CHAPTER III.

by Louisa May Alcott

　　AFLOAT.Sylvia sat sewing in the sunshine with an expression on her face halfmirthful, half melancholy, as she looked backward to the girlhood justended, and forward to the womanhood just beginning, for on thatmidsummer day, she was eighteen. Voices roused her from her reverie,and, looking up, she saw her brother approaching with two friends, theirneighbor Geoffrey Moor and his guest Adam Warwick. Her first impulse wasto throw down her work and run to meet them, her second to remember hernew dignity and sit still, awaiting them with well-bred composure, quiteunconscious that the white figure among the vines added a picturesquefinish to the quiet summer scene.They came up warm and merry, with a brisk row across the bay, and Sylviamet them with a countenance that gave a heartier welcome than her words,as she greeted the neighbor cordially, the stranger courteously, andbegan to gather up her work when they seated themselves in the bamboochairs scattered about the wide piazza."You need not disturb yourself," said Mark, "we are only making this away-station, _en route_ for the studio. Can you tell me where myknapsack is to be found? after one of Prue's stowages, nothing short ofa divining-rod will discover it, I'm afraid.""I know where it is. Are you going away again so soon, Mark?""Only a two days' trip up the river with these mates of mine. No,Sylvia, it can't be done.""I did not say anything.""Not in words, but you looked a whole volley of 'Can't I goes?' and Ianswered it. No girl but you would dream of such a thing; you hatepicnics, and as this will be a long and rough one, don't you see howabsurd it would be for you to try it?""I don't quite see it, Mark, for this would not be an ordinary picnic;it would be like a little romance to me, and I had rather have it thanany birthday present you could give me. We used to have such happy timestogether before we were grown up, I don't like to be so separated now.But if it is not best, I'm sorry that I even looked a wish."Sylvia tried to keep both disappointment and desire out of her voice asshe spoke, though a most intense longing had taken possession of herwhen she heard of a projected pleasure so entirely after her own heart.But there was an unconscious reproach in her last words, a mute appeal inthe wistful eyes that looked across the glittering bay to the greenhills beyond. Now, Mark was both fond and proud of the young sister,who, while he was studying art abroad, had studied nature at home, tillthe wayward but winning child had bloomed into a most attractive girl.He remembered her devotion to him, his late neglect of her, and longedto make atonement. With elevated eyebrows and inquiring glances, heturned from one friend to another. Moor nodded and smiled, Warwicknodded, and sighed privately, and having taken the sense of the meetingby a new style of vote, Mark suddenly announced--"You can go if you like, Sylvia.""What!" cried his sister, starting up with a characteristic impetuositythat sent her basket tumbling down the steps, and crowned her dozing catwith Prue's nightcap frills. "Do you mean it, Mark? Wouldn't it spoilyour pleasure, Mr. Moor? Shouldn't I be a trouble, Mr. Warwick? Tell mefrankly, for if I can go I shall be happier than I can express."The gentlemen smiled at her eagerness, but as they saw the altered faceshe turned toward them, each felt already repaid for any loss of freedomthey might experience hereafter, and gave unanimous consent. Uponreceipt of which Sylvia felt inclined to dance about the three and blessthem audibly, but restrained herself, and beamed upon them in a state ofwordless gratitude pleasant to behold. Having given a rash consent, Marknow thought best to offer a few obstacles to enhance its value and tryhis sister's mettle."Don't ascend into the air like a young balloon, child, but hear theconditions upon which you go, for if you fail to work three miracles itis all over with you. Firstly, the consent of the higher powers, forfather will dread all sorts of dangers--you are such a freakishcreature,--and Prue will be scandalized because trips like this are not thefashion for young ladies.""Consider that point settled and go on to the next," said Sylvia, who,having ruled the house ever since she was born, had no fears of successwith either father or sister."Secondly, you must do yourself up in as compact a parcel as possible;for though you little women are very ornamental on land, you are notvery convenient for transportation by water. Cambric gowns and Frenchslippers are highly appropriate and agreeable at the present moment,but must be sacrificed to the stern necessities of the case. You mustmake a dowdy of yourself in some usefully short, scant, dingy costume,which will try the nerves of all beholders, and triumphantly prove thatwomen were never meant for such excursions.""Wait five minutes and