CHAPTER III.

AFLOAT.

Sylvia sat sewing in the sunshine with an expression on her face half

mirthful, half melancholy, as she looked backward to the girlhood just

ended, and forward to the womanhood just beginning, for on that

midsummer day, she was eighteen. Voices roused her from her reverie,

and, looking up, she saw her brother approaching with two friends, their

neighbor Geoffrey Moor and his guest Adam Warwick. Her first impulse was

to throw down her work and run to meet them, her second to remember her

new dignity and sit still, awaiting them with well-bred composure, quite

unconscious that the white figure among the vines added a picturesque

finish to the quiet summer scene.

They came up warm and merry, with a brisk row across the bay, and Sylvia

met them with a countenance that gave a heartier welcome than her words,

as she greeted the neighbor cordially, the stranger courteously, and

began to gather up her work when they seated themselves in the bamboo

chairs scattered about the wide piazza.

"You need not disturb yourself," said Mark, "we are only making this a

way-station, _en route_ for the studio. Can you tell me where my

knapsack is to be found? after one of Prue's stowages, nothing short of

a divining-rod will discover it, I'm afraid."

"I know where it is. Are you going away again so soon, Mark?"

"Only a two days' trip up the river with these mates of mine. No,

Sylvia, it can't be done."

"I did not say anything."

"Not in words, but you looked a whole volley of 'Can't I goes?' and I

answered it. No girl but you would dream of such a thing; you hate

picnics, and as this will be a long and rough one, don't you see how

absurd it would be for you to try it?"

"I don't quite see it, Mark, for this would not be an ordinary picnic;

it would be like a little romance to me, and I had rather have it than

any birthday present you could give me. We used to have such happy times

together before we were grown up, I don't like to be so separated now.

But if it is not best, I'm sorry that I even looked a wish."

Sylvia tried to keep both disappointment and desire out of her voice as

she spoke, though a most intense longing had taken possession of her

when she heard of a projected pleasure so entirely after her own heart.

But there was an unconscious reproach in her last words, a mute appeal in

the wistful eyes that looked across the glittering bay to the green

hills beyond. Now, Mark was both fond and proud of the young sister,

who, while he was studying art abroad, had studied nature at home, till

the wayward but winning child had bloomed into a most attractive girl.

He remembered her devotion to him, his late neglect of her, and longed

to make atonement. With elevated eyebrows and inquiring glances, he

turned from one friend to another. Moor nodded and smiled, Warwick

nodded, and sighed privately, and having taken the sense of the meeting

by a new style of vote, Mark suddenly announced--

"You can go if you like, Sylvia."

"What!" cried his sister, starting up with a characteristic impetuosity

that sent her basket tumbling down the steps, and crowned her dozing cat

with Prue's nightcap frills. "Do you mean it, Mark? Wouldn't it spoil

your pleasure, Mr. Moor? Shouldn't I be a trouble, Mr. Warwick? Tell me

frankly, for if I can go I shall be happier than I can express."

The gentlemen smiled at her eagerness, but as they saw the altered face

she turned toward them, each felt already repaid for any loss of freedom

they might experience hereafter, and gave unanimous consent. Upon

receipt of which Sylvia felt inclined to dance about the three and bless

them audibly, but restrained herself, and beamed upon them in a state of

wordless gratitude pleasant to behold. Having given a rash consent, Mark

now thought best to offer a few obstacles to enhance its value and try

his sister's mettle.

"Don't ascend into the air like a young balloon, child, but hear the

conditions upon which you go, for if you fail to work three miracles it

is all over with you. Firstly, the consent of the higher powers, for

father will dread all sorts of dangers--you are such a freakish

creature,--and Prue will be scandalized because trips like this are not the

fashion for young ladies."

"Consider that point settled and go on to the next," said Sylvia, who,

having ruled the house ever since she was born, had no fears of success

with either father or sister.

"Secondly, you must do yourself up in as compact a parcel as possible;

for though you little women are very ornamental on land, you are not

very convenient for transportation by water. Cambric gowns and French

slippers are highly appropriate and agreeable at the present moment,

but must be sacrificed to the stern necessities of the case. You must

make a dowdy of yourself in some usefully short, scant, dingy costume,

which will try the nerves of all beholders, and triumphantly prove that

women were never meant for such excursions."

