Moods
in them, and still Sylvia kept on, till, breathless, but successful, she
reached the object of her search.
Keeping to the windward of the smoke, she gained a rocky spot still warm
and blackened by the late passage of the flames, and pausing there,
forgot her own pranks in watching those which the fire played before
her eyes. Many acres were burning, the air was full of the rush and roar
of the victorious element, the crash of trees that fell before it, and
the shouts of men who fought it unavailingly.
"Ah, this is grand! I wish Mark and Mr. Moor were here. Aren't you glad
you came, sir?"
Sylvia glanced up at her companion, as he stood regarding the scene with
the intent, alert expression one often sees in a fine hound when he
scents danger in the air. But Warwick did not answer, for as she spoke a
long, sharp cry of human suffering rose above the tumult, terribly
distinct and full of ominous suggestion.
"Someone was killed when that tree fell! Stay here till I come back;"
and Adam strode away into the wood as if his place were where the peril
lay.
For ten minutes Sylvia waited, pale and anxious; then her patience gave
out, and saying to herself, "I can go where he does, and women are
always more helpful than men at such times," she followed in the
direction whence came the fitful sound of voices. The ground was hot
underneath her feet, red eyes winked at her from the blackened sod, and
fiery tongues darted up here and there, as if the flames were lurking
still, ready for another outbreak. Intent upon her charitable errand,
and excited by the novel scene, she pushed recklessly on, leaping
charred logs, skirting still burning stumps, and peering eagerly into
the dun veil that wavered to and fro. The appearance of an impassable
ditch obliged her to halt, and pausing to take breath, she became aware
that she had lost her way. The echo of voices had ceased, a red glare
was deepening in front, and clouds of smoke enveloped her in a stifling
atmosphere. A sense of bewilderment crept over her; she knew not where
she was; and after a rapid flight in what she believed a safe direction
had been cut short by the fall of a blazing tree before her, she stood
still, taking counsel with herself. Darkness and danger seemed to
encompass her, fire flickered on every side, and suffocating vapors
shrouded earth and sky. A bare rock suggested one hope of safety, and
muffling her head in her skirt, she lay down faint and blind, with a
dull pain in her temples, and a fear at her heart fast deepening into
terror, as her breath grew painful and her head began to swim.
"This is the last of the pleasant voyage! Oh, why does no one think of
me?"
As the regret rose, a cry of suffering and entreaty broke from her. She
had not called for help till now, thinking herself too remote, her voice
too feeble to overpower the din about her. But some one had thought of
her, for as the cry left her lips steps came crashing through the wood,
a pair of strong arms caught her up, and before she could collect her
scattered senses she was set down beyond all danger on the green bank of
a little pool.
"Well, salamander, have you had fire enough?" asked Warwick, as he
dashed a handful of water in her face with such energetic goodwill that
it took her breath away.
"Yes, oh yes,--and of water, too! Please stop, and let me get my
breath!" gasped Sylvia, warding off a second baptism and staring dizzily
about her.
"Why did you quit the place where I left you?" was the next question,
somewhat sternly put.
"I wanted to know what had happened."
"So you walked into a bonfire to satisfy your curiosity, though you had
been told to keep out of it? You'd never make a Casabianca."
"I hope not, for of all silly children, that boy was the silliest, and
he deserved to be blown up for his want of common sense," cried the
girl, petulantly.
"Obedience is an old-fashioned virtue, which you would do well to
cultivate along with your common sense, young lady."
Sylvia changed the subject, for Warwick stood regarding her with an
irate expression that was somewhat alarming. Fanning herself with the
wet hat, she asked abruptly--
"Was the man hurt, sir?"
"Yes."
"Very much?"
"Yes."
"Can I not do something for him? He is very far from any house, and I
have some experience in wounds."
"He is past all help, above all want now."
"Dead, Mr. Warwick?"
"Quite dead."
Sylvia sat down as suddenly as she had risen, and covered her face with
a shiver, remembering that her own wilfulness had tempted a like fate,
and she too, might now have been 'past help, above all want.' Warwick
went down to the pool to bathe his hot face and blackened hands; as he
returned Sylvia met him with a submissive--
"I will go back now if you are ready, sir."
If the way had seemed long in coming it was doubly so in returning, for
neither pride nor perversity sustained her now, and every step cost an
effort. "I can rest in the boat," was her sustaining thought; great
therefore was her dismay when on reaching the river no boat was to be
seen.
"Why, Mr. Warwick, where is it?"
"A long way down the river by this time, probably. Believing that we
landed only for a moment, I did not fasten it, and the tide has carried
it away."
"But what shall we do?"
"One of two things,--spend the night here, or go round by the bridge."
"Is it far?"
"Some three or four miles, I think."
"Is there no shorter way? no boat or carriage to be had?"
"If you care to wait, I can look for our runaway, or get a wagon from
the town."
"It is growing late and you would be gone a long time, I suppose?"
"Probably."
"Which had we better do?"
"I should not venture to advise. Suit yourself, I will obey orders."
"If you were alone what would you do?"
"Swim across."
