SYLV'S TROUBLE.
Exactly what was to be the issue of Lance's sentiment respecting Adela,
it would have been hard to say. No fatal breach had as yet been made in
his relations with Jessie; yet they parted, after the difference which I
have just detailed, with a coldness that promised ill; and, for the
first time, Lance met the issue that had for weeks past unobtrusively
put itself in his way. If Jessie would persist in being so narrow, so
unsympathetic, what was to come? And if any trouble from this source
should divide them, what was there left to him? Facing this alternative,
Lance was forced to perceive that the interest which he had allowed
himself to feel in Adela had, unawares, grown into a dangerous emotion.
In one way it seemed absurd. In another, it was tragical. Did he
actually, in view of the rupture which now seemed likely to occur
between himself and Jessie, contemplate such a possibility as giving his
life up to Adela? If he were to do that, the question of treachery to
his humble friend, Dennis De Vine, would be involved. Nevertheless, some
unseen power seemed to propel him toward an erratic solution of this
sort. He wondered whether at last the yearning of his ancestor, long
ago, was fated to meet fulfilment by his own union with the latest
offspring of Gertrude Wylde. No! he would not think of it: he refused to
surrender himself to such fantasies. And still he could not escape their
importuning.
He was involved in a struggle. He did not know what to make of it; but
he resolved to maintain his own dignity, first, by going to see Adela,
and then, after that, everything concerning Jessie and himself might be
righted. Meanwhile he kept one idea firmly before him, which was, to
remain true to Jessie so long as she would let him do so without
sacrificing Adela.
But before he had time to carry out his determination of seeing Adela,
an unlooked-for incident occurred, which altered the situation
materially.
The last bell for the day had sounded at the "academy" where Adela
pursued her studies, or rather was pursued by them, for they followed
her steps from morning to night in a race with which it was hard to keep
even, notwithstanding her prowess. The bell signified freedom for a
brief period. When it sounded she was allowed to go out for a walk, the
usual discipline of the school having been relaxed in her favor, to
admit of her taking her recreation in Sylv's company. Sylv was duly
accredited as Dennie's ambassador, to look after Adela's welfare; hence
it was considered very proper that he should see her every day. In this
way he had taken a great many walks with her.
When the bell rang, therefore, he met her at the gate of the garden
surrounding the academy, and they strolled away together. Had Lance seen
them at that moment, he would have been surprised by the noticeable
change which had come over them both. Adela had now been at school some
ten months--nearly a year--and her steady application, with the loss of
that out-door life to which she had been accustomed, had subdued the
color in her cheeks, though it had not made them pale. The delicate
brown tinge was always there. But the stiff black hair that had formerly
blown so carelessly about her head was demurely combed and orderly, now,
and a serene, womanly thoughtfulness had somehow drifted into the lines
of her face, making its wild beauty sweeter.
Sylv, too, had acquired a more polished air. It was not a gawky polish.
His clothes were very plain, but he appeared at ease in them; and
although his tangled beard was reduced to comparative trimness, it
hinted nothing of the incipient dandy. On the whole, they were a very
serious and simple pair, who would have looked extremely "countrified"
in Richmond, and still more so in New York. But they had altered very
much since the days on the shore.
Had Lance seen them then, he would have been surprised--and perhaps
displeased--by another thing. This was, that as they moved down the road
leading away from the town, they looked so like a pair of lovers.
Ah, while they had been growing so neat and orderly on the surface, and
had come to show marks of the educational mould, had they possibly
undergone another change of an opposite kind, within? Were their hearts
as well regulated, as calm, as their dress and their faces?
Through the long period of their sojourn together, they had lived upon
hopes, interests, ambitions common to both. Adela had been fired with
zeal for her new occupation; they had talked over their daily successes
or reverses every afternoon; and though I have not said much about
Sylv's natural refinement, and his quiet, persuasive quality, these two
things--combined with constant association--had exercised a great
influence upon Adela. Imperceptibly she had grown into a life which
belonged to them alone, apart from every one else.
"How did you get along to-day?" asked Sylv.
"All right," said Adela. "But the algebra was hard. It seems as if I
couldn't think of anything but squares and roots and coefficients. It
appears to me like I'll have to extract the square root of my head right
soon; and if I do, there won't be anything left."
"You're getting tired, I reckon," Sylv suggested. "Maybe you ought not
to work so much. How would it suit you, Deely, to go home for a few days
and rest?"
"Oh, vacation's coming in a few weeks," she answered, wearily. "It ain't
that, Sylv. I ain't tired with the work; but it's because my life seems
so queer, and I don't know what I want. I don't want to stay here, or to
go home. I'm afraid I'll never be happy any more."
They were now in a quiet spot outside of the town. Some willows grew
beside the road, which was here carried over a small bridge that covered
the gurgling flow of a brook. Sylv stopped short, and eyed her
meditatively.
"Not happy?" he questioned. "Why not, Deely? Wouldn't you be if you were
with Dennie again?"
Adela paused, too. "I can't tell," she said. "I don't know what is the
matter with me, but I don't seem to be satisfied with anything, Sylv. I
never can go back to what I was, but I don't see that I can go forward,
either."
"But Dennie loves you just the same," said Sylv, rather falteringly.
The girl clasped her hands and gazed absently in front of her. "I know
he does," she said, in an inert way. "I know it well enough."
