Chapter 5 UNDER THE OAKS.

Not many weeks after the preceding incidents, Bergan went out, early one afternoon, for a long, solitary ramble. It was not his wont to leave his office before dusk, but his head ached with study, and his heart with loneliness and discouragement; an intolerable weariness and irksomeness had taken possession of him; his book seemed meaningless, and his brain paralyzed; there was nothing for it but to turn from the world of thought, that had suddenly grown so insufferably arid and dead, to the living, breathing world of nature. Forest, and field, and wave, if they could not give him intelligent sympathy, could at least furnish him gentle distraction.

And, oftentimes, there was a subtile harmony, almost amounting to sympathy, between his lonely moods, and the soft, rich, yet melancholy, Southern landscape,—for melancholy it always seemed to him, though that effect may have been partly owing to the gray medium of isolation and depression through which he viewed it. But, whatever its origin, this gentle mournfulness was the landscape's consummate charm,—at least, for any burdened human heart. It is possible that Eden wore a soft grace of pensive beauty, after the fall, which Adam and Eve, wandering back thither, would have counted a dearer delight, in their then mood, than its old, unshadowed brightness.

On his way out, Bergan found Nix stretched at full length across the threshold. With the usual preference of his race for masculine over feminine society, the dog had early attached himself to the young man, as much as was consistent with a different ownership. He now rose, shook himself, wagged his tail, and looked wistfully in Bergan's face. Meeting with no rebuff, he made bold to follow him.

Leaving the town behind as quickly as possible, Bergan first struck into a long, lonely lane, shut in, on either side, by a thick border of multifarious foliage. Trees and shrubs, both deciduous and evergreen, not only mingled their boughs along its sides, but were tied together in an intricate polygamous knot by tangled vines. There was an endless diversity of form and color,—every shape of leaf, and every hue and shade of green and brown, with occasional tints of red, purple, and orange, both pale and bright,—and everywhere the gray fringe of the Spanish moss.

By and by, the lane terminated in the inevitable pine barren, which frames all Southern landscape pictures. It stretched away, in every direction, as far as the eye could reach,—a vast, dim solitude, with a thick, blue-green roof, upheld by innumerable slender columns, and a carpet of fallen needles, on which the foot fell without a sound. A mysterious sigh pervaded it, even when no breeze was astir; its light was but a gentle gloom; and it had a soft, aromatic atmosphere of its own, as if it were another world. No fitter place could have been found for the indulgence of a youthful day dream, with enough of inherent light and color to overcome the prevailing sombreness, or, at least, to set itself in stronger relief against so darksome a background. But to Bergan, the vast, dim monotony, with its suggestive correspondence to the circumstances of his own life, brought only added heartache. The chance openings into the sky were so few, and the sunshine never fell save flickeringly, at the farther extremity of some long vista! He soon began to yearn for outlook and aspiration, some spot affording at least a glimpse of the surrounding world, as well as a fair look at the open sky. Happily, he knew where to find it.

Long since, he had discovered for himself a convenient and attractive out-door haunt,—a kind of natural amphitheatre, on the edge of one of the numerous bays, or creeks, of the vicinity. Great, patriarchal live-oaks, with hoary beards of moss trailing even to the ground, had ranged themselves in a semi-circle, on a high bank, overlooking the water. Standing in attitudes of ponderous grace, each one scattered shade and quietude over fifty, sixty, or, it might be, an hundred, feet of sward. Through a broad opening, in the midst of the dignified circle, the cheerful sunshine fell unbrokenly; and on the water-side, there was a fair stretch of blue waves, with a sea-green horizon-line afar; and over all, a wide half-dome of sky, with its changeable tracery of clouds, and its transparent concord of color. It was hard to believe that the hand of man had not wrought with that of nature, to produce a spot so perfect. Many a sunset had Bergan enjoyed there; many a twilight had he mused away, under the rustling oak-boughs; many a time, the rising moon had found him there, and surrounded him with weird enchantment.

All along, this spot had been the goal of his steps, though—by way of trying first what help and heart were to be found in exercise—he had chosen to reach it by a most circumlocutory route. So far as he knew, it was his own, by right of occupancy, as well as discovery; never had it showed a sign that it knew the pressure of any other human foot.

As he drew near, the sun was sending long, slanting beams of ruddy light athwart the amphitheatre, and dyeing the polished oak-leaves in rich tints of gold and orange. He quickened his steps, the sooner to reach the point whence sunset-splendors were to be seen to the best advantage; and upon which he had taken occasion to construct a low, rustic seat.

