Hope Mills: or, Between Friend and Sweetheart

It was quite natural that she should desire to see Sylvie married. She could never get over her distaste of having women taking bold strides for the world's fame and favor. If left alone, this was what Sylvie would surely do. The delicate womanly charities and kindnesses that had filled up so much of her life would not satisfy her niece. And, now that she had brought herself to the point of satisfaction with Jack Darcy, either she had mistaken their regard, or he was proving himself an indifferent lover. By a subtile intuition, she understood that Fred still cared for her, nay, that he held now a reverent admiration that he had never thought of in the past. His melancholy eyes followed her about, now and then scintillating sparks of passion that seemed almost to rend his soul. She experienced an intense and exquisite sympathy for him that drew them together in a manner that he felt, and was grateful for, but did not clearly understand.

As for Sylvie, curiously enough, she was at war with herself, though she wore such a calm, light-hearted exterior. When she rejected Fred Lawrence, she was quite sure she despised the present man, and his narrow, futile purposes of life. Truly, to have been the wife of such a man would have proved irksome to the last degree. But his misfortunes had brought out the fine gold, the solemn strain of strength and endurance, that had come from his father's blood. I think even Sylvie had been a little mortified first, that he should have come back to Yerbury, and taken such a very inferior position. She wanted him to do something noteworthy with his pen and his high cultivation. It seemed so much choice material quite thrown away. Designing patterns was surely no high test of genius. Women with a purely technical art education had done it.

But out of it had come this other opportunity that he had grasped with the pure instinct of genius. Employment for pen and pencil both, for the embodiment of the exquisite outward forms of beauty, and the rare, delicate, inward graces of imagination, for the true standards of taste and art in which he had been informing himself all these years; in the spirit of dilettanteism, it was true, but now when the intellectual impetus was added, and the positive need of daily bread, these complicated motives worked together as a strong stimulant. Perhaps, too, he had a not unworthy desire to show Sylvie Barry that the man who had loved her was not utterly unworthy or incapable.

They had drifted together again in the ordinary purposes of life, which, after all, occur much more frequently than any grand or overwhelming shock. She took up the friendly, half-sisterly way, pleased with the instinctive deference he paid her. He understood that it would be quite useless to aspire to any regard of hers: that was all done with in the past. She could afford to evince an interest in his plans, since Irene cared not, and to his mother they were so much Greek, a subtle flavor that she admitted was the proper thing, but could not understand, – did not care to trouble herself, in fact.

So these two young people, working in a common bond of sympathy, insensibly strengthened the regard that had grown with them from childhood. Fred gained sufficient courage to discuss some plans with Sylvie: she brought out her easel, as I have said, and accepted from him friendly criticisms. The difference between their work was soon manifest, – he had an earnest purpose, with breadth and scope: she had none. How had they so queerly changed places? she asked herself. Why were not her talents made of some avail, instead of this puerile pottering to please one's self?

She began to wonder – dangerously fascinating employment to a woman – if he had ever cared for her. There seemed an adamantine wall built up around him, and yet the fruit in the inner garden was more rarely sweet than she had ever dreamed it could be. She could not know that the passion for her he had put away with such despairing hands, was blossoming all the sweeter, and bearing more exquisite fruit in other directions. She saw the lovely tenderness toward his mother, the unwearying patience with Irene, the fearless, animating ambition that seemed to have set his æsthetic desires to a steady, comprehensive strain of music, to which he was keeping invisible step, but which thrilled and roused every fibre.

All this he had done without any assistance from her, she thought, blind little girl; as if the kinship of a true passion could not reach from the life that went before to that which was to come afterward! She had not inspired his genius, but stern necessity; it had been no longing or desire to win her, but the material support of his mother and sister. She began to feel curiously jealous of these extraneous influences. She unconsciously exerted herself to make his visits at the beach more interesting. They drove together in her pony-carriage; they studied glowing summer sunsets, where fantastic clouds piled up wealth of gold and amber and purple and opaline splendors, and shot out arrowy, dazzling rays; they paced the sands after it had all faded into tintless space, and delicate vapors of grayish green and vague violet rose from the crested waves that broke far out at sea, and trooped across like airy spirits; they listened to the slow, regular rhythm that came marching from some weird country, with a grand crash at last, a sobbing crescendo, and an interval of silence that still pulsated on the dusky, odorous air, when the moaning billow was dead.

