WHEN Fred Lawrence came next day into Sylvie Barry's presence, there was
a certain proud humility shining in his handsome face, that was now
quite worn and thin; a dignity born of honor in having achieved at least
a standing-place in the world. He was not her hero, never had been
indeed; and his pale face flushed at the remembrance of his once
complacent claim to her regard.
She was sitting in the room with his mother, but she sprang up from the
low ottoman.
"I am so glad! your mother has been telling me the news. Why, it is"--
She had held out her hands as she began her sentence, but as he took
them she made a sudden pause. His were icy cold.
"More than I could have expected in such a brief while, hardly at all.
Both offers have surprised me greatly."
He strove so hard to render his tone calm, that it was absolutely cold.
She turned with a petulant but charming gesture, while her peachy cheek
took on a riper tint.
"You are not a bit enthusiastic," in that pretty, imperious, chiding
tone. "I suppose you think good fortune ought to fall down upon you, be
thrust on you, like greatness."
"No. I am very thankful for it. I can give my mother and sister some
needed indulgences that it would have pained me very much to see them go
without. How is Irene?"
"I don't know," said Mrs. Lawrence fretfully. "She does mope so. I shall
be so glad to get away."
"I have just come from the doctor's. We are to start on Thursday.
Sylvie, are you all ready?"
"Yes," with a positive little nod.
He stepped into the next room. Irene had been worse after Mrs. Minor's
visit, but was the same again now, quiet, cold, impassible. It made no
difference to her whether they remained here, or went to Depford Beach.
She evinced neither pain, pleasure, nor interest; but she liked best to
be alone. She endured Sylvie with rather more equanimity than she did
her mother, but even the fault-finding energy would have been welcome to
the doctor. Nothing mattered: that was the trouble.
She heard now they were to go in two days. The cottage was all ready.
Martha and Miss Barry's trusty handmaiden were to do the housekeeping.
The place was so arranged, with the spacious hall through the middle,
that each family could be by itself.
"I have ordered a carriage to come every day for you and mother," Fred
said quietly. "I thought you would like it better than being dependent
on Miss Barry."
Irene gave a slow, acquiescent nod.
"Good-by," cried Sylvie, looking in. "I will run over again to-morrow."
"I wanted her to stay to tea," said Mrs. Lawrence complainingly. "It is
so dull!"
"I will come up and take tea with you. I will order it at once." And he
ran down.
There was a subtle perfume in the hall. She had a bunch of violets in
her belt, he remembered. He said over softly Ben Jonson's quaint
lines,--
"Here she was wont to go, and here, and here,
Just where the daisies, pinks, and violets grow:
The world may find the spring by following her."
But he could not follow. Had fate smiled on him to make the
renunciation more bitter? For now he could work his way up to something
worthy of her acceptance. And had he not learned the past winter, had he
not been slowly learning ever since the death and loss, that the manhood
of a gentleman was his thoughtfulness for others, his courteous
delicacy, his consideration, often his denial of self, rather than the
exquisite polish of cultivation, and the veneer of society's
affectations? How blind he must have been, ever to have offered these
last to a woman so true and pure of soul!
But a still larger sacrifice had been demanded of him. He must see her
in seductive solitudes, in still more intimate association. If he could
stay away from Depford Beach! but that was not possible. He was to spend
Sundays with them. But surely Jack would be there then. An almost
careless lover he thought his friend. Was every smile so dear to him?
The doctor and Fred went down with them. Darcy had decided to take a
business trip, so presently Mrs. Darcy joined the seaside household. In
the bygone years Mrs. Lawrence would not have deigned to notice her; but
she found this delicate, mild-mannered, middle-aged woman very
companionable. Circumstances had rendered Mrs. Darcy exclusive, rather
than any inherent trait of birth or breeding. She had lived with a few
people always, and two or three strong attachments had given to her
character the kind of concentration that passes for strength. Yet all of
these had been more positive people than herself; and while this had
softened the tendency to that querulous exactingness that weak, sweet
natures are apt to possess, it had also shaped to certain generous
instincts that were quite free from vanity. Her natural kindliness gave
her the charm of good-breeding, and this settled her in the estimation
of Mrs. Lawrence. She might have possessed all the virtues in the
calendar, but an inharmonious, unpolished turn or act would have
tabooed her. We generally ascribe this grace to life-long culture, or a
certain inheritance of blood, but it occasionally springs from other
causes.
