CHAPTER V.
A GOLDEN WEDDING.
Hitherto they had been a most decorous crew, but the next morning something in the air seemed to cause a general overflow of spirits, and they went up the river like a party of children on a merry-making. Sylvia decorated herself with garlands till she looked like a mermaid; Mark, as skipper, issued his orders with the true Marblehead twang; Moor kept up a fire of pun-provoking raillery; Warwick sung like a jovial giant; while the Kelpie danced over the water as if inspired with the universal gayety, and the very ripples seemed to laugh as they hurried by.
“Mark, there is a boat coming up behind us with three gentlemen in it, who evidently intend to pass us with a great display of skill. Of course you won’t let it,” said Sylvia, welcoming the prospect of a race.
Her brother looked over his shoulder, took a critical survey, and nodded approvingly.
“They are worth a lesson, and shall have it. Easy, now, till they pass; then hard all, and give them a specimen of high art.”
A sudden lull ensued on board the Kelpie while the blue shirts approached, caught, and passed with a great display of science, as Sylvia had prophesied, and as good an imitation of the demeanor of experienced watermen as could be assumed by a trio of studious youths not yet out of their teens. As the foam of their wake broke against the other boat’s side, Mark hailed them–
“Good morning, gentlemen! We’ll wait for you above there, at the bend.”
“All serene,” returned the rival helmsman, with a bow in honor of Sylvia, while the other two caused a perceptible increase in the speed of the “Juanita,” whose sentimental name was not at all in keeping with its rakish appearance.
“Short-sighted infants, to waste their wind in that style; but they pull well for their years,” observed Mark, paternally, as he waited till the others had gained sufficient advantage to make the race a more equal one. “Now, then!” he whispered a moment after; and, as if suddenly endowed with life, the Kelpie shot away with the smooth speed given by strength and skill. Sylvia watched both boats, yearning to take an oar herself, yet full of admiration for the well-trained rowers, whose swift strokes set the river in a foam and made the moment one of pleasure and excitement. The blue shirts did their best against competitors who had rowed in many crafts and many waters. They kept the advantage till near the bend, then Mark’s crew lent their reserved strength to a final effort, and bending to their oars with a will, gained steadily, till, with a triumphant stroke, they swept far ahead, and with oars at rest waited in magnanimous silence till the Juanita came up, gracefully confessing her defeat by a good-humored cheer from her panting crew.
For a moment the two boats floated side by side, while the young men interchanged compliments and jokes, for a river is a highway where all travellers may salute each other, and college boys are “Hail fellow! well met” with all the world.
Sylvia sat watching the lads, and one among them struck her fancy. The helmsman who had bowed to her was slight and swarthy, with Southern eyes, vivacious manners, and a singularly melodious voice. A Spaniard, she thought, and pleased herself with this picturesque figure till a traitorous smile about the young man’s mouth betrayed that he was not unconscious of her regard. She colored as she met the glance of mingled mirth and admiration that he gave her, and hastily began to pull off the weedy decorations which she had forgotten. But she paused presently, for she heard a surprised voice exclaim–
“Why, Warwick! is that you or your ghost?”
Looking up Sylvia saw Adam lift the hat he had pulled over his brows, and take a slender brown hand extended over the boat-side with something like reluctance, as he answered the question in Spanish. A short conversation ensued, in which the dark stranger seemed to ask innumerable questions, Warwick to give curt replies, and the names Gabriel and Ottila to occur with familiar frequency. Sylvia knew nothing of the language, but received an impression that Warwick was not overjoyed at the meeting; that the youth was both pleased and perplexed by finding him there; and that neither parted with much regret as the distance slowly widened between the boats, and with a farewell salute parted company, each taking a different branch of the river, which divided just there.
For the first time Warwick allowed Mark to take his place at the oar, and sat looking into the clear depths below as if some scene lay there which other eyes could not discover.
“Who was the olive-colored party with the fine eyes and foreign accent?” asked Mark, lazily rowing.
“Gabriel André.”
“Is he an Italian?”
“No; a Cuban.”
“I forgot you had tried that mixture of Spain and Alabama. How was it?”