They came so near to Nature, there were moments when they seemed empowered to wrest the shadowy secrets out of her bosom; and yet they did not come near to each other. Ever this distance between, – a man's honor, and faith to his friend, Fred Lawrence thought, never allowing his secret soul to swerve. There were midnights when he softly paced the floor, his lips compressed, his brow ghostly white, and his hands clinched in the throe of a man's deathless love. Then he thought he could not endure it, that he must stay away. But circumstances were stronger than will. Did God mean that this anguish should redeem that other old treachery, that his soul should be purified by its baptism of fire, a more worthy offering for his friend? If so, then he must not abate one jot or one pang.

There were within Sylvie Barry's soul certain coquettish instincts. She was fond of admiration for herself: a purely intellectual regard, with the passion-dream flown, would soon have wearied her. A warm, bright nature, loving to please others, but to be pleased in return, cruelly hurt by surging against this rock-bound coast, piqued and almost angered, sent into moods of daring, seductive warmth and gayety, quite capable of making a foil of Dr. Maverick, who was strangely puzzled by her contradictory moods. But for one thing, he must have tried to cage the dazzling, elusive spirit: he, too, had a strong sense of honor toward his friend; and he could only imagine her playing sportively with the few who came within her radius, not setting herself to win any forbidden regard. What might have made some women sad and silent – the consciousness that an old lover had over-lived his passion – seemed to sting her into renewed effort.

Coming back to them, Jack Darcy was more than puzzled, set at sea in a bewildering way, without chart or compass. Had Fred ceased to care for Sylvie? Had she never loved him? Or was some other feeling holding him back, – a kind of family complication, a sense of duty to the others so high that he would not offer them a divided regard, any sooner than her? He believed mothers had a peculiar sense of possession in their sons; but they surely had married other women's sons with small scruple! Mrs. Lawrence was warmly attached to Sylvie. In his honest, inconsequent man-fashion, he wondered why they could not always live together, as they were doing here.

Fred was strangely worn and thin, with the kind of nervous alertness that accompanies an intent watching of one's self.

"Hillo, old fellow!" cried Jack; "what have you been doing? Working yourself to a shadow? If high art is so exhaustive, there must be a little let-up. A man has no more right to kill himself in an artistic industrial way, than in any of the ruder forms of suicide."

Fred shivered visibly.

"Don't speak of suicide," he answered in a shrinking tone. "I never thought of it but once; and that was when I fancied myself of no use to the world, or myself either. I am not overworked" – and he paused, to study Jack a moment. Why, he was positively handsome, with that superabundant strength and vitality, the clear red and white of his complexion, the bronze beard, the healthful, honest eyes. He seemed to be surcharged with a magnetic current of energy and courage.

"Yes, you are. I dare say you have carried your plans and sketches, and what not, down to Depford Beach, and pored over them until almost morning. You must take a vacation."

"I expect to when the families return;" and he gave a faint, wan smile. "I have had another streak of luck, Jack. A lady, a very wealthy widow, is building a house in one of the pretty towns up the Hudson, and it is to be finished with all the elegance art can bring. She saw one of my articles, and sent to me; and we have been corresponding. In September I am to go to New York, and make arrangements. There is to be painting and frescoing, and rooms finished in different styles, – indeed, I cannot tell the half myself, until I see her."

The pale face had kindled with a fine and proud enthusiasm. More than ever, Jack recognized the artistic refinement of his friend. What would law or medicine have been to him as a profession?

"Humph!" grunted Jack. "A great vacation that will be! But you must be careful, or you will not live out half your days. You've a look in your face like the little chap I first knew."

The smile that crossed it then, Jack did not understand. It seemed to Fred Lawrence that half his days would suffice, when Sylvie Barry was his friend's wife.

"Yet you see the 'little chap' lived" – with an attempt at gayety.

"Yes. And, Fred, I am more glad than I can put into words, to know that you have been so successful. It is just the career for you. It's odd that a great commonplace, blundering fellow like me should have two such artistic friends as you and Sylvie Barry."

The well-trained face did not blanch a muscle. He felt, with a flash of subtile inner consciousness, that Darcy was studying him. Thank God, he could stand before his friend free from a thought of treachery! All these weeks he had walked over burning coals, but the smell of the fire was not in his garments.

Jack thought it over long after Fred had gone. Why could not these two people see! Surely they were meant for one another. It puzzled, it almost fretted him. Sylvie was so peculiar, so changed in these few weeks! What did it all mean?

And on Saturday when he was to go down to the beach, Fred pleaded some urgent business to a neighboring city. He was not quite brave enough to see them together.

"I have been meaning to go for some time," he said with gravity, "but I did not like to think they would be alone over Sunday. Now that you will be there, I certainly can spare three or four days."

