Moods
eyes were by turns eager, absent, or sad, and there was much pride in
the carriage of the small head with its hair of wavy gold gathered into
a green snood, whence little tendrils kept breaking loose to dance upon
her forehead, or hang about her neck. A most significant but not a
beautiful face, because of its want of harmony. The dark eyes, among
their fair surroundings, disturbed the sight as a discord in music jars
upon the ear; even when the lips smiled the sombre shadow of black
lashes seemed to fill them with a gloom that was never wholly lost. The
voice, too, which should have been a girlish treble, was full and low as
a matured woman's, with now and then a silvery ring to it, as if another
and a blither creature spoke.
Sylvia could not be offended by the grave penetration of this glance,
though an uncomfortable consciousness that she was being analyzed and
tested made her meet it with a look intended to be dignified, but which
was also somewhat defiant, and more than one smile passed over Warwick's
countenance as he watched her. The moment the boat glided with a soft
swish among the rushes that fringed the shore, she sprang up the bank,
and leaving a basket behind her by way of hint, hurried to the sandy
knoll, where, to her great satisfaction, she found the vines heavy with
berries. As Warwick joined her she held up a shining cluster, saying
with a touch of exultation in her voice--
"My faith is rewarded; taste and believe."
He accepted them with a nod, and said pleasantly--
"As my prophecy has failed, let us see if yours will be fulfilled."
"I accept the challenge." And down upon her knees went Sylvia among the
vines, regardless of stains, rents, or wounded hands.
Warwick strolled away to leave her "claim" free, and silence fell
between them; for one was too busy with thorns, the other with thoughts,
to break the summer stillness. Sylvia worked with as much energy as if a
silver cup was to be the reward of success. The sun shone fervently and
the wind was cut off by the hill, drops gathered on her forehead and her
cheeks glowed; but she only pushed off her hat, thrust back her hair,
and moved on to a richer spot. Vines caught at her by sleeve and skirt
as if to dishearten the determined plunderer, but on she went with a
wrench and a rip, an impatient "Ah!" and a hasty glance at damaged
fabrics and fingers. Lively crickets flew up in swarms about her, surly
wasps disputed her right to the fruit, and drunken bees blundered
against her as they met zigzagging homeward much the worse for
blackberry wine. She never heeded any of them, though at another time
she would gladly have made friends with all, but found compensation for
her discomforts in the busy twitter of sand swallows perched on the
mullein-tops, the soft flight of yellow butterflies, and the rapidity
with which the little canoe received its freight of "Ethiop sweets." As
the last handful went in she sprung up crying "Done!" with a suddenness
that broke up the Long Parliament and sent its members skimming away as
if a second "Noll" had appeared among them. "Done!" came back Warwick's
answer like a deep echo from below, and hurrying down to meet him she
displayed her success, saying archly--
"I am glad we both won, though to be perfectly candid I think mine is
decidedly the fullest." But as she swung up her birch pannier the handle
broke, and down went basket, berries and all, into the long grass
rustling at her feet.
Warwick could not restrain a laugh at the blank dismay that fell upon
the exultation of Sylvia's face, and for a moment she was both piqued
and petulant. Hot, tired, disappointed, and, hardest of all, laughed at,
it was one of those times that try girls' souls. But she was too old to
cry, too proud to complain, too well-bred to resent, so the little gust
passed over unseen, she thought, and joining in the merriment she said,
as she knelt down beside the wreck--
"This is a practical illustration of the old proverb, and I deserve it
for my boasting. Next time I'll try to combine strength and beauty in my
work."
To wise people character is betrayed by trifles. Warwick stopped
laughing, and something about the girlish figure in the grass,
regathering with wounded hands the little harvest lately lost, seemed to
touch him. His face softened suddenly as he collected several broad
leaves, spread them on the grass, and sitting down by Sylvia, looked
under her hat-brim with a glance of mingled penitence and friendliness.
"Now, young philosopher, pile up your berries in that green platter
while I repair the basket. Bear this in mind when you work in bark: make
your handle the way of the grain, and choose a strip both smooth and
broad."
Then drawing out his knife he fell to work, and while he tied green
withes, as if the task were father to the thought, he told her something
of a sojourn among the Indians, of whom he had learned much concerning
their woodcraft, arts, and superstitions; lengthening the legend till
the little canoe was ready for another launch. With her fancy full of
war-trails and wampum, Sylvia followed to the river-side, and as they
floated back dabbled her stained fingers in the water, comforting their
smart with its cool flow till they swept by the landing-place, when she
asked, wonderingly--
"Where are we going now? Have I been so troublesome that I must be taken
home?"
"We are going to get a third course to follow the berries, unless you
are afraid to trust yourself to me."
"Indeed, I'm not; take me where you like, sir."
Something in her frank tone, her confiding look, seemed to please
Warwick; he sat a moment looking into the brown depths of the water, and
let the boat drift, with no sound but the musical drip of drops from the
oars.
"You are going upon a rock, sir."
"I did that three months ago."
