CHAPTER II.

WHIMS.

"Come, Sylvia, it is nine o'clock! Little slug-a-bed, don't you mean to

get up to-day?" said Miss Yule, bustling into her sister's room with the

wide-awake appearance of one to whom sleep was a necessary evil, to be

endured and gotten over as soon as possible.

"No, why should I?" And Sylvia turned her face away from the flood of

light that poured into the room as Prue put aside the curtains and flung

up the window.

"Why should you? What a question, unless you are ill; I was afraid you

would suffer for that long row yesterday, and my predictions seldom

fail."

"I am not suffering from any cause whatever, and your prediction does

fail this time; I am only tired of everybody and everything, and see

nothing worth getting up for; so I shall just stay here till I do.

Please put the curtain down and leave me in peace."

Prue had dropped her voice to the foreboding tone so irritating to

nervous persons whether sick or well, and Sylvia laid her arm across her

eyes with an impatient gesture as she spoke sharply.

"Nothing worth getting up for," cried Prue, like an aggravating echo.

"Why, child, there are a hundred pleasant things to do if you would only

think so. Now don't be dismal and mope away this lovely day. Get up and

try my plan; have a good breakfast, read the papers, and then work in

your garden before it grows too warm; that is wholesome exercise and

you've neglected it sadly of late."

"I don't wish any breakfast; I hate newspapers, they are so full of

lies; I'm tired of the garden, for nothing goes right this year; and I

detest taking exercise merely because it's wholesome. No, I'll not get

up for that."

"Then stay in the house and draw, read, or practise. Sit with Mark in

the studio; give Miss Hemming directions about your summer things, or go

into town about your bonnet. There is a matinée, try that; or make

calls, for you owe fifty at least. Now I'm sure there's employment

enough and amusement enough for any reasonable person."

Prue looked triumphant, but Sylvia was not a "reasonable person," and

went on in her former despondingly petulant strain.

"I'm tired of drawing; my head is a jumble of other people's ideas

already, and Herr Pedalsturm has put the piano out of tune. Mark always

makes a model of me if I go to him, and I don't like to see my eyes,

arms, or hair in all his pictures. Miss Hemming's gossip is worse than

fussing over new things that I don't need. Bonnets are my torment, and

matinées are wearisome, for people whisper and flirt till the music is

spoiled. Making calls is the worst of all; for what pleasure or profit

is there in running from place to place to tell the same polite fibs

over and over again, and listen to scandal that makes you pity or

despise your neighbors. I shall not get up for any of these things."

Prue leaned on the bedpost meditating with an anxious face till a

forlorn hope appeared which caused her to exclaim--

"Mark and I are going to see Geoffrey Moor, this morning, just home from

Switzerland, where his poor sister died, you know. You really ought to

come with us and welcome him, for though you can hardly remember him,

he's been so long away, still, as one of the family, it is a proper

compliment on your part. The drive will do you good, Geoffrey will be

glad to see you, it is a lovely old place, and as you never saw the

inside of the house you cannot complain that you are tired of that yet."

"Yes I can, for it will never seem as it has done, and I can no longer

go where I please now that a master's presence spoils its freedom and

solitude for me. I don't know him, and don't care to, though his name is

so familiar. New people always disappoint me, especially if I've heard

them praised ever since I was born. I shall not get up for any Geoffrey

Moor, so that bait fails."

Sylvia smiled involuntarily at her sister's defeat, but Prue fell back

upon her last resource in times like this. With a determined gesture she

plunged her hand into an abysmal pocket, and from a miscellaneous

collection of treasures selected a tiny vial, presenting it to Sylvia

with a half pleading, half authoritative look and tone.

"I'll leave you in peace if you'll only take a dose of chamomilla. It is

so soothing, that instead of tiring yourself with all manner of fancies,

you'll drop into a quiet sleep, and by noon be ready to get up like a

civilized being. Do take it, dear; just four sugar-plums, and I'm

satisfied."

