Moods
cordial as a preventive against cold, and prescribed her hammock the
instant supper was done. She went away with him, but a moment after she
came to Warwick with a box of Prue's ointment and a soft handkerchief
stripped into bandages.
"What now?" he asked.
"I wish to dress your burns, sir."
"They will do well enough with a little water; go you and rest."
"Mr. Warwick, you know you ate your supper with your left hand, and put
both behind you when you saw me looking at them. Please let me make them
easier; they were burnt for me, and I shall get no sleep till I have had
my way."
There was a curious mixture of command and entreaty in her manner, and
before their owner had time to refuse or comply, the scorched hands were
taken possession of, the red blisters covered with a cool bandage, and
the frown of pain smoothed out of Warwick's forehead by the prospect of
relief. As she tied the last knot, Sylvia glanced up with a look that
mutely asked pardon for past waywardness, and expressed gratitude for
past help; then, as if her heart were set at rest, she was gone before
her patient could return his thanks.
She did not reappear, Mark went to send a lad after the lost boat, and
the two friends were left alone; Warwick watching the blaze, Moor
watching him, till, with a nod toward a pair of diminutive boots that
stood turning out their toes before the fire, Adam said--
"The wearer of those defiant-looking articles is the most capricious
piece of humanity it was ever my fortune to see. You have no idea of the
life she has led me since you left."
"I can imagine it."
"She is as freakish, and wears as many shapes as Puck; a gnat, a
will-o'-the-wisp, a Sister of Charity, a meek-faced child; and one does
not know in which guise she pleases most. Hard the task of him who has
and tries to hold her."
"Hard yet happy; for a word will tame the high spirit, a look touch the
warm heart, a kind act be repaid with one still kinder. She is a woman
to be studied well, taught tenderly, and, being won, cherished with an
affection that knows no shadow of a change."
Moor spoke low, and on his face the fire-light seemed to shed a ruddier
glow than it had done before. Warwick eyed him keenly for a moment, then
said, with his usual abruptness--
"Geoffrey, you should marry."
"Set me the example by mortgaging your own heart, Adam."
"I have."
"I thought so. Tell me the romance."
"It is the old story--a handsome woman, a foolish man; a few weeks of
doubt, a few of happiness; then the two stand apart to view the leap
before they take it; after that, peace or purgatory, as they choose well
or ill."
"When is the probation over, Adam?"
"In June, God willing."
The hope of deliverance gave to Warwick's tone the fervor of desire, and
led his friend to believe in the existence of a passion deep and strong
as the heart he knew so well. No further confessions disturbed his
satisfaction, for Warwick scorned complaint; pity he would not receive,
sympathy was powerless to undo the past, time alone would mend it, and
to time he looked for help. He rose presently as if bedward bound, but
paused behind Moor, turned his face upward, and said, bending on it a
look given to this friend alone--
"If my confidence were a good gift, you should have it. But my
experience must not mar your faith in womankind. Keep it as chivalrous
as ever, and may God send you the mate whom you deserve. Geoffrey, good
night."
"Good night, Adam."
And with a hand-shake more expressive of affection than many a tenderer
demonstration, they parted--Warwick to watch the stars for hours, and
Moor to muse beside the fire till the little boots were dry.
CHAPTER V.
A GOLDEN WEDDING.
Hitherto they had been a most decorous crew, but the next morning
something in the air seemed to cause a general overflow of spirits, and
they went up the river like a party of children on a merry-making.
Sylvia decorated herself with garlands till she looked like a mermaid;
Mark, as skipper, issued his orders with the true Marblehead twang; Moor
kept up a fire of pun-provoking raillery; Warwick sung like a jovial
giant; while the Kelpie danced over the water as if inspired with the
universal gayety, and the very ripples seemed to laugh as they hurried
by.
"Mark, there is a boat coming up behind us with three gentlemen in it,
who evidently intend to pass us with a great display of skill. Of course
you won't let it," said Sylvia, welcoming the prospect of a race.
Her brother looked over his shoulder, took a critical survey, and nodded
approvingly.
"They are worth a lesson, and shall have it. Easy, now, till they pass;
then hard all, and give them a specimen of high art."
A sudden lull ensued on board the Kelpie while the blue shirts
approached, caught, and passed with a great display of science, as
Sylvia had prophesied, and as good an imitation of the demeanor of
experienced watermen as could be assumed by a trio of studious youths
not yet out of their teens. As the foam of their wake broke against the
other boat's side, Mark hailed them--
"Good morning, gentlemen! We'll wait for you above there, at the bend."
"All serene," returned the rival helmsman, with a bow in honor of
Sylvia, while the other two caused a perceptible increase in the speed
of the "Juanita," whose sentimental name was not at all in keeping with
its rakish appearance.
"Short-sighted infants, to waste their wind in that style; but they pull
well for their years," observed Mark, paternally, as he waited till the
others had gained sufficient advantage to make the race a more equal
one. "Now, then!" he whispered a moment after; and, as if suddenly
endowed with life, the Kelpie shot away with the smooth speed given by
strength and skill. Sylvia watched both boats, yearning to take an oar
herself, yet full of admiration for the well-trained rowers, whose swift
strokes set the river in a foam and made the moment one of pleasure and
excitement. The blue shirts did their best against competitors who had
rowed in many crafts and many waters. They kept the advantage till near
the bend, then Mark's crew lent their reserved strength to a final
effort, and bending to their oars with a will, gained steadily, till,
with a triumphant stroke, they swept far ahead, and with oars at rest
waited in magnanimous silence till the Juanita came up, gracefully
confessing her defeat by a good-humored cheer from her panting crew.
