University of Virginia Library

19. CHAPTER XIX.
SIX MONTHS.

The ensuing half year seemed fuller of duties and events
than any Sylvia had ever known. At first she found it
very hard to live her life alone; for inward solitude oppressed
her, and external trials were not wanting. Only to the
few who had a right to know, had the whole trouble been
confided. They were discreet from family pride, if from no
tenderer feeling; but the curious world outside of that small
circle was full of shrewd surmises, of keen eyes for discovering
domestic breaches, and shrill tongues for proclaiming
them. Warwick escaped suspicion, being so little known,
so seldom seen; but for the usual nine days matrons and
venerable maids wagged their caps, lifted their hands, and
sighed as they sipped their dish of scandal and of tea —

“Poor young man! I always said how it would be, she
was so peculiar. My dear creature have n't you heard that
Mrs. Moor is n't happy with her husband, and that he has
gone abroad quite broken-hearted?”

Sylvia felt this deeply, but received it as her just punishment,
and bore herself so meekly that public opinion soon
turned a somersault, and the murmur changed to —

“Poor young thing! what could she expect? My dear,
I have it from the best authority, that Mr. Moor has made
her miserable for a year, and now left her broken-hearted.”

After that, the gossips took up some newer tragedy, and left
Mrs. Moor to mend her heart as best she could, a favor very
gratefully received.

As Hester Prynne seemed to see some trace of her own
sin in every bosom, by the glare of the Scarlet Letter
burning on her own; so Sylvia, living in the shadow of a
household grief, found herself detecting various phases of
her own experience in others. She had joined that sad
sisterhood called disappointed women; a larger class than
many deem it to be, though there are few of us who have
not seen members of it. Unhappy wives; mistaken or forsaken
lovers; meek souls, who make life a long penance for
the sins of others; gifted creatures kindled into fitful brilliancy
by some inward fire that consumes but cannot warm.
These are the women who fly to convents, write bitter books,
sing songs full of heartbreak, act splendidly the passion they
have lost or never won. Who smile, and try to lead brave
uncomplaining lives, but whose tragic eyes betray them,
whose voices, however sweet or gay, contain an undertone
of hopelessness, whose faces sometimes startle one with
an expression which haunts the observer long after it is
gone.

Undoubtedly Sylvia would have joined the melancholy
chorus, and fallen to lamenting that ever she was born, had
she not possessed a purpose that took her out of herself and
proved her salvation. Faith's words took root and blossomed.
Intent on making her life a blessing, not a reproach
to her father, she lived for him entirely. He had
taken her back to him, as if the burden of her unhappy
past should be upon his shoulders, the expiation of her
faults come from him alone. Sylvia understood this now,
and nestled to him so gladly, so confidingly, he seemed to

have found again the daughter he had lost and be almost
content to have her all his own.

How many roofs cover families or friends who live years
together, yet never truly know each other; who love, and
long and try to meet, yet fail to do so till some unexpected
emotion or event performs the work. In the weeks that
followed the departure of the friends, Sylvia discovered this
and learned to know her father. No one was so much to her
as he; no one so fully entered into her thoughts and feelings;
for sympathy drew them tenderly together, and sorrow
made them equals. As man and woman they talked, as
father and daughter they loved; and the beautiful relation
became their truest solace and support.

Miss Yule both rejoiced at and rebelled against this;
was generous, yet mortally jealous; made no complaint, but
grieved in private, and one fine day amazed her sister by
announcing, that, being of no farther use at home, she had
decided to be married. Both Mr. Yule and Sylvia had
desired this event, but hardly dared to expect it in spite
of sundry propitious signs and circumstances.

A certain worthy widower had haunted the house of late,
evidently on matrimonial thoughts intent. A solid gentleman,
both physically and financially speaking; possessed of
an ill-kept house, bad servants, and nine neglected children.
This prospect, however alarming to others, had great
charms for Prue; nor was the Reverend Gamaliel Bliss repugnant
to her, being a rubicund, bland personage, much
given to fine linen, long dinners, and short sermons. His
third spouse had been suddenly translated, and though the year of mourning had not yet expired, things went so hardly
with Gamaliel, that he could no longer delay casting his
pastoral eyes over the flock which had already given three

lambs to his fold, in search of a fourth. None appeared
whose meek graces were sufficiently attractive, or whose
dowries were sufficiently large. Meantime the nine olive-branches
grew wild, the servants revelled, the ministerial
digestion suffered, the sacred shirts went buttonless, and
their wearer was wellnigh distraught. At this crisis he
saw Prudence, and fell into a way of seating himself before
the well-endowed spinster, with a large cambric pocket-handkerchief
upon his knee, a frequent tear meandering
down his florid countenance, and volcanic sighs agitating
his capacious waistcoat as he poured his woes into her ear.
Prue had been deeply touched by these moist appeals, and
was not much surprised when the reverend gentleman went
ponderously down upon his knee before her in the good
old-fashioned style which frequent use had endeared to him,
murmuring with an appropriate quotation and a subterranean
sob —

“Miss Yule, `a good wife is a crown to her husband;'
be such an one to me, unworthy as I am, and a mother to
my bereaved babes, who suffer for a tender woman's care.”

