wonder of Berganton. Some few gentle, charitable souls there were, no doubt, who, judging their neighbor by themselves, saw no harm either in the fact or the manner of her going. She was ill; so was her daughter; they had neither time nor heart for leavetakings. But there were others, wise in the crooked ways of the human heart through much practice therein, who scrupled not to find motives and objects for the course of the pale-faced widow and her gifted daughter, with which it is not necessary to stain this page. There was the more room for this, inasmuch as Major Bergan, partly out of consideration for Mrs. Lyte, and partly out of shame on his own account, had taken care that the existence of the mortgage should not transpire. Yet Mrs. Lyte had depended upon the ultimate disclosure of this fact, to furnish that explanation of her departure which she had shunned to give herself, and to turn the current of popular sympathy in her favor. In yielding to Astra's morbid desire not only to leave the scene of her untoward love behind, but to do it in such swift and silent wise that neither curiosity, nor sympathy, nor malevolence, could immediately follow them, to inflict their various torture upon her sore heart, Mrs. Lyte had looked confidently forward to this forthcoming justification of her step. Her old friends, she thought, would be sure to understand the feeling that led her to flee from the sight of the sale of her lifelong home (it might be under the auctioneer's hammer), and to shut off all means of communication between herself and the painful transaction, until time had given her strength to bear it.
Next to Major Bergan, the person who felt most aggrieved at the fact and manner of her departure was Carice. Astra, to be sure, had not failed to send her friend a brief note of farewell; but it was couched in such vague terms, owing to the confusion and distress of mind in which it had been written, as to afford little satisfaction to the reader. She could only gather from it that, in one way or another, Astra's happiness was very seriously compromised; so much so as to make a change desirable, though it were only a change of pain. And, in Carice's present circumstances, this was either too much or too little. The rumors which had filled Berganton had found their way to Oakstead also; and, for the first time in their lives, parents and daughter were divided in sentiment, and alien in sympathy. Mr. and Mrs. Bergan--terrified that their idolized child should have given her heart to a man persistently held up to view as a thin mask of outward morality over an inward rottenness of intemperance, indebtedness, and unscrupulous trifling with affection--could think of no better way of correcting the mischief than by continually repeating in her unwilling ears the various dark rumors in circulation, together with such facts and theories as tended to confirm them. Carice, on her part, turned from them all with the instinctive disgust of a pure mind, and the generous faith and confidence of a true affection. And she was right. Trust, as long as it is in anywise possible, is the heart's deepest wisdom, as well as its surest instinct.
Nevertheless, it was hard to find her parents arrayed against her, with all the rest of the world. Duty, decorum, forbade her to set up her own opinion in opposition to theirs; often she had but to listen in silence to statements and inferences which she could neither admit nor disprove. She would have been glad, therefore, had Astra's note furnished one scrap of evidence in support of her own convictions; on the contrary, its testimony went quite the other way. She could only neutralize its effect upon herself by supposing that Astra had given her affections to Bergan unsought, and was now suffering from a disappointment none the less bitter that she had brought it upon herself. But Carice was too delicate and generous to breathe this suspicion aloud; at the same time she knew that it would have no weight with minds so deeply prejudiced as those of her parents.
Carice's worst trial was, however, her growing wonder why nothing was heard from Bergan. His last words to her had been a promise to write immediately, both to her father and herself,--to the former by way of frankly avowing his love, and asking for permission to address his daughter; to the latter, as a necessary sequence to that brief interview by the singing river, the thought of which was Carice's one subject of delightful contemplation. But no letter came, not so much as a word of regret or excuse for necessary delay. As time dragged its slow length along, a touching look of wistfulness, mingled with a sorrowful patience, came into the face that had lately been so serenely happy,--a look over which Mr. and Mrs. Bergan scarcely knew whether most to lament or to rejoice, it was grievous to behold it there; and yet, if Bergan would only keep silent, she must eventually give him up!
Alas for Carice! there was no doubt whatever that Bergan would keep silent--or seem to do so. Her parents' minds would have been set at rest on that point, if they could invisibly have followed Doctor Remy into the Berganton Post Office some weeks previous, and listened to his conversation with the pale, slight, weak-looking young man in charge. One month before, he had so obstinately and successfully fought death at the bedside of this young man's newly wedded wife, as to call forth an unusual amount of gratitude. To this fact he now alluded.
"Well, Jekyll," said he, "I have come to make trial of that eternal gratitude which you swore to me, not long ago."
"I am glad of it, sir," responded Jekyll, warmly. "What can I do for you?"
"The question is rather, what _will_ you do for me?" returned the doctor, with marked emphasis.
"Anything, anything, that is not wrong," replied Jekyll.
"Right and wrong are relative terms," replied Doctor Remy, quietly. "If you had understood the nature of the drugs which I gave your wife the other night, you would have said that I was trying to poison her;--yet, you see, I saved her life. It is the motive which determines the character of the act."
"Y-e-s, sir," rejoined Jekyll, considerably bewildered; but, nevertheless, feeling quite certain that so learned a man as Doctor Remy must understand these matters a great deal better than he did.
"And so," continued the doctor, suavely, "what I am about to ask you to do, is not really wrong, though it may seem so at first sight. It is only a quiet method of averting a great deal of trouble and scandal from a very worthy family. Should you recognize this handwriting, if you were to see it again?"
Jekyll looked at the paper held towards him, and answered,--"Yes, certainly; it is--"