CHAPTER VI.

by Louisa May Alcott

　　WHY SYLVIA WAS HAPPY."I never did understand you, Sylvia; and this last month you have been aperfect enigma to me."With rocking-chair in full action, suspended needle and thoughtfulexpression, Miss Yule had watched her sister for ten minutes as she satwith her work at her feet, her hands folded on her lap, and her eyesdreamily fixed on vacancy."I always was to myself, Prue, and am more so than ever now," answeredSylvia, waking out of her reverie with a smile that proved it had been apleasant 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, brushedback 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 neverseen before the expression which the younger's face now wore. A vagueexpectancy sat in her eyes, some nameless content sweetened her smile, abeautiful repose replaced the varying enthusiasm, listlessness, andmelancholy 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 novelcharm; Sylvia could not explain it, though penetrated by its power; andfor a moment the sisters looked into each other's faces, wondering whyeach seemed altered. Then Prue, who never wasted much time inspeculations of any kind, shook her head, and repeated--"I don't understand it, but it must be right, because you are soimproved in every way. Ever since that wild trip up the river you havebeen growing quiet, lovable, and cheerful, and I really begin to hopethat you will become like other people.""I only know that I am happy, Prue. Why it is so I cannot tell; but nowI seldom have the old dissatisfied and restless feeling. Everythinglooks pleasant to me, every one seems kind, and life begins to be bothsweet and earnest. It is only one of my moods, I suppose; but I amgrateful for it, and pray that it may last."So earnestly she spoke, so cheerfully she smiled, that Miss Yule blessedthe mood and echoed Sylvia's wish, exclaiming in the next breath, with asudden 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 wasimpossible until the right time came. That wild trip up the river, asyou call it, did more for me than I can ever tell, and when I seemedmost like a child I was learning to be a woman.""Well, my dear, go on as you've begun, and I shall be more thansatisfied. What merry-making is on foot to-night? Mark and these friendsof his keep you in constant motion with their riding, rowing, andrambling excursions, and if it did not agree with you so excellently, Ireally should like a little quiet after a month of bustle.""They are only coming up as usual, and that reminds me that I must goand dress.""There is another new change, Sylvia. You never used to care what youwore or how you looked, no matter how much time and trouble I expendedon you and your wardrobe. Now you do care, and it does my heart good tosee you always charmingly dressed, and looking your prettiest," saidMiss Yule, with the satisfaction of a woman who heartily believed incostume as well as all the other elegances and proprieties offashionable life."Am I ever that, Prue?" asked Sylvia, pausing on the threshold with ashy yet wistful glance."Ever what, dear?""Pretty?""Always so to me; and now I think every one finds you very attractivebecause you try to please, and seem to succeed delightfully."Sylvia had never asked that question before, had never seemed to know orcare, and could not have chosen a more auspicious moment for her frankinquiry than the present. The answer seemed to satisfy her, and smilingat some blithe anticipation of her own, she went away to make a lamplesstoilet in the dusk, which proved how slight a hold the feminine passionfor making one's self pretty had yet taken upon her.The September moon was up and shining clearly over garden, lawn, andsea, when the sound of voices called her down. At the stair-foot shepaused with a disappointed air, for only one hat lay on the hall table,and a glance showed her only one guest with Mark and Prue. She strolledirresolutely through the breezy hall, looked out at either open door,sung a little to herself, but broke off in the middle of a line, and, asif following a sudden impulse, went out into the mellow moonlight,forgetful of uncovered head or dewy damage to the white hem of hergown. Half way down the avenue she paused before a shady nook, andlooked in. The evergreens that enclosed it made the seat doubly dark toeyes inured to the outer light, and seeing a familiar seeming figuresitting with its head upon its hand, Sylvia leaned in, saying, with adaughterly caress--"Why, what is my romantic father doing here?"The sense of touch was quicker than that of sight, and with anexclamation of surprise she had drawn back before Warwick replied--"It is not the old man, but the young one, who is romancing here.""I beg your pardon! We have been waiting for you; what thought is socharming that you forgot us all?"Sylvia was a little startled, else she would scarcely have asked soplain a question. But Warwick often asked much blunter ones, always toldthe naked truth without prevarication or delay, and straightwayanswered--"The thought of the woman whom I hope to make my wife."Sylvia stood silent for a moment as if intent on fastening in her hairthe delicate spray of hop-bells just gathered from the vine that formeda leafy frame for the graceful picture which she made standing, withuplifted arms, behind the arch. When she spoke it was to say, as shemoved