He spoke as if to himself, his face darkened, and he shook the hair off
his forehead with an impatient gesture. A swift stroke averted the
shock, and the boat shot down the stream, leaving a track of foam behind
it as Warwick rowed with the energy of one bent on outstripping some
importunate remembrance or dogging care. Sylvia marvelled greatly at the
change which came upon him, but held fast with flying hair and lips
apart to catch the spray, enjoying the breezy flight along a path
tessellated with broad bars of blue and gold. The race ended as abruptly
as it began, and Warwick seemed the winner, for when they touched the
coast of a floating lily-island, the cloud was gone. As he shipped his
oars he turned, saying, with very much the look and manner of a pleasant
boy--
"You were asleep when we passed this morning; but I know you like
lilies, so let us go a fishing."
"That I do!" cried Sylvia, capturing a great white flower with a clutch
that nearly took her overboard. Warwick drew her back and did the
gathering himself.
"Enough, sir, quite enough. Here are plenty to trim our table and
ourselves with; leave the rest for other voyagers who may come this
way."
As Warwick offered her the dripping nosegay he looked at the white hand
scored with scarlet lines.
"Poor hand! let the lilies comfort it. You are a true woman, Miss
Sylvia, for though your palm is purple there's not a stain upon your
lips, and you have neither worked nor suffered for yourself it seems."
"I don't deserve that compliment, because I was only intent on outdoing
you if possible; so you are mistaken again you see."
"Not entirely, I think. Some faces are so true an index of character
that one cannot be mistaken. If you doubt this look down into the river,
and such an one will inevitably smile back at you."
Pleased, yet somewhat abashed, Sylvia busied herself in knotting up the
long brown stems and tinging her nose with yellow pollen as she inhaled
the bitter-sweet breath of the lilies. But when Warwick turned to resume
the oars, she said--
"Let us float out as we floated in. It is so still and lovely here I
like to stay and enjoy it, for we may never see just such a scene
again."
He obeyed, and both sat silent, watching the meadows that lay green and
low along the shore, feeding their eyes with the beauty of the
landscape, till its peaceful spirit seemed to pass into their own, and
lend a subtle charm to that hour, which henceforth was to stand apart,
serene and happy, in their memories forever. A still August day, with a
shimmer in the air that veiled the distant hills with the mellow haze,
no artist ever truly caught. Midsummer warmth and ripeness brooded in
the verdure of field and forest. Wafts of fragrance went wandering by
from new-mown meadows and gardens full of bloom. All the sky wore its
serenest blue, and up the river came frolic winds, ruffling the lily
leaves until they showed their purple linings, sweeping shadowy ripples
through the long grass, and lifting the locks from Sylvia's forehead
with a grateful touch, as she sat softly swaying with the swaying of the
boat. Slowly they drifted out into the current, slowly Warwick cleft the
water with reluctant stroke, and slowly Sylvia's mind woke from its
trance of dreamy delight, as with a gesture of assent she said--
"Yes, I am ready now. That was a happy little moment, and I am glad to
have lived it, for such times return to refresh me when many a more
stirring one is quite forgotten." A moment after she added, eagerly, as
a new object of interest appeared: "Mr. Warwick, I see smoke. I know
there is a wood on fire; I want to see it; please land again."
He glanced over his shoulder at the black cloud trailing away before the
wind, saw Sylvia's desire in her face, and silently complied; for being
a keen student of character, he was willing to prolong an interview that
gave him glimpses of a nature in which the woman and the child were
curiously blended.
"I love fire, and that must be a grand one, if we could only see it
well. This bank is not high enough; let us go nearer and enjoy it," said
Sylvia, finding that an orchard and a knoll or two intercepted the view
of the burning wood.
"It is too far."
"Not at all. I am no helpless, fine lady. I can walk, run, and climb
like any boy; so you need have no fears for me. I may never see such a
sight again, and you know you'd go if you were alone. Please come, Mr.
Warwick."
"I promised Mark to take care of you, and for the very reason that you
love fire, I'd rather not take you into that furnace, lest you never
come out again. Let us go back immediately."
The decision of his tone ruffled Sylvia, and she turned wilful at once,
saying in a tone as decided as his own--
"No; I wish to see it. I am always allowed to do what I wish, so I shall
go;" with which mutinous remark she walked straight away towards the
burning wood.
Warwick looked after her, indulging a momentary desire to carry her back
to the boat, like a naughty child. But the resolute aspect of the figure
going on before him, convinced him that the attempt would be a failure,
and with an amused expression he leisurely followed her.
Sylvia had not walked five minutes before she was satisfied that it
_was_ too far; but having rebelled, she would not own herself in the
wrong, and being perverse, insisted upon carrying her point, though she
walked all night. On she went over walls, under rails, across brooks,
along the furrows of more than one ploughed field, and in among the
rustling corn, that turned its broad leaves to the sun, always in
advance of her companion, who followed with exemplary submission, but
also with a satirical smile, that spurred her on as no other
demonstration could have done. Six o'clock sounded from the church
behind the hill; still the wood seemed to recede as she pursued, still
close behind her came the steady footfalls, with no sound of weariness