To his amazement, it was already occupied. A lady was quietly seated therein, her cheek resting on her hand, her eyes (as he judged from her pose, for her back was toward him) fixed on the glowing sky.

He stopped short, uncertain whether to advance or retreat.

Nix—who had lingered behind, to make a feint of hunting a squirrel—settled the question for him. Coming upon the scene, he first sniffed the air, and then dashed at the intruder. Fearing lest his intentions might be unfriendly,—or, at least, that the lady would be startled by his sudden appearance,—Bergan sternly called after him;—

"Nix! Nix! Here! Come back, you scamp!"

But Nix, if he heard, certainly did not heed. He was fawning upon the lady, in a way to indicate a previous acquaintance of considerable standing and intimacy. She, on her part, received his rude caresses quite as a matter of course, and cordially patted his rough head. Then she turned to Bergan.

"Nix does not mean to be disobedient," said she, apologetically. "Only, he recognizes in me an older friend than Mr. Arling, and, perhaps,"—she smiled,—"a superseding authority."

Bergan bowed. "He is fortunate," said he,—"that is, in finding a friend, old or new, where he did not look for one."

He spoke with a slight bitterness of tone, in involuntary recognition of the fact that no such pleasant discovery was ever the reward of his own aimless rambles. At the same time, he looked curiously at the lady, seeking a clue to her identity. She had seemed to know him; yet he could not remember that he had ever met her before.

Apparently, she was young; certainly, she was small, and somewhat slender. Without being absolutely pretty, her face was exceedingly interesting, by reason of its mobility and vivacity of expression;—albeit, its changes were not always to be easily understood, nor its language at once interpreted. Her eyes were of the darkest gray, with a clear and penetrative glance, that seemed to go straight to the depths of whatever object they sought. Her manner, though perfectly feminine, had an air of strength and energy, in marked contrast with the languid grace which is the more frequent product of Southern soil. She was very simply dressed,—in some soft, gray material, the one beauty of which was its ability to fall in artistic folds about her figure;—nevertheless, there was a certain pleasant peculiarity, a kind of sober picturesqueness, about her attire, that lifted it more surely out of the region of the common-place than any richness of texture, or newness of fashion, could have done. Moreover, it satisfied the eye with a sense of fitness; it was plainly the legitimate outgrowth of the wearer's character. Not that it bid defiance to fashion, but it did not conform to it to the extent of a complete sacrifice of individuality.

Her only ornament was a cluster of bright scarlet leaves, that she had doubtless found on her way thither, and fastened on her breast; and which an opportune sun-ray now touched into vivid splendor. This, too, suited her. It seemed the subtile outward expression of some correspondingly warm and rich characteristic within; glowing soft against the gray texture of an otherwise grave, earnest, almost severe character. It might be sparkling wit, or warm affections, or both, that were thus pleasantly symbolized.

She met Bergan's curious glance with a quiet smile, that seemed to understand its object, and enjoy, beforehand, its discomfiture. She even answered it with a brief scrutiny, that was hardly less in earnest, though not at all puzzled,—scarcely, even, inquiring.

At this moment, the sun suddenly disappeared. The two faces, that had been so clearly and ruddily lit up by his declining beams, were left pale and shadowed, looking at each other under the solemn old trees; through the branches of which the wind now began to whisper softly, as if moved to utter some sombre prediction, which yet it could not make quite plain.

"Do you believe in omens?" asked the young lady, with a kind of playful shiver.

"Not at all," answered Bergan, looking a little surprised.

"It is as well that you do not. For I suspect that they are like certain modes of medical treatment; they require a large element of faith to make them efficacious. And, to say truth, neither do I believe in them—except in a poetical way. If I did, I should say that this sudden shadow augurs but badly for our future acquaintance, and influence upon each other."

"If it means," replied Bergan, "that we are to know sunshine and shade together, little more could be predicted—or desired—of any earthly acquaintance."

"Perhaps not. Still, as I do believe in omens, as I said before, in a poetical way, I am glad to see that the sun is not really set, after all. He only sank into a deceptive line of cloud. There! he comes forth again, to give us another bright glance before his final leave-taking. And, in order to leave the omen in its present satisfactory state, I will anticipate his departure. Good evening."

Slightly inclining her head, as she passed Bergan, she quickly disappeared under the low-hanging oak boughs.

Nix looked after her, for a moment; then he turned to Bergan, as if wondering why he did not go, too. Seeing no sign of departure, he was about to fling himself upon the ground, when a clear, sweet whistle suddenly sounded from the direction which the young lady had taken. Pricking up his ears, he instantly set off at a great pace; leaving Bergan with a vague sadness, as having been deserted by his last friend.

