Chapter 6 WITH A DOUBLE HEART.

Now and then, on a summer's day, the air is suddenly filled with minute, swarming insects of the genus ephemera. They come unnoticed and unheralded; the air is thick with them ere one is aware; ears, mouths, and nostrils are filled with them, despite all efforts to the contrary; they are variously regarded from the scientific, the poetic, and the moral point of view, or merely as nuisances; by and by, they are gone as they came.

In just such wise, a swarm of rumors prejudicial to the reputation of Bergan Arling suddenly filled the air of Berganton; coming no one knew whence, but quickly circulating everywhere, to be variously met with surprise, doubt, belief, regret, anger, and indifference. It was averred that he had gone home deeply in debt, at least to his good friend Doctor Remy, who certainly deserved better treatment at his hands. It was alleged that he was hopelessly the victim of a depraved appetite for strong drink, although, by the help of the same good friend, he had managed, thus far, to save himself from public exposure. It was affirmed that he had persuaded Astra Lyte into a secret engagement, perhaps for the sake of mere pastime, perhaps with a view to the ultimate possession of the roof which had so long sheltered him, or to the union of his own with Astra's chances for the future ownership of Bergan Hall. Finally, it was shrewdly suspected that, having grown weary alike of the debts, the engagement, and the measure of constraint which he had hitherto exercised over himself, he had suddenly broken away from all three, with the trumped-up excuse of his mother's illness, and taken himself off, not to return.

Coming, as has been said, no one knew from whence, and having no apparent voucher, these rumors nevertheless penetrated to counting-rooms and boudoirs, to offices and to bar-rooms, to Major Bergan on his vast estate, and Dick Causton in his narrow cabin, to Godfrey Bergan at his desk, and Carice beside her mother,—everywhere, save to the two persons most directly interested; namely, Bergan Arling on his rapid way homeward, and Astra Lyte in her studio.

Astra was hard at work now. Every hour, her clay model grew in strength or symmetry under her rapid touches. Yet her hope of finding clearness and quietness of mind in the exercise of her beloved art, had been wofully disappointed. The phantoms of doubt and anxiety which had haunted her idleness were not laid by her industry, but only held in abeyance until the inevitable moment of exhaustion, or of suspended inspiration, brought them upon her again, with tenfold power to annoy. Do what she would, she could not shut her eyes to the fact that a change had come over Doctor Remy, nor prevent herself from speculating as to its nature and cause. At first, it was only that miserable and dream-like change of look and manner which forbids one to complain, because it gives no lucid explanation of itself to the intellect, however it may disturb and depress the heart. Its effect was magical, nevertheless, in clearing Astra's vision from that soft, transfiguring haze of the imagination through which love delights to gaze at its object, and in giving her occasional glimpses into the depths and intricacies of Doctor Remy's character. Unconsciously, whenever he came near her, she fell to watching his words, his tones, his looks, even his motions and attitudes, for indications of the hidden, inner man, upon whose qualities and tendencies her happiness so largely depended. The object of this scrutiny was too keen-witted not to be aware of it, and too subtile not to avail himself of it to further his own ends. With apparent carelessness, but consummate art, he allowed more and more of his true character to come to the surface; he showed himself scornful toward religion, faithless toward mankind, indifferent and unsympathizing toward herself, in the hope of quickly transforming her affection into disgust, and forcing her to put a speedy end to their engagement. Doing this whenever he met her, he none the less took good care to make it manifest that he avoided her as far as possible.

Under these circumstances, no wonder that Astra grew pale and thin, that alternately she worked as in a fever, or stood idle as in a dream, that her old, cheery alacrity gave place to sombre restlessness, and her glow of happy spirits to pale depression, that, in short, she speedily became so unlike herself as greatly to alarm Mrs. Lyte, who finally appealed to Doctor Remy. He was only too glad to prescribe immediate change of air and scene.

Mrs. Lyte stood aghast.

"I do not see how I can manage it," said she, slowly. "My income is just sufficient for our present mode of life; there is no surplus to meet the added expense of a health trip."