“As such climates always are to me,–intoxicating to-day, enervating to-morrow.”
“How long were you there?”
“Three months.”
“I feel tropically inclined, so tell us about it.”
“There is nothing to tell.”
“I’ll prove that by a catechism. Where did you stay?”
“In Havana.”
“Of course, but with whom?”
“Gabriel André.”
“The father of the saffron youth?”
“Yes.”
“Of whom did the family consist?”
“Four persons.”
“Mark, leave Mr. Warwick alone.”
“As long as he answers I shall question. Name the four persons, Adam.”
“Gabriel, sen., Dolores his wife, Gabriel, jun., Catalina, his sister.”
“Ah! now we progress. Was señorita Catalina as comely as her brother?”
“More so.”
“You adored her, of course?”
“I loved her.”
“Great heavens! what discoveries we make. He likes it, I know by the satirical glimmer in his eye; therefore I continue. She adored you, of course?”
“She loved me.”
“You will return and marry her?”
“No.”
“Your depravity appalls me.”
“Did I volunteer its discovery?”
“I demand it now. You left this girl believing that you adored her?”
“She knew I was fond of her.”
“The parting was tender?”
“On her part.”
“Iceberg! She wept in your arms?”
“And gave me an orange.”
“You cherished it, of course?”
“I ate it immediately.”
“What want of sentiment! You promised to return?”
“Yes.”
“But will never keep the promise?”
“I never break one.”
“Yet will not marry her?”
“By no means.”
“Ask how old the lady was, Mark?”
“Age, Warwick?”
“Seven.”
Mark caught a crab of the largest size at this reply, and remained where he fell, among the ruins of the castle in Spain, which he had erected with the scanty materials vouchsafed to him, while Warwick went back to his meditations.
A drop of rain roused Sylvia from the contemplation of an imaginary portrait of the little Cuban girl, and looking skyward she saw that the frolicsome wind had prepared a practical joke for them in the shape of a thunder-shower. A consultation was held, and it was decided to row on till a house appeared, in which they would take refuge till the storm was over. On they went, but the rain was in greater haste than they, and a summary drenching was effected before the toot of a dinner-horn guided them to shelter. Landing they marched over the fields, a moist and mirthful company, toward a red farm-house standing under venerable elms, with a patriarchal air which promised hospitable treatment and good cheer. A promise speedily fulfilled by the lively old woman, who appeared with an energetic “Shoo!” for the speckled hens congregated in the porch, and a hearty welcome for the weather-beaten strangers.
“Sakes alive!” she exclaimed; “you be in a mess, ain’t you? Come right in and make yourselves to home. Abel, take the men folks up chamber, and fit ’em out with anything dry you kin lay hands on. Phebe, see to this poor little creeter, and bring her down lookin’ less like a drownded kitten. Nat, clear up your wittlin’s, so’s’t they kin toast their feet when they come down; and, Cinthy, don’t dish up dinner jest yet.”
These directions were given with such vigorous illustration, and the old face shone with such friendly zeal, that the four submitted at once, sure that the kind soul was pleasing herself in serving them, and finding something very attractive in the place, the people, and their own position. Abel, a staid farmer of forty, obeyed his mother’s order regarding the “men folks;” and Phebe, a buxom girl of sixteen, led Sylvia to her own room, eagerly offering her best.
As she dried and redressed herself Sylvia made sundry discoveries, which added to the romance and the enjoyment of the adventure. A smart gown lay on the bed in the low chamber, also various decorations upon chair and table, suggesting that some festival was afloat; and a few questions elicited the facts. Grandpa had seven sons and three daughters, all living, all married, and all blessed with flocks of children. Grandpa’s birthday was always celebrated by a family gathering; but to-day, being the fiftieth anniversary of his wedding, the various households had resolved to keep it with unusual pomp; and all were coming for a supper, a dance, and a “sing” at the end. Upon receipt of which intelligence Sylvia proposed an immediate departure; but the grandmother and daughter cried out at this, pointed to the still falling rain, the lowering sky, the wet heap on the floor, and insisted on the strangers all remaining to enjoy the festival, and give an added interest by their presence.
