Moods
He drew her to him, kissed the red mouth and looked down upon her with a
glance that made his man's face as pitiful as any woman's as he let her
lean there happy in the hope given at such cost. For a moment nothing
stirred in the room but the soft whisper of the wind. For a moment
Warwick's austere life looked hard to him, love seemed sweet, submission
possible; for in all the world this was the only woman who clung to him,
and it was beautiful to cherish and be cherished after years of
solitude. A long sigh of desire and regret broke from him, and at the
sound a stealthy smile touched Ottila's lips as she whispered, with a
velvet cheek against his own--
"Love, you will stay?"
"I will not stay!"
And like one who cries out sharply within himself, "Get thee behind me!"
he broke away.
"Adam, come back to me! Come back!"
He looked over his shoulder, saw the fair woman in the heart of the warm
glow, heard her cry of love and longing, knew the life of luxurious ease
that waited for him, but steadily went out into the night, only
answering--
"In a year."
CHAPTER II.
WHIMS.
"Come, Sylvia, it is nine o'clock! Little slug-a-bed, don't you mean to
get up to-day?" said Miss Yule, bustling into her sister's room with the
wide-awake appearance of one to whom sleep was a necessary evil, to be
endured and gotten over as soon as possible.
"No, why should I?" And Sylvia turned her face away from the flood of
light that poured into the room as Prue put aside the curtains and flung
up the window.
"Why should you? What a question, unless you are ill; I was afraid you
would suffer for that long row yesterday, and my predictions seldom
fail."
"I am not suffering from any cause whatever, and your prediction does
fail this time; I am only tired of everybody and everything, and see
nothing worth getting up for; so I shall just stay here till I do.
Please put the curtain down and leave me in peace."
Prue had dropped her voice to the foreboding tone so irritating to
nervous persons whether sick or well, and Sylvia laid her arm across her
eyes with an impatient gesture as she spoke sharply.
"Nothing worth getting up for," cried Prue, like an aggravating echo.
"Why, child, there are a hundred pleasant things to do if you would only
think so. Now don't be dismal and mope away this lovely day. Get up and
try my plan; have a good breakfast, read the papers, and then work in
your garden before it grows too warm; that is wholesome exercise and
you've neglected it sadly of late."
"I don't wish any breakfast; I hate newspapers, they are so full of
lies; I'm tired of the garden, for nothing goes right this year; and I
detest taking exercise merely because it's wholesome. No, I'll not get
up for that."
"Then stay in the house and draw, read, or practise. Sit with Mark in
the studio; give Miss Hemming directions about your summer things, or go
into town about your bonnet. There is a matinee, try that; or make
calls, for you owe fifty at least. Now I'm sure there's employment
enough and amusement enough for any reasonable person."
Prue looked triumphant, but Sylvia was not a "reasonable person," and
went on in her former despondingly petulant strain.
"I'm tired of drawing; my head is a jumble of other people's ideas
already, and Herr Pedalsturm has put the piano out of tune. Mark always
makes a model of me if I go to him, and I don't like to see my eyes,
arms, or hair in all his pictures. Miss Hemming's gossip is worse than
fussing over new things that I don't need. Bonnets are my torment, and
matinees are wearisome, for people whisper and flirt till the music is
spoiled. Making calls is the worst of all; for what pleasure or profit
is there in running from place to place to tell the same polite fibs
over and over again, and listen to scandal that makes you pity or
despise your neighbors. I shall not get up for any of these things."
Prue leaned on the bedpost meditating with an anxious face till a
forlorn hope appeared which caused her to exclaim--
"Mark and I are going to see Geoffrey Moor, this morning, just home from
Switzerland, where his poor sister died, you know. You really ought to
come with us and welcome him, for though you can hardly remember him,
he's been so long away, still, as one of the family, it is a proper
compliment on your part. The drive will do you good, Geoffrey will be
glad to see you, it is a lovely old place, and as you never saw the
inside of the house you cannot complain that you are tired of that yet."
"Yes I can, for it will never seem as it has done, and I can no longer
go where I please now that a master's presence spoils its freedom and
solitude for me. I don't know him, and don't care to, though his name is
so familiar. New people always disappoint me, especially if I've heard
them praised ever since I was born. I shall not get up for any Geoffrey
Moor, so that bait fails."
Sylvia smiled involuntarily at her sister's defeat, but Prue fell back
upon her last resource in times like this. With a determined gesture she
plunged her hand into an abysmal pocket, and from a miscellaneous
collection of treasures selected a tiny vial, presenting it to Sylvia
with a half pleading, half authoritative look and tone.
"I'll leave you in peace if you'll only take a dose of chamomilla. It is
so soothing, that instead of tiring yourself with all manner of fancies,
you'll drop into a quiet sleep, and by noon be ready to get up like a
civilized being. Do take it, dear; just four sugar-plums, and I'm
satisfied."
Sylvia received the bottle with a docile expression; but the next minute
it flew out of the window, to be shivered on the walk below, while she
said, laughing like a wilful creature as she was--
"I have taken it in the only way I ever shall, and the sparrows can try
its soothing effects with me; so be satisfied."
