 | CHAPTER III.
AFLOAT. Moods |  |
3. CHAPTER III.
AFLOAT.
Sylvia sat sewing in the sunshine with an expression on
her face half mirthful, half melancholy, as she looked
backward to the girlhood just ended, and forward to the
womanhood just beginning, for on that midsummer day, she
was eighteen. Voices roused her from her reverie, and, looking
up, she saw her brother approaching with two friends,
their neighbor Geoffrey Moor and his guest Adam Warwick.
Her first impulse was to throw down her work and run to
meet them, her second to remember her new dignity and sit
still, awaiting them with well-bred composure, quite unconcious
that the white figure among the vines added a picturesque
finish to the quiet summer scene.
They came up warm and merry, with a brisk row across
the bay, and Sylvia met them with a countenance that gave
a heartier welcome than her words, as se greeted the
neighbor cordially, the stranger courteously, and began to
gather up her work when they seated themselves in the bamboo
chairs scattered about the wide piazza.
“You need not disturb yourself,” said Mark, “we are only
making this a way-station, en route for the studio. Can
you tell me where my knapsack is to be found? after one
of Prue's stowages, nothing short of a divining-rod will
discover it, I'm afraid.”
“I know where it is. Are you going away again so soon,
Mark?”
“Only a two days' trip up the river with these mates of
mine. No, Sylvia, it can't be done.”
“I did not say anything.”
“Not in words, but you looked a whole volley of `Can't
I goes?' and I answered it. No girl but you would dream
of such a thing; you hate picnics, and as this will be a long
and rough one, don't you see how absurd it would be for
you to try it?”
“I don't quite see it, Mark, for this would not be an ordinary
picnic; it would be like a little romance to me, and
I had rather have it than any birthday present you could
give me. We used to have such happy times together
before we were grown up, I don't like to be so separated now.
But if it is not best, I'm sorry that I even looked a wish.”
Sylvia tried to keep both disappointment and desire out
of her voice as she spoke, though a most intense longing had
taken possession of her when she heard of a projected pleasure
so entirely after her own heart. But there was an
unconscious reproach in her last words, a mute appeal in
the wistful eyes that looked across the glittering bay to the
green hills beyond. Now, Mark was both fond and proud of
the young sister, who, while he was studying art abroad,
had studied nature at home, till the wayward but winning
child had bloomed into a most attractive girl. He remembered
her devotion to him, his late neglect of her, and
longed to make atonement. With elevated eyebrows and
inquiring glances, he turned from one friend to another.
Moor nodded and smiled, Warwick nodded and sighed privately,
and having taken the sense of the meeting by a new
style of vote, Mark suddenly announced —
“You can go if you like, Sylvia.”
“What!” cried his sister, starting up with a characteristic
impetuosity that sent her basket tumbling down the
steps, and crowned her dozing cat with Prue's nightcap
frills. “Do you mean it, Mark? Would n't it spoil your
pleasure, Mr. Moor? Should n't I be a trouble, Mr. Warwick?
Tell me frankly, for if I can go I shall be happier
than I can express.”
The gentlemen smiled at her eagerness, but as they saw
the altered face she turned toward them, each felt already
repaid for any loss of freedom they might experience hereafter,
and gave unanimous consent. Upon receipt of which
Sylvia felt inclined to dance about the three and bless them
audibly, but restrained herself, and beamed upon them in
a state of wordless gratitude pleasant to behold. Having
given a rash consent, Mark now thought best to offer a few
obstacles to enhance its value and try his sister's mettle.
“Don't ascend into the air like a young balloon, child,
but hear the conditions upon which you go, for if you fail
to work three miracles it is all over with you. Firstly, the
consent of the higher powers, for father will dread all sorts
of dangers you are such a frcakish creature, and Prue will
be scandalized because trips like this are not the fashion for
young ladies.”
“Consider that point settled and go on to the next,” said
Sylvia, who, having ruled the house ever since she was
born, had no fears of success with either father or sister.
“Secondly, you must do yourself up in as compact a
parcel as possible; for though you little women are very
ornamental on land, you are not very convenient for transportation
by water. Cambric gowns and French slippers
are highly appropriate and agreeable at the present moment,
You must make a dowdy of yourself in some usefully short,
scant, dingy costume, which will try the nerves of all
beholders, and triumphantly prove that women were never
meant for such excursions.”