Half promising what she wholly desired, Sylvia put on Phebe’s second best blue gingham gown for the preservation of which she added a white apron, and completing the whole with a pair of capacious shoes, went down to find her party and reveal the state of affairs. They were bestowed in the prim, best parlor, and greeted her with a peal of laughter, for all were _en costume_. Abel was a stout man, and his garments hung upon Moor with a melancholy air; Mark had disdained them, and with an eye to effect laid hands on an old uniform, in which he looked like a volunteer of 1812; while Warwick’s superior height placed Abel’s wardrobe out of the question; and grandpa, taller than any of his seven goodly sons, supplied him with a sober suit,–roomy, square-flapped, and venerable,–which became him, and with his beard produced the curious effect of a youthful patriarch. To Sylvia’s relief it was unanimously decided to remain, trusting to their own penetration to discover the most agreeable method of returning the favor; and regarding the adventure as a welcome change, after two days’ solitude, all went out to dinner prepared to enact their parts with spirit.
The meal being despatched, Mark and Warwick went to help Abel with some out-door arrangements; and begging grandma to consider him one of her own boys, Moor tied on an apron and fell to work with Sylvia, laying the long table which was to receive the coming stores. True breeding is often as soon felt by the uncultivated as by the cultivated; and the zeal with which the strangers threw themselves into the business of the hour won the family, and placed them all in friendly relations at once. The old lady let them do what they would, admiring everything, and declaring over and over again that her new assistants “beat her boys and girls to nothin’ with their tastiness and smartness.” Sylvia trimmed the table with common flowers till it was an inviting sight before a viand appeared upon it, and hung green boughs about the room, with candles here and there to lend a festal light. Moor trundled a great cheese in from the dairy, brought milk-pans without mishap, disposed dishes, and caused Nat to cleave to him by the administration of surreptitious titbits and jocular suggestions; while Phebe tumbled about in every one’s way, quite wild with excitement; and grandma stood in her pantry like a culinary general, swaying a big knife for a baton, as she issued orders and marshalled her forces, the busiest and merriest of them all.
When the last touch was given, Moor discarded his apron and went to join Mark. Sylvia presided over Phebe’s toilet, and then sat herself down to support Nat through the trying half hour before, as he expressed it, “the party came in.” The twelve years’ boy was a cripple, one of those household blessings which, in the guise of an affliction, keep many hearts tenderly united by a common love and pity. A cheerful creature, always chirping like a cricket on the hearth as he sat carving or turning bits of wood into useful or ornamental shapes for such as cared to buy them of him, and hoarding up the proceeds like a little miser for one more helpless than himself.
“What are these, Nat?” asked Sylvia, with the interest that always won small people, because their quick instincts felt that it was sincere.
“Them are spoons–‘postle spoons, they call ’em. You see I’ve got a cousin what reads a sight, and one day he says to me, ‘Nat, in a book I see somethin’ about a set of spoons with a ‘postle’s head on each of ’em; you make some and they’ll sell, I bet.’ So I got gramper’s Bible, found the picters of the ‘postles, and worked and worked till I got the faces good; and now it’s fun, for they do sell, and I’m savin’ up a lot. It ain’t for me, you know, but mother, ’cause she’s wuss’n I be.”
“Is she sick, Nat?”
“Oh, ain’t she! Why she hasn’t stood up this nine year. We was smashed in a wagon that tipped over when I was three years old. It done somethin’ to my legs, but it broke her back, and made her no use, only jest to pet me, and keep us all kind of stiddy, you know. Ain’t you seen her? Don’t you want to?”
“Would she like it?”
“She admires to see folks, and asked about you at dinner; so I guess you’d better go see her. Look ahere, you like them spoons, and I’m agoin’ to give you one; I’d give you all on ’em if they wasn’t promised. I can make one more in time, so you jest take your pick, ’cause I like you, and want you not to forgit me.”