For a moment the two boats floated side by side, while the young men
interchanged compliments and jokes, for a river is a highway where all
travellers may salute each other, and college boys are "Hail fellow!
well met" with all the world.
Sylvia sat watching the lads, and one among them struck her fancy. The
helmsman who had bowed to her was slight and swarthy, with Southern
eyes, vivacious manners, and a singularly melodious voice. A Spaniard,
she thought, and pleased herself with this picturesque figure till a
traitorous smile about the young man's mouth betrayed that he was not
unconscious of her regard. She colored as she met the glance of mingled
mirth and admiration that he gave her, and hastily began to pull off the
weedy decorations which she had forgotten. But she paused presently, for
she heard a surprised voice exclaim--
"Why, Warwick! is that you or your ghost?"
Looking up Sylvia saw Adam lift the hat he had pulled over his brows,
and take a slender brown hand extended over the boat-side with something
like reluctance, as he answered the question in Spanish. A short
conversation ensued, in which the dark stranger seemed to ask
innumerable questions, Warwick to give curt replies, and the names
Gabriel and Ottila to occur with familiar frequency. Sylvia knew nothing
of the language, but received an impression that Warwick was not
overjoyed at the meeting; that the youth was both pleased and perplexed
by finding him there; and that neither parted with much regret as the
distance slowly widened between the boats, and with a farewell salute
parted company, each taking a different branch of the river, which
divided just there.
For the first time Warwick allowed Mark to take his place at the oar,
and sat looking into the clear depths below as if some scene lay there
which other eyes could not discover.
"Who was the olive-colored party with the fine eyes and foreign accent?"
asked Mark, lazily rowing.
"Gabriel Andre."
"Is he an Italian?"
"No; a Cuban."
"I forgot you had tried that mixture of Spain and Alabama. How was it?"
"As such climates always are to me,--intoxicating to-day, enervating
to-morrow."
"How long were you there?"
"Three months."
"I feel tropically inclined, so tell us about it."
"There is nothing to tell."
"I'll prove that by a catechism. Where did you stay?"
"In Havana."
"Of course, but with whom?"
"Gabriel Andre."
"The father of the saffron youth?"
"Yes."
"Of whom did the family consist?"
"Four persons."
"Mark, leave Mr. Warwick alone."
"As long as he answers I shall question. Name the four persons, Adam."
"Gabriel, sen., Dolores his wife, Gabriel, jun., Catalina, his sister."
"Ah! now we progress. Was senorita Catalina as comely as her brother?"
"More so."
"You adored her, of course?"
"I loved her."
"Great heavens! what discoveries we make. He likes it, I know by the
satirical glimmer in his eye; therefore I continue. She adored you, of
course?"
"She loved me."
"You will return and marry her?"
"No."
"Your depravity appalls me."
"Did I volunteer its discovery?"
"I demand it now. You left this girl believing that you adored her?"
"She knew I was fond of her."
"The parting was tender?"
"On her part."
"Iceberg! She wept in your arms?"
"And gave me an orange."
"You cherished it, of course?"
"I ate it immediately."
"What want of sentiment! You promised to return?"
"Yes."
"But will never keep the promise?"
"I never break one."
"Yet will not marry her?"
"By no means."
"Ask how old the lady was, Mark?"
"Age, Warwick?"
"Seven."
Mark caught a crab of the largest size at this reply, and remained where
he fell, among the ruins of the castle in Spain, which he had erected
with the scanty materials vouchsafed to him, while Warwick went back to
his meditations.
A drop of rain roused Sylvia from the contemplation of an imaginary
portrait of the little Cuban girl, and looking skyward she saw that the
frolicsome wind had prepared a practical joke for them in the shape of a
thunder-shower. A consultation was held, and it was decided to row on
till a house appeared, in which they would take refuge till the storm
was over. On they went, but the rain was in greater haste than they, and
a summary drenching was effected before the toot of a dinner-horn guided
them to shelter. Landing they marched over the fields, a moist and
mirthful company, toward a red farm-house standing under venerable elms,
with a patriarchal air which promised hospitable treatment and good
cheer. A promise speedily fulfilled by the lively old woman, who
appeared with an energetic "Shoo!" for the speckled hens congregated in
the porch, and a hearty welcome for the weather-beaten strangers.
"Sakes alive!" she exclaimed; "you be in a mess, ain't you? Come right
in and make yourselves to home. Abel, take the men folks up chamber, and
fit 'em out with anything dry you kin lay hands on. Phebe, see to this
poor little creeter, and bring her down lookin' less like a drownded
kitten. Nat, clear up your wittlin's, so's't they kin toast their feet
when they come down; and, Cinthy, don't dish up dinner jest yet."
These directions were given with such vigorous illustration, and the old
face shone with such friendly zeal, that the four submitted at once,