CHAPTER VII.

by Louisa May Alcott

　　DULL BUT NECESSARY.Whoever cares only for incident and action in a book had better skipthis chapter and read on; but those who take an interest in thedelineation of character will find the key to Sylvia's here.John Yule might have been a poet, painter, or philanthropist, for Heavenhad endowed him with fine gifts; he was a prosperous merchant with noambition but to leave a fortune to his children and live down the memoryof a bitter past. On the threshold of his life he stumbled and fell; foras he paused there, waiting for the first step to appear, Providencetested and found him wanting. On one side, Poverty offered the aspiringyouth her meagre hand; but he was not wise enough to see the virtueshidden under her hard aspect, nor brave enough to learn the stern yetsalutary lessons which labor, necessity, and patience teach, giving tothose who serve and suffer the true success. On the other hand Opulenceallured him with her many baits, and, silencing the voice of conscience,he yielded to temptation and wrecked his nobler self.A loveless marriage was the price he paid for his ambition; not a costlyone, he thought, till time taught him that whosoever mars the integrityof his own soul by transgressing the great laws of life, even by so muchas a hair's breadth, entails upon himself and heirs the inevitableretribution which proves their worth and keeps them sacred. The tie thatbound and burdened the unhappy twain, worn thin by constant friction,snapped at last, and in the solemn pause death made in his busy life,there rose before him those two ghosts who sooner or later haunt us all,saying with reproachful voices,--"This I might have been," and "This Iam." Then he saw the failure of his life. At fifty he found himselfpoorer than when he made his momentous choice; for the years that hadgiven him wealth, position, children, had also taken from him youth,self-respect, and many a gift whose worth was magnified by loss. Heendeavored to repair the fault so tardily acknowledged, but found itimpossible to cancel it when remorse, embittered effort, and age lefthim powerless to redeem the rich inheritance squandered in his prime.If ever man received punishment for a self-inflicted wrong it was JohnYule. A punishment as subtle as the sin; for in the children growing upabout him every relinquished hope, neglected gift, lost aspiration,seemed to live again; yet on each and all was set the direful stamp ofimperfection, which made them visible illustrations of the great lawbroken in his youth.In Prudence, as she grew to womanhood, he saw his own practical tact andtalent, nothing more. She seemed the living representative of the yearsspent in strife for profit, power, and place; the petty cares that fretthe soul, the mercenary schemes that waste a life, the worldlyformalities, frivolities, and fears, that so belittle character. Allthese he saw in this daughter's shape; and with pathetic patience borethe daily trial of an over active, over anxious, affectionate but mostprosaic child.In Mark he saw his ardor for the beautiful, his love of the poetic, hisreverence for genius, virtue, heroism. But here too the subtle blighthad fallen. This son, though strong in purpose was feeble inperformance; for some hidden spring of power was wanting, and the shadowof that earlier defeat chilled in his nature the energy which is thefirst attribute of all success. Mark loved poetry, and "wrote in numbersfor the numbers came;" but, whether tragic, tender, or devout, in eachattempt there was enough of the divine fire to warm them into life, yetnot enough to gift them with the fervor that can make a line immortal,and every song was a sweet lament for the loftier lays that might havebeen. He loved art and gave himself to it; but though studying all formsof beauty he never reached its soul, and every effort tantalized himwith fresh glimpses of the fair ideal which he could not reach. He lovedthe true, but high thoughts seldom blossomed into noble deeds; for whenthe hour came the man was never ready, and disappointment was his dailyportion. A sad fate for the son, a far sadder one for the father who hadbequeathed it to him from the irrecoverable past.In Sylvia he saw, mysteriously blended, the two natures that had givenher life, although she was born when the gulf between regretful husbandand sad wife was widest. As if indignant Nature rebelled against theoutrage done her holiest ties, adverse temperaments gifted the childwith the good and ill of each. From her father she received pride,intellect, and will; from her mother passion, imagination, and thefateful melancholy of a woman defrauded of her dearest hope. Theseconflicting temperaments, with all their aspirations, attributes, andinconsistencies, were woven into a nature fair and faulty; ambitious,yet not self-reliant; sensitive, yet not keen-sighted. These twomasters ruled soul and body, warring against each other, making Sylviaan enigma to herself and her life a train of moods.A wise and tender mother would have divined her