Sylvia looked disturbed, Warwick impenetrable, the river wide, the road
long, and the cliffs the most inaccessible of places. An impressive
pause ensued, then she said frankly--
"It is my own fault and I'll take the consequences. I choose the bridge
and leave you the river. If I don't appear till dawn, tell Mark I sent
him a good night," and girding up her energies she walked bravely off
with much external composure and internal chagrin.
As before, Warwick followed in silence. For a time she kept in advance,
then allowed him to gain upon her, and presently fell behind, plodding
doggedly on through thick and thin, vainly trying to conceal the hunger
and fatigue that were fast robbing her of both strength and spirits.
Adam watched her with a masculine sense of the justice of the
retribution which his wilful comrade had brought upon herself. But as he
saw the elasticity leave her steps, the color fade from her cheeks, the
resolute mouth relax, and the wistful eyes dim once or twice with tears
of weariness and vexation, pity got the better of pique, and he
relented. His steady tramp came to a halt, and stopping by a wayside
spring, he pointed to a mossy stone, saying with no hint of superior
powers--
"We are tired, let us rest."
Sylvia dropped down at once, and for a few minutes neither spoke, for
the air was full of sounds more pertinent to the summer night than human
voices. From the copse behind them, came the coo of wood-pigeons, from
the grass at their feet the plaintive chirp of crickets; a busy breeze
whispered through the willow, the little spring dripped musically from
the rock, and across the meadows came the sweet chime of a bell.
Twilight was creeping over forest, hill, and stream, and seemed to drop
refreshment and repose upon all weariness of soul and body, more
grateful to Sylvia, than the welcome seat and leafy cup of water Warwick
brought her from the spring.
The appearance of a thirsty sparrow gave her thoughts a pleasant turn,
for, sitting motionless, she watched the little creature trip down to
the pool, drink and bathe, then flying to a willow spray, dress its
feathers, dry its wings, and sit chirping softly as if it sang its
evening hymn. Warwick saw her interest, and searching in his pocket,
found the relics of a biscuit, strewed a few bits upon the ground before
him, and began a low, sweet whistle, which rose gradually to a varied
strain, alluring, spirited, and clear as any bird voice of the wood.
Little sparrow ceased his twitter, listened with outstretched neck and
eager eye, hopping restlessly from twig to twig, until he hung just over
the musician's head, agitated with a small flutter of surprise, delight,
and doubt. Gathering a crumb or two into his hand, Warwick held it
toward the bird, while softer, sweeter, and more urgent rose the
invitation, and nearer and nearer drew the winged guest, fascinated by
the spell.
Suddenly a belated blackbird lit upon the wall, surveyed the group and
burst into a jubilant song, that for a moment drowned his rival's notes.
Then, as if claiming the reward, he fluttered to the grass, ate his
fill, took a sip from the mossy basin by the way, and flew singing over
the river, leaving a trail of music behind him. There was a dash and
daring about this which fired little sparrow with emulation. His last
fear seemed conquered, and he flew confidingly to Warwick's palm,
pecking the crumbs with grateful chirps and friendly glances from its
quick, bright eye. It was a pretty picture for the girl to see; the man,
an image of power, in his hand the feathered atom, that, with unerring
instinct, divined and trusted the superior nature which had not yet lost
its passport to the world of innocent delights that Nature gives to
those who love her best. Involuntarily Sylvia clapped her hands, and,
startled by the sudden sound, little sparrow skimmed away.
"Thank you for the pleasantest sight I've seen for many a day. How did
you learn this gentle art, Mr. Warwick?"
"I was a solitary boy, and found my only playmates in the woods and
fields. I learned their worth, they saw my need, and when I asked their
friendship, gave it freely. Now we should go; you are very tired, let me
help you."
He held his hand to her, and she put her own into it with a confidence
as instinctive as the bird's. Then, hand in hand they crossed the bridge
and struck into the wilderness again; climbing slopes still warm and
odorous, passing through dells full of chilly damps, along meadows
spangled with fire-flies, and haunted by sonorous frogs; over rocks
crisp with pale mosses, and between dark firs, where shadows brooded,
and melancholy breezes rocked themselves to sleep. Speaking seldom, yet
feeling no consciousness of silence, no sense of restraint, for they no
longer seemed like strangers to one another, and this spontaneous
friendliness lent an indefinable charm to the dusky walk. Warwick found
satisfaction in the knowledge of her innocent faith in him, the touch of
the little hand he held, the sight of the quiet figure at his side.
Sylvia felt that it was pleasant to be the object of his care, fancied
that they would learn to know each other better in three days of this
free life than in as many months at home, and rejoiced over the
discovery of unsuspected traits in him, like the soft lining of the
chestnut burr, to which she had compared him more than once that
afternoon. So, mutually and unconsciously yielding to the influence of
the hour and the mood it brought them, they walked through the twilight
in that eloquent silence which often proves more persuasive than the
most fluent speech.
The welcome blaze of their own fire gladdened them at length, and when
the last step was taken, Sylvia sat down with an inward conviction she
never could get up again. Warwick told their mishap in the fewest
possible words, while Mark, in a spasm of brotherly solicitude, goaded
the fire to a roar that his sister's feet might be dried, administered a