"See here," returned Jack, – "wait until Monday. Come, we'll have a nice day together down there on the sands. Sundays always seem so wonderful by the ocean, with the grand chant forever in your ears. The very waves are saying, —

"'Let every thing that hath breath praise the Lord.'"

But Fred Lawrence would not suffer himself to be persuaded.

CHAPTER XXIII

Jack Darcy's business-tour, while it had not been productive of any great financial results, had restored his healthy mental equilibrium. He found other firms were having it just as hard, and that the country was still overrun with men willing to work for any wages. Prices were certainly falling. All kinds of raw products were offered at the very lowest figure; and, labor being so cheap, manufactured goods must perforce be low. Men were not now counting on a speedy return to good times and high prices: they began to admit that the latter were the outcome of extravagant speculation. They bought what they wanted, and no more. They gave no extensive credits, and now really appeared to be anxious to reach a permanent basis.

"We shall have to sell most of our stock at cost," he said to Winston. "Lucky to get that, I suppose. And we shall come out about even – no profits for this six months. Still, we shall not run back, and that is something gained."

"We can count on the new goods, I'm pretty sure," returned Winston. "I've had some inquiries, and sent samples. Some of the fancy overcoatings are to be duplicated. That looks like business."

It did, indeed. Jack sat at his desk, ruminating upon it, and feeling as if at last they saw a light through the woods, when a step startled him, because it was not the kind of step usually heard through that hall, so he turned. It was Fred Lawrence, with a face of ashen pallor. Jack sprang up, dazed with the vision.

"I was to come and tell you – Maverick has gone to Depford Beach – Miss Barry is very ill, and they have telegraphed for him. He left word – that we were to come."

The voice had a strained, unnatural sound; and the eyes looked like those that have wept out a passionate sorrow, and are dry from despair.

"Ill – Miss Barry – not Sylvie?"

Could he speak of her in that calm tone? A passion of rage swelled in Fred's heart, and flushed his face. Only a moment, for the great throb of thankfulness that it was not Sylvie restored him.

"It is Miss Barry. You will go?"

The tone had that peculiar, wandering cadence, as if somehow the soul had dropped out of it.

"Certainly," and Jack sprang up, puzzled by something quite intangible in Fred's demeanor.

"There are just twenty minutes to catch this train. The eight-ten does not stop at Depford, you know."

"True: I will just speak to Winston" —

"I will meet you at the station," returned Fred hurriedly, turning away.

Much as he loved Jack, it seemed as if he could not walk to the station with him. A feeling of profound pity for Sylvie rose in his heart. This man, noble, generous, helpful, and affectionate, had not the finely responsive nature Sylvie Barry needed. There would be some distance or coldness, or, worse still, a fatal dissonance. One part of her nature must remain unmated: her soul would have a language in which he would not only be deaf, but wholly dumb. He could express no more than the possibilities of his nature. It was not the fine and essential difference between man and woman, but that more fatal gulf in which there would appear no certain glimpses of a royally endowed love in all its spontaneity, its glow of feeling, its variation of rich emotions. How would she, with her versatile, changeful soul, with its cycle of moods, ever live in the strong, steady prison of his heart!

If he had thought perfect honor to his friend the greatest trial of his life, what was this to be? He could not stay and see the slow, consuming inward fire that would burn her soul to ashes while it was still in the body. Thank God, he could go away, would go soon indeed, and never return! He would nerve himself for these few days of torture.

Jack waited on the platform until the last moment. The bell was ringing when Fred appeared, and the strong arm grasped him. They sat side by side, but were silent after one question as to the nature of Miss Barry's illness. Never had they been further divided in heart, for in the days when there had been no semblance of friendship the trivial repulsion was not to be compared to this wall of adamant. Fred would not have gone at all but for his mother's sake, although his heart was with Sylvie through every instant of her trial.

The house was very quiet when they reached it. Maverick came to meet them, and was as sorely puzzled as Fred by the certain composure of Darcy's face.

"It was not altogether unexpected by her or myself," Maverick explained in answer to their inquiries. "It is the result of a complication of disorders, some of long standing and incurable; and the present effect is partial paralysis. I hoped change of air and a quiet summer would delay what we knew must come before many years."

Darcy was astonished beyond measure. He would sooner have thought of his own mother dying. True, he remembered now that Miss Barry had been about less, and looked rather more delicate, and that through the summer she had kept extremely quiet. So amazed was he, that at first he quite forgot about Sylvie.

Fred Lawrence paced the floor in an agony. Would the man never ask the question that was torturing him, because he had no right to ask it first!

