CHAPTER VII.

DULL BUT NECESSARY.

Whoever cares only for incident and action in a book had better skip

this chapter and read on; but those who take an interest in the

delineation of character will find the key to Sylvia's here.

John Yule might have been a poet, painter, or philanthropist, for Heaven

had endowed him with fine gifts; he was a prosperous merchant with no

ambition but to leave a fortune to his children and live down the memory

of a bitter past. On the threshold of his life he stumbled and fell; for

as he paused there, waiting for the first step to appear, Providence

tested and found him wanting. On one side, Poverty offered the aspiring

youth her meagre hand; but he was not wise enough to see the virtues

hidden under her hard aspect, nor brave enough to learn the stern yet

salutary lessons which labor, necessity, and patience teach, giving to

those who serve and suffer the true success. On the other hand Opulence

allured him with her many baits, and, silencing the voice of conscience,

he yielded to temptation and wrecked his nobler self.

A loveless marriage was the price he paid for his ambition; not a costly

one, he thought, till time taught him that whosoever mars the integrity

of his own soul by transgressing the great laws of life, even by so much

as a hair's breadth, entails upon himself and heirs the inevitable

retribution which proves their worth and keeps them sacred. The tie that

bound and burdened the unhappy twain, worn thin by constant friction,

snapped at last, and in the solemn pause death made in his busy life,

there rose before him those two ghosts who sooner or later haunt us all,

saying with reproachful voices,--"This I might have been," and "This I

am." Then he saw the failure of his life. At fifty he found himself

poorer than when he made his momentous choice; for the years that had

given him wealth, position, children, had also taken from him youth,

self-respect, and many a gift whose worth was magnified by loss. He

endeavored to repair the fault so tardily acknowledged, but found it

impossible to cancel it when remorse, embittered effort, and age left

him powerless to redeem the rich inheritance squandered in his prime.

If ever man received punishment for a self-inflicted wrong it was John

Yule. A punishment as subtle as the sin; for in the children growing up

about him every relinquished hope, neglected gift, lost aspiration,

seemed to live again; yet on each and all was set the direful stamp of

imperfection, which made them visible illustrations of the great law

broken in his youth.

In Prudence, as she grew to womanhood, he saw his own practical tact and

talent, nothing more. She seemed the living representative of the years

spent in strife for profit, power, and place; the petty cares that fret

the soul, the mercenary schemes that waste a life, the worldly

formalities, frivolities, and fears, that so belittle character. All

these he saw in this daughter's shape; and with pathetic patience bore

the daily trial of an over active, over anxious, affectionate but most

prosaic child.

In Mark he saw his ardor for the beautiful, his love of the poetic, his

reverence for genius, virtue, heroism. But here too the subtle blight

had fallen. This son, though strong in purpose was feeble in

performance; for some hidden spring of power was wanting, and the shadow

of that earlier defeat chilled in his nature the energy which is the

first attribute of all success. Mark loved poetry, and "wrote in numbers

for the numbers came;" but, whether tragic, tender, or devout, in each

attempt there was enough of the divine fire to warm them into life, yet

not enough to gift them with the fervor that can make a line immortal,

and every song was a sweet lament for the loftier lays that might have

been. He loved art and gave himself to it; but though studying all forms

of beauty he never reached its soul, and every effort tantalized him

with fresh glimpses of the fair ideal which he could not reach. He loved

the true, but high thoughts seldom blossomed into noble deeds; for when

the hour came the man was never ready, and disappointment was his daily

portion. A sad fate for the son, a far sadder one for the father who had

bequeathed it to him from the irrecoverable past.

In Sylvia he saw, mysteriously blended, the two natures that had given

her life, although she was born when the gulf between regretful husband

and sad wife was widest. As if indignant Nature rebelled against the

outrage done her holiest ties, adverse temperaments gifted the child

with the good and ill of each. From her father she received pride,

intellect, and will; from her mother passion, imagination, and the

fateful melancholy of a woman defrauded of her dearest hope. These

conflicting temperaments, with all their aspirations, attributes, and

inconsistencies, were woven into a nature fair and faulty; ambitious,

yet not self-reliant; sensitive, yet not keen-sighted. These two

masters ruled soul and body, warring against each other, making Sylvia

an enigma to herself and her life a train of moods.