Sylvia chose Saint John, because it resembled Moor, she thought; bespoke and paid for a whole set, and privately resolved to send tools and rare woods to the little artist that he might serve his mother in his own pretty way. Then Nat took up his crutches and hopped nimbly before her to the room, where a plain, serene-faced woman lay knitting, with her best cap on, her clean handkerchief and large green fan laid out upon the coverlet. This was evidently the best room of the house; and as Sylvia sat talking to the invalid her eye discovered many traces of that refinement which comes through the affections. Nothing seemed too good for “daughter Patience;” birds, books, flowers, and pictures were plentiful here though visible nowhere else. Two easy-chairs beside the bed showed where the old folks oftenest sat; Abel’s home corner was there by the antique desk covered with farmers’ literature and samples of seeds; Phebe’s work-basket stood in the window; Nat’s lathe in the sunniest corner; and from the speckless carpet to the canary’s clear water-glass all was exquisitely neat, for love and labor were the handmaids who served the helpless woman and asked no wages but her comfort.
Sylvia amused her new friends mightily, for finding that neither mother nor son had any complaints to make, any sympathy to ask, she exerted herself to give them what both needed, and kept them laughing by a lively recital of her voyage and its mishaps.
“Ain’t she prime, mother?” was Nat’s candid commentary when the story ended, and he emerged red and shiny from the pillows where he had burrowed with boyish explosions of delight.
“She’s very kind, dear, to amuse two stay-at-home folks like you and me, who seldom see what’s going on outside four walls. You have a merry heart, miss, and I hope will keep it all your days, for it’s a blessed thing to own.”
“I think you have something better, a contented one,” said Sylvia, as the woman regarded her with no sign of envy or regret.
“I ought to have; nine years on a body’s back can teach a sight of things that are wuth knowin’. I’ve learnt patience pretty well I guess, and contentedness ain’t fur away, for though it sometimes seems ruther long to look forward to, perhaps nine more years layin’ here, I jest remember it might have been wuss, and if I don’t do much now there’s all eternity to come.”
Something in the woman’s manner struck Sylvia as she watched her softly beating some tune on the sheet with her quiet eyes turned toward the light. Many sermons had been less eloquent to the girl than the look, the tone, the cheerful resignation of that plain face. She stooped and kissed it, saying gently–
“I shall remember this.”
“Hooray! There they be; I hear Ben!”
And away clattered Nat to be immediately absorbed into the embraces of a swarm of relatives who now began to arrive in a steady stream. Old and young, large and small, rich and poor, with overflowing hands or trifles humbly given, all were received alike, all hugged by grandpa, kissed by grandma, shaken half breathless by Uncle Abel, welcomed by Aunt Patience, and danced round by Phebe and Nat till the house seemed a great hive of hilarious and affectionate bees. At first the strangers stood apart, but Phebe spread their story with such complimentary additions of her own that the family circle opened wide and took them in at once.
Sylvia was enraptured with the wilderness of babies, and leaving the others to their own devices followed the matrons to “Patience’s room,” and gave herself up to the pleasant tyranny of the small potentates, who swarmed over her as she sat on the floor, tugging at her hair, exploring her eyes, covering her with moist kisses, and keeping up a babble of little voices more delightful to her than the discourse of the flattered mammas who benignly surveyed her admiration and their offspring’s prowess.
The young people went to romp in the barn; the men, armed with umbrellas, turned out _en masse_ to inspect the farm and stock, and compare notes over pig pens and garden gates. But Sylvia lingered where she was, enjoying a scene which filled her with a tender pain and pleasure, for each baby was laid on grandma’s knee, its small virtues, vices, ailments, and accomplishments rehearsed, its beauties examined, its strength tested, and the verdict of the family oracle pronounced upon it as it was cradled, kissed, and blessed on the kind old heart which had room for every care and joy of those who called her mother. It was a sight the girl never forgot, because just then she was ready to receive it. Her best lessons did not come from books, and she learned one then as she saw the fairest success of a woman’s life while watching this happy grandmother with fresh faces framing her withered one, daughterly voices chorusing good wishes, and the harvest of half a century of wedded life beautifully garnered in her arms.
