Part 19 (1/2)
”You will in time. I am pa.s.sionate and restless by nature, but I am also very sensitive to all influences, personal or otherwise, and were you different from your tranquil, suns.h.i.+ny self, I too should change. I am quiet because I seem in a pleasant state, half-waking, half dreaming, from which I never wish to wake. I am tired of the past, contented with the present, and to you I leave the future.”
”It shall be a happy one if I can make it so, and to-morrow you will give me the dear right to try.”
”Yes,” she said, and thinking of the solemn promises to be then made, she added, thoughtfully, ”I think I love, I know I honor, I will try to obey. Can I do more?”
[Ill.u.s.tration]
Well for them both if they could have known that friends.h.i.+p is love's twin, and the gentle sisters are too often mistaken for each other.
That Sylvia was innocently deceiving both her lover and herself, by wrapping her friends.h.i.+p in the garb her lost love had worn, forgetting that the wanderer might return and claim its own, leaving the other to suffer for the borrowed warmth. They did not know it, and walked tranquilly together in the summer night, planning the new life as they went, and when they parted Moor pointed to a young moon hanging in the sky.
”See, Sylvia, our honeymoon has risen.”
”May it be a happy one!”
”It will be, and when the anniversary of this glad night comes round it shall be s.h.i.+ning still. G.o.d bless my little wife.”
CHAPTER XII.
WEDDING.
Sylvia was awakened on her wedding morning by a curious choking sound, and starting up found Prue crying over her as if her heart were broken.
”What has happened? Is Geoffrey ill? Is all the silver stolen? Can't the Bishop come?” she asked, wondering what calamity could move her sister to tears at such a busy time.
Prue took Sylvia in her arms, and rocking to and fro as if she were still a baby, poured forth a stream of words and tears together.
”Nothing has happened; I came to call you, and broke down because it was the last time I should do it. I've been awake all night, thinking of you and all you've been to me since I took you in my arms nineteen years ago, and said you should be mine. My little Sylvia, I've been neglectful of so many things, and now I see them all; I've fretted you with my ways, and haven't been patient enough with yours; I've been selfish even about your wedding, and it won't be as you like it; you'll reproach me in your heart, and I shall hate myself for it when you are gone never to be my care and comfort any more. And--oh, my dear, my dear, what shall I do without you?”
This unexpected demonstration from her prosaic sister touched Sylvia more than the most sentimental lamentations from another. It brought to mind all the past devotion, the future solitude of Prue's life, and she clung about her neck tearless but very tender.
”I never shall reproach you, never cease to love and thank you for all you've been to me, my dear old girl. You mustn't grieve over me, or think I shall forget you, for you never shall be forsaken; and very soon I shall be back, almost as much your Sylvia as ever. Mark will live on one side, I shall live on the other, and we'll be merry and cosy together. And who knows but when we are both out of your way you will learn to think of yourself and marry also.”
At this Prue began to laugh hysterically, and exclaimed, with more than her usual incoherency--
”I must tell you, it was so very odd! I didn't mean to do so, because you children would tease me; but now I will to make you laugh, for it's a bad omen to cry over a bride, they say. My dear, that gouty Mr.
MacGregor, when I went in with some of my nice broth last week (Hugh slops so, and he's such a fidget, I took it myself), after he had eaten every drop before my eyes, wiped his mouth and asked me to marry him.”
”And you would not, Prue?”
”Bless me, child, how could I? I must take care of my poor dear father, and he isn't pleasant in the least, you know, but would wear my life out in a week. I really pitied him, however, when I refused him, with a napkin round his neck, and he tapped his waistcoat with a spoon so comically, when he offered me his heart, as if it were something good to eat.”
”How very funny! What made him do it, Prue?”
”He said he'd watched the preparations from his window, and got so interested in weddings that he wanted one himself, and felt drawn to me I was so sympathetic. That means a good nurse and cook, my dear. I understand these invalid gentlemen, and will be a slave to no man so fat and fussy as Mr. Mac, as my brother calls him. It's not respectful, but I like to refresh myself by saying it just now.”
”Never mind the old soul, Prue, but go and have your breakfast comfortably, for there's much to be done, and no one is to dress me but your own dear self.”