Sylvia received the bottle with a docile expression; but the next minute

it flew out of the window, to be shivered on the walk below, while she

said, laughing like a wilful creature as she was--

"I have taken it in the only way I ever shall, and the sparrows can try

its soothing effects with me; so be satisfied."

"Very well. I shall send for Dr. Baum, for I'm convinced that you are

going to be ill. I shall say no more, but act as I think proper, because

it's like talking to the wind to reason with you in one of these

perverse fits."

As Prue turned away, Sylvia frowned and called after her--

"Spare yourself the trouble, for Dr. Baum will follow the chamomilla, if

you bring him here. What does he know about health, a fat German,

looking lager beer and talking sauer-kraut? Bring me _bona fide_

sugar-plums and I'll take them; but arsenic, mercury, and nightshade are

not to my taste."

"Would you feel insulted if I ask whether your breakfast is to be sent

up, or kept waiting till you choose to come down?"

Prue looked rigidly calm, but Sylvia knew that she felt hurt, and with

one of the sudden impulses which ruled her the frown melted to a smile,

as drawing her sister down she kissed her in her most loving manner.

"Dear old soul, I'll be good by-and-by, but now I'm tired and cross, so

let me keep out of every one's way and drowse myself into a cheerier

frame of mind. I want nothing but solitude, a draught of water, and a

kiss."

Prue was mollified at once, and after stirring fussily about for several

minutes gave her sister all she asked, and departed to the myriad small

cares that made her happiness. As the door closed, Sylvia sighed a long

sigh of relief, and folding her arms under her head drifted away into

the land of dreams, where ennui is unknown.

All the long summer morning she lay wrapt in sleeping and waking dreams,

forgetful of the world about her, till her brother played the Wedding

March upon her door on his way to lunch. The desire to avenge the sudden

downfall of a lovely castle in the air roused Sylvia, and sent her down

to skirmish with Mark. Before she could say a word, however, Prue began

to talk in a steady stream, for the good soul had a habit of jumbling

news, gossip, private opinions and public affairs into a colloquial

hodge-podge, that was often as trying to the intellects as the risibles

of her hearers.

"Sylvia, we had a charming call, and Geoffrey sent his love to you. I

asked him over to dinner, and we shall dine at six, because then my

father can be with us. I shall have to go to town first, for there are a

dozen things suffering for attention. You can't wear a round hat and

lawn jackets without a particle of set all summer. I want some things

for dinner,--and the carpet must be got. What a lovely one Geoffrey had

in the library! Then I must see if poor Mrs. Beck has had her leg

comfortably off, find out if Freddy Lennox is dead, and order home the

mosquito nettings. Now don't read all the afternoon, and be ready to

receive any one who may come if I should get belated."

The necessity of disposing of a suspended mouthful produced a lull, and

Sylvia seized the moment to ask in a careless way, intended to bring her

brother out upon his favorite topic,--

"How did you find your saint, Mark?"

"The same sunshiny soul as ever, though he has had enough to make him

old and grave before his time. He is just what we need in our

neighborhood, and particularly in our house, for we are a dismal set at

times, and he will do us all a world of good."

"What will become of me, with a pious, prosy, perfect creature eternally

haunting the house and exhorting me on the error of my ways!" cried

Sylvia.

"Don't disturb yourself; he is not likely to take much notice of you;

and it is not for an indolent, freakish midge to scoff at a man whom she

does not know, and couldn't appreciate if she did," was Mark's lofty

reply.

"I rather liked the appearance of the saint, however," said Sylvia, with

an expression of naughty malice, as she began her lunch.

"Why, where did you see him!" exclaimed her brother.

"I went over there yesterday to take a farewell run in the neglected

garden before he came. I knew he was expected, but not that he was here;

and when I saw the house open, I slipped in and peeped wherever I liked.

You are right, Prue; it is a lovely old place."

