THE garden-party was a success, and Miss Lawrence the acknowledged belle
of the evening. No one else could have carried off the peculiar style of
dress. She knew that she was radiant; and triumphs were a necessary
sweet incense, that she always kept alive on her shrine. There was no
need of making a hurried election: indeed, her chief aim now was
pleasure and conquest.
They were sitting over their dainty lunch, Mrs. Eastman having dropped
in; and, after the party had been pretty thoroughly discussed, a little
lull ensued. Fred toyed with some luscious cherries, in his usual
indolent manner. Nothing in this world was worth a hurry or a worry,
according to this young man's creed. He had dawdled through the party,
waltzing with a languid grace that most girls considered the essence of
high-breeding. It was all one to him. His "set" affected to think life
something of a bore. Intense emotion of any kind was vulgar.
"By the by, Rene," said Mrs. Eastman, "do you suppose Sylvie Barry is
engaged to that Darcy fellow? It was odd that she should go off on a
picnic with him, instead of the party. She has the queerest, mixed-up
tastes."
"What Darcy fellow?" asked Irene in surprise.
"Sylvie Barry! Jack Darcy!" exclaimed Fred, in as much amazement as his
superfine breeding would allow.
Mrs. Eastman gave a mellifluous laugh.
"Don't you remember? but you were such a child! Fred does. The Damon to
his Pythias."
"Oh!"
A vivid scarlet ran up to the edge of Irene's white brow. So that was
Jack Darcy. What a blind fool she had been, _not_ to think! She had
laughed and chatted with him, smiled on him, worn the costume of his
designing,--a common workingman! For a moment she could have torn her
hair, or beaten her slender white hands against the table. What had
possessed her?
"I do recall some green and salad days," rejoined Fred with a laugh.
"How Agatha and I used to badger you! We were little fools to think such
a thing ever went on when one came to years of discretion. Only I
believe we were afraid the elder and idiotic Darcy might foist his son
on some college. I must say Yerbury has become quite endurable now that
party lines have been set up;" and Mrs. Eastman crumbed her cake,
watching her diamond sparkle.
"How do you know Sylvie went on a picnic?" asked Rene, with an angry
glitter in her eyes.
"Didn't the dear confess? Rene, you do not keep your penitent in very
good order."
Mrs. Eastman had a faculty of putting something extremely irritating in
her voice. It was honey smooth, and yet it rasped.
"Really," answered Irene indifferently, "I do not see that Miss Barry's
selection of friends need affect me much, so long as she keeps the
distasteful ones out of my way. I may wonder at her choice of pleasures,
but I suppose she suits herself."
"My nursery-girl belongs to the mission-school. It was very good of
Lissette to let her off for a whole day, I thought. I left her to settle
it. What Sylvie sees in such people, I cannot imagine. I own I was a
trifle surprised when I found this remarkable Mr. Darcy was our old
_bête noir_, Jack. Is he still in the mill, I wonder?"
"Apply to papa," laughed Irene.
"I don't believe papa could tell you the names of five workmen. As if he
troubled his head about that!"
"Sylvie is a nice little thing," remarked Fred patronizingly.
"I have no patience with her!" declared Mrs. Eastman. "As if it was not
necessary to have a line drawn somewhere! These people are all well
enough in their way: they are a necessary factor,"--picking the words
slowly to give them weight,--"and society establishes schools and homes
for them, trains teachers, provides employment: what more do they want?
A holiday now and then, of course; but why not go off by themselves as a
class, as the French do? This maudlin, morbid sympathy we Americans
give, spoils them. There is no keeping a servant in her place here.
Before you know it she studies and graduates at some school, teaches for
a while, goes abroad, and paints a picture, likely as not."
"Do not excite yourself, Gerty," and Fred pulled the ends of his silky
moustache.
"Well, it does annoy me to see a young girl like Sylvie Barry with no
better sense. Some day we shall have all these people rising up against
us, as they did in the French Revolution. I hate socialism and all that;
and I took good care to say to Mrs. Langton that Miss Barry had been
casting in her lot that day with a parcel of charity-children, and would
no doubt be too tired to enjoy the exquisite pleasure of her fête."
"I do not think Sylvie cares a penny!" said Irene with a touch of scorn,
anxious to return her sister's little stab. "I suppose she comforts
herself with the remembrance of her old blue blood, while Mr. Langton
made his fortune as an army-contractor."
"The Wylies were a very good family, Irene."
"If you are through eating, I will have a cigar," said the young man,
sauntering over to the bay-window.
