Moods
"I'm afraid. Love is so cruel to some people, I feel as if it would be
to me, for I am always in extremes, and continually going wrong while
trying to go right. Love bewilders the wisest, and it would make me
quite blind or mad, I know; therefore I'd rather have nothing to do with
it, for a long, long while."
"Then Mark shall be forbidden to bring a single specimen. I very much
prefer to keep you as you are. And yet you may be happier to do as
others do; try it, if you like, my dear."
"But I can't do as others do; I've tried, and failed. Last winter, when
Prue made me go about, though people probably thought me a stupid little
thing, moping in corners, I was enjoying myself in my own way, and
making discoveries that have been very useful ever since. I know I'm
whimsical, and hard to please, and have no doubt the fault was in
myself, but I was disappointed in nearly every one I met, though I went
into what Prue calls 'our best society.' The girls seemed all made on
the same pattern; they all said, did, thought, and wore about the same
things, and knowing one was as good as knowing a dozen. Jessie Hope was
the only one I cared much for, and she is so pretty, she seems made to
be looked at and loved."
"How did you find the young gentlemen, Sylvia?"
"Still worse; for, though lively enough among themselves they never
found it worth their while to offer us any conversation but such as was
very like the champagne and ice-cream they brought us,--sparkling,
sweet, and unsubstantial. Almost all of them wore the superior air they
put on before women, an air that says as plainly as words, 'I may ask
you and I may not.' Now that is very exasperating to those who care no
more for them than so many grasshoppers, and I often longed to take the
conceit out of them by telling some of the criticisms passed upon them
by the amiable young ladies who looked as if waiting to say meekly,
'Yes, thank you.'"
"Don't excite yourself, my dear; it is all very lamentable and
laughable, but we must submit till the world learns better. There are
often excellent young persons among the 'grasshoppers,' and if you cared
to look you might find a pleasant friend here and there," said Mr.
Yule, leaning a little toward his son's view of the matter.
"No, I cannot even do that without being laughed at; for no sooner do I
mention the word friendship than people nod wisely and look as if they
said, 'Oh, yes, every one knows what that sort of thing amounts to.' I
should like a friend, father; some one beyond home, because he would be
newer; a man (old or young, I don't care which), because men go where
they like, see things with their own eyes, and have more to tell if they
choose. I want a person simple, wise, and entertaining; and I think I
should make a very grateful friend if such an one was kind enough to
like me."
"I think you would, and perhaps if you try to be more like others you
will find friends as they do, and so be happy, Sylvia."
"I cannot be like others, and their friendships would not satisfy me. I
don't try to be odd; I long to be quiet and satisfied, but I cannot; and
when I do what Prue calls wild things, it is not because I am
thoughtless or idle, but because I am trying to be good and happy. The
old ways fail, so I attempt new ones, hoping they will succeed; but they
don't, and I still go looking and longing for happiness, yet always
failing to find it, till sometimes I think I am a born disappointment."
"Perhaps love would bring the happiness, my dear?"
"I'm afraid not; but, however that may be, I shall never go running
about for a lover as half my mates do. When the true one comes I shall
know him, love him at once, and cling to him forever, no matter what may
happen. Till then I want a friend, and I will find one if I can. Don't
you believe there may be real and simple friendships between men and
women without falling into this everlasting sea of love?"
Mr. Yule was laughing quietly under cover of the darkness, but composed
himself to answer gravely--
"Yes, for some of the most beautiful and famous friendships have been
such, and I see no reason why there may not be again. Look about,
Sylvia, make yourself happy; and, whether you find friend or lover,
remember there is always the old Papa glad to do his best for you in
both capacities."
Sylvia's hand crept to her father's shoulder, and her voice was full of
daughterly affection, as she said--
"I'll have no lover but 'the old Papa' for a long while yet. But I will
look about, and if I am fortunate enough to find and good enough to keep
the person I want, I shall be very happy; for, father, I really think I
need a friend."
Here Mark called his sister in to sing to them, a demand that would have
been refused but for a promise to Prue to behave her best as an
atonement for past pranks. Stepping in she sat down and gave Moor
another surprise, as from her slender throat there came a voice whose
power and pathos made a tragedy of the simple ballad she was singing.
"Why did you choose that plaintive thing, all about love, despair, and
death? It quite breaks one's heart to hear it," said Prue, pausing in a
mental estimate of her morning's shopping.
"It came into my head, and so I sung it. Now I'll try another, for I am
bound to please you--if I can." And she broke out again with an airy
melody as jubilant as if a lark had mistaken moonlight for the dawn and
soared skyward, singing as it went. So blithe and beautiful were both
voice and song they caused a sigh of pleasure, a sensation of keen
delight in the listener, and seemed to gift the singer with an
unsuspected charm. As she ended Sylvia turned about, and seeing the
satisfaction of their guest in his face, prevented him from expressing
it in words by saying, in her frank way--
"Never mind the compliments. I know my voice is good, for that you may
thank nature; that it is well trained, for that praise Herr Pedalsturm;
and that you have heard it at all, you owe to my desire to atone for
certain trespasses of yesterday and to-day, because I seldom sing before
strangers."
