CHAPTER XI.

WOOING.

Nothing could have been more unlike than the two pairs of lovers who

from April to August haunted Mr. Yule's house. One pair was of the

popular order, for Mark was tenderly tyrannical, Jessie adoringly

submissive, and at all hours of the day they were to be seen making

tableaux of themselves. The other pair were of the peculiar order,

undemonstrative and unsentimental, but quite as happy. Moor knew his

power, but used it generously, asking little while giving much. Sylvia

as yet found nothing to regret, for so gently was she taught, the lesson

could not seem hard, and when her affection remained unchanged in kind,

although it deepened in degree, she said within herself--

"That strong and sudden passion was not true love, but an unwise,

unhappy delusion of my own. I should be glad that it is gone, because I

know I am not fit to be Warwick's wife. This quiet feeling which

Geoffrey inspires must be a safer love for me, and I should be grateful

that in making his happiness I may yet find my own."

She tried heartily to forget herself in others, unconscious that there

are times when the duty we owe ourselves is greater than that we owe to

them. In the atmosphere of cheerfulness that now surrounded her she

could not but be cheerful, and soon it would have been difficult to find

a more harmonious household than this. One little cloud alone remained

to mar the general sunshine. Mark was in a frenzy to be married, but had

set his heart on a double wedding, and Sylvia would not fix the time,

always pleading--

"Let me be quite sure of myself before I take this step, and do not

wait."

Matters stood thus till Mark, having prepared his honeymoon cottage, as

a relief to his impatience, found it so irresistible that he announced

his marriage for the first of August, and declared no human power should

change his purpose. Sylvia promised to think of it, but gave no decided

answer, for though she would hardly own it to herself she longed to

remain free till June was past. It came and went without a sign, and

July began before the longing died a sudden death, and she consented to

be married.

Mark and Jessie came in from the city one warm morning and found Sylvia

sitting idly in the hall. She left her preparations all to Prue, who

revelled in such things, and applied herself diligently to her lesson as

if afraid she might not learn it as she should. Half way up stairs Mark

turned and said, laughing--

"Sylvia, I saw Searle to-day,--one of the fellows whom we met on the

river last summer,--and he began to tell me something about André and

the splendid cousin, who is married and gone abroad it seems. I did not

hear much, for Jessie was waiting; but you remember the handsome Cubans

we saw at Christmas, don't you?"

"Yes, I remember."

"Well, I thought you'd like to know that the lad had gone home to

Cleopatra's wedding, so you cannot have him to dance at yours. Have you

forgotten how you waltzed that night?"

"No, I've not forgotten."

Mark went off to consult Prue, and Jessie began to display her purchases

before eyes that only saw a blur of shapes and colors, and expatiate

upon their beauties to ears that only heard the words--"The splendid

cousin is married and gone abroad."

"I should enjoy these pretty things a thousand times more if you would

please us all by being married when we are," sighed Jessie, looking at

her pearls.

"I will."

"What, really? Sylvia, you are a perfect darling! Mark! Prue! she says

she will!"

Away flew Jessie to proclaim the glad tidings, and Sylvia, with a

curious expression of relief, regret, and resolve, repeated to herself

that decided--

"I will."

Every one took care that Miss Caprice should not have time to change her

mind. The whole house was soon in a bustle, for Prue ruled supreme. Mr.

Yule fled from the din of women's tongues, the bridegrooms were kept on

a very short allowance of bride, and Sylvia and Jessie were almost

invisible, for milliners and mantua-makers swarmed about them till they

felt like animated pin-cushions. The last evening came at length, and

Sylvia was just planning an escape into the garden when Prue, whose

tongue wagged as rapidly as her hands worked, exclaimed--

"How can you stand staring out of window when there is so much to do?

Here are all these trunks to pack, Maria in her bed with every tooth in

a frightful state of inflammation, and that capable Jane What's-her-name

gone off while I was putting a chamomile poultice on her face. If you

are tired sit down and try on all your shoes, for though Mr. Peggit has

your measure, those absurd clerks seem to think it a compliment to send

children's sizes to grown women. I'm sure my rubbers were a perfect

insult."

Sylvia sat down, tugged on one boot and fell into a reverie with the

other in her hand, while Prue clacked on like a wordmill in full

operation.

"How I'm ever to get all these gowns into that trunk passes my

comprehension. There's a tray for each, of course; but a ball dress is

such a fractious thing. I could shake that Antoinette Roche for

disappointing you at the last minute; and what you are to do for a maid,

I don't know. You'll have so much dressing to do you will be quite worn

out; and I want you to look your best on all occasions, for you will

meet everybody. This collar won't wear well; Clara hasn't a particle of

judgment, though her taste is sweet. These hose, now, are a good, firm

article; I chose them myself. Do be sure you get all your things from

the wash. At those great hotels there's a deal of pilfering, and you are

so careless."

Here Sylvia came out of her reverie with a sigh that was almost a groan.

"Don't they fit? I knew they wouldn't!" said Prue, with an air of

triumph.

"The boots suit me, but the hotels do not; and if it was not ungrateful,

after all your trouble, I should like to make a bonfire of this roomful

of haberdashery, and walk quietly away to my new home by the light of

it."

As if the bare idea of such an awful proceeding robbed her of all

strength, Miss Yule sat suddenly down in the trunk by which she was

standing. Fortunately it was nearly full, but her appearance was

decidedly ludicrous as she sat with the collar in one uplifted hand, the

hose in the other, and the ball dress laid over her lap like a fainting

lady; while she said, with imploring solemnity, which changed abruptly

from the pathetic to the comic at the end of her speech--

"Sylvia, if I ever cherished a wish in this world of disappointment, it

is that your wedding shall have nothing peculiar about it, because every

friend and relation you've got expects it. Do let me have the comfort of

knowing that every one was surprised and pleased; for if the expression

was elegant (which it isn't, and only suggested by my trials with those

dressmakers), I should say I was on pins and needles till it's all over.

