CHAPTER IV
"Sylvia! Sylvia! Sylvia!"
The musical name echoed and reechoed through the silent woods, but therewas no other answer. Austin lighted a match, shielded it from the rainwith his hand, and looked at his watch; it was just past midnight.
"Oh," he groaned, "where _can_ she be? What has happened to her? If Ionly knew she was found, and unharmed, and safe at home again, I'd neverask for anything else as long as I lived."
He had knocked his lantern against a tree some time before, and brokenit, and there was nothing to do but stumble blindly along in thedarkness, hoping against hope. Howard Gray had gone north, Thomas east,and Austin south; before starting out, they had endeavored to telephone,but the storm had destroyed the wires in every direction. Aftertravelling almost ten miles, Austin went home, thinking that by that timeeither his father or his brother must have been successful in his search,to be met only by the anxious despair of his mother and sisters.
"Don't you worry," he forced himself to say with a cheerfulness he wasvery far from feeling; "she may have gone down that old wood-road thatleads out of the Elliotts' pasture. I heard her telling Thomas once thatshe loved to explore, that they must walk down there some Sundayafternoon; maybe she decided to go alone. I'll stop at the house, and seeif Fred happened to see her pass."
Fred had not; but Mrs. Elliott had; there was little that escaped hereager eyes.
"My, yes, I see her go tearin' past before the storm so much as begun;she's sure the queerest actin' widow-woman I ever heard of; Sally saysshe goes swimmin' in a bathin'-suit just like a boy's, an' floats an'dives like a fish--nice actions for a grievin' lady, if you ask me! Doset a moment, Austin; set down an' tell me about the fire; I ain't had nodetails at all, an' I'm feelin' real bad--" But the door had alreadyslammed behind Austin's hurrying figure.
"Sylvia, Sylvia, where are you?"
He ploughed along for what seemed like endless miles, calling as he went,and hearing his own voice come back to him, over and over again, like amocking spirit. The wind, the rain, and the darkness conspired togetherto make what was rough travelling in the daytime almost impassable;strong as he was, Austin sank down more than once for a few minutes onsome fallen log over which he stumbled. At these times the vision ofSylvia standing in the midst of the still-smoking ruins of thebuildings, which had been, in spite of their wretched condition, dear tohim because they were almost all he had in the world, seemed to risebefore him with horrible reality: Sylvia, dressed in her black, blackclothes, with her soft dark hair, and her deep-blue eyes, and her vividred lips which so seldom either drooped or smiled but lay tightly closedtogether, a crimson line in her white face, which was no more sorrowfulthan it was mask-like. The expression was as pure and as sad and asgentle as that of a Mater Dolorosa he had chanced to see in a collectionof prints at the Wallacetown Library, and yet--and yet--Austin knewinstinctively that the dead husband, whoever he might have been, and hisown brother Thomas were not the only men besides himself who had found itirresistibly alluring.
"I'm poorer than ever now," he groaned to himself, "and ignorant, andmean, and dirty, and a beast in every sense of the word; I can't everatone for the way I've treated her--for the way I've--but if I could onlyfind her and _try_, oh, I've got to! Sylvia, Sylvia, Sylvia--"
The rain struck about by the wind, which had risen again, lashed againstthe leaves of the trees, and the wet, swaying boughs struck against hisface as he started on again; but the storm and his own footsteps were theonly sounds he could hear.
It was growing rapidly colder, and he felt more than once in his pocketto make sure that the little flask of brandy he had brought with him wasstill safe, and tried to fasten his drenched coat more tightly about him.His teeth chattered, and he shivered; but this, he realized, was morewith nervousness than with chill.
"If I'm cold, what must she be, in that linen habit? And she's so littleand frail--" He pulled himself together. "I must stop worrying likethis--of course, I'll find her,--alive and unharmed. Some things are toodreadful--they just can't happen. I've got to have a chance to beg herforgiveness for all I've said and done and thought; I've got to havesomething to give me courage to start all over again, and make a man ofmyself yet--to cleanse myself of ingratitude--and bitterness--and evilpassions. Sylvia--Sylvia--Sylvia!"