However, the feeling was but momentary. Very quickly he turned to the consideration of the interesting question who his late interlocutor might be. Running over in his mind all the branches of the family of Bergan, in the neighborhood (of which there were several, more or less direct), he soon decided that she did not harmonize with what he knew of any of them. Yet she had seemed to know him; and to think, and even to intimate, that they were likely to meet again, and possibly to exert a degree of influence upon each other's lives. And still, as he pondered and questioned, the oak trees kept whispering overhead, with all their multitudinous tongues, an apparently full, but unintelligible, explanation.

He bewildered himself with conjectures, until all the sunset tints had faded from the sky, and darkness was fast gathering under the oak boughs. Then he rose, and went his solitary way homeward.

Arrived at Mrs. Lyte's gate, it seemed to him that there was an unusual stir and liveliness about the house. Certainly, a broad beam of light was shining across the hall, from a door that he had never before seen open. Ere he could think what these things betokened, Cathie came running to meet him, with a great piece of news in her beaming face.

"Oh! Mr. Arling!" she exclaimed, in almost breathless delight, "Astra has come!"

The mystery was at an end. Indeed it could scarcely have been a mystery, but for two concurrent circumstances. In the first place, knowing Miss Lyte to be an artist,—or at least, an art-student,—and possessed of a sufficiently independent character and spirit, he had unconsciously sketched a portrait of her in his fancy, very different from the original,—taller, larger, with more color, and, certainly, less feminine. And, secondly, only the day before, he had heard Mrs. Lyte lamenting that her daughter would not be at home for another month.

A sudden turn of circumstances, however, had wrought an equally sudden change in Miss Lyte's plans; and, taking advantage of the opportune escort afforded by a business trip of a friend, she had journeyed southward with such celerity as to outstrip the letter of announcement that she had dispatched, a day before her departure from New York. Reaching home almost immediately after Bergan had gone out for his solitary stroll, she had spent the afternoon in a long, earnest, circumstantial talk with her mother,—discussing her plans and prospects,—throwing off, with careless fluency, vivid picture upon picture of her art life and work in the city,—listening eagerly to interjectional items of home news,—and cheering Mrs. Lyte's heart, through and through, with her bright spirits, her ready, yet healthful, sympathy, and the inspiring energy both of her manner and mind. With the very sight of her, more than half the widow's burden of sorrow and care had slipped unconsciously from her shoulders.

Finally, toward sunset, foreseeing an unusual amount of sky-splendor, she had gone forth for a brief enjoyment of it to her old, favorite haunt,—the oak glade which Bergan had also discovered and taken into favor. Meeting the young man there, she had instantly recognized him,—by reason of Nix's suggestive companionship, and her mother's recent description,—and had taken an innocent pleasure in subjecting him to a transient mystification.

"She gave us such a surprise," went on Cathie, joyously. "Mamma almost fainted, and I—guess what I did, Mr. Arling."

To please her, Bergan guessed what he supposed to be the most unlikely thing; and so, in consequence of the child's peculiar character, he guessed right.

"Doubtless, you cried," said he.

"So I did," replied Cathie, opening her eyes wide, "though I can't see how you knew it. But I thought I was laughing, all the time, till Astra asked me why I was so sorry to see her, and offered to go away again if the sight of her was so painful!' And that made me laugh, in good earnest! And oh! Mr. Arling, do come and see her little white boy! She has just been unpacking him, to show him to mamma."

"Willingly," replied Bergan, "if you are sure that she would like me to see him."

"I'll ask her," replied Cathie, darting through the open doorway at the left, whence came the broad beam of light aforementioned, and through which Bergan caught a glimpse of Mrs. Lyte's black-draped figure, seated at the farther corner of the room, in an attitude of pleased contemplation of some object not within his range of vision.

The next moment, Miss Lyte herself appeared on the threshold, and, seeing by his face that his mystification was over, she frankly held out her hand to him.

"So you have found me out!" said she, laughing. "Was it wicked in me not to answer that look in your eyes, which said so plainly, 'Who on earth can she be?' Can you pardon my selfish enjoyment of your perplexity?"

"A perplexity that ends so pleasantly deserves thanks rather than pardon," returned Bergan.

And having answered Mrs. Lyte's cordial greeting, and congratulated her upon the event which had brought such unaccustomed radiance into her face, Bergan turned, with a pardonable curiosity—or it might more fitly be termed, an inevitable interest,—to glance around the room in which he found himself. Never before had he happened to enter that middle ground between the airiest ideal and the earthliest real, which is occupied by a sculptor's studio.