CHAPTER XIX.

SIX MONTHS.

The ensuing half year seemed fuller of duties and events than any Sylvia

had ever known. At first she found it very hard to live her life alone;

for inward solitude oppressed her, and external trials were not wanting.

Only to the few who had a right to know, had the whole trouble been

confided. They were discreet from family pride, if from no tenderer

feeling; but the curious world outside of that small circle was full of

shrewd surmises, of keen eyes for discovering domestic breaches, and

shrill tongues for proclaiming them. Warwick escaped suspicion, being so

little known, so seldom seen; but for the usual nine days matrons and

venerable maids wagged their caps, lifted their hands, and sighed as

they sipped their dish of scandal and of tea--

"Poor young man! I always said how it would be, she was so peculiar. My

dear creature, haven't you heard that Mrs. Moor isn't happy with her

husband, and that he has gone abroad quite broken-hearted?"

Sylvia felt this deeply, but received it as her just punishment, and

bore herself so meekly that public opinion soon turned a somersault, and

the murmur changed to--

"Poor young thing! what could she expect? My dear, I have it from the

best authority, that Mr. Moor has made her miserable for a year, and now

left her broken-hearted." After that, the gossips took up some newer

tragedy, and left Mrs. Moor to mend her heart as best she could, a favor

very gratefully received.

As Hester Prynne seemed to see some trace of her own sin in every bosom,

by the glare of the Scarlet Letter burning on her own; so Sylvia, living

in the shadow of a household grief, found herself detecting various

phases of her own experience in others. She had joined that sad

sisterhood called disappointed women; a larger class than many deem it

to be, though there are few of us who have not seen members of it.

Unhappy wives; mistaken or forsaken lovers; meek souls, who make life a

long penance for the sins of others; gifted creatures kindled into

fitful brilliancy by some inward fire that consumes but cannot warm.

These are the women who fly to convents, write bitter books, sing songs

full of heartbreak, act splendidly the passion they have lost or never

won. Who smile, and try to lead brave uncomplaining lives, but whose

tragic eyes betray them, whose voices, however sweet or gay, contain an

undertone of hopelessness, whose faces sometimes startle one with an

expression which haunts the observer long after it is gone.

Undoubtedly Sylvia would have joined the melancholy chorus, and fallen

to lamenting that ever she was born, had she not possessed a purpose

that took her out of herself and proved her salvation. Faith's words

took root and blossomed. Intent on making her life a blessing, not a

reproach to her father, she lived for him entirely. He had taken her

back to him, as if the burden of her unhappy past should be upon his

shoulders, the expiation of her faults come from him alone. Sylvia

understood this now, and nestled to him so gladly, so confidingly, he

seemed to have found again the daughter he had lost and be almost

content to have her all his own.

How many roofs cover families or friends who live years together, yet

never truly know each other; who love, and long and try to meet, yet

fail to do so till some unexpected emotion or event performs the work.

In the weeks that followed the departure of the friends, Sylvia

discovered this and learned to know her father. No one was so much to

her as he; no one so fully entered into her thoughts and feelings; for

sympathy drew them tenderly together, and sorrow made them equals. As

man and woman they talked, as father and daughter they loved; and the

beautiful relation became their truest solace and support.

Miss Yule both rejoiced at and rebelled against this; was generous, yet

mortally jealous; made no complaint, but grieved in private, and one

fine day amazed her sister by announcing, that, being of no farther use

at home, she had decided to be married. Both Mr. Yule and Sylvia had

desired this event, but hardly dared to expect it in spite of sundry

propitious signs and circumstances.

