 | CHAPTER XIV.
A FIRESIDE FETE. Moods |  |
14. CHAPTER XIV.
A FIRESIDE FETE.
“No cousin Faith to-night. The rain has prevented her
from taking this boat, and she is not likely to come later as
she comes alone,” said Moor, returning from a fruitless
drive to meet his expected guest one October evening.
“It always rains when I want anything very much. I
seem to have a great deal of bad weather in my life,” answered
Sylvia, despondingly.
“Never mind the rain; let us make sunshine for ourselves,
and forget it as children do.”
“I wish I was a child again, they are always happy.”
“Let us play at being children, then. Let us sit down
upon the rug, parch corn, crack nuts, roast apples, and be
merry in spite of wind or weather.”
Sylvia's face brightened, for the fancy pleased her, and
she wanted something new and pleasant to divert her
thoughts from herself. Glancing at her dress, which was
unusually matronly in honor of the occasion, she said smiling
—
“I don't look much like a child, but I should like to try
and feel like one again if I can.”
“Let us both look and feel so as much as possible. You
like masquerading; go make a little girl of yourself, while I
turn boy, and prepare for our merry making.
No lad could have spoken with a blither face, for Moor
had preserved much of the boy in spite of his thirty years.
His cheerfulness was so infectious, that Sylvia already began
to forget her gloom, and hurried away to do her part.
Putting on a short, girlish gown, kept for scrambles among
the rocks, she improvised a pinafore, and braided her long
hair a la Morlena Kenwigs, with butterfly bows at the ends.
When she went down, she found her husband in garden
jacket, collar turned over a ribbon, hair in a curly tumble,
and jackknife in hand, seated on the rug before a roaring
fire, and a semicircle of apples, whittling and whistling
like a very boy. They examined one another with mirthful
commendations, and Moor began his part by saying —
“Is n't this jolly? Now come and cuddle down here
beside me, and see which will keep it up the longest.”
“What would Prue say? and who would recognize the
elegant Mr. Moor in this big boy? Putting dignity and
broadcloth aside makes you look about eighteen, and very
charming I find you,” said Sylvia, looking about twelve
herself, and also very charming.
“Here is a wooden fork for you to tend the roast with,
while I see to the corn laws and prepare a vegetable snowstorm.
What will you have, little girl, you look as if you
wanted something?”
“I was only thinking that I should have a doll to match
your knife. I feel as if I should enjoy trotting a staring
fright on my knee, and singing Hush-a-by. But I fancy
even your magic cannot produce such a thing, — can it, my
lad?”
“In exactly five minutes a lovely doll will appear,
though such a thing has not been seen in my bachelor establishment
for years.”
With which mysterious announcement Moor ran off, blundering
over the ottomans and slamming the doors as a true
boy should. Sylvia pricked chestnuts, and began to forget
her bosom trouble as she wondered what would appear with
the impatient curiosity appropriate to the character she had
assumed. Presently her husband reappeared with much
breeziness of aspect, rain drops in his hair, and a squirming
bundle in his arms. Triumphantly unfolding many
wraps, he displayed little Tilly in her night-gown.
“There is sorcery for you, and a doll worth having; being
one of the sort that can shut its eyes; it was going to bed,
but its mamma relented and lends it to us for the night.
I told Mrs. Dodd you wanted her, and could n't wait, so she
sent her clothes; but the room is so warm let the dear play
in her pretty bed-gown.”
Sylvia received her lovely plaything with enthusiasm,
and Tilly felt herself suddenly transported to a baby's Paradise,
where beds were unknown and fruit and freedom were
her welcome portion. Merrily popped the corn, nimbly
danced the nuts upon the shovel, lustily remonstrated the
rosy martyrs on the hearth, and cheerfully the minutes
slipped away. Sylvia sung every jubilant air she knew,
Moor whistled astonishing accompaniments, and Tilly danced
over the carpet with nut-shells on her toes, and tried to fill
her little gown with “pitty flowers” from its garlands and
bouquets. Without the wind lamented, the sky wept, and
the sea thundered on the shore; but within, youth, innocence,
and love held their blithe revel undisturbed.
