Moods
refuge in one of those commonplace acts which in such moments we gladly
perform, and bless in our secret souls. She had often wondered where
they would next meet, and how she should comport herself at such a
trying time. She had never imagined that he would come in this way, or
that a hearth-brush would save her from the betrayal of emotion. So it
was, however, and an involuntary smile passed over her face as she
managed to say quite naturally, while brushing the nutshells tidily out
of sight--
"You know you are always welcome, Mr. Warwick. 'Adam's Room,' as we call
it, is always ready, and Geoffrey was wishing for you only yesterday."
"I am sure of his satisfaction at my coming, can I be equally sure of
yours. May I, ought I to stay?"
He leaned forward as he spoke, with an eager yet submissive look, that
Sylvia dared not meet, and in her anxiety to preserve her
self-possession, she forgot that to this listener every uttered word
became a truth, because his own were always so.
"Why not, if you can bear our quiet life, for we are a Darby and Joan
already, though we do not look so to-night, I acknowledge."
Men seldom understand the subterfuges women instinctively use to conceal
many a natural emotion which they are not strong enough to control, not
brave enough to confess. To Warwick, Sylvia seemed almost careless, her
words a frivolous answer to the real meaning of his question, her smile
one of tranquil welcome. Her manner wrought an instant change in him,
and when he spoke again he was the Warwick of a year ago.
"I hesitated, Mrs. Moor, because I have sometimes heard young wives
complain that their husbands' friends were marplots, and I have no
desire to be one."
This speech, delivered with frosty gravity, made Sylvia as cool and
quiet as itself. She put her ally down, looked full at Warwick, and said
with a blending of dignity and cordiality which even the pinafore could
not destroy--
"Please to consider yourself a specially invited guest, now and always.
Never hesitate, but come and go as freely as you used to do, for nothing
need be changed between us three because two of us have one home to
offer you."
"Thanks; and now that the hearth is scrupulously clean may I offer you a
chair?"
The old keenness was in his eye, the old firmness about the mouth, the
old satirical smile on his lips as Warwick presented the seat, with an
inclination that to her seemed ironical. She sat down, but when she cast
about her mind for some safe and easy topic to introduce, every idea had
fled; even memory and fancy turned traitors; not a lively sally could be
found, not a pleasant remembrance returned to help her, and she sat
dumb. Before the dreadful pause grew awkward, however, rescue came in
the form of Tilly. Nothing daunted by the severe simplicity of her
attire she planted herself before Warwick, and shaking her hair out of
her eyes stared at him with an inquiring glance and cheeks as red as her
apple. She seemed satisfied in a moment, and climbing to his knee
established herself there, coolly taking possession of his watch, and
examining the brown beard curiously as it parted with the white flash of
teeth, when Warwick smiled his warmest smile.
"This recalls the night you fed the sparrow in your hand. Do you
remember, Adam?" and Sylvia looked and spoke like her old self again.
"I seldom forget anything. But pleasant as that hour was this is more to
me, for the bird flew away, the baby stays and gives me what I need."
He wrapt the child closer in his arms, leaned his dark head on the
bright one, and took the little feet into his hand with a fatherly look
that caused Tilly to pat his cheek and begin an animated recital of some
nursery legend, which ended in a sudden gape, reminding Sylvia that one
of her guests was keeping late hours.
"What comes next?" asked Warwick.
"Now I lay me and byelow in the trib," answered Tilly, stretching
herself over his arm with a great yawn.
Warwick kissed the rosy half-open mouth and seemed loth to part with the
pious baby, for he took the shawl Sylvia brought and did up the drowsy
bundle himself. While so busied she stole a furtive glance at him,
having looked without seeing before. Thinner and browner, but stronger
than ever was the familiar face she saw, yet neither sad nor stern, for
the grave gentleness which had been a fugitive expression before now
seemed habitual. This, with the hand at the lips and the slow dropping
of the eyes, were the only tokens of the sharp experience he had been
passing through. Born for conflict and endurance, he seemed to have
manfully accepted the sweet uses of adversity and grown the richer for
his loss.
Those who themselves are quick to suffer, are also quick to see the
marks of suffering in others; that hasty scrutiny assured Sylvia of all
she had yearned to know, yet wrung her heart with a pity the deeper for
its impotence. Tilly's heavy head drooped between her bearer and the
light as they left the room, but in the dusky hall a few hot tears fell
on the baby's hair, and her new nurse lingered long after the lullaby
was done. When she reappeared the girlish dress was gone, and she was
Madam Moor again, as her husband called her when she assumed her stately
air. All smiled at the change, but he alone spoke of it.
"I win the applause, Sylvia; for I sustain my character to the end,
while you give up before the curtain falls. You are not so good an
actress as I thought you."
Sylvia's smile was sadder than her tears as she briefly answered--
"No, I find I cannot be a child again."
CHAPTER XV.
EARLY AND LATE.
