Chapter 8 THOUGH HE SLAY.

Miss Thane had all along understood that a meeting with her mother's only and twin sister, either by accident or design, was quite within the scope of possibilities. She had even regarded it as perhaps the brightest prospect which the future afforded her, in case her present experiment in life should fail to give her satisfaction, or her heart should suddenly utter an importunate cry for that cup of cold water of human affection, which is only to be tasted in the society of one's own kin. Amid the gray monotony of her existence, she had often pictured that meeting to herself in a variety of pleasant coloring and dramatic shapes; but never, it is safe to say, in the solemn lights and sober shadows in which it finally took its place among the memorable scenes of her life.

Yet in no other way could it have operated so powerfully to awaken the instinct of kinship within her, to melt her reserve, to draw out her dormant sympathies,—in short, to call forth whatever was deepest, richest, and womanliest in her nature. And certainly, in no other way could it have brought so strong and subtle an influence to bear upon the sombre doubts and chill infidelities of her mind; setting over against her cool, speculative belief in a blind Chance or an inflexible Fate, Mrs. Lyte's calm trust in the goodness of God's providence, against the blighting, chilling, unbeauteous effects of suffering on her own heart, the gracious fruitage of patience, contentment, and love, ripening under its touch in Mrs. Lyte's, against her own dim outlook into an unknown future, her aunt's firm expectation of the eternal weight of glory. The contrast was too striking not to be noticed, its testimony in favor of faith over unbelief too strong to be ignored. Daily, as she watched by her aunt's bedside, questions that she had once settled, or laid aside as incapable of settlement, came up again, to be examined in new and diviner lights. Daily the good work which Bergan had been instrumental in beginning in her heart, went forward,—not like the work of doubt, tearing down what it could not rebuild, and taking away bread to give a stone,—but bringing order out of confusion, proportion out of inequality, solidity out of disintegration.

On the other hand, her advent was no less beneficial, in its way, to her aunt and cousins. Not to speak of the material comforts and luxuries which she managed so delicately to introduce into the sick-room, as to make them seem much like direct gifts of Providence, without any intervening hand, she brought into their forlorn, narrow, monotonous life an element of variety and interest, as well as of personal helpfulness, that was sorely needed. Mrs. Lyte soon grew to depend upon her constant presence and care scarcely less than upon Astra's. She never wearied of searching her beautiful face for fitful touches of resemblance to the darling twin sister, whose runaway marriage and subsequent death had been the great grief of her own earlier years, nor of drawing out such facts in relation to that sister's short married life, and Diva's birth, as the latter had been able to gather from others, and store in her memory. She was deeply interested, too, in Diva's own history,—her motherless childhood, her long sojourn in Europe, her art studies, her reasons for the isolated life that she had been leading of late. Especially did she delight in hearing her sing. Diva might busy herself in whatever part of the house's narrow precinct she pleased, if only her voice floated into the sick-room, and sweetened the air with the notes and words of some favorite "hymn of the ages," or the soft Italian melodies that she had learned in their native land. While the lovely voice kept on, Mrs. Lyte lay lapped in smiling content, or slept in perfect tranquillity, lulled more effectually than by any anodyne.

Nor was Astra any less ready to accept her kinswoman as a timely boon and blessing. It was not only an unspeakable relief to feel a part of her heavy burden of care lifted from her shoulders by hands so willing, so tender, and with so undoubted a right to the privilege; it was also a rare delight to have such thoroughly congenial companionship. As for Cathie, her heart was easily won,—all the more that she never seemed to quite rid herself of her first impression that the new-comer was celestial rather than human, and to be adored accordingly. In short, Diva soon found for herself so fit, definite, and essential a place in all these hearts and lives as to suggest the idea that it must have been prepared expressly, and kept waiting for her—she knew not how long. Nay, more,—she must have been prepared for it; carefully fitted, by many sad and stern circumstances, for this exchange of helpful influences, for her part in that solemn symphony of events which was rolling its profound harmonies through Mrs. Lyte's sick-chamber.

For the invalid did not rally. After one week of apparent pause, her life's lapse went steadily on. Day by day, she weakened and wasted; day by day, the spirit loosened its mortal garments, and made itself ready to put on immortality; day by day, her mind let go something of earthly cares, anxieties, wishes, and fears, and fixed itself more firmly upon the Rock of Ages, and the rest that remaineth. Nothing of life seemed left, by and by, but love; making manifest, by this true "survival of the fittest," its Divine origin and destiny.

