Moods
inconsistencies, were woven into a nature fair and faulty; ambitious,
yet not self-reliant; sensitive, yet not keen-sighted. These two
masters ruled soul and body, warring against each other, making Sylvia
an enigma to herself and her life a train of moods.
A wise and tender mother would have divined her nameless needs, answered
her vague desires, and through the medium of the most omnipotent
affection given to humanity, have made her what she might have been. But
Sylvia had never known mother-love, for her life came through death; and
the only legacy bequeathed her was a slight hold upon existence, a
ceaseless craving for affection, and the shadow of a tragedy that wrung
from the pale lips, that grew cold against her baby cheek, the cry,
"Free at last, thank God for that!"
Prudence could not fill the empty place, though the good-hearted
housewife did her best. Neither sister understood the other, and each
tormented the other through her very love. Prue unconsciously
exasperated Sylvia, Sylvia unconsciously shocked Prue, and they hitched
along together each trying to do well and each taking diametrically
opposite measures to effect her purpose. Mark briefly but truly
described them when he said, "Sylvia trims the house with flowers, but
Prudence dogs her with a dust-pan."
Mr. Yule was now a studious, melancholy man, who, having said one fatal
"No" to himself, made it the satisfaction of his life to say a never
varying "Yes" to his children. But though he left no wish of theirs
ungratified, he seemed to have forfeited his power to draw and hold them
to himself. He was more like an unobtrusive guest than a master in his
house. His children loved, but never clung to him, because unseen, yet
impassible, rose the barrier of an instinctive protest against the
wrong done their dead mother, unconscious on their part but terribly
significant to him.
Mark had been years away; and though the brother and sister were
tenderly attached, sex, tastes, and pursuits kept them too far apart,
and Sylvia was solitary even in this social seeming home. Dissatisfied
with herself, she endeavored to make her life what it should be with the
energy of an ardent, aspiring nature; and through all experiences, sweet
or bitter, all varying moods, successes and defeats, a sincere desire
for happiness the best and highest, was the little rushlight of her soul
that never wavered or went out.
She never had known friendship in its truest sense, for next to love it
is the most abused of words. She had called many "friend," but was still
ignorant of that sentiment, cooler than passion, warmer than respect,
more just and generous than either, which recognizes a kindred spirit in
another, and claiming its right, keeps it sacred by the wise reserve
that is to friendship what the purple bloom is to the grape, a charm
which once destroyed can never be restored. Love she had desired, yet
dreaded, knowing her own passionate nature, and when it came to her,
making that brief holiday the fateful point of her life, she gave
herself to it wholly. Before that time she had rejoiced over a more
tranquil pleasure, and believed that she had found her friend in the
neighbor who after long absence had returned to his old place.
Nature had done much for Geoffrey Moor, but the wise mother also gave
him those teachers to whose hard lessons she often leaves her dearest
children. Five years spent in the service of a sister, who, through the
sharp discipline of pain was fitting her meek soul for heaven, had
given him an experience such as few young men receive. This fraternal
devotion proved a blessing in disguise; it preserved him from any
profanation of his youth, and the companionship of the helpless creature
whom he loved had proved an ever present stimulant to all that was best
and sweetest in the man. A single duty faithfully performed had set the
seal of integrity upon his character, and given him grace to see at
thirty the rich compensation he had received for the ambitions silently
sacrificed at twenty-five. When his long vigil was over he looked into
the world to find his place again. But the old desires were dead, the
old allurements had lost their charm, and while he waited for time to
show him what good work he should espouse, no longing was so strong as
that for a home, where he might bless and be blessed in writing that
immortal poem a virtuous and happy life.
Sylvia soon felt the power and beauty of this nature, and remembering
how well he had ministered to a physical affliction, often looked into
the face whose serenity was a perpetual rebuke, longing to ask him to
help and heal the mental ills that perplexed and burdened her. Moor soon
divined the real isolation of the girl, read the language of her wistful
eyes, felt that he could serve her, and invited confidence by the
cordial alacrity with which he met her least advance.
But while he served he learned to love her, for Sylvia, humble in her
own conceit, and guarded by the secret passion that possessed her,
freely showed the regard she felt, with no thought of misapprehension,
no fear of consequences. Unconscious that such impulsive demonstration
made her only more attractive, that every manifestation of her frank
esteem was cherished in her friend's heart of hearts, and that through
her he was enjoying the blossom time of life. So peacefully and
pleasantly the summer ripened into autumn and Sylvia's interest into an
enduring friendship.
CHAPTER VIII.
NO.
Drawn curtains shut out the frosty night, the first fire of the season
burned upon the hearth, and basking in its glow sat Sylvia, letting her
thoughts wander where they would. As books most freely open at pages
oftenest read, the romance of her summer life seldom failed to unclose
at passages where Warwick's name appeared. Pleasant as were many hours
of that time, none seemed so full of beauty as those passed with him,
and sweetest of them all the twilight journey hand in hand. It now
returned to her so freshly that she seemed to hear again the evening
sounds, to feel the warm, fern-scented wind blow over her, to see the
strong hand offered helpfully, and with an impulse past control she
stretched her own to that visionary Warwick as the longing of her heart
found vent in an eager
"Come!"
