Moods
good, and I want her bright and blooming for to-morrow, else young Mrs.
Yule will outshine young Mrs. Moor."
"What a thoughtful creature you are, Geoffrey. Take her and welcome,
only pray put on a shawl, Sylvia, and don't stay out late, for a bride
with a cold in her head is the saddest of spectacles."
Glad to be released Sylvia went away, and, dropping the shawl as soon as
she was out of Prue's sight, paced up and down the garden walks upon her
lover's arm. Having heard her wish and given a hearty assent Moor
asked--
"Where shall we go? Tell me what you would like best and you shall have
it. You will not let me give you many gifts, but this pleasure you will
accept from me I know."
"You give me yourself, that is more than I deserve. But I should like to
have you take me to the place you like best. Don't tell me beforehand,
let it be a surprise."
"I will, it is already settled, and I know you will like it. Is there no
other wish to be granted, no doubt to be set at rest, or regret withheld
that I should know? Tell me, Sylvia, for if ever there should be
confidence between us it is now."
As he spoke the desire to tell him of her love for Adam rose within her,
but with the desire came a thought that modified the form in which
impulse prompted her to make confession. Moor was both sensitive and
proud, would not the knowledge of the fact mar for him the friendship
that was so much to both? From Warwick he would never learn it, from her
he should have only a half confidence, and so love both friend and wife
with an untroubled heart. Few of us can always control the rebellious
nature that so often betrays and then reproaches, few always weigh the
moment and the act that bans or blesses it, and where is the life that
has not known some turning-point when a fugitive emotion has decided
great issues for good or ill? Such an emotion came to Sylvia then, and
another temptation, wearing the guise of generosity, urged her to
another false step, for when the first is taken a second inevitably
follows.
"I have no wish, no regret, nothing but the old doubt of my unstable
self, and the fear that I may fail to make you happy. But I should like
to tell you something. I don't know that you will care for it, or that
there is any need to tell it, but when you said there should be
confidence between us, I felt that I wanted you to know that I had loved
some one before I loved you."
He did not see her face, he only heard her quiet voice. He had no
thought of Adam, whom she had known so short a time, who was already
bound; he only fancied that she spoke of some young lover who had
touched her heart, and while he smiled at the nice sense of honor that
prompted the innocent confession, he said, with no coldness, no
curiosity in voice or face--
"No need to tell it, dear. I have no jealousy of any one who has gone
before me. Rest assured of this, for if I could not share so large a
heart with one who will never claim my share I should not deserve it."
"That is so like you! Now I am quite at ease."
He looked down at her as she went beside him, thinking that of all the
brides he had ever seen his own looked least like one.
"I always thought that you would make a very ardent lover, Sylvia. That
you would be excited, gay, and brilliant at a time like this. But you
are so quiet, so absorbed, and so unlike your former self that I begin
to think I do not know you yet."
"You will in time. I am passionate and restless by nature, but I am also
very sensitive to all influences, personal or otherwise, and were you
different from your tranquil, sunshiny self, I too should change. I am
quiet because I seem in a pleasant state, half-waking, half dreaming,
from which I never wish to wake. I am tired of the past, contented with
the present, and to you I leave the future."
"It shall be a happy one if I can make it so, and to-morrow you will
give me the dear right to try."
"Yes," she said, and thinking of the solemn promises to be then made,
she added, thoughtfully, "I think I love, I know I honor, I will try to
obey. Can I do more?"
Well for them both if they could have known that friendship is love's
twin, and the gentle sisters are too often mistaken for each other.
That Sylvia was innocently deceiving both her lover and herself, by
wrapping her friendship in the garb her lost love had worn, forgetting
that the wanderer might return and claim its own, leaving the other to
suffer for the borrowed warmth. They did not know it, and walked
tranquilly together in the summer night, planning the new life as they
went, and when they parted Moor pointed to a young moon hanging in the
sky.
"See, Sylvia, our honeymoon has risen."
"May it be a happy one!"
"It will be, and when the anniversary of this glad night comes round it
shall be shining still. God bless my little wife."
CHAPTER XII.
WEDDING.
Sylvia was awakened on her wedding morning by a curious choking sound,
and starting up found Prue crying over her as if her heart were broken.
"What has happened? Is Geoffrey ill? Is all the silver stolen? Can't the
Bishop come?" she asked, wondering what calamity could move her sister
to tears at such a busy time.
Prue took Sylvia in her arms, and rocking to and fro as if she were
still a baby, poured forth a stream of words and tears together.
"Nothing has happened; I came to call you, and broke down because it was
the last time I should do it. I've been awake all night, thinking of you
and all you've been to me since I took you in my arms nineteen years
ago, and said you should be mine. My little Sylvia, I've been neglectful
of so many things, and now I see them all; I've fretted you with my
ways, and haven't been patient enough with yours; I've been selfish even
about your wedding, and it won't be as you like it; you'll reproach me
in your heart, and I shall hate myself for it when you are gone never to
be my care and comfort any more. And--oh, my dear, my dear, what shall I
do without you?"
