CHAPTER IX.

by Louisa May Alcott

　　HOLLY."Another gift for you, Sylvia. I don't know the writing, but it smellslike flowers," said Mark, as a smiling maid brought in a package onChristmas morning.Sylvia tore off the wrapper, lifted a cover, and exclaimed withpleasure, though it was the simplest present she had received that day.Only an osier basket, graceful in design and shape, lined with moss, andfilled with holly sprays, the scarlet berries glowing beautifully amongthe polished green. No note, no card, no hint of its donor anywhereappeared, for none of them recognized the boldly written address.Presently a thought came to Sylvia; in a moment the mystery seemed togrow delightfully clear, and she said to herself with a glow of joy,"This is so like Adam I know he sent it.""I must say it is the most peculiar present I ever saw, and it is mybelief that the boy who brought it stole whatever article of value itcontained, for it was very carelessly done up. No person in their senseswould send a few sprigs of common holly to a young lady in this oddway," said Prue, poking here and there in hopes of finding some clue."It is not common, but very beautiful; we seldom see any so large andgreen, and full of berries. Nor is it odd, but very kind, because fromthe worn look of the wrapper I know it has been sent a long way toplease me. Look at the little ferns in the moss, and smell the sweetmoist odor that seems to take us into summer woods in spite of asnowstorm. Ah, he knew what I should like.""Who knew?" asked Mark, quickly."You must guess." And fearing that she had betrayed herself, Sylviahurried across the room to put the holly in water."Ah, ha, I see," said Mark, laughing."Who is it?" asked Prue, looking mystified."Geoffrey," whispered Mr. Yule, with an air of satisfaction.Then all three looked at one another, all three nodded sagely, and allthree glanced at the small person bending over the table with cheeksalmost as rosy as the berries in her hand.Every one knows what a Christmas party is when a general friendlinesspervades the air, and good wishes fly about like _confetti_ duringCarnival. To such an one went Sylvia and Mark that night, the brotherlooking unusually blithe and debonair, because the beloved Jessie hadpromised to be there if certain aunts and uncles would go away in time;the sister in a costume as pretty as appropriate, for snow and hollymade her a perfect Yule. Sylvia loved dancing, and knew "wall flowers"only by sight; therefore she was busy; her lover's gift shone greenly inbosom, hair, and fleecy skirts; therefore she was beautiful, and thethought that Adam had not forgotten her lay warm at her heart; thereforeshe was supremely happy. Mark was devoted, but disappointed, for Jessiedid not come, and having doomed the detaining aunts and uncles to amost unblessed fate, he sought consolation among less fair damsels."Now go and enjoy yourself. I shall dance no more round dances, for I'drather not with any one but you, and you have been a martyr longenough."Mark roamed away, and finding a cool corner Sylvia watched the animatedscene before her till her wandering glance was arrested by the sight ofa new comer, and her mind busied with trying to recollect where she hadseen him. The slender figure, swarthy face, and vivacious eyes allseemed familiar, but she could find no name for their possessor till hecaught her eye, when he half bowed and wholly smiled. Then sheremembered, and while still recalling that brief interview one of theiryoung hosts appeared with the stranger, and Gabriel André was dulypresented."I could hardly expect to be remembered, and am much flattered, I assureyou. Did you suffer from the shower that day, Miss Yule?"The speech was nothing, but the foreign accent gave a softness to thewords, and the southern grace of manner gave an air of romance to thehandsome youth. Sylvia was in the mood to be pleased with everybody,everything, and was unusually gracious as they merrily pursued thesubject suggested by his question. Presently he asked--"Is Warwick with you now?""He was not staying with us, but with his friend, Mr. Moor.""He was the gentleman who pulled so well that day?""Yes.""Is Warwick with him still?""Oh, no, he went away three months ago.""I wonder where!""So do I!"The wish had been impulsively expressed, and was as impulsively echoed.Young André smiled, and liked Miss Yule the better for forgetting thatsomewhat lofty air of hers."You have no conjecture, then? I wish to find him, much, very much, butcannot put myself upon his trail. He is so what you call peculiar thathe writes no letters, leaves no address, and roves here and there like aborn gitano.""Have you ill news for him?""I have the best a man could desire; but fear that while I look for himhe has gone to make a disappointment for himself. You are a friend, Ithink?""I am.""Then you know much of him, his life, his ways?""Yes, both from himself and Mr. Moor.""Then you know of his betrothal to my cousin, doubtless, and I may speakof it, because if you will be so kind you may perhaps help us to findhim.""I did not know--perhaps he did not wish it--" began Sylvia, folding onehand tightly in the other, with a quick breath and a momentary sensationas if some one had struck her in the face."He thinks so little of us I shall not regard his wish just now. If youwill permit me I would say a word for my cousin's sake, as I know youwill be interested for her, and I do not feel myself strange with you."Sylvia bowed, and standing before her with an air half mannish, halfboyish, Gabriel went on in the low, rapid tone peculiar to