CHAPTER XIV.

A FIRESIDE FETE.

"No cousin Faith to-night. The rain has prevented her from taking this

boat, and she is not likely to come later as she comes alone," said

Moor, returning from a fruitless drive to meet his expected guest one

October evening.

"It always rains when I want anything very much. I seem to have a great

deal of bad weather in my life," answered Sylvia, despondingly.

"Never mind the rain; let us make sunshine for ourselves, and forget it

as children do."

"I wish I was a child again, they are always happy."

"Let us play at being children, then. Let us sit down upon the rug,

parch corn, crack nuts, roast apples, and be merry in spite of wind or

weather."

Sylvia's face brightened, for the fancy pleased her, and she wanted

something new and pleasant to divert her thoughts from herself. Glancing

at her dress, which was unusually matronly in honor of the occasion, she

said smiling--

"I don't look much like a child, but I should like to try and feel like

one again if I can."

"Let us both look and feel so as much as possible. You like

masquerading; go make a little girl of yourself, while I turn boy, and

prepare for our merry making."

No lad could have spoken with a blither face, for Moor had preserved

much of the boy in spite of his thirty years. His cheerfulness was so

infectious, that Sylvia already began to forget her gloom, and hurried

away to do her part. Putting on a short, girlish gown, kept for

scrambles among the rocks, she improvised a pinafore, and braided her

long hair a la Morlena Kenwigs, with butterfly bows at the ends. When

she went down, she found her husband in garden jacket, collar turned

over a ribbon, hair in a curly tumble, and jackknife in hand, seated on

the rug before a roaring fire, and a semicircle of apples, whittling and

whistling like a very boy. They examined one another with mirthful

commendations, and Moor began his part by saying--

"Isn't this jolly? Now come and cuddle down here beside me, and see

which will keep it up the longest."

"What would Prue say? and who would recognize the elegant Mr. Moor in

this big boy? Putting dignity and broadcloth aside makes you look about

eighteen, and very charming I find you," said Sylvia, looking about

twelve herself, and also very charming.

"Here is a wooden fork for you to tend the roast with, while I see to

the corn laws and prepare a vegetable snowstorm. What will you have,

little girl, you look as if you wanted something?"

"I was only thinking that I should have a doll to match your knife. I

feel as if I should enjoy trotting a staring fright on my knee, and

singing Hush-a-by. But I fancy even your magic cannot produce such a

thing,--can it, my lad?"

"In exactly five minutes a lovely doll will appear, though such a thing

has not been seen in my bachelor establishment for years."

With which mysterious announcement Moor ran off, blundering over the

ottomans and slamming the doors as a true boy should. Sylvia pricked

chestnuts, and began to forget her bosom trouble as she wondered what

would appear with the impatient curiosity appropriate to the character

she had assumed. Presently her husband reappeared with much breeziness

of aspect, rain drops in his hair, and a squirming bundle in his arms.

Triumphantly unfolding many wraps, he displayed little Tilly in her

night-gown.

"There is sorcery for you, and a doll worth having; being one of the

sort that can shut its eyes; it was going to bed, but its mamma relented

and lends it to us for the night. I told Mrs. Dodd you wanted her, and

couldn't wait, so she sent her clothes; but the room is so warm let the

dear play in her pretty bed-gown."

Sylvia received her lovely plaything with enthusiasm, and Tilly felt

herself suddenly transported to a baby's Paradise, where beds were

unknown and fruit and freedom were her welcome portion. Merrily popped

the corn, nimbly danced the nuts upon the shovel, lustily remonstrated

the rosy martyrs on the hearth, and cheerfully the minutes slipped away.

Sylvia sung every jubilant air she knew, Moor whistled astonishing

accompaniments, and Tilly danced over the carpet with nut-shells on her

toes, and tried to fill her little gown with "pitty flowers" from its

garlands and bouquets. Without the wind lamented, the sky wept, and the

sea thundered on the shore; but within, youth, innocence, and love held

their blithe revel undisturbed.

"How are the spirits now?" asked one playmate of the other.

"Quite merry, thank you; and I should think I was little Sylvia again

but for the sight of this."