The fragrance of coffee and recollections of Cynthia’s joyful aberrations at such periods caused a breaking up of the maternal conclave. The babies were borne away to simmer between blankets until called for. The women unpacked baskets, brooded over teapots, and kept up an harmonious clack as the table was spread with pyramids of cake, regiments of pies, quagmires of jelly, snow-banks of bread, and gold mines of butter; every possible article of food, from baked beans to wedding cake, finding a place on that sacrificial altar.
Fearing to be in the way, Sylvia departed to the barn, where she found her party in a chaotic Babel; for the offshoots had been as fruitful as the parent tree, and some four dozen young immortals were in full riot. The bashful roosting with the hens on remote lofts and beams; the bold flirting or playing in the full light of day; the boys whooping, the girls screaming, all effervescing as if their spirits had reached the explosive point and must find vent in noise. Mark was in his element, introducing all manner of new games, the liveliest of the old and keeping the revel at its height; for rosy, bright-eyed girls were plenty, and the ancient uniform universally approved. Warwick had a flock of lads about him absorbed in the marvels he was producing with knife, stick, and string; and Moor a rival flock of little lasses breathless with interest in the tales he told. One on each knee, two at each side, four in a row on the hay at his feet, and the boldest of all with an arm about his neck and a curly head upon his shoulder, for Uncle Abel’s clothes seemed to invest the wearer with a passport to their confidence at once. Sylvia joined this group and partook of a quiet entertainment with as childlike a relish as any of them, while the merry tumult went on about her.
The toot of the horn sent the whole barnful streaming into the house like a flock of hungry chickens, where, by some process known only to the mothers of large families, every one was wedged close about the table, and the feast began. This was none of your stand-up, wafery, bread and butter teas, but a thorough-going, sit-down supper, and all settled themselves with a smiling satisfaction, prophetic of great powers and an equal willingness to employ them. A detachment of half-grown girls was drawn up behind grandma, as waiters; Sylvia insisted on being one of them, and proved herself a neat-handed Phillis, though for a time slightly bewildered by the gastronomic performances she beheld. Babies ate pickles, small boys sequestered pie with a velocity that made her wink, women swam in the tea, and the men, metaphorically speaking, swept over the table like a swarm of locusts, while the host and hostess beamed upon one another and their robust descendants with an honest pride, which was beautiful to see.
“That Mr. Wackett ain’t eat scursely nothin’, he jest sets lookin’ round kinder ‘mazed like. Do go and make him fall to on somethin’, or I shan’t take a mite of comfort in my vittles,” said grandma, as the girl came with an empty cup.
“He is enjoying it with all his heart and eyes, ma’am, for we don’t see such fine spectacles every day. I’ll take him something that he likes and make him eat it.”
“Sakes alive! be you to be Mis’ Wackett? I’d no idee of it, you look so young.”
“Nor I; we are only friends, ma’am.”
“Oh!” and the monosyllable was immensely expressive, as the old lady confided a knowing nod to the teapot, into whose depths she was just then peering. Sylvia walked away wondering why persons were always thinking and saying such things.
As she paused behind Warwick’s chair with a glass of cream and a round of brown bread, he looked up at her with his blandest expression, though a touch of something like regret was in his voice.
“This is a sight worth living eighty hard years to see, and I envy that old couple as I never envied any one before. To rear ten virtuous children, put ten useful men and women into the world, and give them health and courage to work out their own salvation as these honest souls will do, is a better job done for the Lord, than winning a battle, or ruling a State. Here is all honor to them. Drink it with me.”
He put the glass to her lips, drank what she left, and rising, placed her in his seat with the decisive air which few resisted.
“You take no thought for yourself and are doing too much; sit here a little, and let me take a few steps where you have taken many.”
He served her, and standing at her back, bent now and then to speak, still with that softened look upon the face so seldom stirred by the gentler emotions that lay far down in that deep heart of his; for never had he felt so solitary.