him."See, then, my cousin was betrothed in May. A month after Adam criesout that he loves too much for his peace, that he has no freedom of hisheart or mind, that he must go away and take his breath before he ismade a happy slave forever. Ottila told me this. She implored him tostay; but no, he vows he will not come again till they marry, in thenext June. He thinks it a weakness to adore a woman. Impertinente! Ihave no patience for him."Gabriel spoke indignantly, and pressed his foot into the carpet with ascornful look. But Sylvia took no heed of his petulance, she only kepther eyes fixed upon him with an intentness which he mistook forinterest. The eyes were fine, the interest was flattering, and thoughquite aware that he was both taking a liberty and committing a breach ofconfidence, the impulsive young gentleman chose to finish what he hadbegun, and trust that no harm would follow."He has been gone now more than half a year, but has sent no letter, nomessage, nothing to show that he still lives. Ottila waits, she writes,she grows too anxious to endure, she comes to look for him. I help her,but we do not find him yet, and meantime I amuse her. My friends arekind, and we enjoy much as we look about us for this truant Adam."If Sylvia could have doubted the unexpected revelation, this last traitwas so like Warwick it convinced her at once. Though the belief to whichshe had clung so long was suddenly swept from under her, she floatedsilently with no outward sign of shipwreck as her hope went down. Pridewas her shield, and crowding back all other emotions she kept herselfunnaturally calm behind it till she was alone. If Gabriel had beenwatching her he would only have discovered that she was a paler blondethan he had thought her; that her address was more coldly charming thanbefore; and that her eye no longer met his, but rested steadily on thefolded fan she held. He was not watching her, however, but glancingfrequently over her head at something at the far end of the rooms whicha crowd of assiduous gentlemen concealed. His eye wandered, but histhoughts did not; for still intent on the purpose that seemed to havebrought him to her, he said, as if reluctant to be importunate, yetresolved to satisfy himself--"Pardon me that I so poorly entertain you, and let me ask one otherquestion in Ottila's name. This Moor, would he not give us some clue toAdam's haunts?""He is absent, and will be till spring, I think. Where I do not know,else I could write for you. Did Mr. Warwick promise to return in June?""Yes.""Then, if he lives, he will come. Your cousin must wait; it will not bein vain.""It shall not!"The young man's voice was stern, and a passionate glitter made his blackeyes fierce. Then the former suavity returned, and with his most gallantair he said--"You are kind, Miss Yule; I thank you, and put away this so troublesomeaffair. May I have the honor?"If he had proposed to waltz over a precipice Sylvia felt as if she couldhave accepted, provided there was time to ask a question or two beforethe crash came. A moment afterward Mark was surprised to see herfloating round the room on the arm of "the olive-colored party," whom herecognized at once. His surprise soon changed to pleasure, for hisbeauty-loving eye as well as his brotherly pride was gratified as thewhirling couples subsided and the young pair went circling slowly by,giving to the graceful pastime the enchantment few have skill to lendit, and making it a spectacle of life-enjoying youth to be remembered bythe lookers on."Thank you! I have not enjoyed such a waltz since I left Cuba. It is therudest of rude things to say, but to you I may confide it, because youdance like a Spaniard. The ladies here seem to me as cold as their ownsnow, and they make dancing a duty, not a pleasure. They should seeOttila; she is all grace and fire. I could kill myself dancing with her.Adam used to say it was like wine to watch her.""I wish she was here to give us a lesson.""She is, but will not dance to-night.""Here!" cried Sylvia, stopping abruptly."Why not? Elyott is mad for her, and gave me no peace till I broughther. She is behind that wall of men; shall I make a passage for you? Shewill be glad to talk with you of Adam, and I to show you the handsomestwoman in Habana.""Let us wait a little; I should be afraid to talk before so many. She isvery beautiful, then.""You will laugh and call me extravagant, as others do, if I say what Ithink; so I will let you judge for yourself. See, your brother stands ontiptoe to peep at her. Now he goes in, and there he will stay. You donot like that, perhaps. But Ottila cannot help her beauty, nor the powershe has of making all men love her. I wish she could!""She is gifted and accomplished, as well as lovely?" asked Sylvia,glancing at her companion's gloomy face."She is everything a woman should be, and I could shoot Adam for hiscruel neglect."Gabriel's dark face kindled as he spoke, and Sylvia drearily wished hewould remember how ill-bred it was to tire her with complaints of herfriend, and raptures over his cousin. He seemed to perceive this, turneda little haughty at her silence, and when he spoke was all the strangeragain."This is a contra danza; shall we give the snow-ladies another lesson?First, may I do myself the pleasure of getting you an ice?""A glass of water, please; I am cool enough without more ice."He seated her and went upon his errand. She was cool now; weary-footed,sick at heart, and yearning to be alone. But in these days women do nottear their hair and make scenes, though their hearts may ache and burnwith the same