"Wait five minutes and I'll triumphantly prove to the contrary,"

answered Sylvia, as she ran into the house.

Her five minutes was sufficiently elastic to cover fifteen, for she was

ravaging her wardrobe to effect her purpose and convince her brother,

whose artistic tastes she consulted, with a skill that did her good

service in the end. Rapidly assuming a gray gown, with a jaunty jacket

of the same, she kilted the skirt over one of green, the pedestrian

length of which displayed boots of uncompromising thickness. Over her

shoulder, by a broad ribbon, she slung a prettily wrought pouch, and

ornamented her hat pilgrim-wise with a cockle shell. Then taking her

brother's alpen-stock she crept down, and standing in the door-way

presented a little figure all in gray and green, like the earth she was

going to wander over, and a face that blushed and smiled and shone as

she asked demurely--

"Please, Mark, am I picturesque and convenient enough to go?"

He wheeled about and stared approvingly, forgetting cause in effect till

Warwick began to laugh like a merry bass viol, and Moor joined him,

saying--

"Come, Mark, own that you are conquered, and let us turn our commonplace

voyage into a pleasure pilgrimage, with a lively lady to keep us knights

and gentlemen wherever we are."

"I say no more; only remember, Sylvia, if you get burnt, drowned, or

blown away, I'm not responsible for the damage, and shall have the

satisfaction of saying, 'There, I told you so.'"

"That satisfaction may be mine when I come home quite safe and well,"

replied Sylvia, serenely. "Now for the last condition."

Warwick looked with interest from the sister to the brother; for, being

a solitary man, domestic scenes and relations possessed the charm of

novelty to him.

"Thirdly, you are not to carry a boat-load of luggage, cloaks, pillows,

silver forks, or a dozen napkins, but are to fare as we fare, sleeping

in hammocks, barns, or on the bare ground, without shrieking at bats or

bewailing the want of mosquito netting; eating when, where, and what is

most convenient, and facing all kinds of weather regardless of

complexion, dishevelment, and fatigue. If you can promise all this, be

here loaded and ready to go off at six o'clock to-morrow morning."

After which cheerful picture of the joys to come, Mark marched away to

his studio, taking his friends with him.

Sylvia worked the three miracles, and at half past five, A. M. was

discovered sitting on the piazza, with her hammock rolled into a twine

sausage at her feet, her hat firmly tied on, her scrip packed, and her

staff in her hand. "Waiting till called for," she said, as her brother

passed her, late and yawning as usual. As the clock struck six the

carriage drove round, and Moor and Warwick came up the avenue in

nautical array. Then arose a delightful clamor of voices, slamming of

doors, hurrying of feet and frequent peals of laughter; for every one

was in holiday spirits, and the morning seemed made for pleasuring.

Mr. Yule regarded the voyagers with an aspect as benign as the summer

sky overhead; Prue ran to and fro pouring forth a stream of counsels,

warnings, and predictions; men and maids gathered on the lawn or hung

out of upper windows; and even old Hecate, the cat, was seen chasing

imaginary rats and mice in the grass till her yellow eyes glared with

excitement. "All in," was announced at last, and as the carriage rolled

away its occupants looked at one another with faces of blithe

satisfaction that their pilgrimage was so auspiciously begun.

A mile or more up the river the large, newly-painted boat awaited them.

The embarkation was a speedy one, for the cargo was soon stowed in

lockers and under seats, Sylvia forwarded to her place in the bow; Mark,

as commander of the craft, took the helm; Moor and Warwick, as crew, sat

waiting orders; and Hugh, the coachman, stood ready to push off at word

of command. Presently it came, a strong hand sent them rustling through

the flags, down dropped the uplifted oars, and with a farewell cheer

from a group upon the shore the Kelpie glided out into the stream.

Sylvia, too full of genuine content to talk, sat listening to the

musical dip of well-pulled oars, watching the green banks on either

side, dabbling her hands in the eddies as they rippled by, and singing

to the wind, as cheerful and serene as the river that gave her back a

smiling image of herself. What her companions talked of she neither

heard nor cared to know, for she was looking at the great picture-book

that always lies ready for the turning of the youngest or the oldest

hands; was receiving the welcome of the playmates she best loved, and

was silently yielding herself to the power which works all wonders with

its benignant magic. Hour after hour she journeyed along that fluent

road. Under bridges where early fishers lifted up their lines to let

them through; past gardens tilled by unskilful townsmen who harvested an

hour of strength to pay the daily tax the city levied on them; past

honeymoon cottages where young wives walked with young husbands in the

dew, or great houses shut against the morning. Lovers came floating down

the stream with masterless rudder and trailing oars. College race-boats

shot by with modern Greek choruses in full blast and the frankest

criticisms from their scientific crews. Fathers went rowing to and fro

with argosies of pretty children, who gave them gay good morrows.

