 | CHAPTER VI.
WHY SYLVIA WAS HAPPY. Moods |  |
6. CHAPTER VI.
WHY SYLVIA WAS HAPPY.
“I never did understand you, Sylvia; and this last
month you have been a perfect enigma to me.”
With rocking-chair in full action, suspended needle and
thoughtful expression, Miss Yule had watched her sister
for ten minutes as she sat with her work at her feet, her
hands folded on her lap, and her eyes dreamily fixed on
vacancy.
“I always was to myself, Prue, and am more so than
ever now,” answered Sylvia, waking out of her reverie with
a smile that proved it had been a pleasant one.
“There must be some reason for this great change in
you. Come, tell me, dear.”
With a motherly gesture Miss Yule drew the girl to her
knee, brushed back the bright hair, and looked into the face
so freely turned to hers. Through all the years they had
been together, the elder sister had never seen before the
expression which the younger's face now wore. A vague
expectancy sat in her eyes, some nameless content sweetened
her smile, a beautiful repose replaced the varying, enthusiasm,
listlessness, and melancholy that used to haunt her
countenance and make it such a study. Miss Yule could
not read the secret of the change, yet felt its novel charm;
Sylvia could not explain it, though penetrated by its power;
wondering why each seemed altered. Then Prue, who never
wasted much time in speculations of any kind, shook her
head, and repeated —
“I don't understand it, but it must be right, because
you are so improved in every way. Ever since that wild
trip up the river you have been growing quiet, lovable, and
cheerful, and I really begin to hope that you will become
like other people.”
“I only know that I am happy, Prue. Why it is so I
cannot tell; but now I seldom have the old dissatisfied and
restless feeling. Everything looks pleasant to me, every
one seems kind, and life begins to be both sweet and earnest.
It is only one of my moods, I suppose; but I am grateful
for it, and pray that it may last.”
So earnestly she spoke, so cheerfully she smiled, that
Miss Yule blessed the mood and echoed Sylvia's wish,
exclaiming in the next breath, with a sudden inspiration —
“My, dear, I've got it! You are growing up.”
“I think I am. You tried to make a woman of me at
sixteen, but it was impossible until the right time came.
That wild trip up the river, as you call it, did more for me
than I can ever tell, and when I seemed most like a child
I was learning to be a woman.”
“Well, my dear, go on as you've begun, and I shall be
more than satisfied. What merry-making is on foot to-night?
Mark and these friends of his keep you in constant
motion with their riding, rowing, and rambling excursions,
and if it did not agree with you so excellently, I really
should like a little quiet after a month of bustle.”
“They are only coming up as usual, and that reminds
me that I must go and dress.”
“There is another new change, Sylvia. You never used
to care what you wore or how you looked, no matter how
much time and trouble I expended on you and your wardrobe.
Now you do care, and it does my heart good to see
you always charmingly dressed, and looking your prettiest,”
said Miss Yule, with the satisfaction of a woman who
heartily believed in costume as well as all the other elegances
and proprieties of fashionable life.
“Am I ever that, Prue?” asked Sylvia, pausing on the
threshold with a shy yet wistful glance.
“Ever what, dear?”
“Pretty?”
“Always so to me; and now I think every one finds you
very attractive because you try to please, and seem to succeed
delightfully.”
Sylvia had never asked that question before, had never
seemed to know or care, and could not have chosen a more
auspicious moment for her frank inquiry than the present.
The answer seemed to satisfy her, and smiling at some
blithe anticipation of her own, she went away to make a
lampless toilet in the dusk, which proved how slight a hold
the feminine passion for making one's self pretty had yet
taken upon her.
The September moon was up and shining clearly over
garden, lawn, and sea, when the sound of voices called her
down. At the stair-foot she paused with a disappointed
air, for only one hat lay on the hall table, and a glance
showed her only one guest with Mark and Prue. She
strolled irresolutely through the breezy hall, looked out at
either open door, sung a little to herself, but broke off in
the middle of a line, and as if following a sudden impulse,
went out into the mellow moonlight, forgetful of uncovered
Half way down the avenue she paused before a shady nook,
and looked in. The evergreens that enclosed it made the
seat doubly dark to eyes inured to the outer light, and seeing
a familiar seeming figure sitting with its head upon its
hand, Sylvia leaned in, saying, with a daughterly caress —
“Why, what is my romantie father doing here?”
The sense of touch was quicker than that of sight, and
with an exclamation of surprise she had drawn back before
Warwick replied —
“It is not the old man, but the young one, who is romancing
here.”
“I beg your pardon! We have been waiting for you;
what thought is so charming that you forgot us all?”
Sylvia was a little startled, else she would scarcely have
asked so plain a question. But Warwick often asked much
blunter ones, always told the naked truth without prevarication
or delay, and straightway answered —
“The thought of the woman whom I hope to make my
wife.”