"I am here."
A voice replied, a hand pressed hers, and springing up she saw, not
Adam, but Moor, standing beside her with a beaming face. Concealing the
thrill of joy, the pang of pain he had brought her, she greeted him
cordially, and reseating herself, instinctively tried to turn the
current of her thoughts.
"I am glad you came, for I have built castles in the air long enough,
and you will give me more substantial entertainment, as you always do."
The broken dream had left tokens of its presence in the unwonted warmth
of Sylvia's manner; Moor felt it, and for a moment did not answer. Much
of her former shyness had crept over her of late; she sometimes shunned
him, was less free in conversation, less frank in demonstration, and
once or twice had colored deeply as she caught his eye upon her. These
betrayals of Warwick's image in her thoughts seemed to Moor the happy
omens he had waited eagerly to see, and each day his hope grew more
assured. He had watched her unseen while she was busied with her mental
pastime, and as he looked his heart had grown unspeakably tender, for
never had her power over him been so fully felt, and never had he so
longed to claim her in the name of his exceeding love. A pleasant peace
reigned through the house, the girl sat waiting at his side, the moment
looked auspicious, the desire grew irresistible, and he yielded to it.
"You are thinking of something new and pleasant to tell me, I
hope,--something in keeping with this quiet place and hour," said
Sylvia, glancing up at him with the traitorous softness still in her
eyes.
"Yes, and hoping you would like it."
"Then I have never heard it before?"
"Never from me."
"Go on, please; I am ready."
She folded her hands together on her knee, turned her face attentively
to his, and unwittingly composed herself to listen to the sweet story so
often told, and yet so hard to tell. Moor meant to woo her very gently,
for he believed that love was new to her. He had planned many graceful
illustrations for his tale, and rounded many smoothly-flowing sentences
in which to unfold it. But the emotions are not well bred, and when the
moment came nature conquered art. No demonstration seemed beautiful
enough to grace the betrayal of his passion, no language eloquent enough
to tell it, no power strong enough to hold in check the impulse that
mastered him. He went to her, knelt down upon the cushion at her feet,
and lifting to her a face flushed and fervent with the ardor of a man's
first love, said impetuously--
"Sylvia, read it here!"
There was no need for her to look; act, touch, and tone told the story
better than the most impassioned speech. The supplication of his
attitude, the eager beating of his heart, the tender pressure of his
hand, dispelled her blindness in the drawing of a breath, and showed her
what she had done. Now neglected warnings, selfish forgetfulness, and
the knowledge of an unconscious but irremediable wrong frightened and
bewildered her; she hid her face and shrunk back trembling with remorse
and shame. Moor, seeing in her agitation only maiden happiness or
hesitancy, accepted and enjoyed a blissful moment while he waited her
reply. It was so long in coming that he gently tried to draw her hands
away and look into her face, whispering like one scarcely doubtful of
assent--
"You love me, Sylvia?"
"No."
Only half audible was the reluctant answer, yet he heard it, smiled at
what he fancied a shy falsehood, and said tenderly--
"Will you let me love you, dear?"
"No."
Fainter than before was the one word, but it reached and startled him.
Hurriedly he asked--
"Am I nothing to you but a friend?"
"No."
With a quick gesture he put down her hands and looked at her. Grief,
regret, and pity, filled her face with trouble, but no love was there.
He saw, yet would not believe the truth, felt that the sweet certainty
of love had gone, yet could not relinquish the fond hope.
"Sylvia, do you understand me?"
"I do, I do! but I cannot say what you would have me, and I must tell
the truth, although it breaks my heart. Geoffrey, I do not love you."
"Can I not teach you?" he pleaded eagerly.
"I have no desire to learn."
Softly she spoke, remorseful she looked, but the words wounded like a
blow. All the glad assurance died, the passionate glow faded, the
caress, half tender, half timid, fell away, and nothing of the happy
lover remained in face or figure. He rose slowly as if the heavy
disappointment oppressed both soul and body. He fixed on her a glance of
mingled incredulity, reproach, and pain, and said, like one bent on
ending suspense at once--
"Did you not see that I loved you? Can you have been trifling with me?
Sylvia, I thought you too simple and sincere for heartless coquetry."
"I am! You shall not suspect me of that, though I deserve all other
reproaches. I have been very selfish, very blind. I should have
remembered that in your great kindness you might like me too well for
your own peace. I should have believed Mark, and been less candid in my
expressions of esteem. But I wanted a friend so much; I found all I
could ask in you; I thought my youth, my faults, my follies, would make
it impossible for you to see in me anything but a wayward girl, who
frankly showed her regard, and was proud of yours. It was one of my sad
mistakes; I see it now; and now it is too late for anything but
penitence. Forgive me if you can; I've taken all the pleasure, and left