Moods
"Here is a reel that will neither tangle nor break your skeins, will you
use it?"
"Yes, thank you, and in return I'll wind your color first."
"Which is my color?"
"This fine scarlet, strong, enduring, and martial, like yourself."
"You are right."
"I thought so; Mr. Moor prefers blue, and I violet."
"Blue and red make violet," called Mark from his corner, catching the
word "color," though busy with a sketch for a certain fair Jessie Hope.
Moor was with Mr. Yule in his study, Prue mentally wrapped in her
blanket, and when Sylvia was drawn into an artistic controversy with her
brother, Warwick fell into deep thought.
With the pride of a proud man once deceived, he had barred his heart
against womankind, resolving that no second defeat should oppress him
with that distrust of self and others, which is harder for a generous
nature to bear, than the pain of its own wound. He had yet to learn that
the shadow of love suggests its light, and that they who have been
cheated of the food, without which none can truly live, long for it with
redoubled hunger. Of late he had been discovering this, for a
craving, stronger than his own strong will, possessed him. He tried to
disbelieve and silence it; attacked it with reason, starved it with
neglect, and chilled it with contempt. But when he fancied it was dead,
the longing rose again, and with a clamorous cry, undid his work. For
the first time, this free spirit felt the master's hand, confessed a
need its own power could not supply, and saw that no man can live alone
on even the highest aspirations without suffering for the vital warmth
of the affections. A month ago he would have disdained the hope that now
was so dear to him. But imperceptibly the influences of domestic life
had tamed and won him. Solitude looked barren, vagrancy had lost its
charm; his life seemed cold and bare, for, though devoted to noble aims,
it was wanting in the social sacrifices, cares, and joys, that foster
charity, and sweeten character. An impetuous desire to enjoy the rich
experience which did so much for others, came over him to-night as it
had often done while sharing the delights of this home, where he had
made so long a pause. But with the desire came a memory that restrained
him better than his promise. He saw what others had not yet discovered,
and obeying the code of honor which governs a true gentleman, loved his
friend better than himself and held his peace.
The last skein came, and as she wound it, Sylvia's glance involuntarily
rose from the strong hands to the face above them, and lingered there,
for the penetrating gaze was averted, and an unwonted mildness inspired
confidence as its usual expression of power commanded respect. His
silence troubled her, and with curious yet respectful scrutiny, she
studied his face as she had never done before. She found it full of a
noble gravity and kindliness; candor and courage spoke in the lines of
the mouth, benevolence and intellect in the broad arch of the forehead,
ardor and energy in the fire of the eye, and on every lineament the
stamp of that genuine manhood, which no art can counterfeit. Intent upon
discovering the secret of the mastery he exerted over all who approached
him, Sylvia had quite forgotten herself, when suddenly Warwick's eyes
were fixed full upon her own. What spell lay in them she could not tell,
for human eye had never shed such sudden summer over her. Admiration was
not in it, for it did not agitate; nor audacity, for it did not abash;
but something that thrilled warm through blood and nerves, that filled
her with a glad submission to some power, absolute yet tender, and
caused her to turn her innocent face freely to his gaze, letting him
read therein a sentiment for which she had not yet found a name.
It lasted but a moment; yet in that moment, each saw the other's heart,
and each turned a new page in the romance of their lives. Sylvia's eyes
fell first, but no blush followed, no sign of anger or perplexity, only
a thoughtful silence, which continued till the last violet thread
dropped from his hands, and she said almost regretfully--
"This is the end."
"Yes, this is the end."
As he echoed the words Warwick rose suddenly and went to talk with Mark,
whose sketch was done. Sylvia sat a moment as if quite forgetful where
she was, so absorbing was some thought or emotion. Presently she seemed
to glow and kindle with an inward fire; over face and forehead rushed an
impetuous color, her eyes shone, and her lips trembled with the
fluttering of her breath. Then a panic appeared to seize her, for,
stealing noiselessly away, she hurried to her room, and covering up her
face as if to hide it even from herself, whispered to that full heart
of hers, with quick coming tears that belied the words--
"Now I know why I am happy!"
How long she lay there weeping and smiling in the moonlight she never
knew. Her sister's call broke in upon the first love dream she had ever
woven for herself, and she went down to bid the friends good night. The
hall was only lighted by the moon, and in the dimness of the shadow
where she stood, no one saw traces of that midsummer shower on her
cheeks, or detected the soft trouble in her eye, but for the first time
Moor felt her hand tremble in his own and welcomed the propitious omen.
Being an old-fashioned gentleman, Mr. Yule preserved in his family the
pleasant custom of hand-shaking, which gives such heartiness to the
morning and evening greetings of a household. Moor liked and adopted it;
Warwick had never done so, but that night he gave a hand to Prue and
Mark with his most cordial expression, and Sylvia felt both her own
taken in a warm lingering grasp, although he only said "good by!" Then
they went; but while the three paused at the door held by the beauty of
the night, back to them on the wings of the wind came Warwick's voice
singing the song that Sylvia loved. All down the avenue, and far along
the winding road they traced his progress, till the strain died in the
distance leaving only the echo of the song to link them to the singer.