It seemed as if he had called it a thousand times; suddenly he stoppedshort, listening, his heart beating like a hammer, then standing still inhis breast. It couldn't be--but, oh, it was, it was--
"Austin! Is that you?"
"Yes, yes, yes, where are you?"
"I don't know, I'm sure--what a question!" And instantly a feelingof relief swept through him--she was _all right_--able to seethe absurdity of his question more than he could have done! "Butwherever I am, we can't be far apart; keep on calling, follow myvoice--Austin--Austin--Austin--"
"All right--coming--tell me--are you hurt?"
"No--that is, not much."
"How much?"
"Dolly was frightened by the storm, bolted, and threw me off; I must havebeen stunned for a few minutes. I'm afraid I've sprained my ankle infalling, for I can't walk; and, oh, Austin, I'm awfully cold--andwet--and tired!"
"I know; it's--it's been just hellish for you. Keep on speaking to me,I'm getting nearer."
"I'll put out my hands, and then, when you get here, you won't stumbleover me. I'm sure you're very near; your footsteps sound so."
"How long have you been here, should you think?"
"Oh, hours and hours. I was riding on the main road, when just what youpredicted happened. It served me right--I ought to have listened to you.And so--oh, here you are--_I knew, all the time_, you'd come."
He grasped the little cold, outstretched hands, and sank down beside her,chafing them in his own.
"Thank God, I've found you," he said huskily, and gulped hard, pressinghis lips together; then forcing himself to speak quietly, he went on,"Sylvia--tell me exactly what happened--if you feel able; but first, youmust drink some brandy--I've got some for you--"
"I don't believe I can. I was all right until a moment ago--but noweverything seems to be going around--"
Austin put his arm around her, and forced the flask to her lips; then thesoft head sank on his shoulder, and he realized that she had fainted.Very gently he laid her on the ground, and fumbled in the dark for thefastenings of her habit; when it was loosened, he pulled off his coat andflannel shirt, putting the coat over her, and the shirt under her headfor a pillow; then listening anxiously for her breathing, felt again forher mouth, and poured more brandy between her lips. There were a fewmoments of anxious waiting; then she sighed, moved restlessly, and triedto sit up.
"Lie still, Sylvia; you fainted; you've got to keep very quiet for afew minutes."
"How stupid of me! But I'm all right now."
"I said, lie still."
"All right, all right, I will; but you'll frighten me out of my wits ifyou use that tone of voice."
"I didn't mean to frighten you; but you've got to keep quiet, for yourown sake, Sylvia."
"I thought you said you wouldn't call me Sylvia."
"I've said a good many foolish things in the course of my life, andchanged my mind about them afterwards."
"Or feel sorry if I came to grief--"
"And a good many untrue and wicked ones for which I have repentedafterwards."
"Well, I did come to grief--or pretty nearly. I met three Polish workmenon the road. I think they were--intoxicated. Anyway, they tried to stopme. I was lucky in managing to turn in here--so quickly they didn'trealize what I was going to do. If I hadn't been near the entrance tothis wood-road--Austin, what makes you grip my hand so? You hurt."
"Promise me you'll never ride alone again," he said, his voice shaking.
"I certainly never shall."
"And could you possibly promise me, too, that you'll forgive theabsolutely unforgivable way I've acted all summer, and give me a chanceto show that I can do better--_Sylvia_?"
/> "Oh, yes, _yes_! Please don't feel badly about that. I--I--nevermisunderstood at all. I know you've had an awfully hard row to hoe, andthat's made you bitter, and--any man hates to have a womanhelp--financially. Besides"--she hesitated, and went on with a humilityvery different from her usual sweet imperiousness--"I've been prettyunhappy myself, and it's made _me_ self-willed and obstinate anddictatorial."
"You! You're--more like an angel than I ever dreamed any woman could be."