I'll triumphantly prove to the contrary,"answered Sylvia, as she ran into the house.Her five minutes was sufficiently elastic to cover fifteen, for she wasravaging her wardrobe to effect her purpose and convince her brother,whose artistic tastes she consulted, with a skill that did her goodservice in the end. Rapidly assuming a gray gown, with a jaunty jacketof the same, she kilted the skirt over one of green, the pedestrianlength of which displayed boots of uncompromising thickness. Over hershoulder, by a broad ribbon, she slung a prettily wrought pouch, andornamented her hat pilgrim-wise with a cockle shell. Then taking herbrother's alpen-stock she crept down, and standing in the door-waypresented a little figure all in gray and green, like the earth she wasgoing to wander over, and a face that blushed and smiled and shone asshe asked demurely--"Please, Mark, am I picturesque and convenient enough to go?"He wheeled about and stared approvingly, forgetting cause in effect tillWarwick began to laugh like a merry bass viol, and Moor joined him,saying--"Come, Mark, own that you are conquered, and let us turn our commonplacevoyage into a pleasure pilgrimage, with a lively lady to keep us knightsand gentlemen wherever we are.""I say no more; only remember, Sylvia, if you get burnt, drowned, orblown away, I'm not responsible for the damage, and shall have thesatisfaction of saying, 'There, I told you so.'""That satisfaction may be mine when I come home quite safe and well,"replied Sylvia, serenely. "Now for the last condition."Warwick looked with interest from the sister to the brother; for, beinga solitary man, domestic scenes and relations possessed the charm ofnovelty to him."Thirdly, you are not to carry a boat-load of luggage, cloaks, pillows,silver forks, or a dozen napkins, but are to fare as we fare, sleepingin hammocks, barns, or on the bare ground, without shrieking at bats orbewailing the want of mosquito netting; eating when, where, and what ismost convenient, and facing all kinds of weather regardless ofcomplexion, dishevelment, and fatigue. If you can promise all this, behere loaded and ready to go off at six o'clock to-morrow morning."After which cheerful picture of the joys to come, Mark marched away tohis studio, taking his friends with him.Sylvia worked the three miracles, and at half past five, A. M. wasdiscovered sitting on the piazza, with her hammock rolled into a twinesausage at her feet, her hat firmly tied on, her scrip packed, and herstaff in her hand. "Waiting till called for," she said, as her brotherpassed her, late and yawning as usual. As the clock struck six thecarriage drove round, and Moor and Warwick came up the avenue innautical array. Then arose a delightful clamor of voices, slamming ofdoors, hurrying of feet and frequent peals of laughter; for every onewas in holiday spirits, and the morning seemed made for pleasuring.Mr. Yule regarded the voyagers with an aspect as benign as the summersky overhead; Prue ran to and fro pouring forth a stream of counsels,warnings, and predictions; men and maids gathered on the lawn or hungout of upper windows; and even old Hecate, the cat, was seen chasingimaginary rats and mice in the grass till her yellow eyes glared withexcitement. "All in," was announced at last, and as the carriage rolledaway its occupants looked at one another with faces of blithesatisfaction that their pilgrimage was so auspiciously begun.A mile or more up the river the large, newly-painted boat awaited them.The embarkation was a speedy one, for the cargo was soon stowed inlockers and under seats, Sylvia forwarded to her place in the bow; Mark,as commander of the craft, took the helm; Moor and Warwick, as crew, satwaiting orders; and Hugh, the coachman, stood ready to push off at wordof command. Presently it came, a strong hand sent them rustling throughthe flags, down dropped the uplifted oars, and with a farewell cheerfrom a group upon the shore the Kelpie glided out into the stream.Sylvia, too full of genuine content to talk, sat listening to themusical dip of well-pulled oars, watching the green banks on eitherside, dabbling her hands in the eddies as they rippled by, and singingto the wind, as cheerful and serene as the river that gave her back asmiling image of herself. What her companions talked of she neitherheard nor cared to know, for she was looking at the great picture-bookthat always lies ready for the turning of the youngest or the oldesthands; was receiving the welcome of the playmates she best loved, andwas silently yielding herself to the power which works all wonders withits benignant magic. Hour after hour she journeyed along that fluentroad. Under bridges where early fishers lifted up their lines to letthem through; past gardens tilled by unskilful townsmen who harvested anhour of strength to pay the daily tax the city levied on them; pasthoneymoon cottages