"Very well. I shall send for Dr. Baum, for I'm convinced that you are
going to be ill. I shall say no more, but act as I think proper, because
it's like talking to the wind to reason with you in one of these
perverse fits."
As Prue turned away, Sylvia frowned and called after her--
"Spare yourself the trouble, for Dr. Baum will follow the chamomilla, if
you bring him here. What does he know about health, a fat German,
looking lager beer and talking sauer-kraut? Bring me _bona fide_
sugar-plums and I'll take them; but arsenic, mercury, and nightshade are
not to my taste."
"Would you feel insulted if I ask whether your breakfast is to be sent
up, or kept waiting till you choose to come down?"
Prue looked rigidly calm, but Sylvia knew that she felt hurt, and with
one of the sudden impulses which ruled her the frown melted to a smile,
as drawing her sister down she kissed her in her most loving manner.
"Dear old soul, I'll be good by-and-by, but now I'm tired and cross, so
let me keep out of every one's way and drowse myself into a cheerier
frame of mind. I want nothing but solitude, a draught of water, and a
kiss."
Prue was mollified at once, and after stirring fussily about for several
minutes gave her sister all she asked, and departed to the myriad small
cares that made her happiness. As the door closed, Sylvia sighed a long
sigh of relief, and folding her arms under her head drifted away into
the land of dreams, where ennui is unknown.
All the long summer morning she lay wrapt in sleeping and waking dreams,
forgetful of the world about her, till her brother played the Wedding
March upon her door on his way to lunch. The desire to avenge the sudden
downfall of a lovely castle in the air roused Sylvia, and sent her down
to skirmish with Mark. Before she could say a word, however, Prue began
to talk in a steady stream, for the good soul had a habit of jumbling
news, gossip, private opinions and public affairs into a colloquial
hodge-podge, that was often as trying to the intellects as the risibles
of her hearers.
"Sylvia, we had a charming call, and Geoffrey sent his love to you. I
asked him over to dinner, and we shall dine at six, because then my
father can be with us. I shall have to go to town first, for there are a
dozen things suffering for attention. You can't wear a round hat and
lawn jackets without a particle of set all summer. I want some things
for dinner,--and the carpet must be got. What a lovely one Geoffrey had
in the library! Then I must see if poor Mrs. Beck has had her leg
comfortably off, find out if Freddy Lennox is dead, and order home the
mosquito nettings. Now don't read all the afternoon, and be ready to
receive any one who may come if I should get belated."
The necessity of disposing of a suspended mouthful produced a lull, and
Sylvia seized the moment to ask in a careless way, intended to bring her
brother out upon his favorite topic,--
"How did you find your saint, Mark?"
"The same sunshiny soul as ever, though he has had enough to make him
old and grave before his time. He is just what we need in our
neighborhood, and particularly in our house, for we are a dismal set at
times, and he will do us all a world of good."
"What will become of me, with a pious, prosy, perfect creature eternally
haunting the house and exhorting me on the error of my ways!" cried
Sylvia.
"Don't disturb yourself; he is not likely to take much notice of you;
and it is not for an indolent, freakish midge to scoff at a man whom she
does not know, and couldn't appreciate if she did," was Mark's lofty
reply.
"I rather liked the appearance of the saint, however," said Sylvia, with
an expression of naughty malice, as she began her lunch.
"Why, where did you see him!" exclaimed her brother.
"I went over there yesterday to take a farewell run in the neglected
garden before he came. I knew he was expected, but not that he was here;
and when I saw the house open, I slipped in and peeped wherever I liked.
You are right, Prue; it is a lovely old place."
"Now I know you did something dreadfully unladylike and improper. Put me
out of suspense, I beg of you."
Prue's distressful face and Mark's surprise produced an inspiring effect
upon Sylvia, who continued, with an air of demure satisfaction--
"I strolled about, enjoying myself, till I got into the library, and
there I rummaged, for it was a charming place, and I was happy as only
those are who love books, and feel their influence in the silence of a
room whose finest ornaments they are."
"I hope Moor came in and found you trespassing."
"No, I went out and caught him playing. When I'd stayed as long as I
dared, and borrowed a very interesting old book--
"Sylvia! did you really take one without asking?" cried Prue, looking
almost as much alarmed as if she had stolen the spoons.
"Yes; why not? I can apologize prettily, and it will open the way for
more. I intend to browse over that library for the next six months."
"But it was such a liberty,--so rude, so--- dear, dear; and he as fond
and careful of his books as if they were his children! Well, I wash my
hands of it, and am prepared for anything now!"
Mark enjoyed Sylvia's pranks too much to reprove, so he only laughed
while one sister lamented and the other placidly went on--
"When I had put the book nicely in my pocket, Prue, I walked into the
garden. But before I'd picked a single flower, I heard little Tilly
laugh behind the hedge and some strange voice talking to her. So I
hopped upon a roller to see, and nearly tumbled off again; for there was
a man lying on the grass, with the gardener's children rioting over him.
Will was picking his pockets, and Tilly eating strawberries out of his
hat, often thrusting one into the mouth of her long neighbor, who always
smiled when the little hand came fumbling at his lips. You ought to have
seen the pretty picture, Mark."