She merely upset her sewing-table with an appropriate
start, but speedily recovered, and with a maidenly blush
murmured in return —

“Dear me, how very unexpected! pray speak to papa, —
oh, rise, I beg.”

“Call me Gamaliel, and I obey!” gasped the stout lover,
divided between rapture and doubts of his ability to perform
the feat alone.

“Gam-aliel,” sighed Prue, surrendering her hand.

“My Prudence, blessed among women!” responded the
blissful Bliss. And having saluted the fair member, allowed
it to help him rise; when, after a few decorous endearments,

he departed to papa, and the bride elect rushed up to
Sylvia with the incoherent announcement —

“My dearest child, I have accepted him! It was such
a surprise, though so touchingly done. I was positively
mortified; Maria had swept the room so ill, his knees were
white with lint, and I'm a very happy woman, bless you,
love!”

“Sit down, and tell me all about it,” cried her sister.
“Don't try to sew, but cry if you like, and let me pet you,
for indeed I am rejoiced.”

But Prue preferred to rock violently, and boggle down a
seam as the best quietus for her fluttered nerves, while she
told her romance, received congratulations, and settled a
few objections made by Sylvia, who tried to play the prudent
matron.

“I am afraid he is too old for you, my dear.”

“Just the age; a man should always be ten years older
than his wife. A woman of thirty-five is in the prime of
life, and if she has n't arrived at years of discretion then
she never will. Shall I wear pearl-colored silk and a white
bonnet, or just a very handsome travelling dress?”

“Whichever you like. But, Prue, is n't he rather stout,
I won't say corpulent?”

“Sylvia, how can you! Because papa is a shadow, you
call a fine, manly person like Gam — Mr. Bliss, corpulent.
I always said I would not marry an invalid, (Macgregor
died of apoplexy last week, I heard, at a small dinner
party; fell forward with his head upon the cheese, and
expired without a groan,) and where can you find a more
robust and healthy man than Mr. Bliss? Not a gray hair,
and gout his only complaint. So aristocratic. You know
I've loads of fine old flannel, just the thing for him.”

Sylvia commanded her countenance with difficulty, and
went on with her maternal inquiries.

“He is a personable man, and an excellent one, I believe,
yet I should rather dread the responsibility of nine small
children, if I were you.”

“They are my chief inducement to the match. Just
think of the state those dears must be in, with only a young
governess, and half a dozen giddy maids to see to them. I
long to be among them, and named an early day, because
measles and scarlatina are coming round again, and only
Fanny, and the twins, Gus and Gam, have had either. I
know all their names and ages, dispositions, and characters
and love them like a mother already. He perfectly
adores them, and that is very charming in a learned man
like Mr. Bliss.”

“If that is your feeling it will all go well I have
no doubt. But, Prue, — I don't wish to be unkind, dear,
— do you quite like the idea of being the fourth Mrs.
Bliss?”

“Bless me, I never thought of that! Poor man, it only
shows how much he must need consolation, and proves how
good a husband he must have been. No, Sylvia, I don't
care a particle. I never knew those estimable ladies, and
the memory of them shall not keep me from making Gamaliel
happy if I can. What he goes through now is almost
beyond belief. My child, just think! — the coachman
drinks; the cook has tea-parties whenever she likes, and
supports her brother's family out of her perquisites, as she
calls her bare-faced thefts; the house maids romp with the
indoor man, and have endless followers; three old maids
set their caps at him, and that hussy, (I must use a strong
expression,) that hussy of a governess makes love to him

before the children. It is my duty to marry him; I shall
do it, and put an end to this fearful state of things.”

Sylvia asked but one more question —

“Now, seriously, do you love him very much? Will he
make you as happy as my dear old girl should be?”

Prue dropped her work, and hiding her face on Sylvia's
shoulder, answered with a plaintive sniff or two, and much
real feeling —

“Yes, my dear, I do. I tried to love him, and I did not
fail. I shall be happy, for I shall be busy. I am not
needed here any more, and so I am glad to go away into a
home of my own, feeling sure that you can fill my place; and
Maria knows my ways too well to let things go amiss. Now,
kiss me, and smooth my collar, for papa may call me down.”

The sisters embraced and cried a little, as women usually
find it necessary to do at such interesting times; then
fell to planning the wedding outfit, and deciding between
the “light silk and white bonnet,” or the “handsome travelling
suit.”

Miss Yule made a great sacrifice to the propricties by
relinquishing her desire for a stately wedding, and much
to Sylvia's surprise and relief, insisted that, as the family
was then situated, it was best to have no stir or parade,
but to be married quietly at church and slip unostentatiously
out of the old life into the new. Her will was law,
and as the elderly bridegroom felt that there was no time
to spare, and the measles continued to go about seeking
whom they might devour, Prue did not keep him waiting
long. “Three weeks is very little time, and nothing will
be properly done, for one must have everything new when
one is married of course, and mantua-makers are but mortal
women (exorbitant in their charges this season, I assure

you), so be patient, Gamaliel, and spend the time in teaching
my little ones to love me before I come.”

