Moods
wreath, for her head throbbed with a heavy pain that forbade hope of
sleep that night. Looking at the little chaplet so happily made, she saw
that all the berries had fallen, and nothing but the barbed leaves
remained. A sudden gesture crushed it in both her hands, and standing
so, she gathered many a scattered memory to confirm that night's
discovery.
Warwick had said, with such a tender accent in his voice, "I thought of
the woman I would make my wife." That was Ottila. He had asked so
anxiously, "If one should keep a promise when it disturbed one's peace?"
That was because he repented of his hasty vow to absent himself till
June. It was not love she saw in his eyes the night they parted, but
pity. He read her secret before that compassionate glance revealed it to
herself, and he had gone away to spare her further folly. She had
deceived herself, had blindly cherished a baseless hope, and this was
the end. Even for the nameless gift she found a reason, with a woman's
skill, in self-torture. Moor had met Adam, had told his disappointment,
and still pitying her Warwick had sent the pretty greeting to console
her for the loss of both friend and lover.
This thought seemed to sting her into sudden passion. As if longing to
destroy every trace of her delusion, she tore away the holly wreaths and
flung them in the fire; took down the bow and arrow Warwick had made her
from above the _etagere_, where she had arranged the spoils of her happy
voyage, snapped them across her knee and sent them after the holly;
followed by the birch canoe, and every pebble, moss, shell, or bunch of
headed grass he had given her then. The osier basket was not spared, the
box went next, and even the wrapper was on its way to immolation, when,
as she rent it apart, with a stern pleasure in the sacrifice it was
going to complete, from some close fold of the paper hitherto
undisturbed a card dropped at her feet.
She caught it up and read in handwriting almost as familiar as her own:
"To Sylvia,--A merry Christmas and best wishes from her friend, Geoffrey
Moor." The word "friend" was underscored, as if he desired to assure her
that he still cherished the only tie permitted him, and sent the green
token to lighten her regret that she could give no more.
Warm over Sylvia's sore heart rushed the tender thought and longing, as
her tears began to flow. "He cares for me! he remembered me! I wish he
would come back and comfort me!"
CHAPTER X.
YES.
It is easy to say, "I will forget," but perhaps the hardest task given
us is to lock up a natural yearning of the heart, and turn a deaf ear to
its plaint, for captive and jailer must inhabit the same small cell.
Sylvia was proud, with that pride which is both sensitive and
courageous, which can not only suffer but wring strength from suffering.
While she struggled with a grief and shame that aged her with their
pain, she asked no help, made no complaint; but when the forbidden
passion stretched its arms to her, she thrust it back and turned to
pleasure for oblivion.
Those who knew her best were troubled and surprised by the craving for
excitement which now took possession of her, the avidity with which she
gratified it, regardless of time, health, and money. All day she hurried
here and there, driving, shopping, sight-seeing, or entertaining guests
at home. Night brought no cessation of her dissipation, for when balls,
masquerades, and concerts failed, there still remained the theatre. This
soon became both a refuge and a solace, for believing it to be less
harmful than other excitements, her father indulged her new whim. But,
had she known it, this was the most dangerous pastime she could have
chosen. Calling for no exertion of her own, it left her free to
passively receive a stimulant to her unhappy love in watching its mimic
semblance through all phases of tragic suffering and sorrow, for she
would see no comedies, and Shakespeare's tragedies became her study.
This lasted for a time, then the reaction came. A black melancholy fell
upon her, and energy deserted soul and body. She found it a weariness to
get up in the morning and weariness to lie down at night. She no longer
cared even to seem cheerful, owned that she was spiritless, hoped she
should be ill, and did not care if she died to-morrow. When this dark
mood seemed about to become chronic she began to mend, for youth is
wonderfully recuperative, and the deepest wounds soon heal even against
the sufferer's will. A quiet apathy replaced the gloom, and she let the
tide drift her where it would, hoping nothing, expecting nothing, asking
nothing but that she need not suffer any more.
She lived fast; all processes with her were rapid; and the secret
experience of that winter taught her many things. She believed it had
only taught her to forget, for now the outcast love lay very still, and
no longer beat despairingly against the door of her heart, demanding to
be taken in from the cold. She fancied that neglect had killed it, and
that its grave was green with many tears. Alas for Sylvia! how could she
know that it had only sobbed itself to sleep, and would wake beautiful
and strong at the first sound of its master's voice.
Mark became eventful. In his fitful fashion he had painted a picture of
the Golden Wedding, from sketches taken at the time. Moor had suggested
and bespoken it, that the young artist might have a motive for finishing
it, because, though he excelled in scenes of that description, he
thought them beneath him, and tempted by more ambitious designs,
neglected his true branch of the art. In April it was finished, and at
his father's request Mark reluctantly sent it with his Clytemnestra to
the annual exhibition. One morning at breakfast Mr. Yule suddenly
laughed out behind his paper, and with a face of unmixed satisfaction
passed it to his son, pointing to a long critique upon the Exhibition.