The three women, with natures and aims widely different, fraternized in
the most amiable manner. Sylvie glanced in and out between them as a
gleam of sunshine penetrates the interstices of a wood, and brings out
all lights and tints, itself untouched by any. Their greatest diversion
was driving. Back of the little settlement--it was hardly large enough
for a village, and had a powerful rival some seven miles farther
on--there were country lanes and by-ways, sleepy-looking farms, and
picturesquely careless houses. Below them there was a great fish
_entrepôt_, with fishing-boats plying up and down, brawny fishermen
trilling their musical half-chant, half-song, as they floated over the
bay.
It was curious how, presently, Sylvie came to watch for Fred. Truth to
tell, she found Depford Beach a trifle monotonous. No interest of
schools or clubs or young people's affairs, no strong energetic talks
with Jack about mill business, few people coming and going that she
cared about; the three ladies purring through the drowsy hours on topics
that she fancied she had exhausted years ago; and Irene, between whom
and her there had never been any real electric sympathy, and who was now
coldly indifferent to all matters. For hours she would sit with her
hands dropped nerveless in her lap, glancing over the wide sea out to
the farther horizon. What thoughts were in her mind, Sylvie wondered?
She could not even provoke her to the wordy combats of old. The flashes
of temper and imperiousness had alike died out. She was courteously
polite, and acknowledged all favors with a punctiliousness that built
the wall around her still more firmly. "If one could only rouse her,"
Dr. Maverick said; but that seemed just the thing no one _could_ do.
Yet she certainly was improving in health. Her step became more assured,
her eye less languid, and her complexion cleared up to the hopeful tints
of renewed bodily vigor. Her slender hands filled out a trifle; and
sometimes she would take a book, as if she needed an interest beside her
own sombre thoughts to while away the hours.
So Sylvie established her easel, and had recourse to painting. Oddly
enough she began to ask herself what it was all for? Filling her own
rooms, and bestowing gifts upon friends, was very well for a season; but
was there not a higher purpose in all art, or at least a wider purpose?
It surely did not tend to isolation. She thought of her winter in
Philadelphia,--of the friends she had made, of the desires that had been
awakened. She longed for some purpose, some sympathy and aim. The
enthusiasms of girlhood could no longer inspire her: there must be a
reality and definite end, or work lost its great charm. How was she to
get to this? Her aunt was coming to depend upon her in a peculiar way,
that at times startled Sylvie. She would say, with her quiet, tender
smile, "Will you do this or that, Sylvie? I believe I am growing
indolent: I never thought to so like being waited upon."
The secret in Miss Barry's soul was well kept. In how many lives there
comes a demand for heroism greater than that which led the martyrs of
old to the stake, or the brave women in the reign of terror to the
guillotine! Their inspiration to bravery was patent to all around: their
cause was a lofty one, and they were apostles of that high creed of
self-abnegation which leaves behind a memory in the hearts of all noble
men and women. But there are other pangs quite noiseless: there are
other martyrs who suffer without the sign, who cannot even confess the
reason for the high faith that upholds them.
It was quite natural that she should desire to see Sylvie married. She
could never get over her distaste of having women taking bold strides
for the world's fame and favor. If left alone, this was what Sylvie
would surely do. The delicate womanly charities and kindnesses that had
filled up so much of her life would not satisfy her niece. And, now that
she had brought herself to the point of satisfaction with Jack Darcy,
either she had mistaken their regard, or he was proving himself an
indifferent lover. By a subtile intuition, she understood that Fred
still cared for her, nay, that he held now a reverent admiration that he
had never thought of in the past. His melancholy eyes followed her
about, now and then scintillating sparks of passion that seemed almost
to rend his soul. She experienced an intense and exquisite sympathy for
him that drew them together in a manner that he felt, and was grateful
for, but did not clearly understand.
As for Sylvie, curiously enough, she was at war with herself, though she
wore such a calm, light-hearted exterior. When she rejected Fred
Lawrence, she was quite sure she despised the present man, and his
narrow, futile purposes of life. Truly, to have been the wife of such a
man would have proved irksome to the last degree. But his misfortunes
had brought out the fine gold, the solemn strain of strength and
endurance, that had come from his father's blood. I think even Sylvie
had been a little mortified first, that he should have come back to
Yerbury, and taken such a very inferior position. She wanted him to do
something noteworthy with his pen and his high cultivation. It seemed so
much choice material quite thrown away. Designing patterns was surely no
high test of genius. Women with a purely technical art education had
done it.