“Wait five minutes and I'll triumphantly prove to the
contrary,” answered Sylvia, as she ran into the house.
Her five minutes was sufficiently elastic to cover fifteen,
for she was ravaging her wardrobe to effect her purpose
and convince her brother, whose artistic tastes she consulted,
with a skill that did her good service in the end.
Rapidly assuming a gray gown, with a jaunty jacket of the
same, she kilted the skirt over one of green, the pedestrian
length of which displayed boots of uncompromising thickness.
Over her shoulder, by a broad ribbon, she slung a
prettily wrought pouch, and ornamented her hat pilgrim-wise
with a cockle shell. Then taking her brother's alpenstock
she crept down, and standing in the door-way presented
a little figure all in gray and green, like the earth
she was going to wander over, and a face that blushed and
smiled and shone as she asked demurely —
“Please, Mark, am I picturesque and convenient enough
to go?”
He wheeled about and stared approvingly, forgetting
cause in effect till Warwick began to laugh like a merry
bass viol, and Moor joined him, saying —
“Come, Mark, own that you are conquered, and let us
turn our commonplace voyage into a pleasure pilgrimage,
with a lively lady to keep us knights and gentlemen
wherever we are.”
“I say no more; only remember, Sylvia, if you get
burnt, drowned, or blown away, I'm not responsible for the
I told you so.”'
“That satisfaction may be mine when I come home quite
safe and well,” replied Sylvia, serenely. “Now for the last
condition.”
Warwick looked with interest from the sister to the
brother; for, being a solitary man, domestic scenes and
relations possessed the charm of novelty to him.
“Thirdly, you are not to carry a boat-load of luggage,
cloaks, pillows, silver forks, or a dozen napkins, but are to
fare as we fare, sleeping in hammocks, barns, or on the
bare ground, without shricking at bats or bewailing the
want of mosquito netting; eating when, where, and what is
most convenient, and facing all kinds of weather regardless
of complexion, dishevelment, and fatigue. If you can
promise all this, be here loaded and ready to go off at six
o'clock to-morrow morning.”
After which cheerful picture of the joys to come, Mark
marched away to his studio, taking his friends with him.
Sylvia worked the three miracles, and at half past five,
A. M. was discovered sitting on the piazza, with her hammock
rolled into a twine sausage at her feet, her hat firmly
tied on, her scrip packed, and her staff in her hand.
“Waiting till called for,” she said, as her brother passed
her, late and yawning as usual. As the clock struck six
the carriage drove round, and Moor and Warwick came up
the avenue in nautical array. Then arose a delightful
clamor of voices, slamming of doors, hurrying of feet and
frequent peals of laughter; for every one was in holiday
spirits, and the morning seemed made for pleasuring.
Mr. Yule regarded the voyagers with an aspect as benign
as the summer sky overhead; Prue ran to and fro pouring
and maids gathered on the lawn or hung out of upper windows;
and even old Hecate, the cat, was seen chasing imaginary
rats and mice in the grass till her yellow eyes
glared with excitement. “All in,” was announced at last,
and as the carriage rolled away its occupants looked at one
another with faces of blithe satisfaction that their pilgrimage
was so auspiciously begun.
A mile or more up the river the large, newly-painted
boat awaited them. The embarkation was a speedy one,
for the cargo was soon stowed in lockers and under seats,
Sylvia forwarded to her place in the bow; Mark, as commander
of the craft, took the helm; Moor and Warwick,
as crew, sat waiting orders; and Hugh, the coachman,
stood ready to push off at word of command. Presently it
came, a strong hand sent them rustling through the flags,
down dropped the uplifted oars, and with a farewell cheer
from a group upon the shore the Kelpie glided out into the
stream.