Mark prepared himself to receive with becoming modesty the praises
lavished upon his great work, but was stricken with amazement to find
Clytemnestra disposed of in a single sentence, and the Golden Wedding
lauded in a long enthusiastic paragraph.
"What the deuce does the man mean!" he ejaculated, staring at his
father.
"He means that the work which warms the heart is greater than that which
freezes the blood, I suspect. Moor knew what you could do and has made
you do it, sure that if you worked for fame unconsciously you should
achieve it. This is a success that I can appreciate, and I congratulate
you heartily, my son."
"Thank you, sir. But upon my word I don't understand it, and if this
wasn't written by the best Art critic in the country I should feel
inclined to say the writer was a fool. Why that little thing was a daub
compared to the other."
He got no farther in his protest against this unexpected freak of
fortune, for Sylvia seized the paper and read the paragraph aloud with
such happy emphasis amid Prue's outcries and his father's applause, that
Mark began to feel that he really had done something praiseworthy, and
that the "daub" was not so despicable after all.
"I'm going to look at it from this new point of sight," was his sole
comment as he went away.
Three hours afterward he appeared to Sylvia as she sat sewing alone, and
startled her with the mysterious announcement.
"I've done it!"
"Done what? Have you burnt poor Clytemnestra?"
"Hang Clytemnestra! I'll begin at the beginning and prepare you for the
grand finale. I went to the Exhibition, and stared at Father Blake and
his family for an hour. Decided that wasn't bad, though I still admire
the other more. Then people began to come and crowd up, so that I
slipped away for I couldn't stand the compliments. Dahlmann, Scott, and
all the rest of my tribe were there, and, as true as my name is Mark
Yule, every man of them ignored the Greek party and congratulated me
upon the success of that confounded Golden Wedding."
"My dearest boy, I am so proud! so glad! What is the matter? Have you
been bitten by a tarantula?"
She might well ask, for Mark was dancing all over the carpet in a most
extraordinary style, and only stopped long enough to throw a little case
into Sylvia's lap, asking as a whole faceful of smiles broke loose--
"What does that mean?"
She opened it, and a suspicious circlet of diamonds appeared, at sight
of which she clapped her hands, and cried out--
"You're going to ask Jessie to wear it!"
"I have! I have!" sung Mark, dancing more wildly than ever. Sylvia
chased him into a corner and held him there, almost as much excited as
he, while she demanded a full explanation, which he gave her, laughing
like a boy, and blushing like a girl.
"You have no business to ask, but of course I'm dying to tell you. I
went from that Painter's Purgatory as we call it, to Mr. Hope's, and
asked for Miss Jessie. My angel came down; I told her of my success, and
she smiled as never a woman did before; I added that I'd only waited to
make myself more worthy of her, by showing that I had talent, as well as
love and money to offer her, and she began to cry, whereat I took her in
my arms and ascended straight into heaven."
"Please be sober, Mark, and tell me all about it. Was she glad? Did she
say she would? And is everything as we would have it?"
"It is all perfect, divine, and rapturous, to the last degree. Jessie
has liked me ever since she was born, she thinks; adores you and Prue
for sisters; yearns to call my parent father; allowed me to say and do
whatever I liked; and gave me a ravishing kiss just there. Sacred spot;
I shall get a mate to it when I put this on her blessed little finger.
Try it for me, I want it to be right, and your hands are of a size. That
fits grandly. When shall I see a joyful sweetheart doing this on his own
behalf, Sylvia?"
"Never!"
She shook off the ring as if it burned her, watching it roll glittering
away, with a somewhat tragical expression. Then she calmed herself, and
sitting down to her work, enjoyed Mark's raptures for an hour.
The distant city bells were ringing nine that night as a man paused
before Mr. Yule's house, and attentively scrutinized each window. Many
were alight, but on the drawn curtain of one a woman's shadow came and
went. He watched it a moment, passed up the steps, and noiselessly went
in. The hall was bright and solitary; from above came the sound of
voices, from a room to the right, the stir of papers and the scratch of
a pen, from one on the left, a steady rustle as of silk, swept slowly to
and fro. To the threshold of this door the man stepped and looked in.
Sylvia was just turning in her walk, and as she came musing down the
room, Moor saw her well. With some women dress has no relation to states
of mind; with Sylvia it was often an indication of the mental garb she
wore. Moor remembered this trait, and saw in both countenance and
costume the change that had befallen her in his long absence. Her face
was neither gay nor melancholy, but serious and coldly quiet, as if some
inward twilight reigned. Her dress, a soft, sad grey, with no decoration
but a knot of snowdrops in her bosom. On these pale flowers her eyes
were fixed, and as she walked with folded arms and drooping head, she
sang low to herself--
'Upon the convent roof, the snows
Lie sparkling to the moon;
My breath to heaven like incense goes,
May my soul follow soon.
Lord, make my spirit pure and clear,
As are the frosty skies,
Or this first snowdrop of the year,
That in my bosom lies.'
"Sylvia!"
Very gentle was the call, but she started as if it had been a shout,
looked an instant while light and color flashed into her face, then ran
to him exclaiming joyfully--
"Oh, Geoffrey! I am glad! I am glad!"