Sometimes they met fanciful nutshells manned by merry girls, who made

for shore at sight of them with most erratic movements and novel

commands included in their Art of Navigation. Now and then some poet or

philosopher went musing by, fishing for facts or fictions, where other

men catch pickerel or perch.

All manner of sights and sounds greeted Sylvia, and she felt as if she

were watching a Panorama painted in water colors by an artist who had

breathed into his work the breath of life and given each figure power to

play its part. Never had human faces looked so lovely to her eye, for

morning beautified the plainest with its ruddy kiss; never had human

voices sounded so musical to her ear, for daily cares had not yet

brought discord to the instruments tuned by sleep and touched by

sunshine into pleasant sound; never had the whole race seemed so near

and dear to her, for she was unconsciously pledging all she met in that

genuine Elixir Vitæ which sets the coldest blood aglow and makes the

whole world kin; never had she felt so truly her happiest self, for of

all the costlier pleasures she had known not one had been so congenial

as this, as she rippled farther and farther up the stream and seemed to

float into a world whose airs brought only health and peace. Her

comrades wisely left her to her thoughts, a smiling Silence for their

figure-head, and none among them but found the day fairer and felt

himself fitter to enjoy it for the innocent companionship of maidenhood

and a happy heart.

At noon they dropped anchor under a wide-spreading oak that stood on the

river's edge, a green tent for wanderers like themselves; there they ate

their first meal spread among white clovers, with a pair of squirrels

staring at them as curiously as human spectators ever watched royalty at

dinner, while several meek cows courteously left their guests the shade

and went away to dine at a side-table spread in the sun. They spent an

hour or two talking or drowsing luxuriously on the grass; then the

springing up of a fresh breeze roused them all, and weighing anchor they

set sail for another port.

Now Sylvia saw new pictures, for, leaving all traces of the city behind

them, they went swiftly countryward. Sometimes by hayfields, each an

idyl in itself, with white-sleeved mowers all arow; the pleasant sound

of whetted scythes; great loads rumbling up lanes, with brown-faced

children shouting atop; rosy girls raising fragrant winrows or bringing

water for thirsty sweethearts leaning on their rakes. Often they saw

ancient farm-houses with mossy roofs, and long well-sweeps suggestive of

fresh draughts, and the drip of brimming pitchers; orchards and

cornfields rustling on either hand, and grandmotherly caps at the narrow

windows, or stout matrons tending babies in the doorway as they watched

smaller selves playing keep house under the "laylocks" by the wall.

Villages, like white flocks, slept on the hillsides; martinbox

schoolhouses appeared here and there, astir with busy voices, alive

with wistful eyes; and more than once they came upon little mermen

bathing, who dived with sudden splashes, like a squad of turtles

tumbling off a sunny rock.

Then they went floating under vernal arches, where a murmurous rustle

seemed to whisper, "Stay!" along shadowless sweeps, where the blue

turned to gold and dazzled with its unsteady shimmer; passed islands so

full of birds they seemed green cages floating in the sun, or doubled

capes that opened long vistas of light and shade, through which they

sailed into the pleasant land where summer reigned supreme. To Sylvia it

seemed as if the inhabitants of these solitudes had flocked down to the

shore to greet her as she came. Fleets of lilies unfurled their sails on

either hand, and cardinal flowers waved their scarlet flags among the

green. The sagittaria lifted its blue spears from arrowy leaves; wild

roses smiled at her with blooming faces; meadow lilies rang their

flame-colored bells; and clematis and ivy hung garlands everywhere, as

if hers were a floral progress, and each came to do her honor.