"Oh, I'm not, I'm not--please don't think so for a minute. Because, ifyou do, we'll start out on a false basis, and not be real friends, theway I hope we're going to be now--"
"Yes--"
"And, please, may I sit up now? And really, my hands are warm"--hedropped them instantly--"and I would like to hear about thestorm--whether it has done much damage, if you know."
"It has destroyed every building we owned except the house itself."
"Austin! You're not in earnest!"
"I never was more so."
"Oh, I'm sorry--more sorry than I can tell you!" One of the little handsthat had been withdrawn a moment earlier groped for his in the darkness,and pressed it gently; she did not speak for some minutes, but finallyshe went on: "It seems a dreadful thing to say, but perhaps it may provea blessing in disguise. I believe Thomas is right in thinking that asmaller farm, which you could manage easily and well without hiring help,would be more profitable; and now it will seem the most natural thing inthe world to sell that great southern meadow to Mr. Weston."
"Yes, I suppose so; he offered us three thousand dollars for it; hedoesn't care to buy the little brick cottage that goes with it--whichisn't strange, for it has only five rooms, and is horribly out of repair.Grandfather used it for his foreman; but, of course, we've never neededit and never shall, so I wish he did want it."
"Oh, Austin--could _I_ buy it? I've been _dying_ for it ever since Ifirst saw it! It could be made perfectly charming, and it's plenty bigenough for me! I've sold my Fifth Avenue house, and I'm going to sell theone on Long Island too--great, hideous, barnlike places! Your motherwon't want me forever, and I want a little place of my very own, and _Ilove_ Hamstead--and the river--and the valley--I didn't dare suggestthis--you all, except Thomas, seemed so averse to disposing of any of theproperty, but--'
"If we sell the meadow to Weston, I am sure you can have the cottage andas much land as you want around it; but the trouble is--"
"You need a great deal more money; of course, I know that. Have you anyinsurance?"
"Very little."
For some moments she sat turning things over in her mind, and was quietfor so long that Austin began to fear that she was more badly hurt thanshe had admitted, and found it an effort to talk.
"Is anything the matter?" he asked at last, anxiously. "Are you in pain?"
"No--only thinking. Austin--if you cannot secure a loan at some localbank, would you be very averse to borrowing the money from me--whateverthe sum is that you need? I am investing all the time, and I will ask theregular rates of interest. Are you offended with me for making such asuggestion?"
"I am not. I was too much moved to answer for a minute, that is all. Itis beyond my comprehension how you could bring yourself to do it, afteroverhearing what you heard me say the other evening."
"Then you'll accept?"
"If father and Thomas think best, I will; and thank you, too, for notcalling it a gift."
"Are you likely to be offended if I go on, and suggest somethingfurther?"
"No; but I am likely to be so overwhelmed that I shall not be of muchpractical use to you."
"Well, then, I'd like you to take a thousand dollars more than you needfor building, and spend it in travelling."
"In travelling!"
"Yes; Thomas is a born farmer, and the four years that he is going tohave at the State Agricultural College are going to be exactly what hewants and needs. He isn't sensitive enough so that he'll mind being alittle older than most of the fellows in his class. But, of course, foryou, anything like that is entirely out of the question. How old areyou, anyway?"
"Twenty-seven."
"Well, if you could get away from here for a time, and see other people,how they do things, how they make a little money go a long way, and alittle land go still farther, how they work hard, and fail many times,and succeed in the end--not the science of farming that Thomas is goingto learn, but the accomplished fact--I believe it would be the making ofyou. My Uncle Mat was one of the first importers of Holstein cattle inthis country, and I'd like to have you do just what he did when he gotthrough college. Of course, you can buy all the cows you want in theUnited States now, of every kind, sort, and description, and just asgood as there are anywhere in the world; but I want you to go to Europe,nevertheless. Start right off while Thomas is still at home to help yourfather; take a steamer that goes direct to Holland; get into theinterior with an interpreter. Then cross over to the Channel Islands. Bythat time you'll be in a position to decide whether you want to stockyour farm with Holsteins, which have the strongest constitutions andgive the most milk, or Jerseys, which give the richest. While you'reover there, go to Paris and London for a few days--and see somethingbesides cows. Come home by Liverpool. I know the United States Ministerto the Netherlands very well, and no end of people in Paris. I'll giveyou some letters of introduction, and you'll have a good time besidesgetting a practical education. The whole trip needn't take you more thaneight weeks. Then next spring visit a few of the big farms in New Yorkand the Middle West, and go to one of those big cattle auctions theyhold in Syracuse in July. Then--"
"For Heaven's sake, Sylvia! Where did you pick up all this informationabout farming?"