Sylvia, too full of genuine content to talk, sat listening
to the musical dip of well-pulled oars, watching the green
banks on either side, dabbling her hands in the eddies as
they rippled by, and singing to the wind, as cheerful and
serene as the river that gave her back a smiling image of
herself. What her companions talked of she neither heard
nor cared to know, for she was looking at the great picture-book
that always lies ready for the turning of the youngest
or the oldest hands; was receiving the welcome of the playmates
she best loved, and was silently yielding herself to
the power which works all wonders with its benignant
magic. Hour after hour she journeyed along that fluent
road. Under bridges where early fishers lifted up their
townsmen who harvested an hour of strength to pay the
daily tax the city levied on them; past honeymoon cottages
where young wives walked with young husbands in the
dew, or great houses shut against the morning. Lovers
came floating down the stream with masterless rudder and
trailing oars. College race-boats shot by with modern
Greek choruses in full blast and the frankest criticisms from
their scientific crews. Fathers went rowing to and fro with
argosies of pretty children, who gave them gay good morrows.
Sometimes they met fanciful nutshells manned by
merry girls, who made for shore at sight of them with most
erratic movements and novel commands included in their
Art of Navigation. Now and then some poet or philosopher
went musing by, fishing for facts or fictions, where
other men catch pickerel or perch.
All manner of sights and sounds greeted Sylvia, and she
felt as if she were watching a Panorama painted in water
colors by an artist who had breathed into his work the
breath of life and given each figure power to play its part.
Never had human faces looked so lovely to her eye, for
morning beautified the plainest with its ruddy kiss; never
had human voices sounded so musical to her ear, for daily
cares had not yet brought discord to the instruments tuned
by sleep and touched by sunshine into pleasant sound;
never had the whole race seemed so near and dear to her,
for she was unconsciously pledging all she met in that
genuine Elixir Vitæ which sets the coldest blood aglow
and makes the whole world kin; never had she felt so
truly her happiest self, for of all the costlier pleasures she
had known not one had been so congenial as this, as she
rippled farther and farther up the stream and seemed to
Her comrades wisely left her to her thoughts, a smiling
Silence for their figure-head, and none among them but
found the day fairer and felt himself fitter to enjoy it for
the innocent companionship of maidenhood and a happy
heart.
At noon they dropped anchor under a wide-spreading
oak that stood on the river's edge, a green tent for wanderers
like themselves; there they ate their first meal spread
among white clovers, with a pair of squirrels staring at
them as curiously as human spectators ever watched royalty
at dinner, while several meek cows courteously left their
guests the shade and went away to dine at a side-table
spread in the sun. They spent an hour or two talking or
drowsing luxuriously on the grass; then the springing up
of a fresh breeze roused them all, and weighing anchor they
set sail for another port.
Now Sylvia saw new pictures, for, leaving all traces of the
city behind them, they went swiftly countryward. Sometimes
by hayfields, each an idyl in itself, with white-sleeved
mowers all arow; the pleasant sound of whetted scythes;
great loads rumbling up lanes, with brown-faced children
shouting atop; rosy girls raising fragrant winrows or bringing
water for thirsty sweethearts leaning on their rakes. Often
they saw ancient farm-houses with mossy roofs, and long
well-sweeps suggestive of fresh draughts, and the drip of
brimming pitchers; orchards and cornfields rustling on either
hand, and grandmotherly caps at the narrow windows, or stout
matrons tending babies in the doorway as they watched
smaller selves playing keep house under the “laylocks”
by the wall. Villages, like white flocks, slept on the hillsides;
martinbox schoolhouses appeared here and there,
than once they came upon little mermen bathing, who dived
with sudden splashes, like a squad of turtles tumbling off a
sunny rock.
Then they went floating under vernal arches, where
a murmurous rustle seemed to whisper, “Stay!” along
shadowless sweeps, where the blue turned to gold and dazzled
with its unsteady shimmer; passed islands so full of
birds they seemed green cages floating in the sun, or doubled
capes that opened long vistas of light and shade, through
which they sailed into the pleasant land where summer
reigned supreme. To Sylvia it seemed as if the inhabitants
of these solitudes had flocked down to the shore to greet
her as she came. Fleets of lilies unfurled their sails on
either hand, and cardinal flowers waved their scarlet flags
among the green. The sagitaria lifted its blue spears from
arrowy leaves; wild roses smiled at her with blooming
faces; meadow lilies rang their flame-colored bells; and
clematis and ivy hung garlands everywhere, as if hers were
a floral progress, and each came to do her honor.
