University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.
DULL BUT NECESSARY.

Whoever cares only for incident and action in a book
had better skip this chapter and read on; but those who
take an interest in the delineation of character will find the
key to Sylvia's here.

John Yule might have been a poet, painter, or philanthropist,
for Heaven had endowed him with fine gifts; he was a
prosperous merchant with no ambition but to leave a fortune
to his children and live down the memory of a bitter past.
On the threshold of his life he stumbled and fell; for as
he paused there, waiting for the first step to appear, Providence
tested and found him wanting. On one side, Poverty
offered the aspiring youth her meagre hand; but he was not
wise enough to see the virtues hidden under her hard
aspect, nor brave enough to learn the stern yet salutary
lessons which labor, necessity, and patience teach, giving to
those who serve and suffer the true success. On the other
hand Opulence allured him with her many baits, and, silencing
the voice of conscience, he yielded to temptation and
wrecked his nobler self.

A loveless marriage was the price he paid for his ambition;
not a costly one, he thought, till time taught him that
whosoever mars the integrity of his own soul by transgressing
the great laws of life, even by so much as a hair's

breadth, entails upon himself and heirs the inevitable
retribution which proves their worth and keeps them sacred.
The tie that bound and burdened the unhappy twain, worn
thin by constant friction, snapped at last, and in the solemn
pause death made in his busy life, there rose before him
those two ghosts who sooner or later haunt us all, saying
with reproachful voices, — “This I might have been,” and
“This I am.” Then he saw the failure of his life. At
fifty he found himself poorer than when he made his momentous
choice; for the years that had given him wealth,
position, children, had also taken from him youth, self-respect,
and many a gift whose worth was magnified by loss.
He endeavored to repair the fault so tardily acknowledged,
but found it impossible to cancel it when remorse, embittered
effort, and age left him powerless to redeem the rich inheritance
squandered in his prime.

If ever man received punishment for a self-inflicted
wrong it was John Yule. A punishment as subtle as the
sin; for in the children growing up about him every relinquished
hope, neglected gift, lost aspiration, seemed to live
again; yet on each and all was set the direful stamp of
imperfection, which made them visible illustrations of the
great law broken in his youth.

In Prudence, as she grew to womanhood, he saw his own
practical tact and talent, nothing more. She seemed the
living representative of the years spent in strife for profit,
power, and place; the petty cares that fret the soul, the
mercenary schemes that waste a life, the worldly formalities,
frivolities, and fears, that so belittle character. All these
he saw in this daughter's shape; and with pathetic patience
bore the daily trial of an over active, over anxious, affectionate
but most prosaic child.

In Mark he saw his ardor for the beautiful, his love of
the poetic, his reverence for genius, virtue, heroism. But
here too the subtle blight had fallen. This son, though
strong in purpose was feeble in performance; for some
hidden spring of power was wanting, and the shadow of
that earlier defeat chilled in his nature the energy which is
the first attribute of all success. Mark loved poetry, and
“wrote in numbers for the numbers came;” but, whether
tragie, tender, or devout, in each attempt there was enough
of the divine fire to warm them into life, yet not enough to
gift them with the fervor that can make a line immortal,
and every song was a sweet lament for the loftier lays that
might have been. He loved art and gave himself to it;
but though studying all forms of beauty he never reached
its soul, and every effort tantalized him with fresh glimpses
of the fair ideal which he could not reach. He loved the
true, but high thoughts seldom blossomed into noble deeds;
for when the hour came the man was never ready, and disappointment
was his daily portion. A sad fate for the son,
a far sadder one for the father who had bequeathed it to
him from the irrecoverable past.

In Sylvia he saw, mysteriously blended, the two natures
that had given her life, although she was born when the
gulf between regretful husband and sad wife was widest.
As if indignant Nature rebelled against the outrage done
her holiest ties, adverse temperaments gifted the child with
the good and ill of each. From her father she received
pride, intellect, and will; from her mother passion, imagination,
and the fateful melancholy of a woman defrauded
of her dearest hope. These conflicting temperaments, with
all their aspirations, attributes, and inconsistencies, were
woven into a nature fair and faulty; ambitious, yet not

self-reliant; sensitive, yet not keen-sighted. These two
masters ruled soul and body, warring against each other,
making Sylvia an enigma to herself and her life a train of
moods.