A certain worthy widower had haunted the house of late, evidently on

matrimonial thoughts intent. A solid gentleman, both physically and

financially speaking; possessed of an ill-kept house, bad servants, and

nine neglected children. This prospect, however alarming to others, had

great charms for Prue; nor was the Reverend Gamaliel Bliss repugnant to

her, being a rubicund, bland personage, much given to fine linen, long

dinners, and short sermons. His third spouse had been suddenly

translated, and though the years of mourning had not yet expired, things

went so hardly with Gamaliel, that he could no longer delay casting his

pastoral eyes over the flock which had already given three lambs to his

fold, in search of a fourth. None appeared whose meek graces were

sufficiently attractive, or whose dowries were sufficiently large.

Meantime the nine olive-branches grew wild, the servants revelled, the

ministerial digestion suffered, the sacred shirts went buttonless, and

their wearer was wellnigh distraught. At this crisis he saw Prudence,

and fell into a way of seating himself before the well-endowed spinster,

with a large cambric pocket-handkerchief upon his knee, a frequent tear

meandering down his florid countenance, and volcanic sighs agitating his

capacious waistcoat as he poured his woes into her ear. Prue had been

deeply touched by these moist appeals, and was not much surprised when

the reverend gentleman went ponderously down upon his knee before her in

the good old-fashioned style which frequent use had endeared to him,

murmuring with an appropriate quotation and a subterranean sob--

"Miss Yule, 'a good wife is a crown to her husband;' be such an one to

me, unworthy as I am, and a mother to my bereaved babes, who suffer for

a tender woman's care."

She merely upset her sewing-table with an appropriate start, but

speedily recovered, and with a maidenly blush murmured in return--

"Dear me, how very unexpected! pray speak to papa,--oh, rise, I beg."

"Call me Gamaliel, and I obey!" gasped the stout lover, divided between

rapture and doubts of his ability to perform the feat alone.

"Gamaliel," sighed Prue, surrendering her hand.

"My Prudence, blessed among women!" responded the blissful Bliss. And

having saluted the fair member, allowed it to help him rise; when, after

a few decorous endearments, he departed to papa, and the bride elect

rushed up to Sylvia with the incoherent announcement--

"My dearest child, I have accepted him! It was such a surprise, though

so touchingly done. I was positively mortified; Maria had swept the room

so ill, his knees were white with lint, and I'm a very happy woman,

bless you, love!"

"Sit down, and tell me all about it," cried her sister. "Don't try to

sew, but cry if you like, and let me pet you, for indeed I am rejoiced."

But Prue preferred to rock violently, and boggle down a seam as the best

quietus for her fluttered nerves, while she told her romance, received

congratulations, and settled a few objections made by Sylvia, who tried

to play the prudent matron.

"I am afraid he is too old for you, my dear."

"Just the age; a man should always be ten years older than his wife. A

woman of thirty-five is in the prime of life, and if she hasn't arrived

at years of discretion then, she never will. Shall I wear pearl-colored

silk and a white bonnet, or just a very handsome travelling dress?"

"Whichever you like. But, Prue, isn't he rather stout, I won't say

corpulent?"

"Sylvia, how can you! Because papa is a shadow, you call a fine, manly

person like Gam--Mr. Bliss, corpulent. I always said I would _not_ marry

an invalid, (Macgregor died of apoplexy last week, I heard, at a small

dinner party; fell forward with his head upon the cheese, and expired

without a groan,) and where can you find a more robust and healthy man

than Mr. Bliss? Not a gray hair, and gout his only complaint. So

aristocratic. You know I've loads of fine old flannel, just the thing

for him."

Sylvia commanded her countenance with difficulty, and went on with her

maternal inquiries.

"He is a personable man, and an excellent one, I believe, yet I should

rather dread the responsibility of nine small children, if I were you."

"They are my chief inducement to the match. Just think of the state

those dears must be in, with only a young governess, and half a dozen

giddy maids to see to them. I long to be among them, and named an early

day, because measles and scarlatina are coming round again, and only

Fanny, and the twins, Gus and Gam, have had either. I know all their

names and ages, dispositions, and characters, and love them like a

mother already. He perfectly adores them, and that is very charming in a

learned man like Mr. Bliss."