She held up the hand that wore a single ornament; but the hand had grown

so slender since it was first put on, that the ring would have fallen

had she not caught it at her finger-tip. There was nothing of the boy in

her companion's face, as he said, with an anxious look--

"If you go on thinning so fast I shall begin to fear that the little

wife is not happy with her old husband. Is she, dear?"

"She would be a most ungrateful woman if she were not. I always get thin

as winter comes on, but I'm so careless I'll find a guard for my ring

to-morrow."

"No need to wait till then; wear this to please me, and let Marion's

cipher signify that you are _mine_."

With a gravity that touched her more than the bestowal of so dear a

relic, Moor unslung a signet ring from his watchguard, and with some

difficulty pressed it to its place on Sylvia's finger, a most effectual

keeper for that other ring whose tenure seemed so slight. She shrunk a

little and glanced up at him, because his touch was more firm than

tender, and his face wore a masterful expression seldom seen there; for

instinct, subtler than perception, prompted both act and aspect. Then

her eye fell and fixed upon the dark stone with the single letter

engraved upon its tiny oval, and to her it took a double significance as

her husband held it there, claiming her again, with that emphatic

"Mine." She did not speak, but something in her manner caused the fold

between his brows to smooth itself away as he regarded the small hand

lying passively in his, and said, half playfully, half earnestly--

"Forgive me if I hurt you, but you know my wooing is not over yet; and

till you love me with a perfect love I cannot feel that my wife is

wholly mine."

"I am so young, you know; when I am a woman grown I can give you a

woman's love; now it is a girl's, you say. Wait for me, Geoffrey, a

little longer, for indeed I do my best to be all you would have me."

Something brought tears into her eyes and made her lips tremble, but in

a breath the smile came back, and she added gayly--

"How can I help being grave sometimes, and getting thin, with so many

housekeeping cares upon my shoulders, and such an exacting, tyrannical

husband to wear upon my nerves. Don't I look like the most miserable of

wives?"

She did not certainly as she shook the popper laughingly, and looked

over her shoulder at him, with the bloom of fire-light on her cheeks,

its cheerfulness in her eyes.

"Keep that expression for every day wear, and I am satisfied. I want no

tame Griselda, but the little girl who once said she was always happy

with me. Assure me of that, and, having won my Leah, I can work and wait

still longer for my Rachel. Bless the baby! what has she done to herself

now?"

Tilly had retired behind the sofa, after she had swarmed over every

chair and couch, examined everything within her reach, on _étagère_ and

table, embraced the Hebe in the corner, played a fantasia on the piano,

and choked herself with the stopper of the odor bottle. A doleful wail

betrayed her hiding place, and she now emerged with a pair of

nutcrackers, ditto of pinched fingers, and an expression of great mental

and bodily distress. Her woes vanished instantaneously, however, when

the feast was announced, and she performed an unsteady _pas seul_ about

the banquet, varied by skirmishes with her long night-gown and darts at

any unguarded viand that tempted her.

No ordinary table service would suit the holders of this fireside

_fête_. The corn was heaped in a bronze urn, the nuts in a graceful

basket, the apples lay on a plate of curiously ancient china, and the

water turned to wine through the medium of a purple flagon of Bohemian

glass. The refection was spread upon the rug as on a flowery table, and

all the lustres were lighted, filling the room with a festal glow. Prue

would have held up her hands in dismay, like the benighted piece of

excellence she was, but Mark would have enjoyed the picturesque group

and sketched a mate to the Golden Wedding. For Moor, armed with the

wooden fork, did the honors; Sylvia, leaning on her arm, dropped corn

after corn into a baby mouth that bird-like always gaped for more; and

Tilly lay luxuriously between them, warming her little feet as she ate

and babbled to the flames.

The clock was on the stroke of eight, the revel at its height, when the

door opened and a servant announced--

"Miss Dane and Mr. Warwick."

