Moods
would sweep them rapidly along, and make it easy to retrace in a few
hours the way they had loitered over for three days.
The pleasant excitement of the evening had not yet subsided, and all
applauded the plan as a fit finale to their voyage. The old lady
strongly objected, but the young people overruled her, and being
re-equipped in their damaged garments they bade the friendly family a
grateful adieu, left their more solid thanks under Nat's pillow, and
re-embarked upon their shining road.
All night Sylvia lay under the canopy of boughs her brother made to
shield her from the dew, listening to the soft sounds about her, the
twitter of a restless bird, the bleat of some belated lamb, the ripple
of a brook babbling like a baby in its sleep. All night she watched the
changing shores, silvery green or dark with slumberous shadow, and
followed the moon in its tranquil journey through the sky. When it set,
she drew her cloak about her, and, pillowing her head upon her arm,
exchanged the waking for a sleeping dream.
A thick mist encompassed her when she awoke. Above the sun shone dimly,
below rose and fell the billows of the sea, before her sounded the
city's fitful hum, and far behind her lay the green wilderness where she
had lived and learned so much. Slowly the fog lifted, the sun came
dazzling down upon the sea, and out into the open bay they sailed with
the pennon streaming in the morning wind. But still with backward glance
the girl watched the misty wall that rose between her and the charmed
river, and still with yearning heart confessed how sweet that brief
experience had been, for though she had not yet discovered it, like
"The fairy Lady of Shalott,
She had left the web and left the loom,
Had seen the water lilies bloom,
Had seen the helmet and the plume,
And had looked down to Camelot."
CHAPTER VI.
WHY SYLVIA WAS HAPPY.
"I never did understand you, Sylvia; and this last month you have been a
perfect enigma to me."
With rocking-chair in full action, suspended needle and thoughtful
expression, Miss Yule had watched her sister for ten minutes as she sat
with her work at her feet, her hands folded on her lap, and her eyes
dreamily fixed on vacancy.
"I always was to myself, Prue, and am more so than ever now," answered
Sylvia, waking out of her reverie with a smile that proved it had been a
pleasant one.
"There must be some reason for this great change in you. Come, tell me,
dear."
With a motherly gesture Miss Yule drew the girl to her knee, brushed
back the bright hair, and looked into the face so freely turned to hers.
Through all the years they had been together, the elder sister had never
seen before the expression which the younger's face now wore. A vague
expectancy sat in her eyes, some nameless content sweetened her smile, a
beautiful repose replaced the varying enthusiasm, listlessness, and
melancholy that used to haunt her countenance and make it such a study.
Miss Yule could not read the secret of the change, yet felt its novel
charm; Sylvia could not explain it, though penetrated by its power; and
for a moment the sisters looked into each other's faces, wondering why
each seemed altered. Then Prue, who never wasted much time in
speculations of any kind, shook her head, and repeated--
"I don't understand it, but it must be right, because you are so
improved in every way. Ever since that wild trip up the river you have
been growing quiet, lovable, and cheerful, and I really begin to hope
that you will become like other people."
"I only know that I am happy, Prue. Why it is so I cannot tell; but now
I seldom have the old dissatisfied and restless feeling. Everything
looks pleasant to me, every one seems kind, and life begins to be both
sweet and earnest. It is only one of my moods, I suppose; but I am
grateful for it, and pray that it may last."
So earnestly she spoke, so cheerfully she smiled, that Miss Yule blessed
the mood and echoed Sylvia's wish, exclaiming in the next breath, with a
sudden inspiration--
"My, dear, I've got it! You are growing up."
"I think I am. You tried to make a woman of me at sixteen, but it was
impossible until the right time came. That wild trip up the river, as
you call it, did more for me than I can ever tell, and when I seemed
most like a child I was learning to be a woman."
"Well, my dear, go on as you've begun, and I shall be more than
satisfied. What merry-making is on foot to-night? Mark and these friends
of his keep you in constant motion with their riding, rowing, and
rambling excursions, and if it did not agree with you so excellently, I
really should like a little quiet after a month of bustle."
"They are only coming up as usual, and that reminds me that I must go
and dress."
"There is another new change, Sylvia. You never used to care what you
wore or how you looked, no matter how much time and trouble I expended
on you and your wardrobe. Now you do care, and it does my heart good to
see you always charmingly dressed, and looking your prettiest," said
Miss Yule, with the satisfaction of a woman who heartily believed in
costume as well as all the other elegances and proprieties of
fashionable life.
"Am I ever that, Prue?" asked Sylvia, pausing on the threshold with a
shy yet wistful glance.
"Ever what, dear?"
"Pretty?"
"Always so to me; and now I think every one finds you very attractive
because you try to please, and seem to succeed delightfully."
Sylvia had never asked that question before, had never seemed to know or
care, and could not have chosen a more auspicious moment for her frank
inquiry than the present. The answer seemed to satisfy her, and smiling
at some blithe anticipation of her own, she went away to make a lampless
toilet in the dusk, which proved how slight a hold the feminine passion
for making one's self pretty had yet taken upon her.