“How are the spirits now?” asked one playmate of the
other.
“Quite merry, thank you; and I should think I was
little Sylvia again but for the sight of this.”
She held up the hand that wore a single ornament; but
the hand had grown so slender since it was first put on, that
the ring would have fallen had she not caught it at her
finger-tip. There was nothing of the boy in her companion's
face, as he said, with an anxious look —
“If you go on thinning so fast I shall begin to fear that
the little wife is not happy with her old husband. Is she,
dear?”
“She would be a most ungrateful woman if she were not.
I always get thin as winter comes on, but I'm so careless
I'll find a guard for my ring to-morrow.”
“No need to wait till then; wear this to please me, and
let Marion's cipher signify that you are mine.”
With a gravity that touched her more than the bestowal
of so dear a relic, Moor unslung a signet ring from his
watchguard, and with some difficulty pressed it to its
place on Sylvia's finger, a most effectual keeper for that
other ring whose tenure seemed so slight. She shrunk a
little and glanced up at him, because his touch was more
firm than tender, and his face wore a masterful expression
seldom seen there; for instinct, subtler than perception,
prompted both act and aspect. Then her eye fell and fixed
upon the dark stone with the single letter engraved upon
its tiny oval, and to her it took a double significance as her
husband held it there, claiming her again, with that emphatic
“Mine.” She did not speak, but something in her
manner caused the fold between his brows to smooth itself
away as he regarded the small hand lying passively in his,
and said, half playfully, half earnestly —
“Forgive me if I hurt you, but you know my wooing is
not over yet; and till you love me with a perfect love I cannot
feel that my wife is wholly mine.”
“I am so young, you know; when I am a woman grown
I can give you a woman's love; now it is a girl's, you say.
Wait for me, Geoffrey, a little longer, for indeed I do my
best to be all you would have me.”
Something brought tears into her eyes and made her lips
tremble, but in a breath the smile came back, and she added
gayly —
“How can I help being grave sometimes, and getting
thin, with so many housekeeping cares upon my shoulders,
and such an exacting, tyrannical husband to wear upon my
nerves. Don't I look like the most miserable of wives?”
She did not certainly as she shook the popper laughingly,
and looked over her shoulder at him, with the bloom of fire-light
on her cheeks, its cheerfulness in her eyes.
“Keep that expression for every day wear, and I am
satisfied. I want no tame Griselda, but the little girl who
once said she was always happy with me. Assure me of
that, and, having won my Leah, I can work and wait still
longer for my Rachel. Bless the baby! what has she done
to herself now?”
Tilly had retired behind the sofa, after she had swarmed
over every chair and couch, examined everything within her
reach, on étagère and table, embraced the Hebe in the corner,
played a fantasia on the piano, and choked herself with
the stopper of the odor bottle. A doleful wail betrayed
her hiding-place, and she now emerged with a pair of nutcrackers,
ditto of pinched fingers, and an expression of
great mental and bodily distress. Her woes vanished instantaneously,
however, when the feast was announced, and
she performed an unsteady pas seul about the banquet,
varied by skirmishes with her long night-gown and darts at
any unguarded viand that tempted her.
No ordinary table service would suit the holders of this
fireside fête. The corn was heaped in a bronze urn, the
nuts in a graceful basket, the apples lay on a plate of curiously
ancient china, and the water turned to wine through
the medium of a purple flagon of Bohemian glass. The
refection was spread upon the rug as on a flowery table, and
all the lustres were lighted, filling the room with a festal
glow. Prue would have held up her hands in dismay, like
the benighted piece of excellence she was, but Mark would
have enjoyed the picturesque group and sketched a mate to
the Golden Wedding. For Moor, armed with the wooden
fork, did the honors; Sylvia, leaning on her arm, dropped
corn after corn into a baby mouth that bird-like always
gaped for more; and Tilly lay luxuriously between them,
warming her little feet as she ate and babbled to the flames.
The clock was on the stroke of eight, the revel at its
height, when the door opened and a servant announced —
“Miss Dane and Mr. Warwick.”
