Part 29

Thither, also, after awhile, came Bergan; yielding to Mr. Youle's entreaty that he would close the office, for at least a day or two, and give himself a breath of fresh air. Secure in his dearly bought acclimation, he had not purposed to leave the city; anticipating no worse effect from its summer atmosphere than a kind of dreamy languor, which, in his present state of mind, was perhaps more to be desired than any bracing of his energies. Nevertheless, he had come to feel for Mr. Youle a degree of filial affection; and he would not pain him by a churlish disregard of his kindness.

He reached Farview about sunset. For the last three or four miles, he had seen the low roof and broad piazzas of his goal looking down upon him from the hill top, as he journeyed up the valley, and when he finally stood on the green and flowery lawn, he felt as if his own being were suddenly and sympathetically magnified an hundred degrees, so wide was the lovely and luxuriant Southern landscape outspread before him. Field and forest spotted it with various verdure; a river drew a bright, wavy line across it; here, the yellow sunshine brought out clearly every line and tint; there, the clouds dimmed it with patches of shadow; and all around was a massive framework of sunset-gilded hills.

Half involuntarily, Bergan took off his hat. "How good are the works of God, and how harmonious in their relations to one another, when we get high enough to command a wide view of them!" he reverently thought. "So, too, I doubt not, I shall find it with the dealings of His providence, when once I have climbed to a proper standpoint whence to view them as a whole. Till then, let faith accept the truth which is hidden from sight!"

A larger party than he had expected to see, was gathered in the dining-room. A legal brother, who had received a general invitation from Mr. Youle to visit him during the Summer, had hit upon this occasion; one planter from the neighborhood was present by appointment, and another by accident; and there was also a lady friend of Miss Youle, with her young daughter, Nina, besides Miss Thane. The latter signified her remembrance of Bergan by a cool bow; but it was not until dinner was over, and the evening tolerably well advanced, that he found himself in her immediate vicinity. Coralie had been led to the piano, leaving him in a somewhat isolated position, near one of the long windows; and, while the notes of a fairy-like waltz seemed to be dropping from her slender fingers, as they flitted up and down the ivory key-board, he thought he might venture to step out on the moonlit piazza, for a few moments, without being missed. Suiting the action to the thought, he discovered that Miss Thane had made her escape before him. She was leaning against a pillar, looking out over the moon-silvered valley with a weary and wistful expression scarcely in keeping with the calm, icy indifference of her wonted aspect. With a brief apology for interrupting her, he was about to retire, when she spoke, in a tone that seemed to accord him permission to stay if he chose.

"Coralie's music sounds sweeter outside than within."

Bergan drew near to her, not to let his voice penetrate to the parlor.

"That is true, I suspect, of many things in life. To feel their full sweetness, one must get a little out of their immediate sphere."

"Is that true of persons, also?" she asked, with a keen glance.

Some moments elapsed before Bergan could answer. Compelled by the question to make a sudden, rapid investigation into the deeper things of the heart, he was confounded at the unexpected result. Too truthful, however, to attempt to hide it, he finally answered, thoughtfully;--

"In some measure, I think it is. Miss Thane, did you ever experience quite that deep delight in the presence of a friend, which you sometimes (please remember, I say only, sometimes) derive from the thought of him or her in absence?"

She did not answer the question. She only said, in a tone of cool irony;--"You do not flatter your friends, Mr. Arling." But in another moment, she exclaimed, with a sudden, startling intensity of passion and longing;--"Is there, then, _nothing_,--neither love, nor friendship,--absolutely nothing, which answers expectation, and satisfies desire? Horrible, horrible thought!"

"I do not think so," replied Bergan, gently; "though I confess that I was troubled, at first, by the necessity of answering your question as I did. But I now recognize the fact thus revealed to me as very satisfactory evidence that our affections, our friendships, are to know a richer and lovelier development than they can ever attain to on this earth. In heaven there must be room for every lofty ideal."

Then, with a sudden deep intuition of the real necessities of the soul beside him, he went on to say;--"Yet there, as here, I suppose, the one satisfying, completing thing will be the love of God. The soul was made to look up, not along a level; it can only find its highest joy in something superior to itself."

She turned, and looked him intently in the face.

"Do you believe what you say?" she asked, doubtfully.

Very solemnly Bergan answered;--"I do."

"Belief is nothing," she rejoined, after a pause, "action is the test. Do you _live_ your belief?"

Bergan drew a deep breath. "I try to do so, Miss Thane."

She went on, seemingly so intent upon her own train of thought as to be utterly unmindful of the solemn and searching nature of the questions that she was putting;--

"You feel, then, this all-satisfying love of God in your heart?"

"In some measure, I trust I do."

"And when the sun suddenly dropped, or faded, out of your sky, and the past became a corpse, and the present a burden, and the future a blank, what comfort did it give you?"