Her neighbors kept up a flow of conversation as steady as the river's,

and Sylvia listened now. Insensibly the changeful scenes before them

recalled others, and in the friendly atmosphere that surrounded them

these reminiscences found free expression. Each of the three had been

fortunate in seeing much of foreign life; each had seen a different

phase of it, and all were young enough to be still enthusiastic,

accomplished enough to serve up their recollections with taste and

skill, and give Sylvia glimpses of the world through spectacles

sufficiently rose-colored to lend it the warmth which even Truth allows

to her sister Romance.

The wind served them till sunset, then the sail was lowered and the

rowers took to their oars. Sylvia demanded her turn, and wrestled with

one big oar while Warwick sat behind and did the work. Having blistered

her hands and given herself as fine a color as any on her brother's

palette, she professed herself satisfied, and went back to her seat to

watch the evening-red transfigure earth and sky, making the river and

its banks a more royal pageant than splendor-loving Elizabeth ever saw

along the Thames.

Anxious to reach a certain point, they rowed on into the twilight,

growing stiller and stiller as the deepening hush seemed to hint that

Nature was at her prayers. Slowly the Kelpie floated along the shadowy

way, and as the shores grew dim, the river dark with leaning hemlocks or

an overhanging cliff, Sylvia felt as if she were making the last voyage

across that fathomless stream where a pale boatman plies and many go

lamenting.

The long silence was broken first by Moor's voice, saying--

"Adam, sing."

If the influences of the hour had calmed Mark, touched Sylvia, and made

Moor long for music, they had also softened Warwick. Leaning on his oar

he lent the music of a mellow voice to the words of a German Volkslied,

and launched a fleet of echoes such as any tuneful vintager might have

sent floating down the Rhine. Sylvia was no weeper, but as she listened,

all the day's happiness which had been pent up in her heart found vent

in sudden tears, that streamed down noiseless and refreshing as a warm

south rain. Why they came she could not tell, for neither song nor

singer possessed the power to win so rare a tribute, and at another

time, she would have restrained all visible expression of this

indefinable yet sweet emotion. Mark and Moor had joined in the burden of

the song, and when that was done took up another; but Sylvia only sat

and let her tears flow while they would, singing at heart, though her

eyes were full and her cheeks wet faster than the wind could kiss them

dry.

After frequent peerings and tackings here and there, Mark at last

discovered the haven he desired, and with much rattling of oars,

clanking of chains, and splashing of impetuous boots, a landing was

effected, and Sylvia found herself standing on a green bank with her

hammock in her arms and much wonderment in her mind whether the

nocturnal experiences in store for her would prove as agreeable as the

daylight ones had been. Mark and Moor unloaded the boat and prospected

for an eligible sleeping-place. Warwick, being an old campaigner, set

about building a fire, and the girl began her sylvan housekeeping. The

scene rapidly brightened into light and color as the blaze sprang up,

showing the little kettle slung gipsywise on forked sticks, and the

supper prettily set forth in a leafy table-service on a smooth, flat

stone. Soon four pairs of wet feet surrounded the fire; an agreeable

oblivion of _meum_ and _tuum_ concerning plates, knives, and cups did

away with etiquette, and every one was in a comfortable state of

weariness, which rendered the thought of bed so pleasant that they

deferred their enjoyment of the reality, as children keep the best bite

till the last.

"What are you thinking of here all by yourself?" asked Mark, coming to

lounge on his sister's plaid, which she had spread somewhat apart from

the others, and where she sat watching the group before her with a

dreamy aspect.

"I was watching your two friends. See what a fine study they make with

the red flicker of the fire on their faces and the background of dark

pines behind them."

They did make a fine study, for both were goodly men yet utterly unlike,

one being of the heroic type, the other of the poetic. Warwick was a

head taller than his tall friend, broad-shouldered, strong-limbed, and

bronzed by wind and weather. A massive head, covered with rings of ruddy

brown hair, gray eyes, that seemed to pierce through all disguises, an

eminent nose, and a beard like one of Mark's stout saints. Power,

intellect, and courage were stamped on face and figure, making him the

manliest man that Sylvia had ever seen. He leaned against the stone, yet

nothing could have been less reposeful than his attitude, for the native

unrest of the man asserted itself in spite of weariness or any soothing

influence of time or place. Moor was much slighter, and betrayed in

every gesture the unconscious grace of the gentleman born. A most

attractive face, with its broad brow, serene eyes, and the cordial smile

about the mouth. A sweet, strong nature, one would say, which, having

used life well had learned the secret of a true success. Inward

tranquillity seemed his, and it was plain to see that no wave of sound,

no wandering breath, no glimpse of color, no hint of night or nature was

without its charm and its significance for him.