An impressive pause followed, broken by a crow from
Tilly, who seized this propitious moment to bury one hand
in the nuts and with the other capture the big red apple
which had been denied her. The sound seemed to dissipate
the blank surprise that had fallen on all parties, and
brought both host and hostess to their feet, the former exclaiming,
heartily —
“Welcome, friends, to a modern saturnalia and the bosom
of the Happy Family!”
“I fear you did not expect me so late,” said Miss Dane.
“I was detained at the time fixed upon and gave it up, but
Mr. Warwick came, and we set off together. Pray don't
disturb yourselves, but let us enjoy the game with you.”
“You and Adam are guests who never come too early or
yourselves back a dozen years and let us all be merry together.
Sylvia, this our cousin, Faith here is your new
kinswoman. Please love one another as little people are
commanded to do.”
A short stir ensued while hands were shaken, wraps put
off, and some degree of order restored to the room, then
they all sat down and began to talk. With well bred oblivion
of the short gown and long braids of her bashful-looking
hostess, Miss Dane suggested and discussed various
subjects of mutual interest, while Sylvia tried to keep her
eyes from wandering to the mirror opposite, which reflected
the figures of her husband and his friend.
Warwick sat erect in the easy-chair, for he never lounged;
and Moor, still supporting his character, was perched upon
the arm, talking with boyish vivacity. Every sense being
unwontedly alert, Sylvia found herself listening to both
guests at once, and bearing her own part in one conversation
so well that occasional lapses were only attributed to
natural embarrassment. What she and Miss Dane said she
never remembered; what the other pair talked of she never
forgot. The first words she caught were her husband's.
“You see I have begun to live for myself, Adam.”
“I also see that it agrees with you excellently.”
“Better than with you, for you are not looking like your
old self, though June made you happy, I hope?”
“If freedom is happiness it did.”
“Are you still alone?”
“More so than ever.”
Sylvia lost the next words, for a look showed her Moor's
hand on Adam's shoulder, and that for the first time within
her memory Warwick did not meet his friend's glance with
hand went to and fro across his lips as if to steady them.
It was a gesture she remembered well, for though self-control
could keep the eye clear, the voice firm, that half-hidden
mouth of his sometimes rebelled and grew tremulous as a
woman's. The sight and the answer set her heart beating
with the thought, “Why has he come?” The repetition
of a question by Miss Dane recalled her from a dangerous
memory, and when that friendly lady entered upon another
long sentence to relieve her young hostess, she heard Moor
say —
“You have had too much solitude, Adam; I am sure of
it, for no man can live long alone and not get the uncanny
look you have. What have you been at?”
“Fighting the old fight with this unruly self of mine,
and getting ready for another tussle with the Adversary, in
whatever shape he may appear.”
“And now you are come to your friend for the social
solace which the haughtiest heart hungers for when most
alone. You shall have it. Stay with us, Adam, and remember
that whatever changes come to me my home is
always yours.”
“I know it, Geoffrey. I wanted to see your happiness
before I go away again, and should like to stay with
you a day or so if you are sure that — that she would
like it.”
Moor laughed and pulled a lock of the brown mane, as
if to tease the lion into a display of the spirit he seemed
to have lost.
“How shy you are of speaking the new name! `She'
will like it, I assure you, for she makes my friends hers.
Sylvia, come here, and tell Adam he is welcome; he dares
same with Faith.”
She went, trembling inwardly, but outwardly composed,
for she took refuge in one of those commonplace acts which
in such moments we gladly perform, and bless in our secret
souls. She had often wondered where they would next
meet, and how she should comport herself at such a trying
time. She had never imagined that he would come in this
way, or that a hearth-brush would save her from the
betrayal of emotion. So it was, however, and an involuntary
smile passed over her face as she managed to say
quite naturally, while brushing the nutshells tidily out of
sight —
“You know you are always welcome, Mr. Warwick.
`Adam's Room,' as we call it, is always ready, and
Geoffrey was wishing for you only yesterday.”
“I am sure of his satisfaction at my coming, can I be
equally sure of yours. May I, ought I to stay?”
He leaned forward as he spoke, with an eager yet submissive
look, that Sylvia dared not meet, and in her anxiety
to preserve her self-possession, she forgot that to this listener
every uttered word became a truth, because his own were
always so.