Her neighbors kept up a flow of conversation as steady
as the river's, and Sylvia listened now. Insensibly the
changeful scenes before them recalled others, and in the
friendly atmosphere that surrounded them these reminiscences
found free expression. Each of the three had been
fortunate in seeing much of foreign life; each had seen a
different phase of it, and all were young enough to be still
enthusiastic, accomplished enough to serve up their recollections
with taste and skill, and give Sylvia glimpses of the
world through spectacles sufficiently rose-colored to lend it
the warmth which even Truth allows to her sister Romance.
The wind served them till sunset, then the sail was lowered
her turn, and wrestled with one big oar while Warwick sat
behind and did the work. Having blistered her hands and
given herself as fine a color as any on her brother's palette,
she professed herself satisfied, and went back to her seat
to watch the evening-red transfigure earth and sky, making
the river and its banks a more royal pageant than
splendor-loving Elizabeth ever saw along the Thames.
Anxious to reach a certain point, they rowed on into the
twilight, growing stiller and stiller as the deepening hush
seemed to hint that Nature was at her prayers. Slowly the
Kelpie floated along the shadowy way, and as the shores
grew dim, the river dark with leaning hemlocks or an overhanging
cliff, Sylvia felt as if she were making the last
voyage across that fathomless stream where a pale boatman
plies and many go lamenting.
The long silence was broken first by Moor's voice, saying —
“Adam, sing.”
If the influences of the hour had calmed Mark, touched
Sylvia, and made Moor long for music, they had also softened
Warwick. Leaning on his oar he lent the music of a
mellow voice to the words of a German Volksleid, and
launched a fleet of echoes such as any tuneful vintager
might have sent floating down the Rhine. Sylvia was no
weeper, but as she listened, all the day's happiness which
had been pent up in her heart found vent in sudden tears,
that streamed down noiseless and refreshing as a warm
south rain. Why they came she could not tell, for neither
song nor singer possessed the power to win so rare a
tribute, and at another time, she would have restrained all
visible expression of this indefinable yet sweet emotion.
Mark and Moor had joined in the burden of the song, and
sat and let her tears flow while they would, singing at
heart, though her eyes were full and her cheeks wet faster
than the wind could kiss them dry.
After frequent peerings and tackings here and there,
Mark at last discovered the haven he desired, and with
much rattling of oars, clanking of chains, and splashing
of impetuous boots, a landing was effected, and Sylvia
found herself standing on a green bank with her hammock
in her arms and much wonderment in her mind whether the
nocturnal experiences in store for her would prove as agreeable
as the daylight ones had been. Mark and Moor unloaded
the boat and prospected for an eligible sleeping-place.
Warwick, being an old campaigner, set about building a
fire, and the girl began her sylvan housekeeping. The
scene rapidly brightened into light and color as the blaze
sprang up, showing the little kettle slung gipsywise on
forked sticks, and the supper prettily set forth in a leafy
table-service on a smooth, flat stone. Soon four pairs of
wet feet surrounded the fire; an agreeable oblivion of meum
and tuum concerning plates, knives, and cups did away with
etiquette, and every one was in a comfortable state of weariness,
which rendered the thought of bed so pleasant that
they deferred their enjoyment of the reality, as children
keep the best bite till the last.
“What are you thinking of here all by yourself?” asked
Mark, coming to lounge on his sister's plaid, which she had
spread somewhat apart from the others, and where she sat
watching the group before her with a dreamy aspect.
“I was watching your two friends. See what a fine study
they make with the red flicker of the fire on their faces and
the background of dark pines behind them.”
They did make a fine study, for both were goodly men
yet utterly unlike, one being of the heroic type, the other
of the poetic. Warwick was a head taller than his tall
friend, broad-shouldered, strong-limbed, and bronzed by
wind and weather. A massive head, covered with rings of
ruddy brown hair, gray eyes, that seemed to pierce through
all disguises, an eminent nose, and a beard like one of
Mark's stout saints. Power, intellect, and courage were
stamped on face and figure, making him the manliest man
that Sylvia had ever seen. He leaned against the stone,
yet nothing could have been less reposeful than his attitude,
for the native unrest of the man asserted itself in spite of
weariness or any soothing influence of time or place. Moor
was much slighter, and betrayed in every gesture the unconscious
grace of the gentleman born. A most attractive
face, with its broad brow, serene eyes, and the cordial smile
about the mouth. A sweet, strong nature, one would say,
which, having used life well had learned the secret of a
true success. Inward tranquillity seemed his, and it was
plain to see that no wave of sound, no wandering breath,
no glimpse of color, no hint of night or nature was without
its charm and its significance for him.
