CHAPTER VI.

WHY SYLVIA WAS HAPPY.

"I never did understand you, Sylvia; and this last month you have been a

perfect enigma to me."

With rocking-chair in full action, suspended needle and thoughtful

expression, Miss Yule had watched her sister for ten minutes as she sat

with her work at her feet, her hands folded on her lap, and her eyes

dreamily fixed on vacancy.

"I always was to myself, Prue, and am more so than ever now," answered

Sylvia, waking out of her reverie with a smile that proved it had been a

pleasant one.

"There must be some reason for this great change in you. Come, tell me,

dear."

With a motherly gesture Miss Yule drew the girl to her knee, brushed

back the bright hair, and looked into the face so freely turned to hers.

Through all the years they had been together, the elder sister had never

seen before the expression which the younger's face now wore. A vague

expectancy sat in her eyes, some nameless content sweetened her smile, a

beautiful repose replaced the varying enthusiasm, listlessness, and

melancholy that used to haunt her countenance and make it such a study.

Miss Yule could not read the secret of the change, yet felt its novel

charm; Sylvia could not explain it, though penetrated by its power; and

for a moment the sisters looked into each other's faces, wondering why

each seemed altered. Then Prue, who never wasted much time in

speculations of any kind, shook her head, and repeated--

"I don't understand it, but it must be right, because you are so

improved in every way. Ever since that wild trip up the river you have

been growing quiet, lovable, and cheerful, and I really begin to hope

that you will become like other people."

"I only know that I am happy, Prue. Why it is so I cannot tell; but now

I seldom have the old dissatisfied and restless feeling. Everything

looks pleasant to me, every one seems kind, and life begins to be both

sweet and earnest. It is only one of my moods, I suppose; but I am

grateful for it, and pray that it may last."

So earnestly she spoke, so cheerfully she smiled, that Miss Yule blessed

the mood and echoed Sylvia's wish, exclaiming in the next breath, with a

sudden inspiration--

"My, dear, I've got it! You are growing up."

"I think I am. You tried to make a woman of me at sixteen, but it was

impossible until the right time came. That wild trip up the river, as

you call it, did more for me than I can ever tell, and when I seemed

most like a child I was learning to be a woman."

"Well, my dear, go on as you've begun, and I shall be more than

satisfied. What merry-making is on foot to-night? Mark and these friends

of his keep you in constant motion with their riding, rowing, and

rambling excursions, and if it did not agree with you so excellently, I

really should like a little quiet after a month of bustle."

"They are only coming up as usual, and that reminds me that I must go

and dress."

"There is another new change, Sylvia. You never used to care what you

wore or how you looked, no matter how much time and trouble I expended

on you and your wardrobe. Now you do care, and it does my heart good to

see you always charmingly dressed, and looking your prettiest," said

Miss Yule, with the satisfaction of a woman who heartily believed in

costume as well as all the other elegances and proprieties of

fashionable life.

"Am I ever that, Prue?" asked Sylvia, pausing on the threshold with a

shy yet wistful glance.

"Ever what, dear?"

"Pretty?"

"Always so to me; and now I think every one finds you very attractive

because you try to please, and seem to succeed delightfully."

Sylvia had never asked that question before, had never seemed to know or

care, and could not have chosen a more auspicious moment for her frank

inquiry than the present. The answer seemed to satisfy her, and smiling

at some blithe anticipation of her own, she went away to make a lampless

toilet in the dusk, which proved how slight a hold the feminine passion

for making one's self pretty had yet taken upon her.

The September moon was up and shining clearly over garden, lawn, and

sea, when the sound of voices called her down. At the stair-foot she

paused with a disappointed air, for only one hat lay on the hall table,

and a glance showed her only one guest with Mark and Prue. She strolled

irresolutely through the breezy hall, looked out at either open door,

sung a little to herself, but broke off in the middle of a line, and, as

if following a sudden impulse, went out into the mellow moonlight,

forgetful of uncovered head or dewy damage to the white hem of her

gown. Half way down the avenue she paused before a shady nook, and

looked in. The evergreens that enclosed it made the seat doubly dark to

eyes inured to the outer light, and seeing a familiar seeming figure

sitting with its head upon its hand, Sylvia leaned in, saying, with a

daughterly caress--

"Why, what is my romantic father doing here?"

The sense of touch was quicker than that of sight, and with an

exclamation of surprise she had drawn back before Warwick replied--

"It is not the old man, but the young one, who is romancing here."

"I beg your pardon! We have been waiting for you; what thought is so

charming that you forgot us all?"

Sylvia was a little startled, else she would scarcely have asked so

plain a question. But Warwick often asked much blunter ones, always told

the naked truth without prevarication or delay, and straightway

answered--

"The thought of the woman whom I hope to make my wife."