One summer afternoon, when the sun was flooding all the earth and sky with the glory of his departure, Bergan knocked at the door of Astra's studio, according to his daily habit, to inquire if he could be of any service. No answer being returned to his knock, he let himself in and went softly to the bedroom door. A scene too beautiful to be called sad, though infinitely solemn, met his view.

Astra was seated on the bed, holding her mother in her arms, to afford her a grateful change of position. Cathie lay curled up at the invalid's feet, with her large eyes fixed on the rapt, hushed face,—the half-closed eyes and slightly parted lips of which suggested a soft sinking into that sweet slumber, which is yet not so much slumber as a happy dream. Diva knelt by the bedside, with her aunt's hand in hers, singing in tones that thrilled him through and through, much as he had learned in these days, of the marvellous beauty and pathos of her voice;—

"When I rise to worlds unknown,
And behold Thee on Thy Throne,
Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee!"


As the last note died away, he stepped forward and lifted the unconscious form from Astra's arms. She looked up at him wonderingly.

"The earthly hymn was very sweet," said he gently, "but the song of the redeemed in Paradise is sweeter still."

Still she seemed not to understand. What words were at once tender and solemn enough for the full explanation? None but those of inspiration; at once old and fresh; having poured their balm all along down through the centuries, yet falling on each newly bereaved heart, as if still moist and cool with the dew of their birth. Reverently he quoted:—

"'Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord from henceforth: Yea, saith the Spirit, that they may rest from their labors; and their works do follow them.'"


Mrs. Lyte was taken to Berganton, and laid in the churchyard by her husband's side, amid much kindred dust. Bergan accompanied the small funeral train to within two or three miles of the village, and then turned back; in obedience to Astra's wish, as expressed to him through Diva Thane. The poor girl remembered in what way her name and his had been connected, and naturally shrank from anything that might seem to give it confirmation. But as the train passed the avenue to Bergan Hall, the Major wheeled into the vacant place behind the carriage of the chief mourners, assisted them out at the gate of the cemetery, and offered Astra his arm.

"I am your father's nearest living relative," said he, huskily, "and though I behaved like a brute to your mother at one time, I have been sorry enough for it since, to have a right to follow her to the grave."

Many of Mrs. Lyte's old friends and neighbors gathered round to assist in the last solemn rites, and some of them came afterward to say a few words of sympathy and regret to Astra. She was not surprised that Doctor Remy was not of the number, but she did wonder a little that she saw nothing of Carice. She had observed Mrs. Bergan standing near the foot of the grave, looking strangely old and altered; but she seemed to have disappeared as soon as the service was ended.

Having conducted her back to the carriage, and seated her therein, Major Bergan took a folded paper from her pocket, tore it in pieces, and laid the fragments on her lap.

"There it is," said he; "and I wish that my hand had been sawed off before I ever wrote to your mother, to tell her of its existence. The place is yours now, free and unincumbered, to do what you like with. Good bye; and don't bear malice, if you can help it."

He gave her no opportunity to reply, but signalled to the coachman to drive on. Looking back, she saw him standing on the same spot, with uncovered head, watching the carriage until it was out of sight.

She was in nowise disposed to bear malice. She remembered too well how glad she had been, at the time, of an available pretext for leaving Berganton; besides, the Major had certainly made all possible amends for his hasty action.

Moreover, Mrs. Lyte's death-bed had not been without its softening and salutary effect upon her mind, also. Although she had fallen, for a time, into that saddest of all infidelities—a distrust of God's goodness to His children—the last lovely moments of her mother's life, the last grateful, joyous words from her mother's lips, and the still brightness of her mother's dead face, had set her feet—for a little while at least—on those Heights of Contemplation, whence life is seen to be good and valuable, not for what it is, but for what it shapes out; not for the materials that it heaps together, or the tools that it uses, but for the character which it moulds unto perfection, the soul which it slowly chisels into beauty and dignity and strength. So viewed, these last months of adversity became but the fine, finishing touches of the Master's hand, to Mrs. Lyte's already lovely spirit, and Major Bergan but one of the blind, necessary instruments, operating better than he knew or willed.

And come what would, Astra could nevermore forget that broad view of the real work and object of life's events; faith would ever after be easier for those moments of clear sight. She came back from her mother's grave with a bereaved heart, but with a spirit more at rest than it had been for many months; and her face wore the same expression of gentle, sweet resignation, which had been the prevailing characteristic of her mother's for years.