Sylvia stood silent for a moment as if intent on fastening
in her hair the delicate spray of hop-bells just gathered
from the vine that formed a leafy frame for the graceful
picture which she made standing, with uplifted arms, behind
the arch. When she spoke it was to say, as she
moved on toward the house —
“It is too beautiful a night to stay in doors, but Prue is
waiting for me, and Mark wants to plan with you about
our ride to-morrow. Shall we go together?”
She beckoned, and he came out of the shadow showing
her an expression which she had never seen before. His
face was flushed, his eye unquiet, his manner eager yet
times; never emotionally till now. Something wayward,
yet warm, in this new mood attracted her, because so like
her own. But with a tact as native as her sympathy she
showed no sign of this, except in the attentive look she
fixed upon him as the moonlight bathed him in its splendor.
He met the glance, seemed to interpret it aright, but
did not answer its unconscious inquiry; for pausing, he
asked abruptly —
“Should a rash promise be considered binding when it
threatens to destroy one's peace?”
Sylvia pondered an instant before she answered slowly —
“If the promise was freely given, no sin committed in its
keeping, and no peace troubled but one's own, I should say
yes.”
Still pausing, he looked down at her with that unquiet
glance as she looked up with her steady one, and with the
same anxiety he asked —
“Would you keep such a promise inviolate, even though
it might cost you the sacrifice of something dearer to you
than your life?”
She thought again, and again looked up, answering with
the sincerity that he had taught her —
“It might be unwise, but if the sacrifice was not one of
principle or something that I ought to love more than life,
I think I should keep the promise as religiously as an
Indian keeps a vow of vengeance.”
As she spoke, some recollection seemed to strike Warwick
like a sudden stab. The flush died out of his face, the fire
from his eyes, and an almost grim composure fell upon him
as he said low to himself, with a forward step as if eager
to leave some pain behind him —
“It is better so; for his sake I will leave all to time.”
Sylvia saw his lips move, but caught no sound till he
said with a gravity that was almost gloom —
“I think you would; therefore, beware how you bind
yourself with such verbal bonds. Let us go in.”
They went; Warwick to the drawing-room, but Sylvia
ran up stairs for the Berlin wools, which in spite of heat
and the sure staining of fingers were to be wound that
night according to contract, for she kept a small promise
as sacredly as she would have done a greater one.
“What have you been doing to give yourself such an
uplifted expression, Sylvia?” said Mark, as she came in.
“Feasting my eyes on lovely colors. Does not that look
like a folded rainbow?” she answered, laying her brilliant
burden on the table where Warwick sat examining a broken
reel, and Prue was absorbed in getting a carriage blanket
under way.
“Come, Sylvia, I shall soon be ready for the first shade,”
she said, clashing her formidable needles. “Is that past
mending, Mr. Warwick?”
“Yes, without better tools than a knife, two pins, and a
bodkin.”
“Then you must put the skeins on a chair, Sylvia. Try
not to tangle them, and spread your handkerchief in your
lap, for that maroon color will stain sadly. Now don't
speak to me, for I must count my stitches.”
Sylvia began to wind the wools with a swift dexterity as
natural to her hands as certain little graces of gesture
which made their motions pleasant to watch. Warwick
never rummaged work-baskets, gossipped, or paid compliments
for want of something to do. If no little task appeared
for them, he kept his hands out of mischief, and if nothing
proved that he understood the art of silence, and sat with
those vigilant eyes of his fixed upon whatever object attracted
them. Just then the object was a bright band slipping
round the chair-back, with a rapidity that soon produced a
snarl, but no help till patient fingers had smoothed and
wound it up. Then, with the look of one who says to himself,
“I will!” he turned, planted himself squarely before
Sylvia, and held out his hands.
“Here is a reel that will neither tangle nor break your
skeins, will you use it?”
“Yes, thank you, and in return I'll wind your color first.”
“Which is my color?”
“This fine scarlet, strong, enduring, and martial, like
yourself.”
“You are right.”
“I thought so; Mr. Moor prefers blue, and I violet.”
“Blue and red make violet,” called Mark from his corner,
catching the word “color,” though busy with a sketch for a
certain fair Jessie Hope.
Moor was with Mr. Yule in his study, Prue mentally
wrapped in her blanket, and when Sylvia was drawn into
an artistic controversy with her brother, Warwick fell into
deep thought.