“Tell me about that man, Mark. I have heard you speak
of him since you came home, but supposing he was some
blowzy artist, I never cared to ask about him. Now I've
seen him, I want to know more,” said Sylvia, as her brother
laid himself down after an approving glance at the group
opposite.
“I met him in Munich, when I first went abroad, and
since then we have often come upon each other in our wanderings.
He never writes, but goes and comes intent upon
his own affairs; yet one never can forget him, and is always
life and courage into one.”
“Is he good? asked Sylvia, woman like, beginning with
the morals.
“Violently virtuous. He is a masterful soul, bent on
living out his beliefs and aspirations at any cost. Much
given to denunciation of wrong-doing everywhere, and eager
to execute justice upon all offenders high or low. Yet he
possesses great nobility of character, great audacity of mind,
and leads a life of the sternest integrity.”
“Is he rich?”
“In his own eyes, because he makes his wants so few.”
“Is he married?”
“No; he has no family, and not many friends, for he
says what he means in the bluntest English, and few stand
the test his sincerity applies.”
“What does he do in the world?”
“Studies it, as we do books; dives into everything, analyzes
character, and builds up his own with materials which
will last. If that 's not genius it 's something better.”
“Then he will do much good and be famous, wont he?”
“Great good to many, but never will be famous, I fear.
He is too fierce an iconoclast to suit the old party, too individual
a reformer to join the new, and being born a century
too soon must bide his time, or play out his part before stage
and audience are ready for him.”
“Is he learned?”
“Very, in uncommon sorts of wisdom; left college after
a year of it, because it could not give him what he wanted,
and taking the world for his university, life for his tutor,
says he shall not graduate till his term ends with days.”
“I knew I shall like him very much.”
“I hope so, for my sake. He is a grand man in the rough,
and an excellent tonic for those who have courage to try
him.”
Sylvia was silent, thinking over all she had just heard
and finding much to interest her in it, because, to her imaginative
and enthusiastic nature, there was something
irresistibly attractive in the strong, solitary, self-reliant
man. Mark watched her for a moment, then asked with
lazy curiosity —
“How do you like this other friend of mine?”
“He went away when I was such a child that since he
came back I've had to begin again; but if I like him at the
end of another month as much as I do now, I shall try to
make your friend my friend, because I need such an one
very much.”
Mark laughed at the innocent frankness of his sister's
speech but took it as she meant it, and answered soberly —
“Better leave Platonics till you 're forty. Though Moor
is twelve years older than yourself he is a young man still,
and you are grown a very captivating little woman.”
Sylvia looked both scornful and indignant.
“You need have no fears. There is such a thing as
true and simple friendship between men and women, and
if I can find no one of my own sex who can give me the help
and happiness I want, why may I not look for it anywhere
and accept it in whatever shape it comes?”
“You may, my dear, and I'll lend a hand with all my
heart, but you must be willing to take the consequences in
whatever shape they come,” said Mark, not ill pleased with
the prospect his fancy conjured up.
“I will,” replied Sylvia loftily, and fate took her at her
word.
Presently some one suggested bed, and the proposition
was unanimously accepted.
“Where are you going to hang me?” asked Sylvia, as
she laid hold of her hammock and looked about her with
nearly as much interest as if her suspension was to be of
the perpendicular order.
“You are not to be swung up in a tree to-night but laid
like a ghost, and requested not to walk till morning. There
is an unused barn close by, so we shall have a roof over us
for one night longer,” answered Mark, playing chamberlain
while the others remained to quench the fire and secure the
larder.
An early moon lighted Sylvia to bed, and when shown
her half the barn, which, as she was a Marine, was very
properly the bay, Mark explained she scouted the idea of
being nervous or timid in such rude quarters, made herself
a cosy nest and bade her brother a merry good night.
More weary than she would confess, Sylvia fell asleep at
once, despite the novelty of her situation and the noises
that fill a summer night with fitful rustlings and tones.