on toward the house--"It is too beautiful a night to stay in doors, but Prue is waiting forme, and Mark wants to plan with you about our ride to-morrow. Shall wego together?"She beckoned, and he came out of the shadow showing her an expressionwhich she had never seen before. His face was flushed, his eye unquiet,his manner eager yet restrained. She had seen him intellectuallyexcited many times; never emotionally till now. Something wayward, yetwarm, in this new mood attracted her, because so like her own. But witha tact as native as her sympathy she showed no sign of this, except inthe attentive look she fixed upon him as the moonlight bathed him in itssplendor. He met the glance, seemed to interpret it aright, but did notanswer its unconscious inquiry; for pausing, he asked abruptly--"Should a rash promise be considered binding when it threatens todestroy one's peace?"Sylvia pondered an instant before she answered slowly--"If the promise was freely given, no sin committed in its keeping, andno peace troubled but one's own, I should say yes."Still pausing, he looked down at her with that unquiet glance as shelooked up with her steady one, and with the same anxiety he asked--"Would you keep such a promise inviolate, even though it might cost youthe sacrifice of something dearer to you than your life?"She thought again, and again looked up, answering with the sinceritythat he had taught her--"It might be unwise, but if the sacrifice was not one of principle orsomething that I ought to love more than life, I think I should keep thepromise as religiously as an Indian keeps a vow of vengeance."As she spoke, some recollection seemed to strike Warwick like a suddenstab. The flush died out of his face, the fire from his eyes, and analmost grim composure fell upon him as he said low to himself, with aforward step as if eager to leave some pain behind him--"It is better so; for his sake I will leave all to time."Sylvia saw his lips move, but caught no sound till he said with agravity that was almost gloom--"I think you would; therefore, beware how you bind yourself with suchverbal bonds. Let us go in."They went; Warwick to the drawing-room, but Sylvia ran up stairs for theBerlin wools, which in spite of heat and the sure staining of fingerswere to be wound that night according to contract, for she kept a smallpromise as sacredly as she would have done a greater one."What have you been doing to give yourself such an uplifted expression,Sylvia?" said Mark, as she came in."Feasting my eyes on lovely colors. Does not that look like a foldedrainbow?" she answered, laying her brilliant burden on the table whereWarwick sat examining a broken reel, and Prue was absorbed in getting acarriage blanket under way."Come, Sylvia, I shall soon be ready for the first shade," she said,clashing her formidable needles. "Is that past mending, Mr. Warwick?""Yes, without better tools than a knife, two pins, and a bodkin.""Then you must put the skeins on a chair, Sylvia. Try not to tanglethem, and spread your handkerchief in your lap, for that maroon colorwill stain sadly. Now don't speak to me, for I must count my stitches."Sylvia began to wind the wools with a swift dexterity as natural to herhands as certain little graces of gesture which made their motionspleasant to watch. Warwick never rummaged work-baskets, gossipped, orpaid compliments for want of something to do. If no little task appearedfor them, he kept his hands out of mischief, and if nothing occurred tomake words agreeable or necessary, he proved that he understood the artof silence, and sat with those vigilant eyes of his fixed upon whateverobject attracted them. Just then the object was a bright band slippinground the chair-back, with a rapidity that soon produced a snarl, but nohelp till patient fingers had smoothed and wound it up. Then, with thelook of one who says to himself, "I will!" he turned, planted himselfsquarely before Sylvia, and held out his hands."Here is a reel that will neither tangle nor break your skeins, will youuse it?""Yes, thank you, and in return I'll wind your color first.""Which is my color?""This fine scarlet, strong, enduring, and martial, like yourself.""You are right.""I thought so; Mr. Moor prefers blue, and I violet.""Blue and red make violet," called Mark from his corner, catching theword "color," though busy with a sketch for a certain fair Jessie Hope.Moor was with Mr. Yule in his study, Prue mentally wrapped in herblanket, and when Sylvia was drawn into an artistic controversy with herbrother, Warwick fell into deep thought.With the pride of a proud man once deceived, he had barred his heartagainst womankind, resolving that no second defeat should oppress himwith that distrust of self and others, which is harder for a generousnature to bear, than the pain of its own wound. He had yet to learn thatthe shadow of love suggests its light, and that they who have beencheated of the food, without which none can truly live, long for it withredoubled hunger. Of late he had been discovering this, for acraving, stronger than his own strong will, possessed him. He tried todisbelieve and silence it; attacked it with reason, starved it withneglect, and chilled it with contempt. But when he fancied it was dead,the longing rose again, and with a clamorous cry, undid his work. Forthe first time, this free spirit