A wise and tender mother would have divined her nameless
needs, answered her vague desires, and through the
medium of the most omnipotent affection given to humanity,
have made her what she might have been. But Sylvia had
never known mother-love, for her life came through death;
and the only legacy bequeathed her was a slight hold upon
existence, a ceaseless craving for affection, and the shadow
of a tragedy that wrung from the pale lips, that grew cold
against her baby cheek, the cry, “Free at last, thank God for that!”

Prudence could not fill the empty place, though the
good-hearted housewife did her best. Neither sister understood
the other, and each tormented the other through her
very love. Prue unconsciously exasperated Sylvia, Sylvia
unconsciously shocked Prue, and they hitched along together
each trying to do well and each taking diametrically opposite
measures to effect her purpose. Mark briefly but
truly described them when he said, “Sylvia trims the
house with flowers, but Prudence dogs her with a dustpan.”

Mr. Yule was now a studious, melancholy man, who,
having said one fatal “No” to himself, made it the satisfaction
of his life to say a never varying “Yes” to his
children. But though he left no wish of theirs ungratified,
he seemed to have forfeited his power to draw and hold
them to himself. He was more like an unobtrusive guest
than a master in his house. His children loved, but never
clung to him, because unseen yet impassible, rose the barrier

of an instinctive protest against the wrong done their
dead mother, unconscious on their part but terribly significant
to him.

Mark had been years away; and though the brother and
sister were tenderly attached, sex, tastes, and pursuits kept
them too far apart, and Sylvia was solitary even in this
social seeming home. Dissatisfied with herself, she endeavored
to make her life what it should be with the energy
of an ardent, aspiring nature; and through all experiences,
sweet or bitter, all varying moods, successes and defeats, a
sincere desire for happiness the best and highest, was
the little rushlight of her soul that never wavered or went
out.

She never had known friendship in its truest sense, for
next to love it is the most abused of words. She had
called many “friend,” but was still ignorant of that sentiment,
cooler than passion, warmer than respect, more just
and generous than either, which recognizes a kindred spirit
in another, and claiming its right, keeps it sacred by the
wise reserve that is to friendship what the purple bloom is
to the grape, a charm which once destroyed can never be
restored. Love she had desired, yet dreaded, knowing her
own passionate nature, and when it came to her, making
that brief holiday the fateful point of her life, she gave
herself to it wholly. Before that time she had rejoiced
over a more tranquil pleasure, and believed that she had
found her friend in the neighbor who after long absence
had returned to his old place.

Nature had done much for Geoffrey Moor, but the wise
mother also gave him those teachers to whose hard lessons
she often leaves her dearest children. Five years spent in
the service of a sister, who, through the sharp discipline of

pain was fitting her meek soul for heaven, had given him an
experience such as few young men receive. This fraternal
devotion proved a blessing in disguise; it preserved him
from any profanation of his youth, and the companionship
of the helpless creature whom he loved had proved an
ever present stimulant to all that was best and sweetest in
the man. A single duty faithfully performed had set the
seal of integrity upon his character, and given him grace to
see at thirty the rich compensation he had received for the
ambitions silently sacrificed at twenty five. When his
long vigil was over he looked into the world to find his place
again. But the old desires were dead, the old allurements
had lost their charm, and while he waited for time to show
him what good work he should espouse, no longing was so
strong as that for a home, where he might bless and be
blessed in writing that immortal poem a virtuous and
happy life.

Sylvia soon felt the power and beauty of this nature,
and remembering how well he had ministered to a physical
affliction, often looked into the face whose serenity was a
perpetual rebuke, longing to ask him to help and heal the
mental ills that perplexed and burdened her. Moor soon
divined the real isolation of the girl, read the language of
her wistful eyes, felt that he could serve her, and invited
confidence by the cordial alacrity with which he met her
least advance.

But while he served he learned to love her, for Sylvia,
humble in her own conceit, and guarded by the secret passion
that possessed her, freely showed the regard she felt,
with no thought of misapprehension, no fear of consequences.
Unconscious that such impulsive demonstration
made her only more attractive, that every manifestation of

her frank esteem was cherished in her friend's heart of
hearts, and that through her he was enjoying the blossom
time of life. So peacefully and pleasantly the summer
ripened into autumn and Sylvia's interest into an enduring
friendship.