where young wives walked with young husbands in thedew, or great houses shut against the morning. Lovers came floating downthe stream with masterless rudder and trailing oars. College race-boatsshot by with modern Greek choruses in full blast and the frankestcriticisms from their scientific crews. Fathers went rowing to and frowith argosies of pretty children, who gave them gay good morrows.Sometimes they met fanciful nutshells manned by merry girls, who madefor shore at sight of them with most erratic movements and novelcommands included in their Art of Navigation. Now and then some poet orphilosopher went musing by, fishing for facts or fictions, where othermen catch pickerel or perch.All manner of sights and sounds greeted Sylvia, and she felt as if shewere watching a Panorama painted in water colors by an artist who hadbreathed into his work the breath of life and given each figure power toplay its part. Never had human faces looked so lovely to her eye, formorning beautified the plainest with its ruddy kiss; never had humanvoices sounded so musical to her ear, for daily cares had not yetbrought discord to the instruments tuned by sleep and touched bysunshine into pleasant sound; never had the whole race seemed so nearand dear to her, for she was unconsciously pledging all she met in thatgenuine Elixir Vitæ which sets the coldest blood aglow and makes thewhole world kin; never had she felt so truly her happiest self, for ofall the costlier pleasures she had known not one had been so congenialas this, as she rippled farther and farther up the stream and seemed tofloat into a world whose airs brought only health and peace. Hercomrades wisely left her to her thoughts, a smiling Silence for theirfigure-head, and none among them but found the day fairer and felthimself fitter to enjoy it for the innocent companionship of maidenhoodand a happy heart.At noon they dropped anchor under a wide-spreading oak that stood on theriver's edge, a green tent for wanderers like themselves; there they atetheir first meal spread among white clovers, with a pair of squirrelsstaring at them as curiously as human spectators ever watched royalty atdinner, while several meek cows courteously left their guests the shadeand went away to dine at a side-table spread in the sun. They spent anhour or two talking or drowsing luxuriously on the grass; then thespringing up of a fresh breeze roused them all, and weighing anchor theyset sail for another port.Now Sylvia saw new pictures, for, leaving all traces of the city behindthem, they went swiftly countryward. Sometimes by hayfields, each anidyl in itself, with white-sleeved mowers all arow; the pleasant soundof whetted scythes; great loads rumbling up lanes, with brown-facedchildren shouting atop; rosy girls raising fragrant winrows or bringingwater for thirsty sweethearts leaning on their rakes. Often they sawancient farm-houses with mossy roofs, and long well-sweeps suggestive offresh draughts, and the drip of brimming pitchers; orchards andcornfields rustling on either hand, and grandmotherly caps at the narrowwindows, or stout matrons tending babies in the doorway as they watchedsmaller selves playing keep house under the "laylocks" by the wall.Villages, like white flocks, slept on the hillsides; martinboxschoolhouses appeared here and there, astir with busy voices, alivewith wistful eyes; and more than once they came upon little mermenbathing, who dived with sudden splashes, like a squad of turtlestumbling off a sunny rock.Then they went floating under vernal arches, where a murmurous rustleseemed to whisper, "Stay!" along shadowless sweeps, where the blueturned to gold and dazzled with its unsteady shimmer; passed islands sofull of birds they seemed green cages floating in the sun, or doubledcapes that opened long vistas of light and shade, through which theysailed into the pleasant land where summer reigned supreme. To Sylvia itseemed as if the inhabitants of these solitudes had flocked down to theshore to greet her as she came. Fleets of lilies unfurled their sails oneither hand, and cardinal flowers waved their scarlet flags among thegreen. The sagittaria lifted its blue spears from arrowy leaves; wildroses smiled at her with blooming faces; meadow lilies rang theirflame-colored bells; and clematis and ivy hung garlands everywhere, asif hers were a floral progress, and each came to do her honor.Her neighbors kept up a flow of conversation as steady as the river's,and Sylvia listened now. Insensibly the changeful scenes before themrecalled others, and in the friendly atmosphere that surrounded themthese reminiscences found free expression. Each of the three had beenfortunate in seeing much of foreign life; each had seen a differentphase of it, and all were young enough to be still enthusiastic,accomplished enough to serve up their recollections with taste andskill, and give Sylvia