University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.
WHIMS.

“Come, Sylvia, it is nine o'clock! Little slug-a-bed, don't
you mean to get up to-day?” said Miss Yule, bustling
into her sister's room with the wide-awake appearance of
one to whom sleep was a necessary evil, to be endured and
gotten over as soon as possible.

“No, why should I? And Sylvia turned her face away
from the flood of light that poured into the room as Prue
put aside the curtains and flung up the window.

“Why should you? What a question, unless you are
ill; I was afraid you would suffer for that long row yesterday,
and my predictions seldom fail.”

“I am not suffering from any cause whatever, and your
prediction does fail this time; I am only tired of everybody
and everything, and see nothing worth getting up for; so I
shall just stay here till I do. Please put the curtain down
and leave me in peace.”

Prue had dropped her voice to the foreboding tone so
irritating to nervous persons whether sick or well, and
Sylvia laid her arm across her eyes with an impatient gesture
as she spoke sharply.

“Nothing worth getting up for,” cried Prue, like an
aggravating echo. “Why, child, there are a hundred
pleasant things to do if you would only think so. Now

don't be dismal and mope away this lovely day. Get up
and try my plan; have a good breakfast, read the papers,
and then work in your garden before it grows too warm;
that is wholesome exercise and you 've neglected it sadly of
late.”

“I don't wish any breakfast; I hate newspapers, they are
so full of lies; I'm tired of the garden, for nothing goes
right this year; and I detest taking exercise merely because
it 's wholesome. No, I 'll not get up for that.”

“Then stay in the house and draw, read, or practise.
Sit with mark in the studio; give Miss Hemming directions
about your summer things, or go into town about your
bonnet. There is a matinée, try that: or make calls, for
you owe fifty at least. Now I'm sure there 's employment
enough and amusement enough for any reasonable person.”

Prue looked triumphant, but Sylvia was not a “reasonable
person,” and went on in her former despondingly
petulant strain.

“I'm tired of drawing; my head is a jumble of other
people's ideas already, and Herr Pedalsturm has put the
piano out of tune. Mark always makes a model of me if
I go to him, and I don't like to see my eyes, arms, or hair
in all his pictures. Miss Hemming's gossip is worse than
fussing over new things that I don't need. Bonnets are my
torment, and matinées are wearisome, for people whisper
and flirt till the music is spoiled. Making calls is the
worst of all; for what pleasure or profit is there in running
from place to place to tell the same polite fibs over and over
again, and listen to scandal that makes you pity or despise
your neighbors. I shall not get up for any of these
things.”

Prue leaned on the bedpost meditating with an anxious

face till a forlorn hope appeared which caused her to
exclaim —

“Mark and I are going to see Geoffrey Moor, this morning,
just home from Switzerland, where his poor sister died,
you know. You really ought to come with us and welcome
him, for though you can hardly remember him, he 's been
so long away, still, as one of the family, it is a proper compliment
on your part. The drive will do you good, Geoffrey
will be glad to see you, it is a lovely old place, and as
you never saw the inside of the house you cannot complain
that you are tired of that yet.”

“Yes I can, for it will never seem as it has done, and I
can no longer go where I please now that a master's presence
spoils its freedom and solitude for me. I don't know
him, and don't care to, though his name is so familiar.
New people always disappoint me, especially if I've heard
them praised ever since I was born. I shall not get up for
any Geoffrey Moor, so that bait fails.”

Sylvia smiled involuntarily at her sister's defeat, but
Prue fell back upon her last resource in times like this.
With a determined gesture she plunged her hand into an
abysmal pocket, and from a miscellaneous collection of
treasures selected a tiny vial, presenting it to Sylvia with
a half pleading, half authoritative look and tone.

“I 'll leave you in peace if you 'll only take a dose of
chamomilla. It is so soothing, that instead of tiring yourself
with all manner of fancies, you 'll drop into a quiet
sleep, and by noon be ready to get up like a civilized
being. Do take it, dear; just four sugar-plums, and I'm
satisfied.”

Sylvia received the bottle with a docile expression; but
the next minute it flew out of the window, to be shivered

on the walk below, while she said, laughing like a wilful
creature as she was —

“I have taken it in the only way I ever shall, and the
sparrows can try its soothing effects with me; so be satisfied.”