"Now I know you did something dreadfully unladylike and improper. Put me

out of suspense, I beg of you."

Prue's distressful face and Mark's surprise produced an inspiring effect

upon Sylvia, who continued, with an air of demure satisfaction--

"I strolled about, enjoying myself, till I got into the library, and

there I rummaged, for it was a charming place, and I was happy as only

those are who love books, and feel their influence in the silence of a

room whose finest ornaments they are."

"I hope Moor came in and found you trespassing."

"No, I went out and caught him playing. When I'd stayed as long as I

dared, and borrowed a very interesting old book--

"Sylvia! did you really take one without asking?" cried Prue, looking

almost as much alarmed as if she had stolen the spoons.

"Yes; why not? I can apologize prettily, and it will open the way for

more. I intend to browse over that library for the next six months."

"But it was such a liberty,--so rude, so--- dear, dear; and he as fond

and careful of his books as if they were his children! Well, I wash my

hands of it, and am prepared for anything now!"

Mark enjoyed Sylvia's pranks too much to reprove, so he only laughed

while one sister lamented and the other placidly went on--

"When I had put the book nicely in my pocket, Prue, I walked into the

garden. But before I'd picked a single flower, I heard little Tilly

laugh behind the hedge and some strange voice talking to her. So I

hopped upon a roller to see, and nearly tumbled off again; for there was

a man lying on the grass, with the gardener's children rioting over him.

Will was picking his pockets, and Tilly eating strawberries out of his

hat, often thrusting one into the mouth of her long neighbor, who always

smiled when the little hand came fumbling at his lips. You ought to have

seen the pretty picture, Mark."

"Did he see the interesting picture on your side of the wall?"

"No, I was just thinking what friendly eyes he had, listening to his

pleasant talk with the little folks, and watching how they nestled to

him as if he were a girl, when Tilly looked up and cried, 'I see

Silver!' So I ran away, expecting to have them all come racing after.

But no one appeared, and I only heard a laugh instead of the 'stop

thief' that I deserved."

"If I had time I should convince you of the impropriety of such wild

actions; as I haven't, I can only implore you never to do so again on

Geoffrey's premises," said Prue, rising as the carriage drove round.

"I can safely promise that," answered Sylvia, with a dismal shake of the

head, as she leaned listlessly from the window till her brother and

sister were gone.

At the appointed time Moor entered Mr. Yule's hospitably open door; but

no one came to meet him, and the house was as silent as if nothing human

inhabited it. He divined the cause of this, having met Prue and Mark

going downward some hours before, and saying to himself, "The boat is

late," he disturbed no one, but strolled into the drawing-rooms and

looked about him. Being one of those who seldom find time heavy on their

hands, he amused himself with observing what changes had been made

during his absence. His journey round the apartments was not a long one,

for, coming to an open window, he paused with an expression of mingled

wonder and amusement.

A pile of cushions, pulled from chair and sofa, lay before the long

window, looking very like a newly deserted nest. A warm-hued picture

lifted from the wall stood in a streak of sunshine; a half-cleared leaf

of fruit lay on a taboret, and beside it, with a red stain on its

title-page, appeared the stolen book. At sight of this Moor frowned,

caught up his desecrated darling and put it in his pocket. But as he

took another glance at the various indications of what had evidently

been a solitary revel very much after his own heart, he relented, laid

back the book, and, putting aside the curtain floating in the wind,

looked out into the garden, attracted thither by the sound of a spade.

A lad was at work near by, and wondering what new inmate the house had

gained, the neglected guest waited to catch a glimpse of the unknown

face. A slender boy, in a foreign-looking blouse of grey linen; a white

collar lay over a ribbon at the throat, stout half boots covered a trim

pair of feet, and a broad-brimmed hat flapped low on the forehead.

Whistling softly he dug with active gestures; and, having made the

necessary cavity, set a shrub, filled up the hole, trod it down

scientifically, and then fell back to survey the success of his labors.