"Tell me about that man, Mark. I have heard you speak of him since you

came home, but supposing he was some blowzy artist, I never cared to ask

about him. Now I've seen him, I want to know more," said Sylvia, as her

brother laid himself down after an approving glance at the group

opposite.

"I met him in Munich, when I first went abroad, and since then we have

often come upon each other in our wanderings. He never writes, but goes

and comes intent upon his own affairs; yet one never can forget him, and

is always glad to feel the grip of his hand again, it seems to put such

life and courage into one."

"Is he good?" asked Sylvia, womanlike, beginning with the morals.

"Violently virtuous. He is a masterful soul, bent on living out his

beliefs and aspirations at any cost. Much given to denunciation of

wrong-doing everywhere, and eager to execute justice upon all offenders

high or low. Yet he possesses great nobility of character, great

audacity of mind, and leads a life of the sternest integrity."

"Is he rich?"

"In his own eyes, because he makes his wants so few."

"Is he married?"

"No; he has no family, and not many friends, for he says what he means

in the bluntest English, and few stand the test his sincerity applies."

"What does he do in the world?"

"Studies it, as we do books; dives into everything, analyzes character,

and builds up his own with materials which will last. If that's not

genius it's something better."

"Then he will do much good and be famous, won't he?"

"Great good to many, but never will be famous, I fear. He is too fierce

an iconoclast to suit the old party, too individual a reformer to join

the new, and being born a century too soon must bide his time, or play

out his part before stage and audience are ready for him."

"Is he learned?"

"Very, in uncommon sorts of wisdom; left college after a year of it,

because it could not give him what he wanted, and taking the world for

his university, life for his tutor, says he shall not graduate till his

term ends with days."

"I know I shall like him very much."

"I hope so, for my sake. He is a grand man in the rough, and an

excellent tonic for those who have courage to try him."

Sylvia was silent, thinking over all she had just heard and finding much

to interest her in it, because, to her imaginative and enthusiastic

nature, there was something irresistibly attractive in the strong,

solitary, self-reliant man. Mark watched her for a moment, then asked

with lazy curiosity--

"How do you like this other friend of mine?"

"He went away when I was such a child that since he came back I've had

to begin again; but if I like him at the end of another month as much as

I do now, I shall try to make your friend my friend, because I need such

an one very much."

Mark laughed at the innocent frankness of his sister's speech but took

it as she meant it, and answered soberly--

"Better leave Platonics till you're forty. Though Moor is twelve years

older than yourself he is a young man still, and you are grown a very

captivating little woman."

Sylvia looked both scornful and indignant.

"You need have no fears. There is such a thing as true and simple

friendship between men and women, and if I can find no one of my own sex

who can give me the help and happiness I want, why may I not look for it

anywhere and accept it in whatever shape it comes?"

"You may, my dear, and I'll lend a hand with all my heart, but you must

be willing to take the consequences in whatever shape _they_ come," said

Mark, not ill pleased with the prospect his fancy conjured up.

"I will," replied Sylvia loftily, and fate took her at her word.

Presently some one suggested bed, and the proposition was unanimously

accepted.

"Where are you going to hang me?" asked Sylvia, as she laid hold of her

hammock and looked about her with nearly as much interest as if her

suspension was to be of the perpendicular order.

"You are not to be swung up in a tree to-night but laid like a ghost,

and requested not to walk till morning. There is an unused barn close

by, so we shall have a roof over us for one night longer," answered

Mark, playing chamberlain while the others remained to quench the fire

and secure the larder.

An early moon lighted Sylvia to bed, and when shown her half the barn,

which, as she was a Marine, was very properly the bay, Mark explained,

she scouted the idea of being nervous or timid in such rude quarters,

made herself a cosy nest and bade her brother a merry good night.

More weary than she would confess, Sylvia fell asleep at once, despite

the novelty of her situation and the noises that fill a summer night

with fitful rustlings and tones. How long she slept she did not know,

but woke suddenly and sat erect with that curious thrill which sometimes

startles one out of deepest slumber, and is often the forerunner of some

dread or danger. She felt this hot tingle through blood and nerves, and

stared about her thinking of fire. But everything was dark and still,

and after waiting a few moments she decided that her nest had been too

warm, for her temples throbbed and her cheeks were feverish with the

close air of the barn half filled with new-made hay.