“Very well. I shall send for Dr. Baum, for I'm convinced
that you are going to be ill. I shall say no more,
but act as I think proper, because it 's like talking to the
wind to reason with you in one of these perverse fits.”

As Prue turned away, Sylvia frowned and called after
her —

“Spare yourself the trouble, for Dr. Baum will follow
the chamomilla, if you bring him here. What does he
know about health, a fat German, looking lager beer and
talking sauer-kraut? Bring me bona fide sugar-plums and
I 'll take them; but arsenic, mercury, and nightshade are
not to my taste.”

“Would you feel insulted if I ask whether your breakfast
is to be sent up, or kept waiting till you choose to come
down?”

Prue looked rigidly calm, but Sylvia knew that she felt
hurt, and with one of the sudden impulses which ruled her
the frown melted to a smile, as drawing her sister down she
kissed her in her most loving manner.

“Dear old soul, I'll be good by-and-by, but now I'm
tired and cross, so let me keep out of every one's way and
drowse myself into a cheerier frame of mind. I want
nothing but solitude, a draught of water, and a kiss.”

Prue was mollified at once, and after stirring fussily
about for several minutes gave her sister all she asked, and
departed to the myriad small cares that made her happiness.
As the door closed, Sylvia sighed a long sigh of relief,

and folding her arms under her head drifted away into
the land of dreams, where ennui is unknown.

All the long summer morning she lay wrapt in sleeping
and waking dreams, forgetful of the world about her, till
her brother played the Wedding March upon her door on
his way to lunch. The desire to avenge the sudden downfall
of a lovely castle in the air roused Sylvia, and sent her
down to skirmish with Mark. Before she could say a word,
however, Prue began to talk in a steady stream, for the
good soul had a habit of jumbling news, gossip, private
opinions and public affairs into a colloquial hodge-podge,
that was often as trying to the intellects as the risibles of
her hearers.

“Sylvia, we had a charming call, and Geoffrey sent his
love to you. I asked him over to dinner, and we shall dine
at six, because then my father can be with us. I shall
have to go to town first, for there are a dozen things suffering
for attention. You can't wear a round hat and lawn
jackets without a particle of set all summer. I want some
things for dinner, — and the carpet must be got. What a
lovely one Geoffrey had in the library! Then I must see
if poor Mrs. Beck has had her leg comfortably off, find out
if Freddy Lennox is dead, and order home the mosquito
nettings. Now don't read all the afternoon, and be ready
to receive any one who may come if I should get belated.”

The necessity of disposing of a suspended mouthful produced
a lull, and Sylvia seized the moment to ask in a
careless way, intended to bring her brother out upon his
favorite topic, —

“How did you find your saint, Mark?”

“The same sunshiny soul as ever, though he has had

enough to make him old and grave before his time. He is
just what we need in our neighborhood, and particularly in
our house, for we are a dismal set at times, and he will do
us all a world of good.”

“What will become of me, with a pious, prosy, perfect
creature eternally haunting the house and exhorting me on
the error of my ways!” cried Sylvia.

“Don't disturb yourself; he is not likely to take much
notice of you; and it is not for an indolent, freakish midge
to scoff at a man whom she does not know, and could n't
appreciate if she did,” was Mark's lofty reply.

“I rather liked the appearance of the saint, however,”
said Sylvia, with an expression of naughty malice, as she
began her lunch.

“Why, where did you see him!” exclaimed her brother.

“I went over there yesterday to take a farewell run in
the neglected garden before he came. I knew he was expected,
but not that he was here; and when I saw the
house open, I slipped in and peeped wherever I liked. You
are right, Prue; it is a lovely old place.”

“Now I know you did something dreadfully unladylike
and improper. Put me out of suspense, I beg of you.”

Prue's distressful face and Mark's surprise produced an
inspiring effect upon Sylvia, who continued, with an air of
demure satisfaction —

“I strolled about, enjoying myself, till I got into the
library, and there I rummaged, for it was a charming place,
and I was happy as only those are who love books, and feel
their influence in the silence of a room whose finest ornaments
they are.”

“I hope Moor came in and found you trespassing.”

“No, I went out and caught him playing. When I'd

stayed as long as I dared, and borrowed a very interesting
old book —

“Sylvia! did you really take one without asking?”
cried Prue, looking almost as much alarmed as if she had
stolen the spoons.

