Moods
indefinable yet sweet emotion. Mark and Moor had joined in the burden of
the song, and when that was done took up another; but Sylvia only sat
and let her tears flow while they would, singing at heart, though her
eyes were full and her cheeks wet faster than the wind could kiss them
dry.
After frequent peerings and tackings here and there, Mark at last
discovered the haven he desired, and with much rattling of oars,
clanking of chains, and splashing of impetuous boots, a landing was
effected, and Sylvia found herself standing on a green bank with her
hammock in her arms and much wonderment in her mind whether the
nocturnal experiences in store for her would prove as agreeable as the
daylight ones had been. Mark and Moor unloaded the boat and prospected
for an eligible sleeping-place. Warwick, being an old campaigner, set
about building a fire, and the girl began her sylvan housekeeping. The
scene rapidly brightened into light and color as the blaze sprang up,
showing the little kettle slung gipsywise on forked sticks, and the
supper prettily set forth in a leafy table-service on a smooth, flat
stone. Soon four pairs of wet feet surrounded the fire; an agreeable
oblivion of _meum_ and _tuum_ concerning plates, knives, and cups did
away with etiquette, and every one was in a comfortable state of
weariness, which rendered the thought of bed so pleasant that they
deferred their enjoyment of the reality, as children keep the best bite
till the last.
"What are you thinking of here all by yourself?" asked Mark, coming to
lounge on his sister's plaid, which she had spread somewhat apart from
the others, and where she sat watching the group before her with a
dreamy aspect.
"I was watching your two friends. See what a fine study they make with
the red flicker of the fire on their faces and the background of dark
pines behind them."
They did make a fine study, for both were goodly men yet utterly unlike,
one being of the heroic type, the other of the poetic. Warwick was a
head taller than his tall friend, broad-shouldered, strong-limbed, and
bronzed by wind and weather. A massive head, covered with rings of ruddy
brown hair, gray eyes, that seemed to pierce through all disguises, an
eminent nose, and a beard like one of Mark's stout saints. Power,
intellect, and courage were stamped on face and figure, making him the
manliest man that Sylvia had ever seen. He leaned against the stone, yet
nothing could have been less reposeful than his attitude, for the native
unrest of the man asserted itself in spite of weariness or any soothing
influence of time or place. Moor was much slighter, and betrayed in
every gesture the unconscious grace of the gentleman born. A most
attractive face, with its broad brow, serene eyes, and the cordial smile
about the mouth. A sweet, strong nature, one would say, which, having
used life well had learned the secret of a true success. Inward
tranquillity seemed his, and it was plain to see that no wave of sound,
no wandering breath, no glimpse of color, no hint of night or nature was
without its charm and its significance for him.
"Tell me about that man, Mark. I have heard you speak of him since you
came home, but supposing he was some blowzy artist, I never cared to ask
about him. Now I've seen him, I want to know more," said Sylvia, as her
brother laid himself down after an approving glance at the group
opposite.
"I met him in Munich, when I first went abroad, and since then we have
often come upon each other in our wanderings. He never writes, but goes
and comes intent upon his own affairs; yet one never can forget him, and
is always glad to feel the grip of his hand again, it seems to put such
life and courage into one."
"Is he good?" asked Sylvia, womanlike, beginning with the morals.
"Violently virtuous. He is a masterful soul, bent on living out his
beliefs and aspirations at any cost. Much given to denunciation of
wrong-doing everywhere, and eager to execute justice upon all offenders
high or low. Yet he possesses great nobility of character, great
audacity of mind, and leads a life of the sternest integrity."
"Is he rich?"
"In his own eyes, because he makes his wants so few."
"Is he married?"
"No; he has no family, and not many friends, for he says what he means
in the bluntest English, and few stand the test his sincerity applies."
"What does he do in the world?"
"Studies it, as we do books; dives into everything, analyzes character,
and builds up his own with materials which will last. If that's not
genius it's something better."
"Then he will do much good and be famous, won't he?"
"Great good to many, but never will be famous, I fear. He is too fierce
an iconoclast to suit the old party, too individual a reformer to join
the new, and being born a century too soon must bide his time, or play
out his part before stage and audience are ready for him."
"Is he learned?"
"Very, in uncommon sorts of wisdom; left college after a year of it,
because it could not give him what he wanted, and taking the world for
his university, life for his tutor, says he shall not graduate till his
term ends with days."
"I know I shall like him very much."
"I hope so, for my sake. He is a grand man in the rough, and an
excellent tonic for those who have courage to try him."
Sylvia was silent, thinking over all she had just heard and finding much
to interest her in it, because, to her imaginative and enthusiastic
nature, there was something irresistibly attractive in the strong,
solitary, self-reliant man. Mark watched her for a moment, then asked
with lazy curiosity--
"How do you like this other friend of mine?"
"He went away when I was such a child that since he came back I've had
to begin again; but if I like him at the end of another month as much as
I do now, I shall try to make your friend my friend, because I need such
an one very much."