A wise and tender mother would have divined her nameless needs, answered

her vague desires, and through the medium of the most omnipotent

affection given to humanity, have made her what she might have been. But

Sylvia had never known mother-love, for her life came through death; and

the only legacy bequeathed her was a slight hold upon existence, a

ceaseless craving for affection, and the shadow of a tragedy that wrung

from the pale lips, that grew cold against her baby cheek, the cry,

"Free at last, thank God for that!"

Prudence could not fill the empty place, though the good-hearted

housewife did her best. Neither sister understood the other, and each

tormented the other through her very love. Prue unconsciously

exasperated Sylvia, Sylvia unconsciously shocked Prue, and they hitched

along together each trying to do well and each taking diametrically

opposite measures to effect her purpose. Mark briefly but truly

described them when he said, "Sylvia trims the house with flowers, but

Prudence dogs her with a dust-pan."

Mr. Yule was now a studious, melancholy man, who, having said one fatal

"No" to himself, made it the satisfaction of his life to say a never

varying "Yes" to his children. But though he left no wish of theirs

ungratified, he seemed to have forfeited his power to draw and hold them

to himself. He was more like an unobtrusive guest than a master in his

house. His children loved, but never clung to him, because unseen, yet

impassible, rose the barrier of an instinctive protest against the

wrong done their dead mother, unconscious on their part but terribly

significant to him.

Mark had been years away; and though the brother and sister were

tenderly attached, sex, tastes, and pursuits kept them too far apart,

and Sylvia was solitary even in this social seeming home. Dissatisfied

with herself, she endeavored to make her life what it should be with the

energy of an ardent, aspiring nature; and through all experiences, sweet

or bitter, all varying moods, successes and defeats, a sincere desire

for happiness the best and highest, was the little rushlight of her soul

that never wavered or went out.

She never had known friendship in its truest sense, for next to love it

is the most abused of words. She had called many "friend," but was still

ignorant of that sentiment, cooler than passion, warmer than respect,

more just and generous than either, which recognizes a kindred spirit in

another, and claiming its right, keeps it sacred by the wise reserve

that is to friendship what the purple bloom is to the grape, a charm

which once destroyed can never be restored. Love she had desired, yet

dreaded, knowing her own passionate nature, and when it came to her,

making that brief holiday the fateful point of her life, she gave

herself to it wholly. Before that time she had rejoiced over a more

tranquil pleasure, and believed that she had found her friend in the

neighbor who after long absence had returned to his old place.

Nature had done much for Geoffrey Moor, but the wise mother also gave

him those teachers to whose hard lessons she often leaves her dearest

children. Five years spent in the service of a sister, who, through the

sharp discipline of pain was fitting her meek soul for heaven, had

given him an experience such as few young men receive. This fraternal

devotion proved a blessing in disguise; it preserved him from any

profanation of his youth, and the companionship of the helpless creature

whom he loved had proved an ever present stimulant to all that was best

and sweetest in the man. A single duty faithfully performed had set the

seal of integrity upon his character, and given him grace to see at

thirty the rich compensation he had received for the ambitions silently

sacrificed at twenty-five. When his long vigil was over he looked into

the world to find his place again. But the old desires were dead, the

old allurements had lost their charm, and while he waited for time to

show him what good work he should espouse, no longing was so strong as

that for a home, where he might bless and be blessed in writing that

immortal poem a virtuous and happy life.

Sylvia soon felt the power and beauty of this nature, and remembering

how well he had ministered to a physical affliction, often looked into

the face whose serenity was a perpetual rebuke, longing to ask him to

help and heal the mental ills that perplexed and burdened her. Moor soon

divined the real isolation of the girl, read the language of her wistful

eyes, felt that he could serve her, and invited confidence by the

cordial alacrity with which he met her least advance.

But while he served he learned to love her, for Sylvia, humble in her

own conceit, and guarded by the secret passion that possessed her,

freely showed the regard she felt, with no thought of misapprehension,

no fear of consequences. Unconscious that such impulsive demonstration

made her only more attractive, that every manifestation of her frank

esteem was cherished in her friend's heart of hearts, and that through

her he was enjoying the blossom time of life. So peacefully and

pleasantly the summer ripened into autumn and Sylvia's interest into an

enduring friendship.