But out of it had come this other opportunity that he had grasped with
the pure instinct of genius. Employment for pen and pencil both, for the
embodiment of the exquisite outward forms of beauty, and the rare,
delicate, inward graces of imagination, for the true standards of taste
and art in which he had been informing himself all these years; in the
spirit of dilettanteism, it was true, but now when the intellectual
impetus was added, and the positive need of daily bread, these
complicated motives worked together as a strong stimulant. Perhaps, too,
he had a not unworthy desire to show Sylvie Barry that the man who had
loved her was not utterly unworthy or incapable.
They had drifted together again in the ordinary purposes of life, which,
after all, occur much more frequently than any grand or overwhelming
shock. She took up the friendly, half-sisterly way, pleased with the
instinctive deference he paid her. He understood that it would be quite
useless to aspire to any regard of hers: that was all done with in the
past. She could afford to evince an interest in his plans, since Irene
cared not, and to his mother they were so much Greek, a subtle flavor
that she admitted was the proper thing, but could not understand,--did
not care to trouble herself, in fact.
So these two young people, working in a common bond of sympathy,
insensibly strengthened the regard that had grown with them from
childhood. Fred gained sufficient courage to discuss some plans with
Sylvie: she brought out her easel, as I have said, and accepted from him
friendly criticisms. The difference between their work was soon
manifest,--he had an earnest purpose, with breadth and scope: she had
none. How had they so queerly changed places? she asked herself. Why
were not her talents made of some avail, instead of this puerile
pottering to please one's self?
She began to wonder--dangerously fascinating employment to a woman--if
he had ever cared for her. There seemed an adamantine wall built up
around him, and yet the fruit in the inner garden was more rarely sweet
than she had ever dreamed it could be. She could not know that the
passion for her he had put away with such despairing hands, was
blossoming all the sweeter, and bearing more exquisite fruit in other
directions. She saw the lovely tenderness toward his mother, the
unwearying patience with Irene, the fearless, animating ambition that
seemed to have set his æsthetic desires to a steady, comprehensive
strain of music, to which he was keeping invisible step, but which
thrilled and roused every fibre.
All this he had done without any assistance from her, she thought, blind
little girl; as if the kinship of a true passion could not reach from
the life that went before to that which was to come afterward! _She_ had
not inspired his genius, but stern necessity; it had been no longing or
desire to win _her_, but the material support of his mother and sister.
She began to feel curiously jealous of these extraneous influences. She
unconsciously exerted herself to make his visits at the beach more
interesting. They drove together in her pony-carriage; they studied
glowing summer sunsets, where fantastic clouds piled up wealth of gold
and amber and purple and opaline splendors, and shot out arrowy,
dazzling rays; they paced the sands after it had all faded into tintless
space, and delicate vapors of grayish green and vague violet rose from
the crested waves that broke far out at sea, and trooped across like
airy spirits; they listened to the slow, regular rhythm that came
marching from some weird country, with a grand crash at last, a sobbing
crescendo, and an interval of silence that still pulsated on the dusky,
odorous air, when the moaning billow was dead.
They came so near to Nature, there were moments when they seemed
empowered to wrest the shadowy secrets out of her bosom; and yet they
did not come near to each other. Ever this distance between,--a man's
honor, and faith to his friend, Fred Lawrence thought, never allowing
his secret soul to swerve. There were midnights when he softly paced the
floor, his lips compressed, his brow ghostly white, and his hands
clinched in the throe of a man's deathless love. Then he thought he
could not endure it, that he must stay away. But circumstances were
stronger than will. Did God mean that this anguish should redeem that
other old treachery, that his soul should be purified by its baptism of
fire, a more worthy offering for his friend? If so, then he must not
abate one jot or one pang.