What was there in this simple announcement of Sylvie having gone on a
charity-school picnic with Jack Darcy that should so rouse the
art-cultured pulses of Fred Lawrence? He had always liked Sylvie: her
freshness and piquancy stirred him like a whiff of mountain air,--a sure
sign that all healthy tone had not been cultivated out of him. It would
be very foolish for Sylvie to commit a _mésalliance_ with this young
man, who was no doubt good enough in his way,--a rather rough, awkward,
clownish fellow, with a coarsely generous heart. Sylvie so delicate and
refined, with her pretty ways, her genius,--yes, she really did have a
genius! In Paris or Rome she might make herself quite a name. He must
see a little more of her: he must--well, did he want to marry any one?
Irene and Gertrude retired to the room of the former, and discussed
Newport and Saratoga.
"I do hope we shall have a cottage at Newport another summer," said Mrs.
Eastman.
"It gives you tone, of course," was Irene's response; "but honest, now,
Gerty, don't you think it a little poky? I do not want to go anywhere
for a whole summer: I like the fun of all. Agatha is to spend a month at
Long Branch, and I am going down just for a little dazzle and to give my
gowns an airing."
Their siesta was passed in this kind of small talk. Late in the
afternoon she drove Mrs. Eastman home, and then went for Sylvie in her
pretty pony-phaeton. As Sylvie was about nothing more important than a
pale-blue zephyr "fascinator," she accepted the invitation.
What a delicious drive it was! A dappled under-roof of cloud with the
sun just behind it, a golden-gray haze filming the air, and fragrant
breezes suggestive of roses and honeysuckle. All the way was starred
with daisies. Sylvie drew in long breaths of delight, for she never
wearied of nature.
They turned homeward early. The bells were ringing for six, and the
mills and factories began to empty out their swarm of human beings.
"Why do you go through here?" asked Sylvie in surprise. "I thought you
hated all this."
"So I do," briefly.
She let the pony walk now. These shrill sounds jarred on the summer air.
Groups of girls in procession in faded gear or tawdry finery; brawny men
with an old-country, heavy cast of feature, in blue flannel, with arms
bared to the elbow, and throats exposed; pale stripling youths of the
American type, boys with the rough fun not yet knocked out of them by
hard work or the harder blows of fate,--a motley crowd indeed.
It thinned a little just here. Two or three men came along
leisurely,--one tall and compact, with a slow, firm step, the face
grave, the eyes glancing over beyond the hills. Irene Lawrence shut her
lips with a touch of displeasure. Was she to miss the satisfaction that
had been brooding in her mind for the last hour, for the accomplishment
of which she had driven through this dusty, ill-smelling street?
The pedestrian raised his head. A sudden warm, smiling glow overspread
the face, no longer grave, but brightening like an April sky. The
outlook of the eyes was so frank and clear; the half-smile playing about
the parted lips had the honesty of a child. He touched his hat, and
bowed with an almost stately deference.
Sylvie nodded and smiled, leaning forward a bit. What sent the glad
light so quickly out of his countenance? The girl glanced at Irene.
Miss Lawrence had stared coolly, haughtily, decisively. This man might
look at her hundreds of times in the days to come, but he would never
again expect a social recognition from her. And, oh, perfection of
cruelty! Sylvie, his fellow-sinner in these social laws, had witnessed
his pain and discomfiture.
She turned with her face at white heat, one of those inward flashes of
indignation that transcend any scarlet blaze of anger. Her eyes glowed
with a fiery ray, and the curves of mouth and chin seemed as if frozen.
"It was a deliberate insult, Irene! How dared you"--
"How dared I pass one of my father's workmen? Well, Miss Barry, I happen
not to be hand-in-glove with them. I can relegate them to their proper
place when an ill-judged vanity brings them unduly forward."
"You met him at _my_ house: he is _my_ friend, and the friend of my
aunt. His birth is as good as yours, or mine."
"Oh, I dare say!" with a satirical laugh. "Are you really going to marry
him, Sylvie? Have you the courage to throw yourself quite away?"
"Stop!" and she caught at the reins. The next moment she was on the
sidewalk. "Good-evening," she exclaimed with the dignity of a queen.
"The little spitfire!" laughed Miss Lawrence.
Sylvie's displeasure mattered very little to her. A few days later she
was on her way to Long Branch, and the episode was soon danced out of
mind.
As for Sylvie Barry, she made up her mind never to go to Hope Terrace
again. The friendship was not of her seeking, and now it should end.
Friendship, indeed! It disgraced the word to use it in connection with
Irene Lawrence.
That very evening she went around to the Darcys. Neither she nor Jack
mentioned the rencontre, but there was an indescribable something in her
manner that told Jack the insult had been as much to her as to him.
Hardly a fortnight later the Lawrence carriage stood at the gate of the
pretty court-yard, and the liveried driver brought a note to the door.