Doctor Remy mused for a moment. "We will talk over this matter again," said he, at length, looking at his watch; "just now I have an engagement. But trust my assurance that wherever there is a plain necessity for a thing, there is a way to obtain it. Good morning."

Doctor Remy's engagement did not prevent him from repairing straightway to Bergan Hall, whither the rumors already alluded to had preceded him. And so artfully did he work upon Major Bergan's hasty and arbitrary temper as to induce him forthwith to warn Mrs. Lyte of the existence of the forfeited mortgage, and his intention to foreclose at an early day. Be it said, however, in the Major's behalf, that he graciously designed said warning to play somewhat of the part of a blessing in disguise. For, having first shown Mrs. Lyte how completely she was in his power, it was his generous intention to offer her the largest mercy thereafter, even to the immediate relinquishment of every claim against her estate, on the easy condition that she, and her daughter should at once break off all relations and engagements with his nephew, Bergan Arling. Thus, he would save Astra from what he was easily persuaded would turn out to be a most unhappy marriage; at the same time that he would gratify a certain odd itching in his fingers to meddle in Bergan's affairs. The whole business was arranged in less than an hour, and Doctor Remy returned homeward triumphant.

Nor was his elation at all shadowed by any thought of the suffering about to be inflicted at his instigation. Men of his naturally hard and forceful character, intensified by long culture of the intellect at the expense of the sensibilities, are apt to take a terribly straight path in one sense, if a wofully crooked one in another, to whatever end they have in view. The feelings of others, where they cannot be made to subserve their purposes, are regarded as so many obstructions in their way; to be pushed aside, or trampled under-foot, as the case may be.

Possibly, too, they do not credit others with a greater depth of feeling than they are conscious of in themselves. Certainly, Doctor Remy, knowing nothing, by experience, of the tender and sacred associations that cluster around the home of years, was not likely to concern himself about the probable grief of Mrs. Lyte, at leaving hers, except as it might hinder or prevent her departure. For, go she must,—at least, for a time,—since Astra would not be likely to go without her. His present task was so to smooth and clear the way for them, on the one hand, while he furnished the necessary degree of motive power, on the other, that they should be gone ere Major Bergan was aware, or had submitted his terms of compromise to their consideration.

In furtherance of this design, he had tapped lightly at the door of Astra's studio, ere the sound of voices from within told him that she was not alone. Carice Bergan was with her, and both were discussing Astra's statue of clay; unto the creation of which she had lately turned—with such scanty measure of success—for distraction, if not for comfort. With a slight bow and a word of greeting to Doctor Remy, Carice went on with what she was saying, in her own singularly gentle, yet frank and fearless, fashion.

"As I said just now, it is simply wonderful, in its way; but, Astra, I don't like its way at all. The Offero (for I suppose he is not to be called Saint Christopher yet,) is much too near to falling and fainting under his burden,—"

"Perhaps he may literally do so," interrupted Astra, with a sad and bitter smile. "Nay, you need not look so startled, I only mean that I fear his supports are not strong enough; I did not realize what would be the gravitation of such a huge mass of clay. The figure is certainly settling more than I like to see."

"I did not allude to material supports," replied Carice, steadily, "but to that spiritual aid which the Christ-Child would be sure to give to one who bore Him so cheerfully and bravely as Offero did, however heavily He might be pleased to burden him. There should be more of steady hope and courage, as well as of wonder at the supernatural weight of his small burden, instead of that terrible strain and agony of effort, and that dreary, dogged sort of resolve."

"You forget," said Astra, "that he does not yet understand the nature of his burden, nor wherefore it is laid upon him;—neither," she added mournfully to herself, "neither do I."

Carice shook her head. "You have forgotten," she replied, "that he is not bearing the burden for himself, but for love of that far-off, mighty King of whom he has heard; which feeling ought to strengthen his heart and his sinews, and shine out in his face."

Astra turned away her head. As she had unconsciously wrought her own wretched, despondent moods of the past week into the sensitive clay, so Carice's comments upon the result had their sidelong application to herself.