"Allow me to offer my hearty thanks to Nature, Pedalsturm, and
Penitence, and also to hope that in time I may be regarded, not as a
stranger, but a neighbor and a friend."
Something in the gentle emphasis of the last word struck pleasantly on
the girl's ear, and seemed to answer an unspoken longing. She looked up
at him with a searching glance, appeared to find some 'assurance given
by looks,' and as a smile broke over her face she offered her hand as if
obeying a sudden impulse, and said, half to him, half to herself--
"I think I have found the friend already."
CHAPTER III.
AFLOAT.
Sylvia sat sewing in the sunshine with an expression on her face half
mirthful, half melancholy, as she looked backward to the girlhood just
ended, and forward to the womanhood just beginning, for on that
midsummer day, she was eighteen. Voices roused her from her reverie,
and, looking up, she saw her brother approaching with two friends, their
neighbor Geoffrey Moor and his guest Adam Warwick. Her first impulse was
to throw down her work and run to meet them, her second to remember her
new dignity and sit still, awaiting them with well-bred composure, quite
unconscious that the white figure among the vines added a picturesque
finish to the quiet summer scene.
They came up warm and merry, with a brisk row across the bay, and Sylvia
met them with a countenance that gave a heartier welcome than her words,
as she greeted the neighbor cordially, the stranger courteously, and
began to gather up her work when they seated themselves in the bamboo
chairs scattered about the wide piazza.
"You need not disturb yourself," said Mark, "we are only making this a
way-station, _en route_ for the studio. Can you tell me where my
knapsack is to be found? after one of Prue's stowages, nothing short of
a divining-rod will discover it, I'm afraid."
"I know where it is. Are you going away again so soon, Mark?"
"Only a two days' trip up the river with these mates of mine. No,
Sylvia, it can't be done."
"I did not say anything."
"Not in words, but you looked a whole volley of 'Can't I goes?' and I
answered it. No girl but you would dream of such a thing; you hate
picnics, and as this will be a long and rough one, don't you see how
absurd it would be for you to try it?"
"I don't quite see it, Mark, for this would not be an ordinary picnic;
it would be like a little romance to me, and I had rather have it than
any birthday present you could give me. We used to have such happy times
together before we were grown up, I don't like to be so separated now.
But if it is not best, I'm sorry that I even looked a wish."
Sylvia tried to keep both disappointment and desire out of her voice as
she spoke, though a most intense longing had taken possession of her
when she heard of a projected pleasure so entirely after her own heart.
But there was an unconscious reproach in her last words, a mute appeal in
the wistful eyes that looked across the glittering bay to the green
hills beyond. Now, Mark was both fond and proud of the young sister,
who, while he was studying art abroad, had studied nature at home, till
the wayward but winning child had bloomed into a most attractive girl.
He remembered her devotion to him, his late neglect of her, and longed
to make atonement. With elevated eyebrows and inquiring glances, he
turned from one friend to another. Moor nodded and smiled, Warwick
nodded, and sighed privately, and having taken the sense of the meeting
by a new style of vote, Mark suddenly announced--
"You can go if you like, Sylvia."
"What!" cried his sister, starting up with a characteristic impetuosity
that sent her basket tumbling down the steps, and crowned her dozing cat
with Prue's nightcap frills. "Do you mean it, Mark? Wouldn't it spoil
your pleasure, Mr. Moor? Shouldn't I be a trouble, Mr. Warwick? Tell me
frankly, for if I can go I shall be happier than I can express."
The gentlemen smiled at her eagerness, but as they saw the altered face
she turned toward them, each felt already repaid for any loss of freedom
they might experience hereafter, and gave unanimous consent. Upon
receipt of which Sylvia felt inclined to dance about the three and bless
them audibly, but restrained herself, and beamed upon them in a state of
wordless gratitude pleasant to behold. Having given a rash consent, Mark
now thought best to offer a few obstacles to enhance its value and try
his sister's mettle.
"Don't ascend into the air like a young balloon, child, but hear the
conditions upon which you go, for if you fail to work three miracles it
is all over with you. Firstly, the consent of the higher powers, for
father will dread all sorts of dangers--you are such a freakish
creature,--and Prue will be scandalized because trips like this are not the
fashion for young ladies."
"Consider that point settled and go on to the next," said Sylvia, who,
having ruled the house ever since she was born, had no fears of success
with either father or sister.
"Secondly, you must do yourself up in as compact a parcel as possible;
for though you little women are very ornamental on land, you are not
very convenient for transportation by water. Cambric gowns and French
slippers are highly appropriate and agreeable at the present moment,
but must be sacrificed to the stern necessities of the case. You must
make a dowdy of yourself in some usefully short, scant, dingy costume,
which will try the nerves of all beholders, and triumphantly prove that
women were never meant for such excursions."
"Wait five minutes and I'll triumphantly prove to the contrary,"
answered Sylvia, as she ran into the house.