DEAR SYLVIE,--[in a tremulous, uncertain hand] I
am wretched and lonely. Fred and Irene are away,
and Mr. Lawrence has gone West on business. Will
you not, out of the generosity of your heart, come
and cheer me up a bit? I was in bed all day
yesterday with a frightful headache, and can just
crawl to-day. Do not disappoint me. I have set my
heart on hearing you read, and have some nice new
books.
Ever your obliged friend, A. L.
"You must go," was her aunt's comment in a sympathizing tone. "I have
promised all the afternoon to the School Club, you know, and you would
only be home alone. Poor Mrs. Lawrence! What an invalid she has become!
And think of me,"--with a cheery laugh,--"able to get about anywhere!"
So Sylvie went up to Hope Terrace in the luxurious carriage she thought
she had tabooed forever.
Mrs. Lawrence did look very poorly. She kept to her room a great deal
nowadays; or rather there were two of them,--one off the bedchamber,
with a pretty oriel window, and exquisitely fitted up with every luxury
wealth and taste could devise.
Mrs. Lawrence had already lost her interest in life. Her two daughters
were well married. Irene would be, of course; but marriages were an old
story for her. She had loved to shine at watering-places, but the gayety
no longer lured her. She had dazzled in diamonds, silks, and velvets,
been admired on the right hand and on the left, until it was an old,
trite story. Servants managed her house admirably. Mr. Lawrence never
wearied her with any business details. Her clothes were ordered, and
made, and hung in the closets. The carriage was always at hand. Not a
want of any kind, hardly a desire, that could not be instantly
satisfied. She had sunk into a kind of graceful semi-invalidism, and
enjoyed the coming and going of her children, but her own time was over.
"How good you are, Sylvie dear!" and, drawing the young girl to her, she
kissed her fondly. "I don't know what I should do without you. Irene
would stay at home if I wanted her; but she is so full of life and
excitement, that it wears me out. You are not always in such a whirl of
society, and then you _are_ different. You have such a sweet,
sympathetic nature, child! I can always feel it in your hand, and your
voice is so soothing. What a difference there is in voices!"
Her own was finely modulated: indeed, Sylvie used to think sometimes
that these Lawrences had more than their share of the good things of
this world. No physical gift or grace had been denied them.
So Sylvie read and talked, and sang two or three songs before she went
home. Then she came again and again, sometimes with her aunt, oftener
alone. Miss Barry took duty calls with her neighbors as one of the
demands of society, to be fulfilled with the fine grace of thorough
good-breeding. Beyond the little formalities that always surrounded her
like a delicate hoar-frost, there was a large heart for the weal and woe
of all who could in any way be benefited.
"It is a pity to see such a waste of life," she said of Mrs. Lawrence.
"Some people, after they have served their own turn, and had their good
time, set about doing something for God and their neighbors at the
eleventh hour; but she still clings to self, even when all the pleasure
has dropped out. If she only would exert herself a little, her health
and interest would improve, and she has so much in her hands."
One day Sylvie had turned the last leaf of her book, when Fred Lawrence
crossed the hall, having come home unexpectedly half an hour before.
"Miss Sylvie is with your mother," the housekeeper had said; and he had
begged that they should not be disturbed. He stood now listening to the
cool, soft voice, and an odd thought entered his mind.
Sylvie should really be a daughter of the house. How his mother liked
her, depended upon her! She was not always going to watering-places and
parties and theatres, she did not talk continually of dress and
conquests. He did not despise cultivated elegance: in fact, it was a
strong point with all the Lawrences; but he knew that a great deal of
this much-praised culture ran into artificiality, while Sylvie's
elegance had the comprehensiveness of nature. It would be quite
impossible for her to do an awkward or ungraceful act; for her innate
sense of beauty, harmony, and right guided her. Something higher than
worldly maxims toned her soul. And though he, a man with his hands full
of gold that he had never earned, could content himself with indolent
dilettanteism, he wanted an earnest, honest, truthful woman, if he ever
took a wife. He had flirted in a lazy fashion, common with young men who
find themselves an object to women, and who have only to raise their
hand, sultan-like, to bring a host of houris. That he had kept out of
many grosser pleasures was perhaps a credit to him, although that was
not the weak side of his character.
He did not fall in love with the picture before him, sweet as it
was,--the young girl in a soft flowing white dress (she was too true an
artist to have starchy outlines), the shimmering hair, the delicate
wavering color, the proud poise of the head, the plump white arm and
slender fingers with their pale-pink nails, and, above all, the
exquisite voice that seemed so to enter into the culmination of the
story, the last few sentences of pathos, joy, and complete fruition.
She closed her book. Neither of the ladies spoke. Mrs. Lawrence had been
deeply touched. She lived almost exclusively in this world of fictitious
sentiment, I was going to say; but I remember that it is often a
transcript of human lives. Still she liked sentiment in books, out of
them she scarcely recognized it.