"From Uncle Mat--but I'll tell you all about that some other time. Thequestion is now, 'Will you go?'"
"God bless you, _yes_!"
"That's settled, then," she cried happily. "I was fairly trembling withfear that you'd refuse. Why _is_ it so hard for you to accept things?"
"I don't know. I've been bitter all my life because I've had to gowithout so much, and this summer I've been equally bitter because thingswere changing. It must be just natural cussedness--but I'm honestly goingto try to do better."
"We've got to stay here until morning, haven't we?"
"I'm afraid we have. You can't walk, and even if you could, the chancesare ten to one against our finding the highroad in this Egyptiandarkness! When the sun comes up, I can pick my own way along through theunderbrush all right, and carry you at the same time. You must weighabout ninety pounds."
"I weigh one hundred and ten! The idea!--There's really no chance, then,of our moving for several hours?"
"I'm sorry--but you must see there is not. Does it seem as if youcouldn't bear being so dreadfully uncomfortable that much longer?"
"Not in the least. I'm all right. But--"
"Do you mind being here--alone with me?"
"No, _no, no_! Why on earth should I? Let me finish my sentence. I wasonly wondering if it might not help to pass the time if I told you astory? It's not a very pleasant one, but I think it might help you oversome hard places yourself, if you heard it; and if you would tell part ofit--as much as you think best--to your family after we get home, I shouldbe very grateful. Some of it should, in all justice, have been told toyou all long ago, since you were so good as to receive me when you knewnothing whatever about me, and the rest is--just for you."
"Is the telling going to be hard for you?"
"I don't think so--this way--in the dark--and alone. It has allseemed too unspeakably dreadful to talk about until just lately; butI've been growing so much happier--I think it may be a relief to tellsome one now."
"Then do, by all means. I feel--"
"Yes--"
"More honored than I can tell you by your--confidence."
"Austin--when it's _in_ you to say such nice things as you have severaltimes to-night, _why_ do you waste time saying disagreeable ones--the wayyou usually do to everybody?"
"I've just told you,
I don't know, but I'm going to do better."
"Well--there was once a girl, whose father had died when she was a babyand who lived with her mother and a maid in a tiny flat in New York City.It was a pretty little flat, and they had plenty to eat and to wear, anda good many pleasant friends and acquaintances; but they didn't have muchmoney--that is, compared to the other people they knew. This girl went toa school where all her mates had ten times as much spending money as shedid, who possessed hundreds of things which she coveted, and who wereconstantly showering favors upon her which she had no way of returning.So, from the earliest time that she could remember, she felt discontentedand dissatisfied, and regarded herself as having been picked out byProvidence for unusual misfortunes; and her mother agreed with her.
"I fancy it is never very pleasant to be poor. But if one can be franklypoor, in calico and overalls, the way you've been, I don't believe it'squite so hard as it is to be poor and try 'to keep up appearances'; asthe saying is. This girl learned very early the meaning of thatconvenient phrase. She gave parties, and went without proper food for aweek afterwards; she had pretty dresses to wear to dances, and woreshabby finery about the house; she bought theatre tickets and candy, butnever had a cent to give to charity; she usually stayed in the swelteringcity all summer, because there was not enough money to go away for thesummer, and still have some left for the next winter's season; and shespent two years at miserable little second-rate 'pensions' inEurope--that pet economy of fashionable Americans who would not for onemoment, in their own country, put up with the bad food, and theunsanitary quarters, and the vulgar associates which they endure there.