"If that is your feeling it will all go well I have no doubt. But,

Prue,--I don't wish to be unkind, dear,--do you quite like the idea of

being the fourth Mrs. Bliss?"

"Bless me, I never thought of that! Poor man, it only shows how much he

must need consolation, and proves how good a husband he must have been.

No, Sylvia, I don't care a particle. I never knew those estimable

ladies, and the memory of them shall not keep me from making Gamaliel

happy if I can. What he goes through now is almost beyond belief. My

child, just think!--the coachman drinks; the cook has tea-parties

whenever she likes, and supports her brother's family out of her

perquisites, as she calls her bare-faced thefts; the house maids romp

with the indoor man, and have endless followers; three old maids set

their caps at him, and that hussy, (I must use a strong expression,)

that hussy of a governess makes love to him before the children. It is

my duty to marry him; I shall do it, and put an end to this fearful

state of things."

Sylvia asked but one more question--

"Now, seriously, do you love him very much? Will he make you as happy as

my dear old girl should be?"

Prue dropped her work, and hiding her face on Sylvia's shoulder,

answered with a plaintive sniff or two, and much real feeling--

"Yes, my dear, I do. I tried to love him, and I did not fail. I shall be

happy, for I shall be busy. I am not needed here any more, and so I am

glad to go away into a home of my own, feeling sure that you can fill my

place; and Maria knows my ways too well to let things go amiss. Now,

kiss me, and smooth my collar, for papa may call me down."

The sisters embraced and cried a little, as women usually find it

necessary to do at such interesting times; then fell to planning the

wedding outfit, and deciding between the "light silk and white bonnet,"

or the "handsome travelling suit."

Miss Yule made a great sacrifice to the proprieties by relinquishing her

desire for a stately wedding, and much to Sylvia's surprise and relief,

insisted that, as the family was then situated, it was best to have no

stir or parade, but to be married quietly at church and slip

unostentatiously out of the old life into the new. Her will was law, and

as the elderly bridegroom felt that there was no time to spare, and the

measles continued to go about seeking whom they might devour, Prue did

not keep him waiting long. "Three weeks is very little time, and nothing

will be properly done, for one must have everything new when one is

married of course, and mantua-makers are but mortal women (exorbitant in

their charges this season, I assure you), so be patient, Gamaliel, and

spend the time in teaching my little ones to love me before I come."

"My dearest creature, I will." And well did the enamored gentleman

perform his promise.

Prue kept hers so punctually that she was married with the bastings in

her wedding gown and two dozen pocket-handkerchiefs still unhemmed;

facts which disturbed her even during the ceremony. A quiet time

throughout; and after a sober feast, a tearful farewell, Mrs. Gamaliel

Bliss departed, leaving a great void behind and carrying joy to the

heart of her spouse, comfort to the souls of the excited nine,

destruction to the "High Life Below Stairs," and order, peace, and

plenty to the realm over which she was to know a long and prosperous

reign.

Hardly had the excitement of this event subsided when another occurred

to keep Sylvia from melancholy and bring an added satisfaction to her

lonely days. Across the sea there came to her a little book, bearing her

name upon its title-page. Quaintly printed, and bound in some foreign

style, plain and unassuming without, but very rich within, for there she

found Warwick's Essays, and between each of these one of the poems from

Moor's Diary. Far away there in Switzerland they had devised this

pleasure for her, and done honor to the woman whom they both loved, by

dedicating to her the first fruits of their lives. "Alpen Rosen" was its

title, and none could have better suited it in Sylvia's eyes, for to her

Warwick was the Alps and Moor the roses. Each had helped the other;

Warwick's rugged prose gathered grace from Moor's poetry, and Moor's

smoothly flowing lines acquired power from Warwick's prose. Each had

given her his best, and very proud was Sylvia of the little book, over

which she pored day after day, living on and in it, eagerly collecting

all praises, resenting all censures, and thinking it the one perfect