There was a step and a low tap at the door; then, before Mrs. Lawrence
could answer, Fred marched in, kissed his mother dutifully, and shook
hands with Sylvie.
He had always liked Sylvie better as a little girl than any one else who
ever came to the house, and he liked her now. How happy his mother would
be! for of course they would go on living here. Irene would be away
presently, and his parents would need some one. His summer work was
mapped out before him; and really it was a pleasure to think he should
escape the bore of society as one found it at summer-resorts, and
entertain himself with this piquant brown-eyed girl with a heart fresh
as a rose. He did not want a woman who had been wooed by every Tom,
Dick, and Harry.
Yet another and more heroic thought entered his mind after chatting with
her a few moments. He would save _her_ as well. She might have a slight
fancy for Jack Darcy: his sisters had spoken of it, and these great,
fair, muscular giants were often attractive to women, through the very
strength and rude force with which they pushed their suit. But such a
lumbering, vulgar fellow in Miss Barry's dainty, womanish parlor! and he
smiled at the thought. Yes, he would be doing a good deed to snatch
Sylvie from any such possibility.
Fred Lawrence suddenly assumed a new importance in his own eyes. He made
himself very agreeable to both ladies. Sylvie remained to dinner; and,
when Mrs. Lawrence would have sent her home in the carriage, he proposed
to escort her,--he wished to pay his respects to Miss Barry.
They did not take the most direct course, but, leaving the streets with
their noise of children and possibly vulgar contact, strolled through
"Lovers' Lane." The old trees met overhead; there were dooryards full of
sweet, old-fashioned flowers, and now and then the sound of a weak piano
or a plaintive voice.
"I am glad these streets have been kept free from the vice of modern
improvement," said he. "It always brings back a touch of my boyhood when
I walk through them. Your aunt made a good fight, Miss Sylvie, when she
refused to listen to the golden tongues of speculators, though of course
you would have been much richer. But it can be turned into money any
time."
"Money is not every thing," answered the young girl, with a touch of
sharpness. "Are one's own desires and old associations to count for
nothing? This place was very dear to my aunt and to many others. I am
sure there is quite enough of Yerbury laid waste now. The town looks as
if it were a sort of general house-cleaning, and every thing was thrust
out of doors and windows. And it was so pretty!" with a curious heat and
passion. "It was like a dream, with its winding river and green fields,
and men at their hay, and cows grazing in knee-deep pastures. Now all
the milkmaids are herded in mills and factories; and the
children,--well, there are no children any more!"
"No children!" lifting his pencilled brows in languid surprise. "Why, I
think you can find swarms of them. The poorer the man, the larger the
family."
"There are babies and babies; then little prigs and drudges. I am not
sure I am in love with the so-called civilization. For the great
majority it only means harder work."
"Did we not learn in some school-book--I am quite sure I did--that
'Satan finds some mischief still,
For idle hands to do'?"
"Are you not afraid?" She turned with a bright, tormenting smile to the
handsome young fellow, who flushed under her clear glance.
"For those who have brains, manual labor may not be the only chance of
salvation," he returned with a somewhat haughty flippancy.
"I wonder they do not turn their brains to some account."
They reached the gate, and Miss Barry was sitting on the porch. Sylvie
was too pretty and too womanly to be quarrelled with for the sake of a
subject that did not in the least interest him. Beside, he meant to come
in; so he opened the gate for her, and followed in a well-bred,
gentlemanly way, that had nothing obtrusive in it. Miss Barry welcomed
him with the quaint formality, the subtile air of education, refinement,
and morality, so much a part of herself. It pleased him extremely, and
settled him in his determination.
"Sylvie has a touch of radicalism," he mused to himself; "but it is a
disease of youth, and thrives by association. Take her quite away, and
she will soon recover her normal tone."
He found his mother still up on his return, and rather restless. She lay
on her sofa, and dozed so much through the day, that night had but
little slumber to bring her.
"I am so glad you did not go to Long Branch," she remarked, as she toyed
with her son's silken, perfumed hair. "I get so lonesome when your
father is away; and he seems to think of nothing but business"--in a
complaining tone. "I do not know what I should do but for Sylvie. She is
such a charming little body! Fred, do you think there is any truth in
Gertrude's gossip about her and that--one of your father's mill-hands,
is it not? How can Miss Barry allow it?"
"There is no truth in it," with a light, scornful laugh. "The families
are neighbors, you know; and I suppose the boor takes a look for
encouragement. I shall not go away this summer. I can find pleasanter
employment."
She pressed his hand, and smiled, as their eyes met. Sons-in-law were
very little to one, except in the way of respectability, but a daughter
like Sylvie would be such a comfort! Fred had no need to marry a
fortune, but Sylvie would not be poor.