"And you know he has been trying to learn to read, just to please you,
and so as to keep up with you as well as he can."
"Yes." But still her face did not lighten. The gathering sadness
deepened upon it, if anything. "Oh, why did I come here!" she suddenly
cried, despairingly. "If Mr. Lance had not sent me! Ah, what was the
use?"
Sylv regarded her compassionately, but he was himself undergoing an
anguish that it seemed impossible to withstand.
"Come," he said, soothingly, "let's go down yonder among the trees and
talk about it. We'll see if there isn't some way of making you happy. I
reckon the time has come for a change, and we ought to see what is
needed."
She yielded, as though he were entitled to lead her. Taking his hand,
she walked with him down on to the young grass at the side of the
highway, and in among the trees alongside the "run." In the retired nook
that they came to they seated themselves, while the spring breeze
murmured through the light leaves above them, unsuspicious of any woe in
the minds of these two young persons.
"I was angry with Dennie," said Adela, speaking low, "and that was why I
left him to come here. But he has been so good, and so patient."
"Yes, that he has!" Sylv corroborated, fervently. "Why don't you go back
to him?"
The gaze which Sylv fixed upon her, in asking this question, was very
unlike that of an impartial and philosophic adviser. His eyes burned
with a rapacious though restrained fire. Yet his tone was composed.
Adela broke into moaning. "Why do you ask me that?" she exclaimed. "Oh,
don't you _know_ how hard it is to go back? Do you think it can ever be
the same? I don't want that kind of life any more: I am for something
different now. You see, all this studying and thinking and reading has
given me a new idea, and there's no one to take a share in it. When I go
back and marry Dennie that part of me will be alone. What am I to do;
oh, what _am_ I to do?"
Her distress was so acute that she gave way to tears, which she
helplessly tried to press back with a hand at her eyes.
"Don't cry, Deely," said Sylv, taking her other hand. "You're tired out,
and you're troubling yourself, but you don't need to. By and by you'll
be happy; never fear!"
Adela clung to his hand instinctively. "You're a kind fellow, Sylv,"
said she, ceasing to sob. "I know you wish me well. But it's all over
with me. I ought not to think of anything but Dennie. If I can make
_him_ happy, why--I ought--to be satisfied." But the stifled tone in
which she uttered the words showed how far she fell short of that duty.
Sylv longed to speak more tenderly to her. The touch of her trusting
hand in his was maddening. He would have laid down his life, at that
instant, to comfort her; and if he was ready to sacrifice his own, what
mattered the life and happiness of any other? But there was only one way
in which he felt sure that he could secure lasting comfort to her, so
far as one man might; and that way he dared not propose. Why had he not
foreseen this difficulty and this peril in time to evade them? He had
imagined that his whole life depended on books, and here he found that
it was nothing as compared with a woman. He had indulged in the tranquil
belief that he was a disinterested student; but now he awoke to the fact
that he was a reckless lover!
"Deely," he exclaimed, rising, but still keeping her hand in his, "if
you don't love Dennie enough to go back to him, you must not do it!"
"And break his heart?" she asked, looking up at him with an effort at
reproach.
"I speak to you as his brother," answered Sylv--"his brother, whom he
sent here of his own accord to watch over you; and I say that it would
be wrong. You would not be happy yourself, and you would find it
impossible to make him happy."
Adela drew her hand away. "But I have promised him! And I will keep my
promise."
As she spoke she rose erect: he could hear her close her teeth with a
grating sound.
"I don't intend to argue about it," he said. "You are free to settle
everything your own way. It appeared to me like I must tell you my
opinion. That's the end of it, Deely." He paused. "I got a letter from
Mr. Lance; says he's got back, and is coming up to see you. But _I_ am
going away to-morrow."
Adela started violently. "_You_ going away!" Then she trembled toward
him and laid her hands on his shoulders. "Oh no, no! Don't leave me now,
Sylv. Don't go away!"
"I must," he replied. "I've got through. I've done all I can. I must go
back to work for Mr. Lance."
Adela's hands still rested on his arms. He could hardly move them
otherwise than to enfold and sustain her. Unable to support herself, she
drooped and sank toward him for an instant.
"Dear--dear--sister," he almost groaned, "don't despair! Don't give way!
I wish I could save you from suffering."
She recovered herself and stood upright before him, looking into his
eyes. She trembled, and he longed to embrace her once more, holding her
to his heart for as long as he should live. But neither of them made any
movement toward such a renewal of her dependence upon him. Steadily, yet
with a kind of doubt and fear, they gazed at one another; and the whole
story of their hearts was made clear. But not one word of passion was
uttered.
"I must leave--must leave to-morrow," Sylv repeated, as they started
simultaneously to go back to the school; "and I think I will send Dennie
up here." Instead of advancing this proposition with the courage he
wanted to show, he made it sound like the knell of all their hopes.
Nerving himself, he added: "Shall I tell him you've forgiven him?"
This time, by a prodigious effort, he spoke bravely; yet his eyes,
without his knowledge, seemed to beg her to come to the aid of his
failing fortitude.
"Shall I tell him?"
"Yes."
"And that you're ready to go with him now?" The faltering look had
vanished. A white, still light of triumph rested on his paling face.
"Yes," said Adela again, with trembling lips.