An impressive pause followed, broken by a crow from Tilly, who seized

this propitious moment to bury one hand in the nuts and with the other

capture the big red apple which had been denied her. The sound seemed to

dissipate the blank surprise that had fallen on all parties, and brought

both host and hostess to their feet, the former exclaiming, heartily--

"Welcome, friends, to a modern saturnalia and the bosom of the Happy

Family!"

"I fear you did not expect me so late," said Miss Dane. "I was detained

at the time fixed upon and gave it up, but Mr. Warwick came, and we set

off together. Pray don't disturb yourselves, but let us enjoy the game

with you."

"You and Adam are guests who never come too early or too late. We are

playing children to-night, so just put yourselves back a dozen years and

let us all be merry together. Sylvia, this our cousin, Faith here is

your new kinswoman. Please love one another as little people are

commanded to do."

A short stir ensued while hands were shaken, wraps put off, and some

degree of order restored to the room, then they all sat down and began

to talk. With well bred oblivion of the short gown and long braids of

her bashful-looking hostess, Miss Dane suggested and discussed various

subjects of mutual interest, while Sylvia tried to keep her eyes from

wandering to the mirror opposite, which reflected the figures of her

husband and his friend.

Warwick sat erect in the easy-chair, for he never lounged; and Moor,

still supporting his character, was perched upon the arm, talking with

boyish vivacity. Every sense being unwontedly alert, Sylvia found

herself listening to both guests at once, and bearing her own part in

one conversation so well that occasional lapses were only attributed to

natural embarrassment. What she and Miss Dane said she never remembered;

what the other pair talked of she never forgot. The first words she

caught were her husband's.

"You see I have begun to live for myself, Adam."

"I also see that it agrees with you excellently."

"Better than with you, for you are not looking like your old self,

though June made you happy, I hope?"

"If freedom is happiness it did."

"Are you still alone?"

"More so than ever."

Sylvia lost the next words, for a look showed her Moor's hand on Adam's

shoulder, and that for the first time within her memory Warwick did not

meet his friend's glance with one as open, but bent his eyes upon the

ground, while his hand went to and fro across his lips as if to steady

them. It was a gesture she remembered well, for though self-control

could keep the eye clear, the voice firm, that half-hidden mouth of his

sometimes rebelled and grew tremulous as a woman's. The sight and the

answer set her heart beating with the thought, "Why has he come?" The

repetition of a question by Miss Dane recalled her from a dangerous

memory, and when that friendly lady entered upon another long sentence

to relieve her young hostess, she heard Moor say--

"You have had too much solitude, Adam; I am sure of it, for no man can

live long alone and not get the uncanny look you have. What have you

been at?"

"Fighting the old fight with this unruly self of mine, and getting ready

for another tussle with the Adversary, in whatever shape he may appear."

"And now you are come to your friend for the social solace which the

haughtiest heart hungers for when most alone. You shall have it. Stay

with us, Adam, and remember that whatever changes come to me my home is

always yours."

"I know it, Geoffrey. I wanted to see your happiness before I go away

again, and should like to stay with you a day or so if you are sure

that--that she would like it."

Moor laughed and pulled a lock of the brown mane, as if to tease the

lion into a display of the spirit he seemed to have lost.

"How shy you are of speaking the new name! 'She' will like it, I assure

you, for she makes my friends hers. Sylvia, come here, and tell Adam he

is welcome; he dares to doubt it. Come and talk over old times, while I

do the same with Faith."

She went, trembling inwardly, but outwardly composed, for she took

refuge in one of those commonplace acts which in such moments we gladly

perform, and bless in our secret souls. She had often wondered where

they would next meet, and how she should comport herself at such a

trying time. She had never imagined that he would come in this way, or

that a hearth-brush would save her from the betrayal of emotion. So it

was, however, and an involuntary smile passed over her face as she

managed to say quite naturally, while brushing the nutshells tidily out

of sight--

"You know you are always welcome, Mr. Warwick. 'Adam's Room,' as we call

it, is always ready, and Geoffrey was wishing for you only yesterday."

"I am sure of his satisfaction at my coming, can I be equally sure of

yours. May I, ought I to stay?"