glimpses of the world through spectaclessufficiently rose-colored to lend it the warmth which even Truth allowsto her sister Romance.The wind served them till sunset, then the sail was lowered and therowers took to their oars. Sylvia demanded her turn, and wrestled withone big oar while Warwick sat behind and did the work. Having blisteredher hands and given herself as fine a color as any on her brother'spalette, she professed herself satisfied, and went back to her seat towatch the evening-red transfigure earth and sky, making the river andits banks a more royal pageant than splendor-loving Elizabeth ever sawalong the Thames.Anxious to reach a certain point, they rowed on into the twilight,growing stiller and stiller as the deepening hush seemed to hint thatNature was at her prayers. Slowly the Kelpie floated along the shadowyway, and as the shores grew dim, the river dark with leaning hemlocks oran overhanging cliff, Sylvia felt as if she were making the last voyageacross that fathomless stream where a pale boatman plies and many golamenting.The long silence was broken first by Moor's voice, saying--"Adam, sing."If the influences of the hour had calmed Mark, touched Sylvia, and madeMoor long for music, they had also softened Warwick. Leaning on his oarhe lent the music of a mellow voice to the words of a German Volkslied,and launched a fleet of echoes such as any tuneful vintager might havesent floating down the Rhine. Sylvia was no weeper, but as she listened,all the day's happiness which had been pent up in her heart found ventin sudden tears, that streamed down noiseless and refreshing as a warmsouth rain. Why they came she could not tell, for neither song norsinger possessed the power to win so rare a tribute, and at anothertime, she would have restrained all visible expression of thisindefinable yet sweet emotion. Mark and Moor had joined in the burden ofthe song, and when that was done took up another; but Sylvia only satand let her tears flow while they would, singing at heart, though hereyes were full and her cheeks wet faster than the wind could kiss themdry.After frequent peerings and tackings here and there, Mark at lastdiscovered the haven he desired, and with much rattling of oars,clanking of chains, and splashing of impetuous boots, a landing waseffected, and Sylvia found herself standing on a green bank with herhammock in her arms and much wonderment in her mind whether thenocturnal experiences in store for her would prove as agreeable as thedaylight ones had been. Mark and Moor unloaded the boat and prospectedfor an eligible sleeping-place. Warwick, being an old campaigner, setabout building a fire, and the girl began her sylvan housekeeping. Thescene rapidly brightened into light and color as the blaze sprang up,showing the little kettle slung gipsywise on forked sticks, and thesupper prettily set forth in a leafy table-service on a smooth, flatstone. Soon four pairs of wet feet surrounded the fire; an agreeableoblivion of _meum_ and _tuum_ concerning plates, knives, and cups didaway with etiquette, and every one was in a comfortable state ofweariness, which rendered the thought of bed so pleasant that theydeferred their enjoyment of the reality, as children keep the best bitetill the last."What are you thinking of here all by yourself?" asked Mark, coming tolounge on his sister's plaid, which she had spread somewhat apart fromthe others, and where she sat watching the group before her with adreamy aspect."I was watching your two friends. See what a fine study they make withthe red flicker of the fire on their faces and the background of darkpines behind them."They did make a fine study, for both were goodly men yet utterly unlike,one being of the heroic type, the other of the poetic. Warwick was ahead taller than his tall friend, broad-shouldered, strong-limbed, andbronzed by wind and weather. A massive head, covered with rings of ruddybrown hair, gray eyes, that seemed to pierce through all disguises, aneminent nose, and a beard like one of Mark's stout saints. Power,intellect, and courage were stamped on face and figure, making him themanliest man that Sylvia had ever seen. He leaned against the stone, yetnothing could have been less reposeful than his attitude, for the nativeunrest of the man asserted itself in spite of weariness or any soothinginfluence of time or place. Moor was much slighter, and betrayed inevery gesture the unconscious grace of the gentleman born. A mostattractive face, with its broad brow, serene eyes, and the cordial smileabout the mouth. A sweet, strong nature, one would say, which, havingused life well had learned the secret of a true success. Inwardtranquillity seemed his, and it was plain to see that no wave of sound,no wandering breath, no glimpse of color, no hint of night or nature waswithout its charm and its significance for him."Tell me about that man, Mark. I