"Before she was sixteen years old this girl began to be 'attractive tomen,' as another stock phrase goes. I may be mistaken, and I'll neverhave a chance now to find out whether I am or not, but I believe if I hada daughter like that, it would be my earnest wish to bring her up in somequiet country place where she could dress simply, and spend much timeoutdoors, and not see too many people until she was nineteen or twenty.But the mother I have been talking about didn't feel that way. Shetaught her daughter to make the most of her looks--her eyes and hermouth, and her figure; she showed her how to arrange her dress in a waywhich should seem simple--and really be alluring; she drilled her in theart of being flippant without being pert, of appearing gentle when shewas only sly, of saying the right thing at the right time, and--what ismuch more important--keeping still at the right time. The pupil wasdocile because she was eager to learn and she was clever. She made veryfew mistakes, and she never made the same one twice.
"Of course, all this education had one aim and end--a rich husband. 'Ihope I've brought you up too sensibly,' the mother used to say, 'for youto even think of throwing yourself away on the first attractive boy thatproposes to you. Your type is just the kind to appeal to some big, heavy,oversated millionaire. Keep your eyes open for him.' The daughter was asobedient in listening to this counsel as she had been in regard to theothers, for it fell in exactly with her own wishes; she was tired ofbeing poor, of scrimping and saving and 'keeping up appearances.' Theinnumerable young bank clerks and journalists and teachers and collegestudents who fluttered about her burnt their moth-wings to no avail. Butthat _rara avis_, a really rich man, found her very kind to him.
"Well, you can guess the result. When she was not quite eighteen, a manwho was beyond question a millionaire proposed to her, and she acceptedhim. He was nearly twenty years older than she was, and was certainlybig, heavy, and oversated. Her uncle--her father's brother--came to hermother, and told her certain plain facts about this man, and his fatherand grandfather before him, and charged her to tell the child what shewould be doing if she married him. Perhaps if the uncle had gone to thegirl herself, it might have done some good--perhaps it wouldn't have--yousee she was so tired of being poor that she thought nothing elsemattered. Anyway, he felt a woman could break these ugly facts to a younggirl better than a man, and he was right. Only, you see, the mother nevertold at all; not that she really feared that her daughter would befoolish and play false to her excellent training--but, still, it was justas well to be on the safe side. The millionaire was quite mad about hislittle fiancee; he was perfectly willing to pay--in advance--all theexpenses for a big, fashionable wedding, with twelve bridesmaids and awedding-breakfast at Sherry's; he was eager to load her with jewels, andsettle a large sum of money upon her, and take her around the world forher honeymoon journey; he loved her little soft tricks of speech, the shyway in which she dropped her eyes, the curve of the simple white dressthat fell away from her neck when she leaned towards him; and though shesaw him drink--and drank with him more than once before her marriage--hetook excellent care that it was not until several nights afterwards thatshe found him--really drunk; and they must have been married two monthsbefore she began to--really comprehend what she had done.
"There isn't much more to tell--that can be told. The woman who sellsherself--with or without a wedding ring--has probably always existed, andprobably always will; but I doubt whether any one of them ever hastold--or ever will--the full price which she pays in her turn. Shedeserves all the censure she gets, and more--but, oh! she does deserve alittle pity with it! When this girl had been married nearly a year, sheheard her husband coming upstairs one night long after midnight, in acondition she had learned to recognize--and fear. She locked her bedroomdoor. When he discovered that, he was furiously angry; as I said before,he was a big man, and he was very strong. He knocked out a panel, put hishand through, and turned the key. When he reached her, he reminded herthat she had been perfectly willing to marry him--that she was his wife,his property, anything you choose to call it; he struck her. The nextday she was very ill, and the child which should have been born threemonths later came--and went--before evening. The next year she was not sofortunate; her second baby was born at the right time--her husband wasaway with another woman when it happened--a horrible, diseased littlecreature with staring, sightless eyes. Thank God! it lived only twoweeks, and its mother, after a long period of suffering and agony duringwhich she felt like a leper, recovered again, in time to see her husbanddie--after three nights, during which she got no sleep--of deliriumtremens, leaving her with over two million dollars to spend as shechose--and the degradation of her body and the ruin of her soul to thinkof all the rest of her life!"