“Yes; why not? I can apologize prettily, and it will
open the way for more. I intend to browse over that library
for the next six months.”

“But it was such a liberty, — so rude, so — dear, dear;
and he as fond and careful of his books as if they were his
children! Well, I wash my hands of it, and am prepared
for anything now!”

Mark enjoyed Sylvia's pranks too much to reprove, so he
only laughed while one sister lamented and the other placidly
went on —

“When I had put the book nicely in my pocket, Prue, I
walked into the garden. But before I'd picked a single
flower, I heard little Tilly laugh behind the hedge and some
strange voice talking to her. So I hopped upon a roller to
see, and nearly tumbled off again; for there was a man lying
on the grass, with the gardener's children rioting over him.
Will was picking his pockets, and Tilly eating strawberries
out of his hat, often thrusting one into the mouth of her long
neighbor, who always smiled when the little hand came
fumbling at his lips. You ought to have seen the pretty
picture, Mark.”

“Did he see the interesting picture on your side of the
wall.”

“No, I was just thinking what friendly eyes he had,
listening to his pleasant talk with the little folks, and
watching how they nestled to him as if he were a girl,
when Tilly looked up and cried, `I see Silver!' So I ran

away, expecting to have them all come racing after. But
no one appeared, and I only heard a laugh instead of the
`stop thief' that I deserved.”

“If I had time I should convince you of the impropriety
of such wild actions; as I have n't, I can only implore you
never to do so again on Geoffrey's premises,” said Prue,
rising as the carriage drove round.

“I can safely promise that,” answered Sylvia, with a
dismal shake of the head, as she leaned listlessly from the
window till her brother and sister were gone.

At the appointed time Moor entered Mr. Yule's hospitably
open door; but no one came to meet him, and the house
was as silent as if nothing human inhabited it. He divined
the cause of this, having met Prue and Mark going townward
some hours before, and saying to himself, “The boat
is late,” he disturbed no one, but strolled into the drawing-rooms
and looked about him. Being one of those who seldom
find time heavy on their hands, he amused himself
with observing what changes had been made during his
absence. His journey round the apartments was not a long
one, for, coming to an open window, he paused with an
expression of mingled wonder and amusement.

A pile of cushions, pulled from chair and sofa, lay
before the long window, looking very like a newly deserted
nest. A warm-hued picture lifted from the wall stood in
a streak of sunshine; a half cleared leaf of fruit lay on a
taboret, and beside it, with a red stain on its title-page,
appeared the stolen book. At sight of this Moor frowned,
caught up his descerated darling and put it in his pocket.
But as he took another glance at the various indications of
what had evidently been a solitary revel very much after
his own heart, he relented, laid back the book, and, putting

aside the curtain floating in the wind, looked out into the
garden, attracted thither by the sound of a spade.

A lad was at work near by, and wondering what new
inmate the house had gained, the neglected guest waited to
catch a glimpse of the unknown face. A slender boy, in a
foreign-looking blouse of grey linen; a white collar lay
over a ribbon at the throat, stout half boots covered a trim
pair of feet, and a broad-brimmed hat flapped low on the
forehead. Whistling softly he dug with active gestures;
and, having made the necessary cavity, set a shrub, filled
up the hole, trod it down scientifically, and then fell back
to survey the success of his labors. But something was
amiss, something had been forgotten, for suddenly up came
the shrub, and seizing a wheelbarrow that stood near by,
away rattled the boy round the corner out of sight. Moor
smiled at his impetuosity, and awaited his return with interest,
suspecting from appearances that this was some
protégé of Mark's employed as a model as well as gardener's
boy.

Presently up the path came the lad, with head down and
steady pace, trundling a barrow full of richer earth, surmounted
by a watering-pot. Never stopping for breath he
fell to work again, enlarged the hole, flung in the loam,
poured in the water, reset the shrub, and when the last
stamp and pat were given performed a little dance of
triumph about it, at the close of which he pulled off his
hat and began to fan his heated face. The action caused
the observer to start and look again, thinking, as he recognized
the energetic worker with a smile, “What a changeful
thing it is! haunting one's premises unseen, and stealing
one's books unsuspected; dreaming one half the day and
masquerading the other half. What will happen next?