"The comfort of knowing that all things work together for the good of those that love God," responded Bergan, not without a momentary wonder at the curious appositeness of the question to his recent experiences, but quickly divining that she was looking more into her own heart than his, in asking it.

"Good," she repeated, musingly; "you did not say, happiness."

"Good is a better word than happiness, in this world. In the world to come, they will be synonyms."

She gave him another long, penetrating look. Then she said, quite simply, and evidently with no thought or intention of paying him compliments;--"You have talents, you have culture, you have a clear and powerful intellect (I heard Judge Emly begin an argument with you just now, and you soon cut the very ground from under his feet), you have been wonderfully successful, too, considering your years,--yet you do not hesitate to bind yourself to these narrow theories."

"Narrow, do you think them? Broad, rather, since they link eternity to time, and give one the long outlook and overlook which alone reveal things in their true relations. No one can construe this world aright, or even satisfactorily, without doing it by the light of the next. As for intellect, Miss Thane, some of the most commanding intellects of the world have been defenders of the 'faith once delivered.' And, if such had been lacking, there is a certain Book that Time has not been able to make obsolete, nor Science to nullify, which tells how, aforetime, God chose the foolish things of the world to confound the wise: and He can do it again, when the necessity arises."

"You are content, then, to feel that your intellect, your learning, give you no advantage, in these matters, over the most ignorant of your neighbors?"

"I am content to know that, in religion as in most other things, though books may help, thorough knowledge is of experience. The man who feels most of the Spirit of God in his heart, and makes it most clearly manifest in his life, is the man most competent, other things being equal, to analyze its operations and effects. Political economy, Miss Thane, is not the only subject about which men may prate very learnedly, and know very little."

Coralie's music ceased suddenly. There was a little stir in the parlor, and a murmur of voices, as if some subject of interest were under discussion.

"Go," commanded Miss Thane, "they will be looking for you. I will follow you in a few moments."

He stepped back through the window. Coralie came toward him. "We are talking," said she, "of going down to the negroes' camp-meeting, a little below here; Mr. Sypher was just telling us that it is a sight well worth seeing, by night. Will you go?"

"I am entirely at your service," replied Bergan, courteously.

"And Diva!--where is she? Oh, there she comes."

Bergan turned. Miss Thane was standing between the curtains, with her usual expression of calm indifference.

Coralie explained what was wanted. "Would you like it?" she inquired, twining her arm round her friend. "There will be some fine artistic effects."

Miss Thane looked down upon her, with a softness that Bergan had never before seen in her face, and which gave it a marvellous beauty. "I like whatever you like, child," she answered, evasively.

In the hall, she stopped, and took a shawl from the rack.

"Oh, Diva," exclaimed Coralie, "you will not need that, it is so warm."

Miss Thane stood doubtful, with the shawl in her hand. Bergan took it from her quietly, and threw it across his broad shoulder. "It is always safe to carry a shawl, if not to wear it," said he, lightly.

There was no formal arrangement of the party. The path lay through the fields, and was often too narrow to admit more than one person; at other times, partnerships of two or three were formed or broken, very much by chance. A broad glory of moonshine not only lighted them on their way, but surrounded them with enchantment,--softening lines, and deepening shadows, and turning the whole earth into a new creation of silver and ebony.

IV.

A WORD IN DUE SEASON.

Ere long, the shadowy wood-line was reached, and very soon a red twinkle of light became visible through the trees, broadening and brightening as they advanced. The sweet and solemn notes of a hymn, sung by many voices, next pervaded the air; and in a few minutes more, they were standing on the edge of the camp-ground, interested observers of a singularly picturesque scene.

Opposite to them was the speaker's stand, well lighted, covered with evergreen boughs, and affording accommodation to a goodly company of preachers, but too distant to be unpleasantly prominent. Between them and it, the whole vast space was crowded with negro worshippers; some sitting, some kneeling; here, an uncouth figure bowed in an attitude of absorbed meditation (or, it might be, indulging in a peaceful sleep); there, a dusky, upturned face, intent, or agonized, or rapturous, according as the owner was devoutly receptive, torn with conviction of sin, or blissfully assured of pardon. From among them the brown trunks of the forest trees rose straight and shapely as the pillars of a vast temple; and overhead, the under surfaces of the leaves showed gray and spectral against the sombre night sky. Here and there, lanterns were fastened to the trees, but the place was chiefly illuminated by great fires of pitch pine, whence clouds of smoke arose ever and anon, and hung trembling in the tree-tops; and the flames of which, as they rose and fell, cast alternate glow and gloom upon the upturned faces, and seemed to work corresponding changes of expression,--sudden transitions of joy and sorrow for which there was no apparent cause. Outside of these fires, scattered groups of spectators now came out into bold relief, and now lost themselves in shadow; strong profiles caught the eye, and then vanished; here and there, too, white faces offered an effective contrast to their darker neighbors.