With the pride of a proud man once deceived, he had
barred his heart against womankind, resolving that no second
defeat should oppress him with that distrust of self and
others, which is harder for a generous nature to bear, than
the pain of its own wound. He had yet to learn that the
shadow of love suggests its light, and that they who have
been cheated of the food, without which none can truly live,
long for it with redoubled hunger. Of late he had been
will, possessed him. He tried to disbelieve and silence it;
attacked it with reason, starved it with neglect, and chilled it
with contempt. But when he fancied it was dead, the longing
rose again, and with a clamorous cry, undid his work. For
the first time, this free spirit felt the master's hand, confessed
a need its own power could not supply, and saw that
no man can live alone on even the highest aspirations without
suffering for the vital warmth of the affections. A
month ago he would have disdained the hope that now was
so dear to him. But imperceptibly the influences of domestic
life had tamed and won him. Solitude looked barren,
vagrancy had lost its charm; his life seemed cold and bare,
for, though devoted to noble aims, it was wanting in the
social sacrifices, cares, and joys, that foster charity, and
sweeten character. An impetuous desire to enjoy the rich
experience which did so much for others, came over him to-night
as it had often done while sharing the delights of this
home, where he had made so long a pause. But with the
desire came a memory that restrained him better than his
promise. He saw what others had not yet discovered, and
obeying the code of honor which governs a true gentleman,
loved his friend better than himself and held his
peace.
The last skein came, and as she wound it, Sylvia's glance
involuntarily rose from the strong hands to the face above
them, and lingered there, for the penetrating gaze was averted,
and an unwonted mildness inspired confidence as its
usual expression of power commanded respect. His silence
troubled her, and with curious yet respectful scrutiny, she
studied his face as she had never done before. She found
it full of a noble gravity and kindliness; candor and courage
in the broad arch of the forehead, ardor and energy in
the fire of the eye, and on every lineament the stamp of that
genuine manhood, which no art can counterfeit. Intent
upon discovering the secret of the mastery he exerted over
all who approached him, Sylvia had quite forgotten herself,
when suddenly Warwick's eyes were fixed full upon her own.
What spell lay in them she could not tell, for human eye
had never shed such sudden summer over her. Admiration
was not in it, for it did not agltate; nor audacity, for it did
not abash; but something that thrilled warm through blood
and nerves, that filled her with a glad submission to some
power, absolute yet tender, and caused her to turn her innocent
face freely to his gaze, letting him read therein a
sentiment for which she had not yet found a name.
It lasted but a moment; yet in that moment, each saw
the other's heart, and each turned a new page in the romance
of their lives. Sylvia's eyes fell first, but no blush
followed, no sign of anger or perplexity, only a thoughtful
silence, which continued till the last violet thread dropped
from his hands, and she said almost regretfully —
“This is the end.”
“Yes, this is the end.”
As he echoed the words Warwick rose suddenly and went
to talk with Mark, whose sketch was done. Sylvia sat a
moment as if quite forgetful where she was, so absorbing
was some thought or emotion. Presently she seemed to
glow and kindle with an inward fire; over face and forehead
rushed an impetuous color, her eyes shone, and her lips
trembled with the fluttering of her breath. Then a panic
appeared to seize her, for, stealing noiselessly away, she
hurried to her room, and covering up her face as if to hide
with quick coming tears that belied the words —
“Now I know why I am happy!”
How long she lay there weeping and smiling in the moonlight
she never knew. Her sister's call broke in upon the
first love dream she had ever woven for herself, and she
went down to bid the friends good night. The hall was
only lighted by the moon, and in the dimness of the shadow
where she stood, no one saw traces of that midsummer
shower on her cheeks, or detected the soft trouble in her
eye, but for the first time Moor felt her hand tremble in
his own and welcomed the propitious omen.
Being an old-fashioned gentleman, Mr. Yule preserved in
his family the pleasant custom of hand-shaking, which
gives such heartiness to the morning and evening greetings
of a household. Moor liked and adopted it; Warwick
had never done so, but that night he gave a hand to Prue
and Mark with his most cordial expression, and Sylvia felt
both her own taken in a warm lingering grasp, although he
only said “good by!” Then they went; but while the
three paused at the door held by the beauty of the night,
back to them on the wings of the wind came Warwick's
voice singing the song that Sylvia loved. All down the
avenue, and far along the winding road they traced his progress,
till the strain died in the distance leaving only the
echo of the song to link them to the singer.
When evening came again Sylvia waited on the lawn
to have the meeting over in the dark, for love made her
very shy. But Moor came alone, and his first words were,
“Comfort me, Sylvia, Adam is gone. He went as unexpectedly
as he came, and when I woke this morning a
note lay at my door, but my friend was not there.”
She murmured some stereotyped regret, but there was a
sharp pain at her heart till there came to her the remembrance
of Warwick's question, uttered on the spot where she
was standing. Some solace she must have, and clinging to
this one thought hopefully within herself —
“He has made some promise, has gone to get released
from it, and will come back to say what he looked last
night. He is so true I will believe in him and wait.”
She did wait, but week after week went by and Warwick
did not come.
| CHAPTER VI.
WHY SYLVIA WAS HAPPY. Moods | |