How long she slept she did not know, but woke suddenly
and sat erect with that curious thrill which sometimes
startles one out of deepest slumber, and is often the forerunner
of some dread or danger. She felt this hot tingle
through blood and nerves, and stared about her thinking of
fire. But everything was dark and still, and after waiting
a few moments she decided that her nest had been too warm,
for her temples throbbed and her cheeks were feverish with
the close air of the barn half filled with new-made hay.
Creeping up a fragrant slope she spread her plaid again
and lay down where a cool breath flowed through wide
chinks in the wall. Sleep was slowly returning when the
beating fast, for they came toward the new couch she had
chosen. Holding her breath she listened. The quiet tread
drew nearer and nearer till it paused within a yard of her,
then some one seemed to throw themselves down, sigh heavily
a few times and grow still as if falling asleep.
“It is Mark,” thought Sylvia, and whispered his name, but
no one answered, and from the other corner of the barn she
heard her brother muttering in his sleep. Who was it,
then? Mark had said there were no cattle near, she was
sure neither of her comrades had left their bivouac, for
there was her brother talking as usual in his dreams; some
one seemed restless and turned often with decided motion,
that was Warwick, she thought, while the quietest sleeper
of the three betrayed his presence by laughing once with
the low-toned merriment she recognized as Moor's. These
discoveries left her a prey to visions of grimy strollers,
maudlin farm-servants, and infectious emigrants in dismal
array. A strong desire to cry out possessed her for a moment,
but was checked; for with all her sensitiveness Sylvia
had much common sense, and that spirit which hates to be
conquered even by a natural fear. She remembered her
scornful repudiation of the charge of timidity, and the
endless jokes she would have to undergo if her mysterious
neighbor should prove some harmless wanderer or an imaginary
terror of her own, so she held her peace, thinking
valiantly as the drops gathered on her forehead, and every
sense grew painfully alert —
“I'll not call if my hair turns gray with fright, and I
find myself an idiot to-morrow. I told them to try me, and
I wont be found wanting at the first alarm. I'll be still,
if the thing does not touch me till dawn, when I shall
at the cost of a wakeful night.”
Holding fast to this resolve Sylvia lay motionless, listening
to the cricket's chirp without, and taking uncomfortable
notes of the state of things within, for the new comer stirred
heavily, sighed long and deeply, and seemed to wake often,
like one too sad or weary to rest. She would have been wise
to have screamed her scream and had the rout over, for she
tormented herself with the ingenuity of a lively fancy, and
suffered more from her own terrors than at the discovery of
a dozen vampires. Every tale of diablerie she had ever
heard came most inopportunely to haunt her now, and
though she felt their folly she could not free herself from
their dominion. She wondered till she could wonder no
longer what the morning would show her. She tried to
calculate in how many springs she could reach and fly over
the low partition which separated her from her sleeping
body-guard. She wished with all her heart that she had
stayed in her nest which was nearer the door, and watched
for dawn with eyes that ached to see the light.
In the midst of these distressful sensations the far-off crow
of some vigilant chanticleer assured her that the short summer
night was wearing away and relief was at hand. This
comfortable conviction had so good an effect that she lapsed
into what seemed a moment's oblivion, but was in fact an
hour's restless sleep, for when her eyes unclosed again the
first red streaks were visible in the east, and a dim light
found its way into the barn through the great door which
had been left ajar for air. An instant Sylvia lay collecting
herself, then rose on her arm, looked resolutely behind her,
stared with round eyes a moment, and dropped down again,
laughing with a merriment, which coming on the heels of
little soft-eyed Alderney, which lifted its stag-like head, and
regarded her with a confiding aspect that won her pardon
for its innocent offence.
Through the relief of both mind and body which she
experienced in no small degree, the first thought that came
was a thankful “what a mercy I did n't call Mark, for I
should never have heard the last of this;” and having
fought her fears alone she enjoyed her success alone, and
girl-like resolved to say nothing of her first night's adventures.
Gathering herself up the crept nearer and caressed
her late terror, which stretched its neck toward her with a
comfortable sound, and munched her shawl like a cosset
lamb. But before this new friendship was many minutes
old, Sylvia's heavy lids fell together, her head dropped
lower and lower, her hand lay still on the dappled neck,
and with a long sigh of weariness she dropped back upon
the hay, leaving little Alderney to watch over her much
more tranquilly than she had watched over it.
| CHAPTER III.
AFLOAT. Moods | |