"As for the Christ-Child," continued Carice, raising her eyes from the Bearer to the Burden, "how did you ever get that look of immitigable fate into a child's rounded face? As a piece of work, it is almost miraculous; but, as a conception of the Christ-Child—I beg your pardon, Astra—it is absolutely dreadful."

"It may stand for Offero's idea of the face which he cannot see," suggested Astra, in a low voice.

"Well, perhaps it might, if he were thinking of the face, which I doubt. That is to say, the true Offero would be thinking of the King whom he was trying to serve, rather than the burthen that he was bearing. At any rate, it is just because he cannot see the face that he has such an idea of it. But to us, who can see it, it ought to show itself most benignant, most pitying, most tender and satisfying in every respect. Else, we miss the only really helpful lesson that your Offero is calculated to teach."

Astra looked at her friend half sadly, half-wonderingly. "Let no one trust your gentle, innocent look, Carice," said she; "you are a sharp-sighted critic, and as severe as you are sharp-sighted."

"On the contrary," returned Carice, "I am not criticising at all; I am merely telling you how your statue looks to me, in its unfinished condition. No doubt every stroke of that magical scraper of yours will take away something of the look which I do not like, and put in something of that which I long to see."

"I do not know," responded Astra drearily, shaking her head. "I have not your singular depth and simplicity of vision, in spiritual things."

"Nay," Carice, "you have something more than that,—the power to create; I have only the power to discern. That cherub yonder, for instance;—I am glad that I am able to see that it is lovely beyond expression, but the power to make it so, ah! that is beyond me!"

And Carice moved away to the object of her admiration, and seemed to forget herself and all around her, in contemplating it.

Doctor Remy remained, looking critically at the clay figure.

"You have not yet said what you think of it," said Astra, turning and looking him intently in the face.

"I had nothing to say—from the spiritual side," he answered, coolly. "Miss Bergan exhausted that; besides, it is not in my line. But, if you are pleased to desire my sort of criticism, here it is. That arm is too long, and that clavicle is not sufficiently raised, and this muscle is too flat. For the rest," he added, after a slight pause, "it is a sufficiently ambitious work."

There was a touch of mockery in his tone which did not escape the sensitive ear of his listener. "You think it too ambitious, perhaps," she said, quietly, yet not without a keen glance at his face.

He gave the clay figure another comprehensive look; then he turned to Astra with a gentler expression than she had seen in his eyes for many days past.

"Poor child!" said he, pityingly, "what disadvantages your genius has to labor under, in this little, remote town, where you never see a work of art, nor an artist, from month's end to month's end! Why do you not go—for awhile, at least—where you can find something for your genius to feed upon? It is a law of life that there can be no good growth without proper food."

"You know," replied Astra, very gravely, "that I cannot leave my home and my mother."

"Then," returned Doctor Remy, with equal gravity, "it would be a kindly blast—though it might not seem so, at first—that should blow you all to some point where your genius could find fuller and freer development. If such an one should ever come to you, I hope you will be able to regard it as—what Miss Bergan would doubtless call a providence."

Carice was looking towards them, now; and his last words were spoken with a smiling glance that was apparently meant to draw her into the conversation.

"And what would Doctor Remy call it?" she asked, but without any answering smile.

"Doctor Remy does not concern himself about names, but things," he replied, pleasantly.

"Things answer to names," she rejoined, quickly; "and if Doctor Remy to call a providence a chance, for instance, let him not wonder if it prove a chance—to him."

"I am afraid that I am wofully obtuse," returned the doctor, with the air of a man who asks for a further explanation.

"From the hand of Chance," she answered briefly, "one gets little good, and much harm; from the hand of Providence, only good, however disguised. The difference is in the taking and the using."

She turned towards the window as she finished, with the air of who dismisses the subject.

Astra, meanwhile, stood gazing at the doctor with a most anxious, disturbed expression. She was beginning to understand too well that under many of his seemingly most careless utterances, there lurked a deep significance and design. In the tone of his last speech to her, there had been something which caused her a vague alarm.

"What did he mean?" she asked herself, wearily putting her hand to her brow,—"What did he mean?"