The September moon was up and shining clearly over garden, lawn, and
sea, when the sound of voices called her down. At the stair-foot she
paused with a disappointed air, for only one hat lay on the hall table,
and a glance showed her only one guest with Mark and Prue. She strolled
irresolutely through the breezy hall, looked out at either open door,
sung a little to herself, but broke off in the middle of a line, and, as
if following a sudden impulse, went out into the mellow moonlight,
forgetful of uncovered head or dewy damage to the white hem of her
gown. Half way down the avenue she paused before a shady nook, and
looked in. The evergreens that enclosed it made the seat doubly dark to
eyes inured to the outer light, and seeing a familiar seeming figure
sitting with its head upon its hand, Sylvia leaned in, saying, with a
daughterly caress--
"Why, what is my romantic father doing here?"
The sense of touch was quicker than that of sight, and with an
exclamation of surprise she had drawn back before Warwick replied--
"It is not the old man, but the young one, who is romancing here."
"I beg your pardon! We have been waiting for you; what thought is so
charming that you forgot us all?"
Sylvia was a little startled, else she would scarcely have asked so
plain a question. But Warwick often asked much blunter ones, always told
the naked truth without prevarication or delay, and straightway
answered--
"The thought of the woman whom I hope to make my wife."
Sylvia stood silent for a moment as if intent on fastening in her hair
the delicate spray of hop-bells just gathered from the vine that formed
a leafy frame for the graceful picture which she made standing, with
uplifted arms, behind the arch. When she spoke it was to say, as she
moved on toward the house--
"It is too beautiful a night to stay in doors, but Prue is waiting for
me, and Mark wants to plan with you about our ride to-morrow. Shall we
go together?"
She beckoned, and he came out of the shadow showing her an expression
which she had never seen before. His face was flushed, his eye unquiet,
his manner eager yet restrained. She had seen him intellectually
excited many times; never emotionally till now. Something wayward, yet
warm, in this new mood attracted her, because so like her own. But with
a tact as native as her sympathy she showed no sign of this, except in
the attentive look she fixed upon him as the moonlight bathed him in its
splendor. He met the glance, seemed to interpret it aright, but did not
answer its unconscious inquiry; for pausing, he asked abruptly--
"Should a rash promise be considered binding when it threatens to
destroy one's peace?"
Sylvia pondered an instant before she answered slowly--
"If the promise was freely given, no sin committed in its keeping, and
no peace troubled but one's own, I should say yes."
Still pausing, he looked down at her with that unquiet glance as she
looked up with her steady one, and with the same anxiety he asked--
"Would you keep such a promise inviolate, even though it might cost you
the sacrifice of something dearer to you than your life?"
She thought again, and again looked up, answering with the sincerity
that he had taught her--
"It might be unwise, but if the sacrifice was not one of principle or
something that I ought to love more than life, I think I should keep the
promise as religiously as an Indian keeps a vow of vengeance."
As she spoke, some recollection seemed to strike Warwick like a sudden
stab. The flush died out of his face, the fire from his eyes, and an
almost grim composure fell upon him as he said low to himself, with a
forward step as if eager to leave some pain behind him--
"It is better so; for his sake I will leave all to time."
Sylvia saw his lips move, but caught no sound till he said with a
gravity that was almost gloom--
"I think you would; therefore, beware how you bind yourself with such
verbal bonds. Let us go in."
They went; Warwick to the drawing-room, but Sylvia ran up stairs for the
Berlin wools, which in spite of heat and the sure staining of fingers
were to be wound that night according to contract, for she kept a small
promise as sacredly as she would have done a greater one.
"What have you been doing to give yourself such an uplifted expression,
Sylvia?" said Mark, as she came in.
"Feasting my eyes on lovely colors. Does not that look like a folded
rainbow?" she answered, laying her brilliant burden on the table where
Warwick sat examining a broken reel, and Prue was absorbed in getting a
carriage blanket under way.
"Come, Sylvia, I shall soon be ready for the first shade," she said,
clashing her formidable needles. "Is that past mending, Mr. Warwick?"
"Yes, without better tools than a knife, two pins, and a bodkin."
"Then you must put the skeins on a chair, Sylvia. Try not to tangle
them, and spread your handkerchief in your lap, for that maroon color
will stain sadly. Now don't speak to me, for I must count my stitches."
Sylvia began to wind the wools with a swift dexterity as natural to her
hands as certain little graces of gesture which made their motions
pleasant to watch. Warwick never rummaged work-baskets, gossipped, or
paid compliments for want of something to do. If no little task appeared
for them, he kept his hands out of mischief, and if nothing occurred to
make words agreeable or necessary, he proved that he understood the art
of silence, and sat with those vigilant eyes of his fixed upon whatever
object attracted them. Just then the object was a bright band slipping
round the chair-back, with a rapidity that soon produced a snarl, but no
help till patient fingers had smoothed and wound it up. Then, with the
look of one who says to himself, "I will!" he turned, planted himself
squarely before Sylvia, and held out his hands.