Let us see but not be seen, lest the boy turn shy and run
away before the pretty play is done!”

Holding the curtain between the window and himself,
Moor peeped through the semi-transparent screen, enjoying
the little episode immensely. Sylvia fanned and rested a
few minutes, then went up and down among the flowers,
often pausing to break a dead leaf, to brush away some
harmful insect, or lift some struggling plant into the light;
moving among them as if akin to them, and cognizant of
their sweet wants. If she had seemed strong-armed and
sturdy as a boy before, now she was tender fingered as a
woman, and went humming here and there like any happy-hearted
bee.

“Curious child!” thought Moor, watching the sunshine
glitter on her uncovered head, and listening to the air she
left half sung. “I've a great desire to step out and see
how she will receive me. Not like any other girl, I fancy.”

But, before he could execute his design, the roll of a carriage
was heard in the avenue, and pausing an instant, with
head erect like a startled doe, Sylvia turned and vanished,
dropping flowers as she ran. Mr. Yule, accompanied by
his son and daughter, came hurrying in with greetings, explanations,
and apologies, and in a moment the house was
full of a pleasant stir. Steps went up and down, voices
echoed through the rooms, savory odors burst forth from
below, and doors swung in the wind, as if the spell was
broken and the sleeping palace had wakened with a word.

Prue made a hasty toilet and harassed the cook to the
verge of spontaneous combustion, while Mark and his father
devoted themselves to their guest. Just as dinner was announced
Sylvia came in, as calm and cool as if wheelbarrows
were myths and linen suits unknown. Moor was

welcomed with a quiet hand-shake, a grave salutation, and
a look that seemed to say, “Wait a little, I take no friends
on trust.”

All through dinner, though she sat as silent as a well-bred
child, she looked and listened with an expression of
keen intelligence that children do not wear, and sometimes
smiled to herself, as if she saw or heard something that
pleased and interested her. When they rose from table she
followed Prue up stairs, quite forgetting the disarray in
which the drawing-room was left. The gentlemen took
possession before either sister returned, and Mark's annoyance
found vent in a philippic against oddities in general
and Sylvia in particular; but his father and friend sat in
the cushionless chairs, and pronounced the scene amusingly
novel. Prue appeared in the midst of the laugh, and having
discovered other delinquencies above, her patience was exhausted,
and her regrets found no check in the presence of
so old a friend as Moor.

“Something must be done about that child, father, for
she is getting entirely beyond my control. If I attempt
to make her study she writes poetry instead of her exercises,
draws caricatures instead of sketching properly, and bewilders
her music teacher by asking questions about Beethoven
and Mendelssohn, as if they were personal friends of
his. If I beg her to take exercise, she rides like an Amazon
all over the Island, grubs in the garden as if for her
living, or goes paddling about the bay till I'm distracted
lest the tide should carry her out to sea. She is so wanting
in moderation she gets ill, and when I give her proper
medicines she flings them out of the window, and threatens
to send that worthy, Dr. Baum, after them. Yet she must
need something to set her right, for she is either overflowing

with unnatural spirits or melancholy enough to break
one's heart.”

“What have you done with the little black sheep of my
flock, — not banished her, I hope?” said Mr. Yule, placidly,
ignoring all complaints.

“She is in the garden, attending to some of her disagreeable
pets, I fancy. If you are going out there to smoke,
please send her in, Mark; I want her.”

As Mr. Yule was evidently yearning for his after-dinner
nap, and Mark for his cigar, Moor followed his friend, and
they stepped through the window into the garden, now
lovely with the fading glow of summer sunset.

“You must know that this peculiar little sister of mine
clings to some of her childish beliefs and pleasures in spite
of Prue's preaching and my raillery,” began Mark, after a
refreshing whiff or two. “She is overflowing with love
and good will, but being too shy or too proud to offer it to
her fellow-creatures, she expends it upon the necessitous
inhabitants of earth, air, and water with the most charming
philanthropy. Her dependants are neither beautiful nor
very interesting, nor is she sentimentally enamored of
them; but the more ugly and desolate the creature, the
more devoted is she. Look at her now; most young
ladies would have hysterics over any one of those pets
of hers.”