He leaned forward as he spoke, with an eager yet submissive look, that

Sylvia dared not meet, and in her anxiety to preserve her

self-possession, she forgot that to this listener every uttered word

became a truth, because his own were always so.

"Why not, if you can bear our quiet life, for we are a Darby and Joan

already, though we do not look so to-night, I acknowledge."

Men seldom understand the subterfuges women instinctively use to conceal

many a natural emotion which they are not strong enough to control, not

brave enough to confess. To Warwick, Sylvia seemed almost careless, her

words a frivolous answer to the real meaning of his question, her smile

one of tranquil welcome. Her manner wrought an instant change in him,

and when he spoke again he was the Warwick of a year ago.

"I hesitated, Mrs. Moor, because I have sometimes heard young wives

complain that their husbands' friends were marplots, and I have no

desire to be one."

This speech, delivered with frosty gravity, made Sylvia as cool and

quiet as itself. She put her ally down, looked full at Warwick, and said

with a blending of dignity and cordiality which even the pinafore could

not destroy--

"Please to consider yourself a specially invited guest, now and always.

Never hesitate, but come and go as freely as you used to do, for nothing

need be changed between us three because two of us have one home to

offer you."

"Thanks; and now that the hearth is scrupulously clean may I offer you a

chair?"

The old keenness was in his eye, the old firmness about the mouth, the

old satirical smile on his lips as Warwick presented the seat, with an

inclination that to her seemed ironical. She sat down, but when she cast

about her mind for some safe and easy topic to introduce, every idea had

fled; even memory and fancy turned traitors; not a lively sally could be

found, not a pleasant remembrance returned to help her, and she sat

dumb. Before the dreadful pause grew awkward, however, rescue came in

the form of Tilly. Nothing daunted by the severe simplicity of her

attire she planted herself before Warwick, and shaking her hair out of

her eyes stared at him with an inquiring glance and cheeks as red as her

apple. She seemed satisfied in a moment, and climbing to his knee

established herself there, coolly taking possession of his watch, and

examining the brown beard curiously as it parted with the white flash of

teeth, when Warwick smiled his warmest smile.

"This recalls the night you fed the sparrow in your hand. Do you

remember, Adam?" and Sylvia looked and spoke like her old self again.

"I seldom forget anything. But pleasant as that hour was this is more to

me, for the bird flew away, the baby stays and gives me what I need."

He wrapt the child closer in his arms, leaned his dark head on the

bright one, and took the little feet into his hand with a fatherly look

that caused Tilly to pat his cheek and begin an animated recital of some

nursery legend, which ended in a sudden gape, reminding Sylvia that one

of her guests was keeping late hours.

"What comes next?" asked Warwick.

"Now I lay me and byelow in the trib," answered Tilly, stretching

herself over his arm with a great yawn.

Warwick kissed the rosy half-open mouth and seemed loth to part with the

pious baby, for he took the shawl Sylvia brought and did up the drowsy

bundle himself. While so busied she stole a furtive glance at him,

having looked without seeing before. Thinner and browner, but stronger

than ever was the familiar face she saw, yet neither sad nor stern, for

the grave gentleness which had been a fugitive expression before now

seemed habitual. This, with the hand at the lips and the slow dropping

of the eyes, were the only tokens of the sharp experience he had been

passing through. Born for conflict and endurance, he seemed to have

manfully accepted the sweet uses of adversity and grown the richer for

his loss.

Those who themselves are quick to suffer, are also quick to see the

marks of suffering in others; that hasty scrutiny assured Sylvia of all

she had yearned to know, yet wrung her heart with a pity the deeper for

its impotence. Tilly's heavy head drooped between her bearer and the

light as they left the room, but in the dusky hall a few hot tears fell

on the baby's hair, and her new nurse lingered long after the lullaby

was done. When she reappeared the girlish dress was gone, and she was

Madam Moor again, as her husband called her when she assumed her stately

air. All smiled at the change, but he alone spoke of it.

"I win the applause, Sylvia; for I sustain my character to the end,

while you give up before the curtain falls. You are not so good an

actress as I thought you."

Sylvia's smile was sadder than her tears as she briefly answered--

"No, I find I cannot be a child again."