Bless me! and so I am, for here are three on the floor and one in my

shoe." Prue paused to extract the appropriate figure of speech which she

had chosen, and Sylvia said--

"If we have everything else as you wish it, would you mind if we didn't

go the journey?"

"Of course I should. Every one goes a wedding trip, it's part of the

ceremony; and if two carriages and two bridal pairs don't leave here

to-morrow, I shall feel as if all my trouble had been thrown away."

"I'll go, Prue, I'll go; and you shall be satisfied. But I thought we

might go from here in style, and then slip off on some quieter trip. I

am so tired I dread the idea of frolicking for a whole month, as Mark

and Jessie mean to do."

It was Prue's turn to groan now, and she did so dismally. But Sylvia had

never asked a favor in vain, and this was not the moment to refuse to

her anything, so worldly pride yielded to sisterly affection, and Prue

said with resignation, as she fell to work more vigorously than ever,

because she had wasted five good minutes--

"Do as you like, dear, you shall not be crossed on your last day at

home. Ask Geoffrey, and if you are happy I'm satisfied."

Before Sylvia could thank her sister there came a tap and a voice

asking--

"Might I come in?"

"If you can get in," answered Prue, as, reversing her plan in her hurry,

she whisked the collar into a piecebag and the hose into a bandbox.

Moor paused on the threshold in a masculine maze, that one small person

could need so much drapery.

"May I borrow Sylvia for a little while? A breath of air will do her

good, and I want her bright and blooming for to-morrow, else young Mrs.

Yule will outshine young Mrs. Moor."

"What a thoughtful creature you are, Geoffrey. Take her and welcome,

only pray put on a shawl, Sylvia, and don't stay out late, for a bride

with a cold in her head is the saddest of spectacles."

Glad to be released Sylvia went away, and, dropping the shawl as soon as

she was out of Prue's sight, paced up and down the garden walks upon her

lover's arm. Having heard her wish and given a hearty assent Moor

asked--

"Where shall we go? Tell me what you would like best and you shall have

it. You will not let me give you many gifts, but this pleasure you will

accept from me I know."

"You give me yourself, that is more than I deserve. But I should like to

have you take me to the place you like best. Don't tell me beforehand,

let it be a surprise."

"I will, it is already settled, and I know you will like it. Is there no

other wish to be granted, no doubt to be set at rest, or regret withheld

that I should know? Tell me, Sylvia, for if ever there should be

confidence between us it is now."

As he spoke the desire to tell him of her love for Adam rose within her,

but with the desire came a thought that modified the form in which

impulse prompted her to make confession. Moor was both sensitive and

proud, would not the knowledge of the fact mar for him the friendship

that was so much to both? From Warwick he would never learn it, from her

he should have only a half confidence, and so love both friend and wife

with an untroubled heart. Few of us can always control the rebellious

nature that so often betrays and then reproaches, few always weigh the

moment and the act that bans or blesses it, and where is the life that

has not known some turning-point when a fugitive emotion has decided

great issues for good or ill? Such an emotion came to Sylvia then, and

another temptation, wearing the guise of generosity, urged her to

another false step, for when the first is taken a second inevitably

follows.

"I have no wish, no regret, nothing but the old doubt of my unstable

self, and the fear that I may fail to make you happy. But I should like

to tell you something. I don't know that you will care for it, or that

there is any need to tell it, but when you said there should be

confidence between us, I felt that I wanted you to know that I had loved

some one before I loved you."

He did not see her face, he only heard her quiet voice. He had no

thought of Adam, whom she had known so short a time, who was already

bound; he only fancied that she spoke of some young lover who had

touched her heart, and while he smiled at the nice sense of honor that

prompted the innocent confession, he said, with no coldness, no

curiosity in voice or face--

"No need to tell it, dear. I have no jealousy of any one who has gone

before me. Rest assured of this, for if I could not share so large a

heart with one who will never claim my share I should not deserve it."

"That is so like you! Now I am quite at ease."

He looked down at her as she went beside him, thinking that of all the

brides he had ever seen his own looked least like one.

"I always thought that you would make a very ardent lover, Sylvia. That

you would be excited, gay, and brilliant at a time like this. But you

are so quiet, so absorbed, and so unlike your former self that I begin

to think I do not know you yet."

"You will in time. I am passionate and restless by nature, but I am also

very sensitive to all influences, personal or otherwise, and were you

different from your tranquil, sunshiny self, I too should change. I am

quiet because I seem in a pleasant state, half-waking, half dreaming,

from which I never wish to wake. I am tired of the past, contented with

the present, and to you I leave the future."

"It shall be a happy one if I can make it so, and to-morrow you will

give me the dear right to try."

"Yes," she said, and thinking of the solemn promises to be then made,

she added, thoughtfully, "I think I love, I know I honor, I will try to

obey. Can I do more?"

[Illustration]

Well for them both if they could have known that friendship is love's

twin, and the gentle sisters are too often mistaken for each other.

That Sylvia was innocently deceiving both her lover and herself, by

wrapping her friendship in the garb her lost love had worn, forgetting

that the wanderer might return and claim its own, leaving the other to

suffer for the borrowed warmth. They did not know it, and walked

tranquilly together in the summer night, planning the new life as they

went, and when they parted Moor pointed to a young moon hanging in the

sky.

"See, Sylvia, our honeymoon has risen."

"May it be a happy one!"

"It will be, and when the anniversary of this glad night comes round it

shall be shining still. God bless my little wife."