Creeping up a fragrant slope she spread her plaid again and lay down

where a cool breath flowed through wide chinks in the wall. Sleep was

slowly returning when the rustle of footsteps scared it quite away and

set her heart beating fast, for they came toward the new couch she had

chosen. Holding her breath she listened. The quiet tread drew nearer and

nearer till it paused within a yard of her, then some one seemed to

throw themselves down, sigh heavily a few times and grow still as if

falling asleep.

"It is Mark," thought Sylvia, and whispered his name, but no one

answered, and from the other corner of the barn she heard her brother

muttering in his sleep. Who was it, then? Mark had said there were no

cattle near, she was sure neither of her comrades had left their

bivouac, for there was her brother talking as usual in his dreams; some

one seemed restless and turned often with decided motion, that was

Warwick, she thought, while the quietest sleeper of the three betrayed

his presence by laughing once with the low-toned merriment she

recognized as Moor's. These discoveries left her a prey to visions of

grimy strollers, maudlin farm-servants, and infectious emigrants in

dismal array. A strong desire to cry out possessed her for a moment, but

was checked; for with all her sensitiveness Sylvia had much common

sense, and that spirit which hates to be conquered even by a natural

fear. She remembered her scornful repudiation of the charge of timidity,

and the endless jokes she would have to undergo if her mysterious

neighbor should prove some harmless wanderer or an imaginary terror of

her own, so she held her peace, thinking valiantly as the drops gathered

on her forehead, and every sense grew painfully alert--

"I'll not call if my hair turns gray with fright, and I find myself an

idiot to-morrow. I told them to try me, and I won't be found wanting at

the first alarm. I'll be still, if the thing does not touch me till

dawn, when I shall know how to act at once, and so save myself from

ridicule at the cost of a wakeful night."

Holding fast to this resolve Sylvia lay motionless; listening to the

cricket's chirp without, and taking uncomfortable notes of the state of

things within, for the new comer stirred heavily, sighed long and

deeply, and seemed to wake often, like one too sad or weary to rest. She

would have been wise to have screamed her scream and had the rout over,

for she tormented herself with the ingenuity of a lively fancy, and

suffered more from her own terrors than at the discovery of a dozen

vampires. Every tale of _diablerie_ she had ever heard came most

inopportunely to haunt her now, and though she felt their folly she

could not free herself from their dominion. She wondered till she could

wonder no longer what the morning would show her. She tried to calculate

in how many springs she could reach and fly over the low partition which

separated her from her sleeping body-guard. She wished with all her

heart that she had stayed in her nest which was nearer the door, and

watched for dawn with eyes that ached to see the light.

In the midst of these distressful sensations the far-off crow of some

vigilant chanticleer assured her that the short summer night was wearing

away and relief was at hand. This comfortable conviction had so good an

effect that she lapsed into what seemed a moment's oblivion, but was in

fact an hour's restless sleep, for when her eyes unclosed again the

first red streaks were visible in the east, and a dim light found its

way into the barn through the great door which had been left ajar for

air. An instant Sylvia lay collecting herself, then rose on her arm,

looked resolutely behind her, stared with round eyes a moment, and

dropped down again, laughing with a merriment, which coming on the heels

of her long alarm was rather hysterical. All she saw was a little

soft-eyed Alderney, which lifted its stag-like head, and regarded her

with a confiding aspect that won her pardon for its innocent offence.

Through the relief of both mind and body which she experienced in no

small degree, the first thought that came was a thankful "what a mercy I

didn't call Mark, for I should never have heard the last of this;" and

having fought her fears alone she enjoyed her success alone, and

girl-like resolved to say nothing of her first night's adventures.

Gathering herself up she crept nearer and caressed her late terror,

which stretched its neck toward her with a comfortable sound, and

munched her shawl like a cosset lamb. But before this new friendship was

many minutes old, Sylvia's heavy lids fell together, her head dropped

lower and lower, her hand lay still on the dappled neck, and with a long

sigh of weariness she dropped back upon the hay, leaving little Alderney

to watch over her much more tranquilly than she had watched over it.