She came back—but not to the dingy little house, nor the desolate rooms, and certainly not to the straitened circumstances. Miss Thane had taken Bergan into her confidence, on the day before, and asked the favor of his superintendence of certain final steps toward the accomplishment of a plan that she had conceived and partly executed. Money and good-will, working together, usually achieve wonders in comparatively short space of time; as the result of their present cooperation, Astra was set down at Miss Thane's door on her return from Berganton, late at night, and ushered into a suite of rooms, opposite Diva's own, handsomely fitted up for the accommodation of herself and Cathie. One was a studio, to which all her own pictures, statues, and other artistic belongings had been carefully transferred, and skilfully arranged to produce an accustomed and home-like effect. Another was a pleasant little parlor, with her books and her work-basket on the centre-table, to lend it a familiar grace; and in the bedroom beyond, her faithful old Chloe was waiting, with joyful tears in her eyes, to welcome and to attend upon her.

Astra turned to her cousin, and tried to speak; but the too heavily freighted words were slow in coming forth, and Diva anticipated them by taking both her hands in hers, and saying gently;—

"We are sisters, now, Astra: children of twin mothers, and left alone in the world,—I more completely, even, than you; what better thing can we do, at least for the present, than to unite our forces, having one home, and living, loving, and laboring together for the same, or kindred ends? And Cathie shall be our joint charge; that, having two watchful elder sisters, she may never know, even partially, what I know so well, the misery of a motherless childhood. Is it a compact?"

Astra bowed her head in acquiescence, and her eyes shone bright through grateful tears. She was relieved beyond measure, to know that she was not to face the world single-handed. The loneliness that she had so dreaded was not to be encountered, the heavy responsibility of her little sister's care and training was to be, in some degree, shared. In Diva's strength and steadfastness of character, which she felt by intuition, and in its sweetness, which she had found out at her mother's bedside, as very few had done before her, there would be all needful protection, aid, and comfort; while, in its subtle quality of a wise and delicate reserve, there was ample assurance of respect for her own individuality, freedom for her own way of thought and work. Finally, thanks to Major Bergan's generous action in respect of the mortgage, she need not fear to be a burden on her cousin. Either by sale or lease, the place could be made to yield her a fixed moderate income, and her own labor would do the rest.

She did not suspect the extent of Diva's resources, nor what pleasant plans for her own and Cathie's happiness and advantage she was turning over in her mind. Of these things Diva would breathe no word, until the sisterhood of which she had spoken had become so real and firm a bond as to preclude any sense of obligation.

Meanwhile, the fact of living no more to herself, of having some one else to think of, to care for, to comfort and cheer, was doing wonderfully effective work in clearing and softening Diva's own character,—in uprooting the weeds which had chiefly testified to the richness of the underlying soil heretofore, and giving the plants of grace leave to branch out and blossom and bear fruit. Daily, as Bergan met her, in his visits to Astra's studio, or his walks, he saw that something was gone from the chill pride and weariness of her old expression, something added of sweetness, softness, and benignity, yet without any loss of that still and stately grace, in which had subsisted so potent a charm. Daily, too, he marvelled at her increasingly magnificent beauty; over which, none the less, still lingered some faint shadow from the past, like the soft haze hanging over an autumn landscape, and constituting its last, consummate grace. He could not help wondering whence that shadow came, and how it was to go, since it always gave him an indefinable impression of being connected with his own destiny.

One day he met her in the street alone, but, as he never presumed in the least upon the half confidential relations into which circumstances had thrown them, he was passing on with a courteous bow, when she stopped him.

"Mr. Arling," she said, flushing slightly, but in very clear, musical tones, "I have much to thank you for, but most of all for the promise which you made me at Farview, some weeks ago; and which, I doubt not, you have conscientiously performed. How much that performance has had to do with the important events that have taken place since, I cannot tell; but it is certain that I discern an order, a sequence, a relation of means to an end, during these last weeks, which I have never before been able to discover in the events of my life,—perhaps because my days have never before been so regularly and earnestly recommended to loving Divine guidance. Be that as it may, the time of which you spoke has come; I have learned to pray for myself—and for others. Thank you again, and good evening."

It was one of her peculiarities, resulting probably from some years of residence abroad, that she seldom gave her hand to a gentleman. Now, however, she offered it to Bergan, for the second time, as he remembered; and again, as before, he had a curious presentiment that within that white hand there lay an invisible, but precious gift for him, waiting its appointed time.