“My dearest creature, I will.” And well did the enamored
gentleman perform his promise.

Prue kept hers so punctually that she was married with
the bastings in her wedding gown and two dozen pocket-handkerchiefs
still unhemmed; facts which disturbed her
even during the ceremony. A quiet time throughout; and
after a sober feast, a tearful farewell, Mrs. Gamaliel Bliss
departed, leaving a great void behind and carrying joy to
the heart of her spouse, comfort to the souls of the excited
nine, destruction to the “High Life Below Stairs,” and
order, peace, and plenty to the realm over which she was
to know a long and prosperous reign.

Hardly had the excitement of this event subsided when
another occurred to keep Sylvia from melancholy and bring
an added satisfaction to her lonely days. Across the sea
there came to her a little book, bearing her name upon its
title-page. Quaintly printed, and bound in some foreign
style, plain and unassuming without, but very rich within,
for there she found Warwick's Essays, and between each
of these one of the poems from Moor's Diary. Far away
there in Switzerland they had devised this pleasure for her,
and done honor to the woman whom they both loved, by
dedicating to her the first fruits of their lives. “Alpen
Rosen” was its title, and none could have better suited it
in Sylvia's eyes, for to her Warwick was the Alps and
Moor the roses. Each had helped the other; Warwick's
rugged prose gathered grace from Moor's poetry, and
Moor's smoothly flowing lines acquired power from Warwick's
prose. Each had given her his best, and very
proud was Sylvia of the little book, over which she pored

day after day, living on and in it, eagerly collecting all
praises, resenting all censures, and thinking it the one perfect
volume in the world.

Others felt and acknowledged its worth as well, for
though fashionable libraries were not besieged by inquiries
for it, and no short-lived enthusiasm welcomed it, a place
was found for it on many study tables, where real work was
done. Innocent girls sang the songs and loved the poet,
while thoughtful women, looking deeper, honored the man.
Young men received the Essays as brave protests against
the evils of the times, and old men felt their faith in honor
and honesty revive. The wise saw great promise in it, and
the most critical could not deny its beauty and its power.

Early in autumn arrived a fresh delight; and Jessie's
little daughter became peacemaker as well as idol. Mark
forgave his enemies, and swore eternal friendship with all
mankind the first day of his baby's life; and when his sister
brought, it to him he took both in his arms, making
atonement for many hasty words and hard thoughts by the
broken whisper —

“I have two little Sylvias now.”

This wonderful being absorbed both households, from
grandpapa to the deposed sovereign Tilly, whom Sylvia
called her own, and kept much with her; while Prue threatened
to cause a rise in the price of stationery by the daily
and copious letters full of warning and advice which she
sent, feeling herself a mother in Israel among her tribe of
nine, now safely carried through the Red Sea of scarlatina.
Happy faces made perpetual sunshine round the little Sylvia,
but to none was she so dear a boon as to her young
god-mother. Jessie became a trifle jealous of “old Sylvia,”
as she now called herself, for she almost lived in baby's

nursery; hurrying over in time to assist at its morning
ablutions, hovering about its crib when it slept, daily discovering
beauties invisible even to its mother's eyes, and
working early and late on dainty garments, rich in the embroidery
which she now thanked Prue for teaching her
against her will. The touch of the baby hands seemed to
heal her sore heart; the sound of the baby voice, even
when most unmusical, had a soothing effect upon her nerves;
the tender cares its helplessness demanded absorbed her
thoughts, and kept her happy in a new world whose delights
she had never known till now.

From this time a restful expression replaced the patient
hopelessness her face had worn before, and in the lullabys
she sang the listeners caught echoes of the cheerful voice
they had never thought to hear again. Gay she was not,
but serene. Quiet was all she asked; and shunning society
seemed happiest to sit at home with baby and its gentle
mother, with Mark, now painting as if inspired, or with her
father, who relinquished business and devoted himself to
her. A pleasant pause seemed to have come after troublous
days; a tranquil hush in which she sat waiting for what
time should bring her. But as she waited the woman
seemed to bloom more beautifully than the girl had done.
Light and color revisited her countenance clearer and deeper
than of old; fine lines ennobled features faulty in themselves;
and the indescribable refinement of a deep inward
life made itself manifest in look, speech, and gesture, giving
promise of a gracious womanhood.

Mr. Yule augured well from this repose, and believed the
dawning loveliness to be a herald of returning love. He
was thinking hopeful thoughts one day as he sat writing to
Moor, whose faithful correspondent he had become, when

Sylvia came in with one of the few notes she sent her husband
while away.

“Just in time. God bless me, child! what is it?”

Well might he exclaim, for in his daughter's face he saw
an expression which caused his hope to suddenly become a
glad belief. Her lips smiled, though in her eyes there lay
a shadow which he could not comprehend, and her answer
did not enlighten him, as she put her arm about his neck
and laid her slip of paper in his hand.

“Enclose my note, and send the letter; then, father, we
will talk.”