sharp suffering as of old. Till her brother came she knewshe must bear it, and make no sign. She did bear it, drank the waterwith a smile, danced the dance with spirit, and bore up bravely tillMark appeared. She was alone just then, and his first words were--"Have you seen her?""No; take me where I can, and tell me what you know of her.""Nothing, but that she is André's cousin, and he adores her, as boysalways do a charming woman who is kind to them. Affect to be admiringthese flowers, and look without her knowing it, or she will frown at youlike an insulted princess, as she did at me."Sylvia looked, saw the handsomest woman in Havana, and hated herimmediately. It was but natural, for Sylvia was a very human girl, andOttila one whom no woman would love, however much she might admire.Hers was that type of character which every age has reproduced, varyingexternally with climates and conditions, but materially the same fromfabled Circe down to Lola Montes, or some less famous syren whosesubjects are not kings. The same passions that in ancient days broke outin heaven-defying crimes; the same power of beauty, intellect, orsubtlety; the same untamable spirit and lack of moral sentiment are theattributes of all; latent or alert as the noble or ignoble nature maypredominate. Most of us can recall some glimpse of such specimens ofNature's work in a daring mood. Many of our own drawing-rooms have heldillustrations of the nobler type, and modern men and women have quailedbefore royal eyes whose possessors ruled all spirits but their own. Bornin Athens, and endowed with a finer intellect, Ottila might have been anAspasia; or cast in that great tragedy the French Revolution, haveplayed a brave part and died heroically like Roland and Corday. But setdown in uneventful times, the courage, wit, and passion that might haveserved high ends dwindled to their baser counterparts, and made her whatshe was,--a fair allurement to the eyes of men, a born rival to thepeace of women, a rudderless nature absolute as fate.Sylvia possessed no knowledge that could analyze for her the sentimentwhich repelled, even while it attracted her toward Warwick's betrothed.That he loved her she did not doubt, because she felt that even hispride would yield to the potent fascination of this woman. As Sylvialooked, her feminine eye took in every gift of face and figure, everygrace of attitude or gesture, every daintiness of costume, and found novisible flaw in Ottila, from her haughty head to her handsome foot. Yetwhen her scrutiny ended, the girl felt a sense of disappointment, andno envy mingled with her admiration.As she stood, forgetting to assume interest in the camellias before her,she saw Gabriel join his cousin, saw her pause and look up at him withan anxious question. He answered it, glancing toward that part of theroom where she was standing. Ottila's gaze was fixed upon her instantly;a rapid, but keen survey followed, and then the lustrous eyes turnedaway with such supreme indifference, that Sylvia's blood tingled as ifshe had received an insult."Mark, I am going home," she said, abruptly."Very well, I'm ready."When safe in her own room Sylvia's first act was to take off the hollywreath, for her head throbbed with a heavy pain that forbade hope ofsleep that night. Looking at the little chaplet so happily made, she sawthat all the berries had fallen, and nothing but the barbed leavesremained. A sudden gesture crushed it in both her hands, and standingso, she gathered many a scattered memory to confirm that night'sdiscovery.Warwick had said, with such a tender accent in his voice, "I thought ofthe woman I would make my wife." That was Ottila. He had asked soanxiously, "If one should keep a promise when it disturbed one's peace?"That was because he repented of his hasty vow to absent himself tillJune. It was not love she saw in his eyes the night they parted, butpity. He read her secret before that compassionate glance revealed it toherself, and he had gone away to spare her further folly. She haddeceived herself, had blindly cherished a baseless hope, and this wasthe end. Even for the nameless gift she found a reason, with a woman'sskill, in self-torture. Moor had met Adam, had told his disappointment,and still pitying her Warwick had sent the pretty greeting to consoleher for the loss of both friend and lover.This thought seemed to sting her into sudden passion. As if longing todestroy every trace of her delusion, she tore away the holly wreaths andflung them in the fire; took down the bow and arrow Warwick had made herfrom above the _étagère_, where she had arranged the spoils of her happyvoyage, snapped them across her knee and sent them after the holly;followed by the birch canoe, and every pebble, moss, shell, or bunch ofheaded grass he had given her then. The osier basket was not spared, thebox went next, and even the wrapper was on its way to immolation, when,as she rent it apart, with a stern pleasure in the sacrifice it wasgoing to complete, from some close fold of the paper hithertoundisturbed a card dropped at her feet.She caught it up and read in handwriting almost as familiar as her own:"To Sylvia,--A merry Christmas and best wishes from her friend, GeoffreyMoor." The word "friend" was underscored, as if he desired to assure herthat he still cherished the only tie permitted him, and sent the greentoken to lighten her regret that she could give no more.Warm over Sylvia's sore heart rushed the tender thought and longing, asher tears began to flow. "He cares for me! he remembered me! I wish hewould come back and comfort me!"