When evening came again Sylvia waited on the lawn to have the meeting
over in the dark, for love made her very shy. But Moor came alone, and
his first words were,
"Comfort me, Sylvia, Adam is gone. He went as unexpectedly as he came,
and when I woke this morning a note lay at my door, but my friend was
not there."
She murmured some stereotyped regret, but there was a sharp pain at her
heart till there came to her the remembrance of Warwick's question,
uttered on the spot where she was standing. Some solace she must have,
and clinging to this one thought hopefully within herself--
"He has made some promise, has gone to get released from it, and will
come back to say what he looked last night. He is so true I will believe
in him and wait."
She did wait, but week after week went by and Warwick did not come.
CHAPTER VII.
DULL BUT NECESSARY.
Whoever cares only for incident and action in a book had better skip
this chapter and read on; but those who take an interest in the
delineation of character will find the key to Sylvia's here.
John Yule might have been a poet, painter, or philanthropist, for Heaven
had endowed him with fine gifts; he was a prosperous merchant with no
ambition but to leave a fortune to his children and live down the memory
of a bitter past. On the threshold of his life he stumbled and fell; for
as he paused there, waiting for the first step to appear, Providence
tested and found him wanting. On one side, Poverty offered the aspiring
youth her meagre hand; but he was not wise enough to see the virtues
hidden under her hard aspect, nor brave enough to learn the stern yet
salutary lessons which labor, necessity, and patience teach, giving to
those who serve and suffer the true success. On the other hand Opulence
allured him with her many baits, and, silencing the voice of conscience,
he yielded to temptation and wrecked his nobler self.
A loveless marriage was the price he paid for his ambition; not a costly
one, he thought, till time taught him that whosoever mars the integrity
of his own soul by transgressing the great laws of life, even by so much
as a hair's breadth, entails upon himself and heirs the inevitable
retribution which proves their worth and keeps them sacred. The tie that
bound and burdened the unhappy twain, worn thin by constant friction,
snapped at last, and in the solemn pause death made in his busy life,
there rose before him those two ghosts who sooner or later haunt us all,
saying with reproachful voices,--"This I might have been," and "This I
am." Then he saw the failure of his life. At fifty he found himself
poorer than when he made his momentous choice; for the years that had
given him wealth, position, children, had also taken from him youth,
self-respect, and many a gift whose worth was magnified by loss. He
endeavored to repair the fault so tardily acknowledged, but found it
impossible to cancel it when remorse, embittered effort, and age left
him powerless to redeem the rich inheritance squandered in his prime.
If ever man received punishment for a self-inflicted wrong it was John
Yule. A punishment as subtle as the sin; for in the children growing up
about him every relinquished hope, neglected gift, lost aspiration,
seemed to live again; yet on each and all was set the direful stamp of
imperfection, which made them visible illustrations of the great law
broken in his youth.
In Prudence, as she grew to womanhood, he saw his own practical tact and
talent, nothing more. She seemed the living representative of the years
spent in strife for profit, power, and place; the petty cares that fret
the soul, the mercenary schemes that waste a life, the worldly
formalities, frivolities, and fears, that so belittle character. All
these he saw in this daughter's shape; and with pathetic patience bore
the daily trial of an over active, over anxious, affectionate but most
prosaic child.
In Mark he saw his ardor for the beautiful, his love of the poetic, his
reverence for genius, virtue, heroism. But here too the subtle blight
had fallen. This son, though strong in purpose was feeble in
performance; for some hidden spring of power was wanting, and the shadow
of that earlier defeat chilled in his nature the energy which is the
first attribute of all success. Mark loved poetry, and "wrote in numbers
for the numbers came;" but, whether tragic, tender, or devout, in each
attempt there was enough of the divine fire to warm them into life, yet
not enough to gift them with the fervor that can make a line immortal,
and every song was a sweet lament for the loftier lays that might have
been. He loved art and gave himself to it; but though studying all forms
of beauty he never reached its soul, and every effort tantalized him
with fresh glimpses of the fair ideal which he could not reach. He loved
the true, but high thoughts seldom blossomed into noble deeds; for when
the hour came the man was never ready, and disappointment was his daily
portion. A sad fate for the son, a far sadder one for the father who had
bequeathed it to him from the irrecoverable past.
In Sylvia he saw, mysteriously blended, the two natures that had given
her life, although she was born when the gulf between regretful husband
and sad wife was widest. As if indignant Nature rebelled against the
outrage done her holiest ties, adverse temperaments gifted the child
with the good and ill of each. From her father she received pride,
intellect, and will; from her mother passion, imagination, and the
fateful melancholy of a woman defrauded of her dearest hope. These
conflicting temperaments, with all their aspirations, attributes, and