nameless needs, answeredher vague desires, and through the medium of the most omnipotentaffection given to humanity, have made her what she might have been. ButSylvia had never known mother-love, for her life came through death; andthe only legacy bequeathed her was a slight hold upon existence, aceaseless craving for affection, and the shadow of a tragedy that wrungfrom the pale lips, that grew cold against her baby cheek, the cry,"Free at last, thank God for that!"Prudence could not fill the empty place, though the good-heartedhousewife did her best. Neither sister understood the other, and eachtormented the other through her very love. Prue unconsciouslyexasperated Sylvia, Sylvia unconsciously shocked Prue, and they hitchedalong together each trying to do well and each taking diametricallyopposite measures to effect her purpose. Mark briefly but trulydescribed them when he said, "Sylvia trims the house with flowers, butPrudence dogs her with a dust-pan."Mr. Yule was now a studious, melancholy man, who, having said one fatal"No" to himself, made it the satisfaction of his life to say a nevervarying "Yes" to his children. But though he left no wish of theirsungratified, he seemed to have forfeited his power to draw and hold themto himself. He was more like an unobtrusive guest than a master in hishouse. His children loved, but never clung to him, because unseen, yetimpassible, rose the barrier of an instinctive protest against thewrong done their dead mother, unconscious on their part but terriblysignificant to him.Mark had been years away; and though the brother and sister weretenderly attached, sex, tastes, and pursuits kept them too far apart,and Sylvia was solitary even in this social seeming home. Dissatisfiedwith herself, she endeavored to make her life what it should be with theenergy of an ardent, aspiring nature; and through all experiences, sweetor bitter, all varying moods, successes and defeats, a sincere desirefor happiness the best and highest, was the little rushlight of her soulthat never wavered or went out.She never had known friendship in its truest sense, for next to love itis the most abused of words. She had called many "friend," but was stillignorant of that sentiment, cooler than passion, warmer than respect,more just and generous than either, which recognizes a kindred spirit inanother, and claiming its right, keeps it sacred by the wise reservethat is to friendship what the purple bloom is to the grape, a charmwhich once destroyed can never be restored. Love she had desired, yetdreaded, knowing her own passionate nature, and when it came to her,making that brief holiday the fateful point of her life, she gaveherself to it wholly. Before that time she had rejoiced over a moretranquil pleasure, and believed that she had found her friend in theneighbor who after long absence had returned to his old place.Nature had done much for Geoffrey Moor, but the wise mother also gavehim those teachers to whose hard lessons she often leaves her dearestchildren. Five years spent in the service of a sister, who, through thesharp discipline of pain was fitting her meek soul for heaven, hadgiven him an experience such as few young men receive. This fraternaldevotion proved a blessing in disguise; it preserved him from anyprofanation of his youth, and the companionship of the helpless creaturewhom he loved had proved an ever present stimulant to all that was bestand sweetest in the man. A single duty faithfully performed had set theseal of integrity upon his character, and given him grace to see atthirty the rich compensation he had received for the ambitions silentlysacrificed at twenty-five. When his long vigil was over he looked intothe world to find his place again. But the old desires were dead, theold allurements had lost their charm, and while he waited for time toshow him what good work he should espouse, no longing was so strong asthat for a home, where he might bless and be blessed in writing thatimmortal poem a virtuous and happy life.Sylvia soon felt the power and beauty of this nature, and rememberinghow well he had ministered to a physical affliction, often looked intothe face whose serenity was a perpetual rebuke, longing to ask him tohelp and heal the mental ills that perplexed and burdened her. Moor soondivined the real isolation of the girl, read the language of her wistfuleyes, felt that he could serve her, and invited confidence by thecordial alacrity with which he met her least advance.But while he served he learned to love her, for Sylvia, humble in herown conceit, and guarded by the secret passion that possessed her,freely showed the regard she felt, with no thought of misapprehension,no fear of consequences. Unconscious that such impulsive demonstrationmade her only more attractive, that every manifestation of her frankesteem was cherished in her friend's heart of hearts, and that throughher he was enjoying the blossom time of life. So peacefully andpleasantly the summer ripened into autumn and Sylvia's interest into anenduring friendship.