Part 12 (1/2)
All night Sylvia lay under the canopy of boughs her brother made to s.h.i.+eld 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 sh.o.r.es, 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 encompa.s.sed 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 fas.h.i.+onable 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 antic.i.p.ation of her own, she went away to make a lampless toilet in the dusk, which proved how slight a hold the feminine pa.s.sion for making one's self pretty had yet taken upon her.