"Sylvia!"--the cry with which Austin broke his long silence came from theinnermost depths of his being--"Sylvia, Sylvia, you shan't say suchthings--they're not true. Don't throw yourself on the ground and cry thatway." He bent over her, vainly trying to keep his own voice fromtrembling. "If I could have guessed what--telling this--this hideousstory would mean to you, I never should have let you do it. And it's allmy fault that you felt you ought to do it--partly because of those vilespeeches I made the other evening, partly because I've let you see howwickedly discontented I've been myself, partly because you must haveheard me urging my own sister to make practically this same kind of amarriage. Oh, if it's any comfort to you to know it, you haven't told mein vain! Sylvia, do speak to me, and tell me that you believe me, andthat you forgive me!"
She managed to give him the assurance he sought, her desperate,passionate voice grown gentle and quiet again. But she was too tired andspent to be comforted. For a long time she lay so still that he becamealarmed, thinking she must have fainted again, and drew closer to her tolisten to her breathing; at first there was a little catch in it,betraying sobs not yet wholly controlled, then gradually it grew calm andeven; she had fallen asleep from sheer exhaustion.
Austin, sitting motionless beside her, found the night one ofpurification and dedication. To men of Thomas's type, slow of wit, steadyand stolid and unemotional, the soil gives much of her own peacefulwholesomeness. But those like Austin, with finer intellects, higherambitions, and stronger passions, often fare ill at her hands. Theirstruggles towards education and the refinements of life are balked bypoverty and the utter fatigue which comes from overwork; while theirsearch for pleasure often ends in a k
nowledge and experience of vices socrude and tawdry that men of greater wealth and more happy experiencewould turn from them in disgust, not because they were more moral, butbecause they could afford to be more fastidious. Between Broadway and the"main street" of Wallacetown, and other places of its type--smallrailroad or manufacturing centres, standing alone in an otherwise purelyagricultural community--the odds in favor of virtue, not to say decency,are all in favor of Broadway; and Wallacetown, to the average youth ofHamstead, represents the one opportunity for a "show," "something todrink," and "life" in general. Sylvia had unlocked the door of materialopportunity for Austin; but she had done far more than this. She hadgiven him the vision of the higher things that lay beyond that, and thedesire to attain them. Further than that, neither she nor any other womancould help him. The future, to make or mar, lay now within his own hands.And in the same spirit of consecration with which the knights of oldprayed that they might attain true chivalry during the long vigil beforetheir accolade, Austin kept his watch that night, and made his vow thatthe future, in spite of the discouragements and mistakes and failureswhich it must inevitably contain, should be undaunted by obstacles, andclean of lust and high of purpose.
The wind and rain ceased, the clouds grew less heavy, and at last, justbefore dawn, a few stars shone faintly in the clearing sky; then the sunrose in a blaze of glory. Sylvia had not moved, and lay with one armunder her dark head, the undried tears still on her cheeks. Austin liftedher gently, and started towards the highroad with her in his arms. Shestirred slightly, opened her eyes and smiled, then lifted her hands andclasped them around his neck.
"It'll be easier to carry me that way," she murmured drowsily."Austin--you're awfully good to me."
Her eyes closed again. A sheet of white fire, like that of which he hadbeen conscious on the afternoon when they straightened out the yardtogether, only a thousand times more powerful, seemed to envelop himagain. He looked down at the lovely, sleeping face, at the dark lashescurling over the white cheeks and the red, sweet lips. If he kissed her,what harm would be done--she would never even know--
Then he flung back his head. Sylvia was as far above him as those palestars of the early dawn. It was clear to him that no one must ever guesshow dearly he loved her; but he knew that it was far, far more essentialthat he, in his unworthiness, should not profane his own ideal. She wasnot for his touch, scarcely for his thoughts. The kiss which did notreach her lips burned into his soul instead, and cleansed it with itshealing flame.