Mark laughed at the innocent frankness of his sister's speech but took
it as she meant it, and answered soberly--
"Better leave Platonics till you're forty. Though Moor is twelve years
older than yourself he is a young man still, and you are grown a very
captivating little woman."
Sylvia looked both scornful and indignant.
"You need have no fears. There is such a thing as true and simple
friendship between men and women, and if I can find no one of my own sex
who can give me the help and happiness I want, why may I not look for it
anywhere and accept it in whatever shape it comes?"
"You may, my dear, and I'll lend a hand with all my heart, but you must
be willing to take the consequences in whatever shape _they_ come," said
Mark, not ill pleased with the prospect his fancy conjured up.
"I will," replied Sylvia loftily, and fate took her at her word.
Presently some one suggested bed, and the proposition was unanimously
accepted.
"Where are you going to hang me?" asked Sylvia, as she laid hold of her
hammock and looked about her with nearly as much interest as if her
suspension was to be of the perpendicular order.
"You are not to be swung up in a tree to-night but laid like a ghost,
and requested not to walk till morning. There is an unused barn close
by, so we shall have a roof over us for one night longer," answered
Mark, playing chamberlain while the others remained to quench the fire
and secure the larder.
An early moon lighted Sylvia to bed, and when shown her half the barn,
which, as she was a Marine, was very properly the bay, Mark explained,
she scouted the idea of being nervous or timid in such rude quarters,
made herself a cosy nest and bade her brother a merry good night.
More weary than she would confess, Sylvia fell asleep at once, despite
the novelty of her situation and the noises that fill a summer night
with fitful rustlings and tones. How long she slept she did not know,
but woke suddenly and sat erect with that curious thrill which sometimes
startles one out of deepest slumber, and is often the forerunner of some
dread or danger. She felt this hot tingle through blood and nerves, and
stared about her thinking of fire. But everything was dark and still,
and after waiting a few moments she decided that her nest had been too
warm, for her temples throbbed and her cheeks were feverish with the
close air of the barn half filled with new-made hay.
Creeping up a fragrant slope she spread her plaid again and lay down
where a cool breath flowed through wide chinks in the wall. Sleep was
slowly returning when the rustle of footsteps scared it quite away and
set her heart beating fast, for they came toward the new couch she had
chosen. Holding her breath she listened. The quiet tread drew nearer and
nearer till it paused within a yard of her, then some one seemed to
throw themselves down, sigh heavily a few times and grow still as if
falling asleep.
"It is Mark," thought Sylvia, and whispered his name, but no one
answered, and from the other corner of the barn she heard her brother
muttering in his sleep. Who was it, then? Mark had said there were no
cattle near, she was sure neither of her comrades had left their
bivouac, for there was her brother talking as usual in his dreams; some
one seemed restless and turned often with decided motion, that was
Warwick, she thought, while the quietest sleeper of the three betrayed
his presence by laughing once with the low-toned merriment she
recognized as Moor's. These discoveries left her a prey to visions of
grimy strollers, maudlin farm-servants, and infectious emigrants in
dismal array. A strong desire to cry out possessed her for a moment, but
was checked; for with all her sensitiveness Sylvia had much common
sense, and that spirit which hates to be conquered even by a natural
fear. She remembered her scornful repudiation of the charge of timidity,
and the endless jokes she would have to undergo if her mysterious
neighbor should prove some harmless wanderer or an imaginary terror of
her own, so she held her peace, thinking valiantly as the drops gathered
on her forehead, and every sense grew painfully alert--
"I'll not call if my hair turns gray with fright, and I find myself an
idiot to-morrow. I told them to try me, and I won't be found wanting at
the first alarm. I'll be still, if the thing does not touch me till
dawn, when I shall know how to act at once, and so save myself from
ridicule at the cost of a wakeful night."
Holding fast to this resolve Sylvia lay motionless; listening to the
cricket's chirp without, and taking uncomfortable notes of the state of
things within, for the new comer stirred heavily, sighed long and
deeply, and seemed to wake often, like one too sad or weary to rest. She
would have been wise to have screamed her scream and had the rout over,
for she tormented herself with the ingenuity of a lively fancy, and
suffered more from her own terrors than at the discovery of a dozen
vampires. Every tale of _diablerie_ she had ever heard came most
inopportunely to haunt her now, and though she felt their folly she
could not free herself from their dominion. She wondered till she could
wonder no longer what the morning would show her. She tried to calculate
in how many springs she could reach and fly over the low partition which
separated her from her sleeping body-guard. She wished with all her
heart that she had stayed in her nest which was nearer the door, and
watched for dawn with eyes that ached to see the light.
In the midst of these distressful sensations the far-off crow of some
vigilant chanticleer assured her that the short summer night was wearing
away and relief was at hand. This comfortable conviction had so good an
effect that she lapsed into what seemed a moment's oblivion, but was in
fact an hour's restless sleep, for when her eyes unclosed again the