There were within Sylvie Barry's soul certain coquettish instincts. She
was fond of admiration for herself: a purely intellectual regard, with
the passion-dream flown, would soon have wearied her. A warm, bright
nature, loving to please others, but to be pleased in return, cruelly
hurt by surging against this rock-bound coast, piqued and almost
angered, sent into moods of daring, seductive warmth and gayety, quite
capable of making a foil of Dr. Maverick, who was strangely puzzled by
her contradictory moods. But for one thing, he must have tried to cage
the dazzling, elusive spirit: he, too, had a strong sense of honor
toward his friend; and he could only imagine her playing sportively with
the few who came within her radius, not setting herself to win any
forbidden regard. What might have made some women sad and silent--the
consciousness that an old lover had over-lived his passion--seemed to
sting her into renewed effort.
Coming back to them, Jack Darcy was more than puzzled, set at sea in a
bewildering way, without chart or compass. Had Fred ceased to care for
Sylvie? Had she never loved him? Or was some other feeling holding him
back,--a kind of family complication, a sense of duty to the others so
high that he would not offer them a divided regard, any sooner than her?
He believed mothers had a peculiar sense of possession in their sons;
but they surely had married other women's sons with small scruple! Mrs.
Lawrence was warmly attached to Sylvie. In his honest, inconsequent
man-fashion, he wondered why they could not always live together, as
they were doing here.
Fred was strangely worn and thin, with the kind of nervous alertness
that accompanies an intent watching of one's self.
"Hillo, old fellow!" cried Jack; "what have you been doing? Working
yourself to a shadow? If high art is so exhaustive, there must be a
little let-up. A man has no more right to kill himself in an artistic
industrial way, than in any of the ruder forms of suicide."
Fred shivered visibly.
"Don't speak of suicide," he answered in a shrinking tone. "I never
thought of it but once; and that was when I fancied myself of no use to
the world, or myself either. I am not overworked"--and he paused, to
study Jack a moment. Why, he was positively handsome, with that
superabundant strength and vitality, the clear red and white of his
complexion, the bronze beard, the healthful, honest eyes. He seemed to
be surcharged with a magnetic current of energy and courage.
"Yes, you are. I dare say you have carried your plans and sketches, and
what not, down to Depford Beach, and pored over them until almost
morning. You must take a vacation."
"I expect to when the families return;" and he gave a faint, wan smile.
"I have had another streak of luck, Jack. A lady, a very wealthy widow,
is building a house in one of the pretty towns up the Hudson, and it is
to be finished with all the elegance art can bring. She saw one of my
articles, and sent to me; and we have been corresponding. In September I
am to go to New York, and make arrangements. There is to be painting and
frescoing, and rooms finished in different styles,--indeed, I cannot
tell the half myself, until I see her."
The pale face had kindled with a fine and proud enthusiasm. More than
ever, Jack recognized the artistic refinement of his friend. What would
law or medicine have been to him as a profession?
"Humph!" grunted Jack. "A great vacation that will be! But you _must_ be
careful, or you will not live out half your days. You've a look in your
face like the little chap I first knew."
The smile that crossed it then, Jack did not understand. It seemed to
Fred Lawrence that half his days would suffice, when Sylvie Barry was
his friend's wife.
"Yet you see the 'little chap' lived"--with an attempt at gayety.
"Yes. And, Fred, I am more glad than I can put into words, to know that
you have been so successful. It is just the career for you. It's odd
that a great commonplace, blundering fellow like me should have two such
artistic friends as you and Sylvie Barry."
The well-trained face did not blanch a muscle. He felt, with a flash of
subtile inner consciousness, that Darcy was studying him. Thank God, he
could stand before his friend free from a thought of treachery! All
these weeks he had walked over burning coals, but the smell of the fire
was not in his garments.
Jack thought it over long after Fred had gone. Why could not these two
people see! Surely they were meant for one another. It puzzled, it
almost fretted him. Sylvie was so peculiar, so changed in these few
weeks! What did it all mean?
And on Saturday when he was to go down to the beach, Fred pleaded some
urgent business to a neighboring city. He was not quite brave enough to
see them together.
"I have been meaning to go for some time," he said with gravity, "but I
did not like to think they would be alone over Sunday. Now that you will
be there, I certainly can spare three or four days."
"See here," returned Jack,--"wait until Monday. Come, we'll have a nice
day together down there on the sands. Sundays always seem so wonderful
by the ocean, with the grand chant forever in your ears. The very waves
are saying,--
"'Let every thing that hath breath praise the Lord.'"
But Fred Lawrence would not suffer himself to be persuaded.