Sylvia stood silent for a moment as if intent on fastening in her hair

the delicate spray of hop-bells just gathered from the vine that formed

a leafy frame for the graceful picture which she made standing, with

uplifted arms, behind the arch. When she spoke it was to say, as she

moved on toward the house--

"It is too beautiful a night to stay in doors, but Prue is waiting for

me, and Mark wants to plan with you about our ride to-morrow. Shall we

go together?"

She beckoned, and he came out of the shadow showing her an expression

which she had never seen before. His face was flushed, his eye unquiet,

his manner eager yet restrained. She had seen him intellectually

excited many times; never emotionally till now. Something wayward, yet

warm, in this new mood attracted her, because so like her own. But with

a tact as native as her sympathy she showed no sign of this, except in

the attentive look she fixed upon him as the moonlight bathed him in its

splendor. He met the glance, seemed to interpret it aright, but did not

answer its unconscious inquiry; for pausing, he asked abruptly--

"Should a rash promise be considered binding when it threatens to

destroy one's peace?"

Sylvia pondered an instant before she answered slowly--

"If the promise was freely given, no sin committed in its keeping, and

no peace troubled but one's own, I should say yes."

Still pausing, he looked down at her with that unquiet glance as she

looked up with her steady one, and with the same anxiety he asked--

"Would you keep such a promise inviolate, even though it might cost you

the sacrifice of something dearer to you than your life?"

She thought again, and again looked up, answering with the sincerity

that he had taught her--

"It might be unwise, but if the sacrifice was not one of principle or

something that I ought to love more than life, I think I should keep the

promise as religiously as an Indian keeps a vow of vengeance."

As she spoke, some recollection seemed to strike Warwick like a sudden

stab. The flush died out of his face, the fire from his eyes, and an

almost grim composure fell upon him as he said low to himself, with a

forward step as if eager to leave some pain behind him--

"It is better so; for his sake I will leave all to time."

Sylvia saw his lips move, but caught no sound till he said with a

gravity that was almost gloom--

"I think you would; therefore, beware how you bind yourself with such

verbal bonds. Let us go in."

They went; Warwick to the drawing-room, but Sylvia ran up stairs for the

Berlin wools, which in spite of heat and the sure staining of fingers

were to be wound that night according to contract, for she kept a small

promise as sacredly as she would have done a greater one.

"What have you been doing to give yourself such an uplifted expression,

Sylvia?" said Mark, as she came in.

"Feasting my eyes on lovely colors. Does not that look like a folded

rainbow?" she answered, laying her brilliant burden on the table where

Warwick sat examining a broken reel, and Prue was absorbed in getting a

carriage blanket under way.

"Come, Sylvia, I shall soon be ready for the first shade," she said,

clashing her formidable needles. "Is that past mending, Mr. Warwick?"

"Yes, without better tools than a knife, two pins, and a bodkin."

"Then you must put the skeins on a chair, Sylvia. Try not to tangle

them, and spread your handkerchief in your lap, for that maroon color

will stain sadly. Now don't speak to me, for I must count my stitches."

Sylvia began to wind the wools with a swift dexterity as natural to her

hands as certain little graces of gesture which made their motions

pleasant to watch. Warwick never rummaged work-baskets, gossipped, or

paid compliments for want of something to do. If no little task appeared

for them, he kept his hands out of mischief, and if nothing occurred to

make words agreeable or necessary, he proved that he understood the art

of silence, and sat with those vigilant eyes of his fixed upon whatever

object attracted them. Just then the object was a bright band slipping

round the chair-back, with a rapidity that soon produced a snarl, but no

help till patient fingers had smoothed and wound it up. Then, with the

look of one who says to himself, "I will!" he turned, planted himself

squarely before Sylvia, and held out his hands.

"Here is a reel that will neither tangle nor break your skeins, will you

use it?"

"Yes, thank you, and in return I'll wind your color first."

"Which is my color?"

"This fine scarlet, strong, enduring, and martial, like yourself."

"You are right."

"I thought so; Mr. Moor prefers blue, and I violet."

"Blue and red make violet," called Mark from his corner, catching the

word "color," though busy with a sketch for a certain fair Jessie Hope.

Moor was with Mr. Yule in his study, Prue mentally wrapped in her

blanket, and when Sylvia was drawn into an artistic controversy with her

brother, Warwick fell into deep thought.