felt the master's hand, confessed aneed its own power could not supply, and saw that no man can live aloneon even the highest aspirations without suffering for the vital warmthof the affections. A month ago he would have disdained the hope that nowwas so dear to him. But imperceptibly the influences of domestic lifehad tamed and won him. Solitude looked barren, vagrancy had lost itscharm; his life seemed cold and bare, for, though devoted to noble aims,it was wanting in the social sacrifices, cares, and joys, that fostercharity, and sweeten character. An impetuous desire to enjoy the richexperience which did so much for others, came over him to-night as ithad often done while sharing the delights of this home, where he hadmade so long a pause. But with the desire came a memory that restrainedhim better than his promise. He saw what others had not yet discovered,and obeying the code of honor which governs a true gentleman, loved hisfriend better than himself and held his peace.The last skein came, and as she wound it, Sylvia's glance involuntarilyrose from the strong hands to the face above them, and lingered there,for the penetrating gaze was averted, and an unwonted mildness inspiredconfidence as its usual expression of power commanded respect. Hissilence troubled her, and with curious yet respectful scrutiny, shestudied his face as she had never done before. She found it full of anoble gravity and kindliness; candor and courage spoke in the lines ofthe mouth, benevolence and intellect in the broad arch of the forehead,ardor and energy in the fire of the eye, and on every lineament thestamp of that genuine manhood, which no art can counterfeit. Intent upondiscovering the secret of the mastery he exerted over all who approachedhim, Sylvia had quite forgotten herself, when suddenly Warwick's eyeswere fixed full upon her own. What spell lay in them she could not tell,for human eye had never shed such sudden summer over her. Admiration wasnot in it, for it did not agitate; nor audacity, for it did not abash;but something that thrilled warm through blood and nerves, that filledher with a glad submission to some power, absolute yet tender, andcaused her to turn her innocent face freely to his gaze, letting himread therein a sentiment for which she had not yet found a name.It lasted but a moment; yet in that moment, each saw the other's heart,and each turned a new page in the romance of their lives. Sylvia's eyesfell first, but no blush followed, no sign of anger or perplexity, onlya thoughtful silence, which continued till the last violet threaddropped from his hands, and she said almost regretfully--"This is the end.""Yes, this is the end."As he echoed the words Warwick rose suddenly and went to talk with Mark,whose sketch was done. Sylvia sat a moment as if quite forgetful whereshe was, so absorbing was some thought or emotion. Presently she seemedto glow and kindle with an inward fire; over face and forehead rushed animpetuous color, her eyes shone, and her lips trembled with thefluttering of her breath. Then a panic appeared to seize her, for,stealing noiselessly away, she hurried to her room, and covering up herface as if to hide it even from herself, whispered to that full heartof hers, with quick coming tears that belied the words--"Now I know why I am happy!"How long she lay there weeping and smiling in the moonlight she neverknew. Her sister's call broke in upon the first love dream she had everwoven for herself, and she went down to bid the friends good night. Thehall was only lighted by the moon, and in the dimness of the shadowwhere she stood, no one saw traces of that midsummer shower on hercheeks, or detected the soft trouble in her eye, but for the first timeMoor felt her hand tremble in his own and welcomed the propitious omen.Being an old-fashioned gentleman, Mr. Yule preserved in his family thepleasant custom of hand-shaking, which gives such heartiness to themorning and evening greetings of a household. Moor liked and adopted it;Warwick had never done so, but that night he gave a hand to Prue andMark with his most cordial expression, and Sylvia felt both her owntaken in a warm lingering grasp, although he only said "good by!" Thenthey went; but while the three paused at the door held by the beauty ofthe night, back to them on the wings of the wind came Warwick's voicesinging the song that Sylvia loved. All down the avenue, and far alongthe winding road they traced his progress, till the strain died in thedistance leaving only the echo of the song to link them to the singer.When evening came again Sylvia waited on the lawn to have the meetingover in the dark, for love made her very shy. But Moor came alone, andhis first words were,"Comfort me, Sylvia, Adam is gone. He went as unexpectedly as he came,and when I woke this morning a note lay at my door, but my friend wasnot there."She murmured some stereotyped regret, but there was a sharp pain at herheart till there came to her the remembrance of Warwick's question,uttered on the spot where she was standing. Some solace she must have,and clinging to this one thought hopefully within herself--"He has made some promise, has gone to get released from it, and willcome back to say what he looked last night. He is so true I will believein him and wait."She did wait, but week after week went by and Warwick did not come.