But something was amiss, something had been forgotten, for suddenly up

came the shrub, and seizing a wheelbarrow that stood near by, away

rattled the boy round the corner out of sight. Moor smiled at his

impetuosity, and awaited his return with interest, suspecting from

appearances that this was some _protégé_ of Mark's employed as a model

as well as gardener's boy.

Presently up the path came the lad, with head down and steady pace,

trundling a barrow full of richer earth, surmounted by a watering-pot.

Never stopping for breath he fell to work again, enlarged the hole,

flung in the loam, poured in the water, reset the shrub, and when the

last stamp and pat were given performed a little dance of triumph about

it, at the close of which he pulled off his hat and began to fan his

heated face. The action caused the observer to start and look again,

thinking, as he recognized the energetic worker with a smile, "What a

changeful thing it is! haunting one's premises unseen, and stealing

one's books unsuspected; dreaming one half the day and masquerading the

other half. What will happen next? Let us see but not be seen, lest the

boy turn shy and run away before the pretty play is done!"

Holding the curtain between the window and himself, Moor peeped through

the semi-transparent screen, enjoying the little episode immensely.

Sylvia fanned and rested a few minutes, then went up and down among the

flowers, often pausing to break a dead leaf, to brush away some harmful

insect, or lift some struggling plant into the light; moving among them

as if akin to them, and cognizant of their sweet wants. If she had

seemed strong-armed and sturdy as a boy before, now she was tender

fingered as a woman, and went humming here and there like any

happy-hearted bee.

"Curious child!" thought Moor, watching the sunshine glitter on her

uncovered head, and listening to the air she left half sung. "I've a

great desire to step out and see how she will receive me. Not like any

other girl, I fancy."

But, before he could execute his design, the roll of a carriage was

heard in the avenue, and pausing an instant, with head erect like a

startled doe, Sylvia turned and vanished, dropping flowers as she ran.

Mr. Yule, accompanied by his son and daughter, came hurrying in with

greetings, explanations, and apologies, and in a moment the house was

full of a pleasant stir. Steps went up and down, voices echoed through

the rooms, savory odors burst forth from below, and doors swung in the

wind, as if the spell was broken and the sleeping palace had wakened

with a word.

Prue made a hasty toilet and harassed the cook to the verge of

spontaneous combustion, while Mark and his father devoted themselves to

their guest. Just as dinner was announced Sylvia came in, as calm and

cool as if wheelbarrows were myths and linen suits unknown. Moor was

welcomed with a quiet hand-shake, a grave salutation, and a look that

seemed to say, "Wait a little, I take no friends on trust."

All through dinner, though she sat as silent as a well-bred child, she

looked and listened with an expression of keen intelligence that

children do not wear, and sometimes smiled to herself, as if she saw or

heard something that pleased and interested her. When they rose from

table she followed Prue up stairs, quite forgetting the disarray in

which the drawing-room was left. The gentlemen took possession before

either sister returned, and Mark's annoyance found vent in a philippic

against oddities in general and Sylvia in particular; but his father and

friend sat in the cushionless chairs, and pronounced the scene amusingly

novel. Prue appeared in the midst of the laugh, and having discovered

other delinquencies above, her patience was exhausted, and her regrets

found no check in the presence of so old a friend as Moor.

"Something must be done about that child, father, for she is getting

entirely beyond my control. If I attempt to make her study she writes

poetry instead of her exercises, draws caricatures instead of sketching

properly, and bewilders her music teacher by asking questions about

Beethoven and Mendelssohn, as if they were personal friends of his. If I

beg her to take exercise, she rides like an Amazon all over the Island,

grubs in the garden as if for her living, or goes paddling about the bay

till I'm distracted lest the tide should carry her out to sea. She is so

wanting in moderation she gets ill, and when I give her proper medicines

she flings them out of the window, and threatens to send that worthy,

Dr. Baum, after them. Yet she must need something to set her right, for

she is either overflowing with unnatural spirits or melancholy enough

to break one's heart."