All things must have an end, even a family feast, and by the time the last boy’s buttons peremptorily announced, ‘Thus far shalt thou go and no farther,’ all professed themselves satisfied, and a general uprising took place. The surplus population were herded in parlor and chambers, while a few energetic hands cleared away, and with much clattering of dishes and wafting of towels, left grandma’s spandy clean premises as immaculate as ever. It was dark when all was done, so the kitchen was cleared, the candles lighted, Patience’s door set open, and little Nat established in an impromptu orchestra, composed of a table and a chair, whence the first squeak of his fiddle proclaimed that the ball had begun.
Everybody danced; the babies stacked on Patience’s bed, or penned behind chairs, sprawled and pranced in unsteady mimicry of their elders. Ungainly farmers, stiff with labor, recalled their early days and tramped briskly as they swung their wives about with a kindly pressure of the hard hands that had worked so long together. Little pairs toddled gravely through the figures, or frisked promiscuously in a grand conglomeration of arms and legs. Gallant cousins kissed pretty cousins at exciting periods, and were not rebuked. Mark wrought several of these incipient lovers to a pitch of despair, by his devotion to the comeliest damsels, and the skill with which he executed unheard-of evolutions before their admiring eyes; Moor led out the poorest and the plainest with a respect that caused their homely faces to shine, and their scant skirts to be forgotten. Warwick skimmed his five years partner through the air in a way that rendered her speechless with delight; and Sylvia danced as she never danced before. With sticky-fingered boys, sleepy with repletion, but bound to last it out; with rough-faced men who paid her paternal compliments; with smart youths who turned sheepish with that white lady’s hand in their big brown ones, and one ambitious lad who confided to her his burning desire to work a sawmill, and marry a girl with black eyes and yellow hair. While, perched aloft, Nat bowed away till his pale face glowed, till all hearts warmed, all feet beat responsive to the good old tunes which have put so much health into human bodies, and so much happiness into human souls.
At the stroke of nine the last dance came. All down the long kitchen stretched two breathless rows; grandpa and grandma at the top, the youngest pair of grandchildren at the bottom, and all between fathers, mothers, uncles, aunts, and cousins, while such of the babies as were still extant, bobbed with unabated vigor, as Nat struck up the Virginia Reel, and the sturdy old couple led off as gallantly as the young one who came tearing up to meet them. Away they went, grandpa’s white hair flying in the wind, grandma’s impressive cap awry with excitement, as they ambled down the middle, and finished with a kiss when their tuneful journey was done, amid immense applause from those who regarded this as the crowning event of the day.
When all had had their turn, and twirled till they were dizzy, a short lull took place, with refreshments for such as still possessed the power of enjoying them. Then Phebe appeared with an armful of books, and all settled themselves for the family “sing.”
Sylvia had heard much fine music, but never any that touched her like this, for, though often discordant, it was hearty, with that under-current of feeling which adds sweetness to the rudest lay, and is often more attractive than the most florid ornament or faultless execution. Every one sang as every one had danced, with all their might; shrill children, soft-voiced girls, lullaby-singing mothers, gruff boys, and strong-lunged men; the old pair quavered, and still a few indefatigable babies crowed behind their little coops. Songs, ballads, comic airs, popular melodies, and hymns, came in rapid succession. And when they ended with that song which should be classed with sacred music for association’s sake, and standing hand in hand about the room with the golden bride and bridegroom in their midst, sang “Home,” Sylvia leaned against her brother with dim eyes and a heart too full to sing.
Still standing thus when the last note had soared up and died, the old man folded his hands and began to pray. It was an old-fashioned prayer, such as the girl had never heard from the Bishop’s lips; ungrammatical, inelegant, and long. A quiet talk with God, manly in its straightforward confession of short-comings, childlike in its appeal for guidance, fervent in its gratitude for all good gifts, and the crowning one of loving children. As if close intercourse had made the two familiar, this human father turned to the Divine, as these sons and daughters turned to him, as free to ask, as confident of a reply, as all afflictions, blessings, cares, and crosses, were laid down before him, and the work of eighty years submitted to his hand. There were no sounds in the room but the one voice often tremulous with emotion and with age, the coo of some dreaming baby, or the low sob of some mother whose arms were empty, as the old man stood there, rugged and white atop as the granite hills, with the old wife at his side, a circle of sons and daughters girdling them round, and in all hearts the thought that as the former wedding had been made for time, this golden one at eighty must be for eternity.