“Why not, if you can bear our quiet life, for we are
a Darby and Joan already, though we do not look so to-night,
I acknowledge.”
Men seldom understand the subterfuges women instinctively
use to conceal many a natural emotion which they are
not strong enough to control, not brave enough to confess.
To Warwick, Sylvia seemed almost careless, her words a
frivolous answer to the real meaning of his question, her
smile one of tranquil welcome. Her manner wrought an
Warwick of a year ago.
“I hesitated, Mrs. Moor, because I have sometimes heard
young wives complain that their husbands' friends were
marplots, and I have no desire to be one.”
This speech, delivered with frosty gravity, made Sylvia
as cool and quiet as itself. She put her ally down, looked
full at Warwick, and said with a blending of dignity and
cordiality which even the pinafore could not destroy —
“Please to consider yourself a specially invited guest,
now and always. Never hesitate, but come and go as freely
as you used to do, for nothing need be changed between us
three because two of us have one home to offer you.”
“Thanks; and now that the hearth is scrupulously clean
may I offer you a chair?”
The old keenness was in his eye, the old firmness about
the mouth, the old satirical smile on his lips as Warwick
presented the seat, with an inclination that to her seemed
ironical. She sat down, but when she cast about her mind
for some safe and easy topic to introduce, every idea had
fled; even memory and fancy turned traitors; not a lively
sally could be found, not a pleasant remembrance returned
to help her, and she sat dumb. Before the dreadful pause
grew awkward, however, rescue came in the form of Tilly.
Nothing daunted by the severe simplicity of her attire she
planted herself before Warwick, and shaking her hair out
of her eyes stared at him with an inquiring glance and
cheeks as red as her apple. She seemed satisfied in a
moment, and climbing to his knee established herself there,
coolly taking possession of his watch, and examining the
brown beard curiously as it parted with the white flash of
teeth, when Warwick smiled his warmest smile.
“This recalls the night you fed the sparrow in your
hand. Do you remember, Adam?” and Sylvia looked and
spoke like her old self again.
“I seldom forget anything. But pleasant as that hour
was this is more to me, for the bird flew away, the baby
stays and gives me what I need.”
He wrapt the child closer in his arms, leaned his dark
head on the bright one, and took the little feet into his
hand with a fatherly look that caused Tilly to pat his
cheek and begin an animated recital of some nursery
legend, which ended in a sudden gape, reminding Sylvia
that one of her guests was keeping late hours.
“What comes next?” asked Warwick.
“Now I lay me and byelow in the trib,” answered Tilly,
stretching herself over his arm with a great yawn.
Warwick kissed the rosy half-open mouth and seemed
loth to part with the pious baby, for he took the shawl
Sylvia brought and did up the drowsy bundle himself.
While so busied she stole a furtive glance at him, having
looked without seeing before. Thinner and browner, but
stronger than ever was the familiar face she saw, yet
neither sad nor stern, for the grave gentleness which had
been a fugitive expression before now seemed habitual.
This, with the hand at the lips and the slow dropping of
the eyes, were the only tokens of the sharp experience he
had been passing through. Born for conflict and endurance,
he seemed to have manfully accepted the sweet uses
of adversity and grown the richer for his loss.
Those who themselves are quick to suffer, are also quick
to see the marks of suffering in others; that hasty scrutiny
assured Sylvia of all she had yearned to know, yet wrung
her heart with a pity the deeper for its impotence. Tilly's
they left the room, but in the dusky hall a few hot tears
fell on the baby's hair, and her new nurse lingered long
after the lullaby was done. When she reappeared the
girlish dress was gone, and she was Madam Moor again, as
her husband called her when she assumed her stately air.
All smiled at the change, but he alone spoke of it.
“I win the applause, Sylvia; for I sustain my character
to the end, while you give up before the curtain falls. You
are not so good an actress as I thought you.”
Sylvia's smile was sadder than her tears as she briefly
answered —
“No, I find I cannot be a child again.”
| CHAPTER XIV.
A FIRESIDE FETE. Moods | |