have heard you speak of him since youcame home, but supposing he was some blowzy artist, I never cared to askabout him. Now I've seen him, I want to know more," said Sylvia, as herbrother laid himself down after an approving glance at the groupopposite."I met him in Munich, when I first went abroad, and since then we haveoften come upon each other in our wanderings. He never writes, but goesand comes intent upon his own affairs; yet one never can forget him, andis always glad to feel the grip of his hand again, it seems to put suchlife and courage into one.""Is he good?" asked Sylvia, womanlike, beginning with the morals."Violently virtuous. He is a masterful soul, bent on living out hisbeliefs and aspirations at any cost. Much given to denunciation ofwrong-doing everywhere, and eager to execute justice upon all offendershigh or low. Yet he possesses great nobility of character, greataudacity of mind, and leads a life of the sternest integrity.""Is he rich?""In his own eyes, because he makes his wants so few.""Is he married?""No; he has no family, and not many friends, for he says what he meansin the bluntest English, and few stand the test his sincerity applies.""What does he do in the world?""Studies it, as we do books; dives into everything, analyzes character,and builds up his own with materials which will last. If that's notgenius it's something better.""Then he will do much good and be famous, won't he?""Great good to many, but never will be famous, I fear. He is too fiercean iconoclast to suit the old party, too individual a reformer to jointhe new, and being born a century too soon must bide his time, or playout his part before stage and audience are ready for him.""Is he learned?""Very, in uncommon sorts of wisdom; left college after a year of it,because it could not give him what he wanted, and taking the world forhis university, life for his tutor, says he shall not graduate till histerm ends with days.""I know I shall like him very much.""I hope so, for my sake. He is a grand man in the rough, and anexcellent tonic for those who have courage to try him."Sylvia was silent, thinking over all she had just heard and finding muchto interest her in it, because, to her imaginative and enthusiasticnature, there was something irresistibly attractive in the strong,solitary, self-reliant man. Mark watched her for a moment, then askedwith lazy curiosity--"How do you like this other friend of mine?""He went away when I was such a child that since he came back I've hadto begin again; but if I like him at the end of another month as much asI do now, I shall try to make your friend my friend, because I need suchan one very much."Mark laughed at the innocent frankness of his sister's speech but tookit as she meant it, and answered soberly--"Better leave Platonics till you're forty. Though Moor is twelve yearsolder than yourself he is a young man still, and you are grown a verycaptivating little woman."Sylvia looked both scornful and indignant."You need have no fears. There is such a thing as true and simplefriendship between men and women, and if I can find no one of my own sexwho can give me the help and happiness I want, why may I not look for itanywhere and accept it in whatever shape it comes?""You may, my dear, and I'll lend a hand with all my heart, but you mustbe willing to take the consequences in whatever shape _they_ come," saidMark, not ill pleased with the prospect his fancy conjured up."I will," replied Sylvia loftily, and fate took her at her word.Presently some one suggested bed, and the proposition was unanimouslyaccepted."Where are you going to hang me?" asked Sylvia, as she laid hold of herhammock and looked about her with nearly as much interest as if hersuspension was to be of the perpendicular order."You are not to be swung up in a tree to-night but laid like a ghost,and requested not to walk till morning. There is an unused barn closeby, so we shall have a roof over us for one night longer," answeredMark, playing chamberlain while the others remained to quench the fireand secure the larder.An early moon lighted Sylvia to bed, and when shown her half the barn,which, as she was a Marine, was very properly the bay, Mark explained,she scouted the idea of being nervous or timid in such rude quarters,made herself a cosy nest and bade her brother a merry good night.More weary than she would confess, Sylvia fell asleep at once, despitethe novelty of her situation and the noises that fill a summer nightwith fitful rustlings and tones. How long she slept she did not know,but woke suddenly and sat erect with that curious thrill which sometimesstartles one out of deepest slumber, and is often the forerunner of somedread or danger. She felt this hot tingle through blood and nerves, andstared about her thinking of fire. But everything was dark and still,and after waiting a few moments she decided that her