One of Sylvia's first acts when she rose was most significant. She shook
down her abundant hair, carefully arranged a part in thick curls over
cheeks and forehead, gathered the rest into its usual coil, and said to
herself, as she surveyed her face half hidden in the shining cloud--
"It looks very sentimental, and I hate the weakness that drives me to
it, but it must be done, because my face is such a traitor. Poor
Geoffrey! he said I was no actress; I am learning fast."
Why every faculty seemed sharpened, every object assumed an unwonted
interest, and that quiet hour possessed an excitement that made her own
room and countenance look strange to her, she would not ask herself, as
she paused on the threshold of the door to ascertain if her guests were
stirring. Nothing was heard but the sound of regular footfalls on the
walk before the door, and with an expression of relief she slowly went
down. Moor was taking his morning walk bareheaded in the sun. Usually
Sylvia ran to join him, but now she stood musing on the steps, until he
saw and came to her. As he offered the flower always ready for her, he
said smiling--
"Did the play last night so captivate you, that you go back to the
curls, because you cannot keep the braids?"
"A sillier whim than that, even. I am afraid of those two people; and as
I am so quick to show my feelings in my face, I intend to hide behind
this veil if I get shy or troubled. Did you think I could be so artful?"
"Your craft amazes me. But, dearest child, you need not be afraid of
Faith and Adam. Both already love you for my sake, and soon will for
your own. Both are so much older, that they can easily overlook any
little short-coming, in consideration of your youth. Sylvia, I want to
tell you something about Adam. I never spoke of it before, because,
although no promise of silence was asked or given, I knew he considered
it a confidence. Now that it is all over, I know that I may tell my
wife, and she will help me comfort him."
"Tell on, Geoffrey, I hear you."
"Well, dear, when we went gypsying long ago, on the night you and Adam
lost the boat, as I sat drying your boots, and privately adoring them in
spite of the mud, I made a discovery. Adam loved, was on some sort of
probation, and would be married in June. He was slow to speak of it, but
I understood, and last night when I went to his room with him, I asked
how he had fared. Sylvia, it would have made your heart ache to have
seen his face, as he said in that brief way of his--'Geoffrey, the woman
I loved is married, ask me nothing more.' I never shall; but I know, by
the change I see in him, that the love was very dear, the wound very
deep."
"Poor Adam! how can we help him?"
"Let him do as he likes. I will take him to his old haunts, and busy him
with my affairs till he forgets his own. In the evenings we will have
Prue, Mark, and Jessie over here, will surround him with social
influences, and make the last hours of the day the cheerfullest; then
he won't lie awake and think all night, as I suspect he has been doing
of late. Sylvia, I should like to see that woman; though I could find it
in my heart to hate her for her perfidy to such a man."
Sylvia's head was bent as if to inhale the sweetness of the flower she
held, and all her husband saw was the bright hair blowing in the wind.
"I pity her for her loss as well as hate her. Now, let us talk of
something else, or my tell-tale face will betray that we have been
talking of him, when we meet Adam."
They did so, and when Warwick put up his curtain, the first sight he
saw, was his friend walking with his young wife under the red-leaved
maples, in the sunshine. The look Moor had spoken of, came into his
eyes, darkening them with the shadow of despair. A moment it gloomed
there, then passed, for Honor said reproachfully to Love--"They are
happy, should not that content you?"
"It shall!" answered the master of both, as he dropped the curtain and
turned away.
In pursuance of his kindly plan, Moor took Adam out for a long tramp
soon after breakfast, and Sylvia and Miss Dane sat down to sew. In the
absence of the greater fear, Sylvia soon forgot the lesser one, and
began to feel at ease to study her new relative and covet her esteem.
Faith was past thirty, shapely and tall, with much natural dignity of
carriage, and a face never beautiful, but always singularly attractive
from its mild and earnest character. Looking at her, one felt assured
that here was a right womanly woman, gentle, just, and true; possessed
of a well-balanced mind, a self-reliant soul, and that fine gift which
is so rare, the power of acting as a touchstone to all who approached,
forcing them to rise or fall to their true level, unconscious of the
test applied. Her presence was comfortable, her voice had motherly tones
in it, her eyes a helpful look. Even the soft hue of her dress, the
brown gloss of her hair, the graceful industry of her hands, had their
attractive influence. Sylvia saw and felt these things with the
quickness of her susceptible temperament, and found herself so warmed
and won, that soon it cost her an effort to withhold anything that tried
or troubled her, for Faith was a born consoler, and Sylvia's heart was
full.
However gloomy her day might have been she always brightened in the
evening as naturally as moths begin to flutter when candles come. On the
evening of this day the friendly atmosphere about her, and the
excitement of Warwick's presence so affected her, that though the gayety
of girlhood was quite gone she looked as softly brilliant as some late
flower that has gathered the summer to itself and gives it out again in
the bloom and beauty of a single hour.
When tea was over, for heroes and heroines must eat if they are to do
anything worth the paper on which their triumphs and tribulations are
recorded, the women gathered about the library table, work in hand, as
female tongues go easier when their fingers are occupied. Sylvia left
Prue and Jessie to enjoy Faith, and while she fabricated some trifle
with scarlet silk and an ivory shuttle, she listened to the conversation