This unexpected demonstration from her prosaic sister touched Sylvia
more than the most sentimental lamentations from another. It brought to
mind all the past devotion, the future solitude of Prue's life, and she
clung about her neck tearless but very tender.
"I never shall reproach you, never cease to love and thank you for all
you've been to me, my dear old girl. You mustn't grieve over me, or
think I shall forget you, for you never shall be forsaken; and very soon
I shall be back, almost as much your Sylvia as ever. Mark will live on
one side, I shall live on the other, and we'll be merry and cosy
together. And who knows but when we are both out of your way you will
learn to think of yourself and marry also."
At this Prue began to laugh hysterically, and exclaimed, with more than
her usual incoherency--
"I must tell you, it was so very odd! I didn't mean to do so, because
you children would tease me; but now I will to make you laugh, for it's
a bad omen to cry over a bride, they say. My dear, that gouty Mr.
MacGregor, when I went in with some of my nice broth last week (Hugh
slops so, and he's such a fidget, I took it myself), after he had eaten
every drop before my eyes, wiped his mouth and asked me to marry him."
"And you would not, Prue?"
"Bless me, child, how could I? I must take care of my poor dear father,
and he isn't pleasant in the least, you know, but would wear my life out
in a week. I really pitied him, however, when I refused him, with a
napkin round his neck, and he tapped his waistcoat with a spoon so
comically, when he offered me his heart, as if it were something good to
eat."
"How very funny! What made him do it, Prue?"
"He said he'd watched the preparations from his window, and got so
interested in weddings that he wanted one himself, and felt drawn to me
I was so sympathetic. That means a good nurse and cook, my dear. I
understand these invalid gentlemen, and will be a slave to no man so fat
and fussy as Mr. Mac, as my brother calls him. It's not respectful, but
I like to refresh myself by saying it just now."
"Never mind the old soul, Prue, but go and have your breakfast
comfortably, for there's much to be done, and no one is to dress me but
your own dear self."
At this Prue relapsed into the pathetic again, and cried over her sister
as if, despite the omen, brides were plants that needed much watering.
The appearance of the afflicted Maria, with her face still partially
eclipsed by the chamomile comforter, and an announcement that the
waiters had come and were "ordering round dreadful," caused Prue to
pocket her handkerchief and descend to turn the tables in every sense of
the word.
The prospect of the wedding breakfast made the usual meal a mere
mockery. Every one was in a driving hurry, every one was very much
excited, and nobody but Prue and the colored gentlemen brought anything
to pass. Sylvia went from room to room bidding them good-by as the child
who had played there so long. But each looked unfamiliar in its state
and festival array, and the old house seemed to have forgotten her
already. She spent an hour with her father, paid Mark a little call in
the studio where he was bidding adieu to the joys of bachelorhood, and
preparing himself for the jars of matrimony by a composing smoke, and
then Prue claimed her.
The agonies she suffered during that long toilet are beyond the powers
of language to portray, for Prue surpassed herself and was the very
essence of fussiness. But Sylvia bore it patiently as a last sacrifice,
because her sister was very tender-hearted still, and laughed and cried
over her work till all was done, when she surveyed the effect with
pensive satisfaction.
"You are very sweet, my dear, and so delightfully calm, you really do
surprise me. I always thought you'd have hysterics on your wedding-day,
and got my _vinaigrette_ all ready. Keep your hands just as they are,
with the handkerchief and bouquet, it looks very easy and rich. Dear me,
what a spectacle I've made of myself! But I shall cry no more, not even
during the ceremony as many do. Such displays of feeling are in very bad
taste, and I shall be firm, perfectly firm, so if you hear any one sniff
you'll know it isn't me. Now I must go and scramble on my dress; first,
let me arrange you smoothly in a chair. There, my precious, now think of
soothing things, and don't stir till Geoffrey comes for you."
Too tired to care what happened just then, Sylvia sat as she was placed,
feeling like a fashion-plate of a bride, and wishing she could go to
sleep. Presently the sound of steps as fleet as Mark's but lighter,
waked her up, and forgetting orders, she rustled to the door with an
expression which fashion-plates have not yet attained.
"Good morning, little bride."
"Good morning, bonny bridegroom."
Then they looked at one another, and both smiled. But they seemed to
have changed characters, for Moor's usually tranquil face was full of
pale excitement; Sylvia's usually vivacious one, full of quietude, and
her eyes wore the unquestioning content of a child who accepts some
friendly hand, sure that it will lead it right.
"Prue desires me to take you out into the upper hall, and when Mr. Deane
beckons, we are to go down at once. The rooms are full, and Jessie is
ready. Shall we go?"
"One moment: Geoffrey, are you quite happy now?"
"Supremely happy!"
"Then it shall be the first duty of my life to keep you so," and with a
gesture soft yet solemn, Sylvia laid her hand in his, as if endowing him
with both gift and giver. He held it fast and never let it go until it
was his own.
In the upper hall they found Mark hovering about Jessie like an agitated
bee, about a very full-blown flower, and Clara Deane flapping him away,