[Illustration]

With the pride of a proud man once deceived, he had barred his heart

against womankind, resolving that no second defeat should oppress him

with that distrust of self and others, which is harder for a generous

nature to bear, than the pain of its own wound. He had yet to learn that

the shadow of love suggests its light, and that they who have been

cheated of the food, without which none can truly live, long for it with

redoubled hunger. Of late he had been discovering this, for a

craving, stronger than his own strong will, possessed him. He tried to

disbelieve and silence it; attacked it with reason, starved it with

neglect, and chilled it with contempt. But when he fancied it was dead,

the longing rose again, and with a clamorous cry, undid his work. For

the first time, this free spirit felt the master's hand, confessed a

need its own power could not supply, and saw that no man can live alone

on even the highest aspirations without suffering for the vital warmth

of the affections. A month ago he would have disdained the hope that now

was so dear to him. But imperceptibly the influences of domestic life

had tamed and won him. Solitude looked barren, vagrancy had lost its

charm; his life seemed cold and bare, for, though devoted to noble aims,

it was wanting in the social sacrifices, cares, and joys, that foster

charity, and sweeten character. An impetuous desire to enjoy the rich

experience which did so much for others, came over him to-night as it

had often done while sharing the delights of this home, where he had

made so long a pause. But with the desire came a memory that restrained

him better than his promise. He saw what others had not yet discovered,

and obeying the code of honor which governs a true gentleman, loved his

friend better than himself and held his peace.

The last skein came, and as she wound it, Sylvia's glance involuntarily

rose from the strong hands to the face above them, and lingered there,

for the penetrating gaze was averted, and an unwonted mildness inspired

confidence as its usual expression of power commanded respect. His

silence troubled her, and with curious yet respectful scrutiny, she

studied his face as she had never done before. She found it full of a

noble gravity and kindliness; candor and courage spoke in the lines of

the mouth, benevolence and intellect in the broad arch of the forehead,

ardor and energy in the fire of the eye, and on every lineament the

stamp of that genuine manhood, which no art can counterfeit. Intent upon

discovering the secret of the mastery he exerted over all who approached

him, Sylvia had quite forgotten herself, when suddenly Warwick's eyes

were fixed full upon her own. What spell lay in them she could not tell,

for human eye had never shed such sudden summer over her. Admiration was

not in it, for it did not agitate; nor audacity, for it did not abash;

but something that thrilled warm through blood and nerves, that filled

her with a glad submission to some power, absolute yet tender, and

caused her to turn her innocent face freely to his gaze, letting him

read therein a sentiment for which she had not yet found a name.

It lasted but a moment; yet in that moment, each saw the other's heart,

and each turned a new page in the romance of their lives. Sylvia's eyes

fell first, but no blush followed, no sign of anger or perplexity, only

a thoughtful silence, which continued till the last violet thread

dropped from his hands, and she said almost regretfully--

"This is the end."

"Yes, this is the end."

As he echoed the words Warwick rose suddenly and went to talk with Mark,

whose sketch was done. Sylvia sat a moment as if quite forgetful where

she was, so absorbing was some thought or emotion. Presently she seemed

to glow and kindle with an inward fire; over face and forehead rushed an

impetuous color, her eyes shone, and her lips trembled with the

fluttering of her breath. Then a panic appeared to seize her, for,

stealing noiselessly away, she hurried to her room, and covering up her

face as if to hide it even from herself, whispered to that full heart

of hers, with quick coming tears that belied the words--

"Now I know why I am happy!"

How long she lay there weeping and smiling in the moonlight she never

knew. Her sister's call broke in upon the first love dream she had ever

woven for herself, and she went down to bid the friends good night. The

hall was only lighted by the moon, and in the dimness of the shadow

where she stood, no one saw traces of that midsummer shower on her

cheeks, or detected the soft trouble in her eye, but for the first time

Moor felt her hand tremble in his own and welcomed the propitious omen.

Being an old-fashioned gentleman, Mr. Yule preserved in his family the

pleasant custom of hand-shaking, which gives such heartiness to the

morning and evening greetings of a household. Moor liked and adopted it;

Warwick had never done so, but that night he gave a hand to Prue and

Mark with his most cordial expression, and Sylvia felt both her own

taken in a warm lingering grasp, although he only said "good by!" Then

they went; but while the three paused at the door held by the beauty of

the night, back to them on the wings of the wind came Warwick's voice

singing the song that Sylvia loved. All down the avenue, and far along

the winding road they traced his progress, till the strain died in the

distance leaving only the echo of the song to link them to the singer.

When evening came again Sylvia waited on the lawn to have the meeting

over in the dark, for love made her very shy. But Moor came alone, and

his first words were,

"Comfort me, Sylvia, Adam is gone. He went as unexpectedly as he came,

and when I woke this morning a note lay at my door, but my friend was

not there."

She murmured some stereotyped regret, but there was a sharp pain at her

heart till there came to her the remembrance of Warwick's question,

uttered on the spot where she was standing. Some solace she must have,

and clinging to this one thought hopefully within herself--

"He has made some promise, has gone to get released from it, and will

come back to say what he looked last night. He is so true I will believe

in him and wait."

She did wait, but week after week went by and Warwick did not come.