nest had been toowarm, for her temples throbbed and her cheeks were feverish with theclose air of the barn half filled with new-made hay.Creeping up a fragrant slope she spread her plaid again and lay downwhere a cool breath flowed through wide chinks in the wall. Sleep wasslowly returning when the rustle of footsteps scared it quite away andset her heart beating fast, for they came toward the new couch she hadchosen. Holding her breath she listened. The quiet tread drew nearer andnearer till it paused within a yard of her, then some one seemed tothrow themselves down, sigh heavily a few times and grow still as iffalling asleep."It is Mark," thought Sylvia, and whispered his name, but no oneanswered, and from the other corner of the barn she heard her brothermuttering in his sleep. Who was it, then? Mark had said there were nocattle near, she was sure neither of her comrades had left theirbivouac, for there was her brother talking as usual in his dreams; someone seemed restless and turned often with decided motion, that wasWarwick, she thought, while the quietest sleeper of the three betrayedhis presence by laughing once with the low-toned merriment sherecognized as Moor's. These discoveries left her a prey to visions ofgrimy strollers, maudlin farm-servants, and infectious emigrants indismal array. A strong desire to cry out possessed her for a moment, butwas checked; for with all her sensitiveness Sylvia had much commonsense, and that spirit which hates to be conquered even by a naturalfear. She remembered her scornful repudiation of the charge of timidity,and the endless jokes she would have to undergo if her mysteriousneighbor should prove some harmless wanderer or an imaginary terror ofher own, so she held her peace, thinking valiantly as the drops gatheredon her forehead, and every sense grew painfully alert--"I'll not call if my hair turns gray with fright, and I find myself anidiot to-morrow. I told them to try me, and I won't be found wanting atthe first alarm. I'll be still, if the thing does not touch me tilldawn, when I shall know how to act at once, and so save myself fromridicule at the cost of a wakeful night."Holding fast to this resolve Sylvia lay motionless; listening to thecricket's chirp without, and taking uncomfortable notes of the state ofthings within, for the new comer stirred heavily, sighed long anddeeply, and seemed to wake often, like one too sad or weary to rest. Shewould have been wise to have screamed her scream and had the rout over,for she tormented herself with the ingenuity of a lively fancy, andsuffered more from her own terrors than at the discovery of a dozenvampires. Every tale of _diablerie_ she had ever heard came mostinopportunely to haunt her now, and though she felt their folly shecould not free herself from their dominion. She wondered till she couldwonder no longer what the morning would show her. She tried to calculatein how many springs she could reach and fly over the low partition whichseparated her from her sleeping body-guard. She wished with all herheart that she had stayed in her nest which was nearer the door, andwatched for dawn with eyes that ached to see the light.In the midst of these distressful sensations the far-off crow of somevigilant chanticleer assured her that the short summer night was wearingaway and relief was at hand. This comfortable conviction had so good aneffect that she lapsed into what seemed a moment's oblivion, but was infact an hour's restless sleep, for when her eyes unclosed again thefirst red streaks were visible in the east, and a dim light found itsway into the barn through the great door which had been left ajar forair. An instant Sylvia lay collecting herself, then rose on her arm,looked resolutely behind her, stared with round eyes a moment, anddropped down again, laughing with a merriment, which coming on the heelsof her long alarm was rather hysterical. All she saw was a littlesoft-eyed Alderney, which lifted its stag-like head, and regarded herwith a confiding aspect that won her pardon for its innocent offence.Through the relief of both mind and body which she experienced in nosmall degree, the first thought that came was a thankful "what a mercy Ididn't call Mark, for I should never have heard the last of this;" andhaving fought her fears alone she enjoyed her success alone, andgirl-like resolved to say nothing of her first night's adventures.Gathering herself up she crept nearer and caressed her late terror,which stretched its neck toward her with a comfortable sound, andmunched her shawl like a cosset lamb. But before this new friendship wasmany minutes old, Sylvia's heavy lids fell together, her head droppedlower and lower, her hand lay still on the dappled neck, and with a longsigh of weariness she dropped back upon the hay, leaving little Alderneyto watch over her much more tranquilly than she had watched over it.