Altogether, it was a picture to delight an artist's eye; yet Miss Thane seemed scarcely to enjoy it. On the way hither she had been silent, shut up within herself, neither seeking nor giving amusement; and she now stood a little apart, letting her eyes rove absently from point to point, but without appearing to take intelligent cognizance of any! Yet she seemed to be listening, after awhile, to the voice of the white-haired negro preacher who occupied the stand, and talked of the comfort of religious faith in a way to argue profound personal knowledge of the subject,--albeit, his phraseology was illiterate, and occasionally absurd, calling a smile to some faces in the party. But Diva did not smile; her thoughts were evidently far below the surface of the subject, in depths where the gleaming ripple of the comic was unfelt and unseen.

The party was considerably scattered. Miss Youle and her friend, tired with their walk, had found a seat on the outermost of the benches, watched over by Judge Emly; the youthful Miss Nina and one of the planters had gone round to get a view from the other side; Coralie stood near a fire, listening to the low comments of Mr. Sypher; and Mr. Youle and Bergan were quite in the background, silent spectators, for the most part, of what was going on.

The white-haired speaker brought his brief address to a close; and a number of negroes quitted the benches and came up the path. Mechanically, Coralie stepped back to make way.

"Take care," exclaimed Mr. Sypher, in a warning voice, "you will catch fire."

But he was too late. She had moved within reach of the draft, and her light muslin robe was wafted into the blaze. Instantly, she felt the heat, saw over her shoulder a rising tongue of flame, and with the insane impulse which usually seizes upon those in like peril, turned to flee from the danger which it was so impossible to distance. But scarcely had she taken a step, before Bergan's strong arm caught her, and flung her, face downward, on the ground; with a deft movement of the other hand and arm, Miss Thane's shawl was shaken out and thrown over her; and, in spite of her frantic struggles, she was held fast by one knee, while he applied both hands to the task of smothering the flames. Miss Thane was the first to come to his aid; then the rest of the party woke from their momentary stupor of alarm, and joined their efforts to hers. In very brief space of time, the work of extinguishment was complete, and Coralie, being lifted to her feet, still enveloped in the friendly shawl, was found to be comparatively uninjured. Her floating curls were singed at the ends, one arm was slightly reddened and smarting, and her nerves were considerably shaken--that was all;--all I where there might so easily have been death, or torture and disfigurement worse than death.

The whole thing had taken place so suddenly and swiftly, that only such persons as were in the immediate vicinity had been aware either of the peril or the rescue; so that it was by chance, as it were, that the whole vast multitude now burst forth with the solemn old Doxology;--

"Praise God from whom all blessings flow."

The great wave of sound flowed round and over the little breathless party, and charitably veiled or soothed its emotions. Mr. Youle, standing with his arm round his daughter, bowed his face on her head, and a large tear glistened on her soft curls; Miss Youle sank on her knees by the bench where she had been sitting, and wept silently; others of the party bent their heads, or lifted their hats; Diva Thane held one of Coralie's hands close clasped in hers, but her face was turned away. Suddenly, she threw her voice into the last line of the Doxology,--

"Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,"

with a richness and power that were like the swell of an organ. It appeared to pervade and sustain the whole chorus of voices, and impressed them inevitably with its own character; which, to Bergan's ear, seemed not so much an expression of thankfulness, as the irresistible outbreak of a feeling that would gladly have given itself the more effectual relief of moaning aloud, had the opportunity been afforded it.

A bystander now considerately offered Mr. Youle the loan of his horse and buggy, and Coralie and her aunt were swiftly driven homeward. The remainder of the party walked back as they had come, Miss Thane and Bergan being in the rear. As they turned into the narrow wood-path, she motioned him to precede her; and he quietly obeyed, understanding, better than she knew, her desire to feel herself free from observation. Yet he failed not to listen for the sound of her light footsteps behind him, and to adapt his pace to hers. Meanwhile, his mind busied itself, almost against his will, with a new and serious question. In the little interval before the starting of the buggy, Coralie had taken his hands in hers, and thanked him for the service rendered her, with a look that haunted him still. There had been nothing in that look but what was most delicate and maidenly,--an involuntary attempt to help out with her eyes the broken words which yet expressed her gratitude so well; nevertheless, it had been possessed of some indefinable quality which had touched him deeply at the time, and now set him gravely to question within himself whether he had any right to be the object of a second look of the kind; at least, while the past was still a desolate grave, over which no grass yet grew green, no flowers bloomed. Trained to look difficult questions in the face, stripping them of all confusing or meretricious appendages, it did not take him long to arrive at an emphatic "No," as the only possible answer to this one. Fortunately, he had not committed himself to any particular length of stay at Farview, and the sudden recollection of an important paper that he had locked up in his desk, instead of committing it to the safer guardianship of the fire-proof safe, suggested itself as an excellent excuse for a speedy departure. He decided that he would take his leave early in the morning, and see Coralie no more until he had determined that the past had become so far a dream as to admit of a new dream of the future.