"What have you done with the little black sheep of my flock,--not

banished her, I hope?" said Mr. Yule, placidly, ignoring all complaints.

"She is in the garden, attending to some of her disagreeable pets, I

fancy. If you are going out there to smoke, please send her in, Mark; I

want her."

As Mr. Yule was evidently yearning for his after-dinner nap, and Mark

for his cigar, Moor followed his friend, and they stepped through the

window into the garden, now lovely with the fading glow of summer

sunset.

"You must know that this peculiar little sister of mine clings to some

of her childish beliefs and pleasures in spite of Prue's preaching and

my raillery," began Mark, after a refreshing whiff or two. "She is

overflowing with love and good will, but being too shy or too proud to

offer it to her fellow-creatures, she expends it upon the necessitous

inhabitants of earth, air, and water with the most charming

philanthropy. Her dependants are neither beautiful nor very interesting,

nor is she sentimentally enamored of them; but the more ugly and

desolate the creature, the more devoted is she. Look at her now; most

young ladies would have hysterics over any one of those pets of hers."

Moor looked, and thought the group a very pretty one, though a plump

toad sat at Sylvia's feet, a roly-poly caterpillar was walking up her

sleeve, a blind bird chirped on her shoulder, bees buzzed harmlessly

about her head, as if they mistook her for a flower, and in her hand a

little field mouse was breathing its short life away. Any tender-hearted

girl might have stood thus surrounded by helpless things that pity had

endeared, but few would have regarded them with an expression like that

which Sylvia wore. Figure, posture, and employment were so childlike in

their innocent unconsciousness, that the contrast was all the more

strongly marked between them and the sweet thoughtfulness that made her

face singularly attractive with the charm of dawning womanhood. Moor

spoke before Mark could dispose of his smoke.

"This is a great improvement upon the boudoir full of lap-dogs,

worsted-work and novels, Miss Sylvia. May I ask if you feel no

repugnance to some of your patients; or is your charity strong enough to

beautify them all?"

"I dislike many people, but few animals, because however ugly I pity

them, and whatever I pity I am sure to love. It may be silly, but I

think it does me good; and till I am wise enough to help my

fellow-beings, I try to do my duty to these humbler sufferers, and find

them both grateful and affectionate."

There was something very winning in the girl's manner as she spoke,

touching the little creature in her hand almost as tenderly as if it had

been a child. It showed the newcomer another phase of this many-sided

character; and while Sylvia related the histories of her pets at his

request, he was enjoying that finer history which every ingenuous soul

writes on its owner's countenance for gifted eyes to read and love. As

she paused, the little mouse lay stark and still in her gentle hand; and

though they smiled at themselves, both young men felt like boys again as

they helped her scoop a grave among the pansies, owning the beauty of

compassion, though she showed it to them in such a simple shape.

Then Mark delivered his message, and Sylvia went away to receive Prue's

lecture, with outward meekness, but such an absent mind that the words

of wisdom went by her like the wind.

"Now come and take our twilight stroll, while Mark keeps Mr. Moor in the

studio and Prue prepares another exhortation," said Sylvia, as her

father woke, and taking his arm, they paced along the wide piazza that

encircled the whole house.

"Will father do me a little favor?"

"That is all he lives for, dear."

"Then his life is a very successful one;" and the girl folded her other

hand over that already on his arm. Mr. Yule shook his head with a

regretful sigh, but asked benignly--

"What shall I do for my little daughter?"

"Forbid Mark to execute a plot with which he threatens me. He says he

will bring every gentleman he knows (and that is a great many) to the

house, and make it so agreeable that they will keep coming; for he

insists that I need amusement, and nothing will be so entertaining as a

lover or two. Please tell him not to, for I don't want any lovers yet."

"Why not?" asked her father, much amused at her twilight confidences.

"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."