Astra, meanwhile was watching Bergan and Carice with as warm an interest, and a far more penetrating glance; and often she smiled to herself over the discoveries that she made. To her, they appeared to be drifting as surely, if unconsciously, down the smooth, gliding current of love, as could be desired. She was glad to have it so. She believed them to be true counterparts, needing each to be completed by the other. Bergan had strength, nobleness, enthusiasm; Carice had sweetness, purity, repose; how beautiful and fit the union, how symmetrical the result! There was a genuine artistic joy in the thought.
And then, all at once, she forgot to watch them. Suddenly, or gradually, she knew not which, a magical change had been wrought in her surroundings; old things had vanished, all things had become new. A new sky, a new earth,—stars and cloud-shapes of bewitching vagueness and softness,—scenery of wondrous coloring and surpassing loveliness,—lights that were tenderer than any shadows, and shadows that were only subdued lights;—of what were these things the signs? Had she also been drifting, and whither?
PART THIRD.
THE IN-GATHERING.
I.
UNFOLDINGS.
Spring was abroad in the land. No one could tell just when she had stolen into the woods and gardens, and begun her pleasant labors, but there was no question about the fact of her presence and industry. Everywhere, there were the tender green of newborn foliage, and the varied odors of opening buds and blossoms. The new leaves of the ilex trees had quietly pushed off the old ones. The hedges were thick-sown with the white stars of the Cherokee rose. The passion-vine trailed its purple garments along the fences. Houstonias spread a soft blue haze over the grass. Wild plum and cherry trees flung drifts of fragrant snow along the road side. The air was faint with perfume from the ivory censers of the magnolia, swinging dreamily overhead. Wherever a vine could cling and climb, there was a seemingly miraculous outburst of foliage and flowers; every dry stick and stem became a leafy thyrsus, every crumbling stump a green and garlanded altar.
Mrs. Lyte's great, irregular thicket of a garden was quick to feel the genial influence, and to twine and twist itself into a denser tangle than ever. Rose bushes laughed the virtue of economy to scorn, with their perfumed affluence of pink and crimson and yellow. Pomegranates burst into scarlet flames; mimosas tossed aloft feathery balls of many hues. Jessamines and honeysuckles, holding up vases of gold, to catch every sunbeam, ran hither and thither at their own sweet will. So did tiny green lizards, with scarlet throats, and swift chameleons, with curious intelligent eyes. The air was tuneful with the flight and song of bees and humming-birds, cooing doves, and shining-winged spindles. Manifold, in truth, were the garden's delights: varied sound and color and perfume, cheerful radiance and gentle gloom, unobtrusive companionship and soft seclusion, were all to be found within its pleasant compass.
And, as the days grew long and warm with the Spring's advance, Bergan now and then, growing weary of the confinement and monotony of his office, took his Blackstone, or Kent, or whatever might be the legal authority under examination, and gave himself the refreshment of an hour's reading, in one of the garden's shady, sequestered nooks. Doing this, one sultry afternoon in May, the drowsy influence of the atmosphere, and the soothing murmurousness of the insects' song, soon proved too potent for the logical connection of the learned legal thesis; there were unaccountable gaps between fact and deduction; and, going back to pick up the broken thread, Bergan lost it altogether. Sleep had stolen upon him through the dusky foliage, and she held him fast until the latest sunbeam, through a convenient aperture in the verdant walls, laid its light finger on his eyelids.
Waking suddenly, but completely, hushed voices, proceeding from a neighboring thicket, met his ear.
"Impossible, Felix."