While Sylvia looked and listened a sense of genuine devotion stole over her; the beauty and the worth of prayer grew clear to her through the earnest speech of that unlettered man, and for the first time she fully felt the nearness and the dearness of the Universal Father, whom she had been taught to fear, yet longed to love.
“Now, my children, you must go before the little folks are tuckered out,” said Grandpa, heartily. “Mother and me can’t say enough toe thank you for the presents you have fetched us, the dutiful wishes you have give us, the pride and comfort you have allers ben toe us. I ain’t no hand at speeches, so I shan’t make none, but jest say ef any ‘fliction falls on any on you, remember mother’s here toe help you bear it; ef any worldly loss comes toe you, remember father’s house is yourn while it stans, and so the Lord bless and keep us all.”
“Three cheers for gramper and grammer!” roared a six-foot scion as a safety valve for sundry unmasculine emotions, and three rousing hurras made the rafters ring, struck terror to the heart of the oldest inhabitant of the rat-haunted garret, and summarily woke all the babies.
Then the good-byes began, the flurry of wrong baskets, pails and bundles in wrong places; the sorting out of small folk too sleepy to know or care what became of them; the maternal cluckings, and paternal shouts for Kitty, Cy, Ben, Bill, or Mary Ann; the piling into vehicles with much ramping of indignant horses unused to such late hours; the last farewells, the roll of wheels, as one by one the happy loads departed, and peace fell upon the household for another year.
“I declare for’t, I never had sech an out an out good time sense I was born intoe the world. Ab’ram, you are fit to drop, and so be I; now let’s set and talk it over along of Patience fore we go toe bed.”
The old couple got into their chairs, and as they sat there side by side, remembering that she had given no gift, Sylvia crept behind them, and lending the magic of her voice to the simple air, sang the fittest song for time and place–“John Anderson my Jo.” It was too much for grandma, the old heart overflowed, and reckless of the cherished cap she laid her head on her “John’s” shoulder, exclaiming through her tears–
“That’s the cap sheaf of the hull, and I can’t bear no more to-night. Ab’ram, lend me your hankchif, for I dunno where mine is, and my face is all of a drip.”
Before the red bandana had gently performed its work in grandpa’s hand, Sylvia beckoned her party from the room, and showing them the clear moonlight night which followed the storm, suggested that they should both save appearances and enjoy a novel pleasure by floating homeward instead of sleeping. The tide against which they had pulled in coming up would sweep them rapidly along, and make it easy to retrace in a few hours the way they had loitered over for three days.
The pleasant excitement of the evening had not yet subsided, and all applauded the plan as a fit finale to their voyage. The old lady strongly objected, but the young people overruled her, and being re-equipped in their damaged garments they bade the friendly family a grateful adieu, left their more solid thanks under Nat’s pillow, and re-embarked upon their shining road.
All night Sylvia lay under the canopy of boughs her brother made to shield her from the dew, listening to the soft sounds about her, the twitter of a restless bird, the bleat of some belated lamb, the ripple of a brook babbling like a baby in its sleep. All night she watched the changing shores, silvery green or dark with slumberous shadow, and followed the moon in its tranquil journey through the sky. When it set, she drew her cloak about her, and, pillowing her head upon her arm, exchanged the waking for a sleeping dream.
A thick mist encompassed her when she awoke. Above the sun shone dimly, below rose and fell the billows of the sea, before her sounded the city’s fitful hum, and far behind her lay the green wilderness where she had lived and learned so much. Slowly the fog lifted, the sun came dazzling down upon the sea, and out into the open bay they sailed with the pennon streaming in the morning wind. But still with backward glance the girl watched the misty wall that rose between her and the charmed river, and still with yearning heart confessed how sweet that brief experience had been, for though she had not yet discovered it, like
“The fairy Lady of Shalott,
She had left the web and left the loom,
Had seen the water lilies bloom,
Had seen the helmet and the plume,
And had looked down to Camelot.”
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.
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.