Moor looked, and thought the group a very pretty one,
though a plump toad sat at Sylvia's feet, a roly-poly caterpillar
was walking up her sleeve, a blind bird chirped on
her shoulder, bees buzzed harmlessly about her head, as if
they mistook her for a flower, and in her hand a little field
mouse was breathing its short life away. Any tender-hearted
girl might have stood thus surrounded by helpless

things that pity had endeared, but few would have regarded
them with an expression like that which Sylvia wore.
Figure, posture, and employment were so childlike in their
innocent unconsciousness, that the contrast was all the more
strongly marked between them and the sweet thoughtfulness
that made her face singularly attractive with the charm of
dawning womanhood. Moor spoke before Mark could dispose
of his smoke.

“This is a great improvement upon the boudoir full of
lap-dogs, worsted-work and novels, Miss Sylvia. May I
ask if you feel no repugnance to some of your patients;
or is your charity strong enough to beautify them all?”

“I dislike many people, but few animals, because however
ugly I pity them, and whatever I pity I am sure to
love. It may be silly, but I think it does me good; and
till I am wise enough to help my fellow-beings, I try to do
my duty to these humbler sufferers, and find them both
grateful and affectionate.”

There was something very winning in the girl's manner
as she spoke, touching the little creature in her hand almost
as tenderly as if it had been a child. It showed the newcomer
another phase of this many-sided character; and
while Sylvia related the histories of her pets at his request,
he was enjoying that finer history which every ingenuous
soul writes on its owner's countenance for gifted eyes to
read and love. As she paused, the little mouse lay stark
and still in her gentle hand; and though they smiled at
themselves, both young men felt like boys again as they
helped her scoop a grave among the panzies, owning the
beauty of compassion, though she showed it to them in
such a simple shape.

Then Mark delivered his message, and Sylvia went away

to receive Prue's lecture, with outward meekness, but such
an absent mind that the words of wisdom went by her like
the wind.

“Now come and take our twilight stroll, while Mark
keeps Mr. Moor in the studio and Prue prepares another
exhortation,” said Sylvia, as her father woke, and taking
his arm, they paced along the wide piazza that encircled
the whole house.

“Will father do me a little favor?”

“That is all he lives for, dear.”

“Then his life is a very successful one;” and the girl
folded her other hand over that already on his arm. Mr.
Yule shook his head with a regretful sigh, but asked benignly
—

“What shall I do for my little daughter?”

“Forbid Mark to execute a plot with which he threatens
me. He says he will bring every gentleman he knows (and
that is a great many) to the house, and make it so agreeable
that they will keep coming; for he insists that I need
amusement, and nothing will be so entertaining as a lover
or two. Please tell him not to, for I don't want any lovers
yet.”

“Why not?” asked her father, much amused at her
twilight confidences.

“I 'm afraid. Love is so cruel to some people, I feel as
if it would be to me, for I am always in extremes, and continually
going wrong while trying to go right. Love bewilders
the wisest, and it would make me quite blind or
mad, I know; therefore I'd rather have nothing to do with
it for a long, long while.”

“Then Mark shall be forbidden to bring a single specimen.
I very much prefer to keep you as you are. And

yet you may be happier to do as others do; try it, if you
like, my dear.”

“But I can't do as others do; I've tried, and failed.
Last winter, when Prue made me go about, though people
probably thought me a stupid little thing, moping in corners,
I was enjoying myself in my own way, and making
discoveries that have been very useful ever since. I know
I'm whimsical, and hard to please, and have no doubt the
fault was in myself, but I was disappointed in nearly every
one I met, though I went into what Prue calls `our best
society.' The girls seemed all made on the same pattern;
they all said, did, thought, and wore about the same things,
and knowing one was as good as knowing a dozen. Jessie
Hope was the only one I cared much for, and she is so
pretty, she seems made to be looked at and loved.”

“How did you find the young gentlemen, Sylvia?”

“Still worse; for, though lively enough among themselves,
they never found it worth their while to offer us any
conversation but such as was very like the champagne and
ice-cream they brought us, — sparkling, sweet, and unsubstantial.
Almost all of them wore the superior air they put
on before women, an air that says as plainly as words, `I
may ask you and I may not.' Now that is very exasperating
to those who care no more for them than so many grasshoppers,
and I often longed to take the conceit out of them
by telling some of the criticisms passed upon them by the
amiable young ladies who looked as if waiting to say meekly,
`Yes, thank you.”'