This honorable decision being reached, his mind was sufficiently at ease to allow him to notice that his pace had gradually become a very slow one, in half unconscious conformity to the lagging footsteps behind him,--footsteps which spoke so unmistakably of a troubled mind or an exhausted frame. It even appeared that Miss Thane stopped altogether, now and then, by reason of absorbing thought, or from the necessity of taking breath. Bergan hesitated for a moment, divided between the fear of being intrusive, and the kindly impulse to afford timely help; but the latter prevailed, and, the path having widened somewhat, he turned and offered her his arm. She shook her head absently, at first; then seemed to become suddenly aware that support was needful, and accepted it.

"We are privileged to be silent, I believe," said Bergan, as they moved on together, "only in the presence of strangers or friends. Count me in either category, as you please, and do not trouble yourself to talk. I see you are tired."

"Thank you," returned Miss Thane, in a cool tone of acquiescence.

Across the next two fields, their own linked shadows, sliding slowly over the ground in advance of them, were not more silent than they. The voices of their companions, who had far outstripped them, reached their ears only in subdued and harmonious murmurs. The moonlight lay over the earth like a visible blessing of peace; and even threw a kind of reflected brightness into Miss Thane's heart, by the aid of which she was better able to try to find some pathway out of its shadows. In that one terrible moment, when she had seemed to see Coralie wrapped in flames, a swift vision of herself, left standing alone in the world--without relative, without friend, without human affection, hope, or solace--a lonely, empty, unsatisfied heart--had risen before her, and left her appalled, even in the midst of her thankfulness that it was only a vision as yet, and not a reality. For, how easily, through the agency of a boat or an engine, a fever or a chill, a thousand every-day accidents, it might still become a reality! With what was she then to supply Coralie's place in her heart and life?

Awhile ago, she would have answered confidently, "With Art." Now, she knew better. For two years she had been testing Art's capacity to fill and satisfy an empty human heart, and her soul was exceeding bitter with the unexpected result. She had painfully experienced the truth (though she could hardly be said to understand it as yet) that he who embraces Art with a thought of self and not of service, will find it turn to ice or to ashes in his arms. In itself, it has neither balm for affliction, nor skilful surgery for remorse, nor sunshine to throw athwart the black gloom of despair.

Out of this bitter knowledge Miss Thane finally spoke, apparently recurring in thought to their previous talk on the piazza;--

"Mr. Arling, how is one to love God, if one does not?"

It was perhaps the most difficult of all questions to answer. How are the blind eyes to be opened, and the deaf ears unstopped? How is the frozen heart to be softened, and the slumbering affection to be wakened into leaf and bloom? How is the Father to be made acceptable to the children that are insensible of His goodness, and will none of His reproof? And how is the Saviour to be presented unto those to whom He has hitherto been without form or comeliness, in such beauty as that they shall desire Him?

"I think, where it is not spontaneous," Bergan answered, after a moment's consideration, "that such love is most surely to be attained through prayer and service;--a frequent lifting up of the heart to Him whom it would fain love; a constant endeavor to do His will, as the best means of developing and manifesting love."

Miss Thane looked down thoughtfully. "I have known--a man,"--she began slowly, with a shade of irrepressible sadness in her tone,--"a man not less gifted with talent and intellectual power than yourself, and with a somewhat longer and more varied experience in the use of his gifts, who would have laughed at the idea of any virtue in prayer, except as affording a pleasant illusion to a weak mind."

"I, too, have known such a man," replied Bergan, the image of Doctor Remy rising irresistibly before his mind, and causing a dull ache in his heart; "but was he--was this man of whom you speak--or had he ever been, in the devout, habitual use of prayer?"

She shook her head. "I do not know; probably not."

"Miss Thane, you would scarcely need to have me warn you that no man is to be accepted as authority, in law or medicine, who is not thoroughly conversant with the subject, both by study and practice. So those, and those only, who pray themselves, humbly, devoutly, persistently, have any right to pronounce upon the efficacy of prayer."

She looked up at him quickly and keenly. "Pardon me, but--have you the right to speak with authority?"

"In some small measure, yes. I can certify you that the medicine is good, because I have taken it; that the staff is strong, because I have leaned upon it; that the weapon is efficient, because I have fought with it. Allow me to hope that you do not need the certification."

Her eyes fell, and her cheek flushed slightly, but she answered with 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.