“Don't excite yourself, my dear; it is all very lamentable
and laughable, but we must submit till the world learns
better. There are often excellent young persons among the
`grasshoppers,' and if you cared to look you might find a

pleasant friend here and there,” said Mr. Yule, leaning
a little toward his son's view of the matter.

“No, I cannot even do that without being laughed at;
for no sooner do I mention the word friendship than people
nod wisely and look as if they said, `Oh, yes, every one
knows what that sort of thing amounts to.' I should like
a friend, father; some one beyond home, because he would
be newer; a man (old or young, I don't care which), because
men go where they like, see things with their own
eyes, and have more to tell if they choose. I want a person
simple, wise, and entertaining; and I think I should make
a very grateful friend if such an one was kind enough to
like me.”

“I think you would, and perhaps if you try to be more
like others you will find friends as they do, and so be happy,
Sylvia.”

“I cannot be like others, and their friendships would
not satisfy me. I don't try to be odd; I long to be quiet
and satisfied, but I cannot; and when I do what Prue calls
wild things, it is not because I am thoughtless or idle, but
because I am trying to be good and happy. The old ways
fail, so I attempt new ones, hoping they will succeed; but
they don't, and I still go looking and longing for happiness,
yet always failing to find it, till sometimes I think I am a
born disappointment.”

“Perhaps love would bring the happiness, my dear?”

“I 'm afraid not; but, however that may be, I shall
never go running about for a lover as half my mates do.
When the true one comes I shall know him, love him at
once, and cling to him forever, no matter what may happen.
Till then I want a friend, and I will find one if I can.
Don't you believe there may be real and simple friendships

between men and women without falling into this everlasting
sea of love?”

Mr. Yule was laughing quietly under cover of the darkness,
but composed himself to answer gravely —

“Yes, for some of the most beautiful and famous friendships
have been such, and I see no reason why there may
not be again. Look about, Sylvia, make yourself happy;
and, whether you find friend or lover, remember there is
always the old Papa glad to do his best for you in both
capacities.”

Sylvia's hand crept to her father's shoulder, and her voice
was full of daughterly affection, as she said —

“I'll have no lover but `the old Pupa' for a long while
yet. But I will look about, and if I am fortunate enough
to find and good enough to keep the person I want, I shall
be very happy; for, father, I really think I need a friend.”

Here Mark called his sister in to sing to them, a demand
that would have been refused but for a promise to Prue to
behave her best as an atonement for past pranks. Stepping
in she sat down and gave Moor another surprise, as from
her slender throat there came a voice whose power and
pathos made a tragedy of the simple ballad she was singing.

“Why did you choose that plaintive thing, all about
love, despair, and death? It quite breaks one's heart to
hear it,” said Prue, pausing in a mental estimate of her
morning's shopping.

“It came into my head, and so I sung it. Now I'll try
another, for I am bound to please you — if I can.” And
she broke out again with an airy melody as jubilant as if a
lark had mistaken moonlight for the dawn and soared skyward,
singing as it went. So blithe and beautiful were
both voice and song they caused a sigh of pleasure, a sensation

of keen delight in the listener, and seemed to gift
the singer with an unsuspected charm. As she ended
Sylvia turned about, and seeing the satisfaction of their
guest in his face, prevented him from expressing it in words
by saying, in her frank way —

“Never mind the compliments. I know my voice is
good, for that you may thank nature; that it is well trained,
for that praise Herr Pedalsturm; and that you have heard
it at all, you owe to my desire to atone for certain trespasses
of yesterday and to-day, because I seldom sing before
strangers.”

“Allow me to offer my hearty thanks to Nature, Pedalsturm,
and Penitence, and also to hope that in time I may
be regarded, not as a stranger, but a neighbor and a friend.”

Something in the gentle emphasis of the last word struck
pleasantly on the girl's ear, and seemed to answer an unspoken
longing. She looked up at him with a searching
glance, appeared to find some `assurance given by looks,'
and as a smile broke over her face she offered her hand as
if obeying a sudden impulse, and said, half to him, half to
herself —

“I think I have found the friend already.”