"How is my mother?" was his huskily tremulous inquiry, as he still went up and down like a caged lion.

"The shock was really terrible to her. Mrs. Darcy was invaluable," bowing to Jack. "But for her, Sylvie would have been in despair," – looking furtively at the broad, slightly bowed figure.

"Poor Sylvie!" he murmured, "poor Sylvie!"

Fred turned to the door, compressing his lips over a throb of anguish.

"Of course," began Maverick, "they must all be removed as soon as possible. I think it would be well for Mrs. Lawrence and her daughter to go to-morrow. Neither is strong enough to bear any prolonged strain."

"Yes." Fred's heart swelled within him. They were all to be thrust aside as quickly as possible. This was Sylvie's sorrow – sacred to her and Jack.

He went to his mother's room. She was lying on a couch, and was still hysterical. From her he heard the story; and though, as ever, she was selfishly alive to her own sufferings, she evinced an almost motherly tenderness in her sympathy for Sylvie.

Fred spoke of the return. If it could be to-morrow; if he could settle them in their own home, and go quite away for a while! he thought.

"And leave Sylvie here alone?" said his mother reproachfully.

"I do not know what you can do for – for Miss Barry." How studiously cold and calm the tone was! "The doctor wishes to remove her as speedily as possible. I thought we would be out of the way, at least."

"It is terrible here; and if you considered it quite right – the summer is so nearly ended, and the nights are growing cool, – yes, we might go."

They settled it over their quiet supper. "Miss Barry was comfortable," Martha said, "and Miss Sylvie was lying down."

Mrs. Lawrence retired early, her nerves were so shattered by the terrible incident. Irene had disappeared; and, when Fred could stand his loneliness no longer, he went to walk upon the beach.

It was a moonless night, but with an intensely blue sky that gave the Milky Way the appearance of a luminous trail across the heavens. The murmur of the waves seemed sad and softened, and they touched the heart of the man who paced beside them. Once he had held so much in his hands! Surely he could have won the love of this woman then. Oh the blind, insensate, idiotic folly! He could have thrust his own soul down here on the sand, and trampled the very life out of it!

Hark! some one was coming with hasty strides. With the wild instinct of a wounded animal he turned to flee, and yet – whither should he go?

The hand was on his shoulder. The well-known voice uttered his name, and he turned at bay.

"Sylvie" —

"Don't repeat her name to me!" he flung out, beside himself with passionate jealousy and love. And then their eyes met, the one lurid with an emotion well-nigh beyond control, the other wondering, pitiful, amazed.

"Yes, let me go my way. I had not meant you to know it; but once – yes, I will confess it to you – I scorned you to her. God knows how I have repented; for I was beside myself then, blinded with my own folly and arrogance. And now you have won the woman I love, whom I shall always love, and it will be at once my bliss and my punishment. Take your triumph – tell her that her erring knight came back, and paid her the highest homage of his soul." Then, in a sudden, changed tone, freighted with a pain that pierced the other's heart, he cried, "Jack Darcy, I have made amends for that selfish blunder of my young manhood. For weeks I have endured such pangs, that Heaven grant you may never know! I have walked by her side with polar wastes between us; I have touched her hand with fingers that have had no more passion in them than the dead; I have watched her dewy lips ripe with kisses, and remembered they were for you; I have been true, true in word and deed and desire, but in thought I must love her to her life's end. I will go quite away" —

Up to this point his words had come with the heat and flow of a lava-torrent. Now his impassioned voice faltered, trembled, and seemed to lose itself.

Jack Darcy stood transfixed. Was it a dream? Had Fred been so blind all this while? He essayed speech; but the lines about his mouth were constricted, and his breath came in quivering gasps, as the vision of torture, suffered for honor's sake, rose up before him. Ah! if ever he had sinned, – and the temporary forgetfulness appeared such a little thing to Jack's generous soul, – he had redeemed himself nobly.

"Oh! you thought – she doesn't love me, Fred, – not in that way," and his voice had the full, throbbing inflection of a great joy. "We are friends, such as a man and a woman can truly be. Do you not understand that some people are so alike they run in parallels? there are no angles to create the intense friction of love, they are so evenly balanced that there is no desire for possessorship, they have just as wholesome an influence over each other remaining apart. There is hardly Sylvie's equal in the world. Half that I am, I owe her."

Had the night changed? Was the world flooded with a serene and tender light? Was the moaning ocean filled with the wondrous music of immortal love and longing, reaching out to glad fruition? Was that sudden rare peace, creating a reverential atmosphere about him, an earnest of days to come? He experienced a vivid lightness as if he were being borne on clouds, while fragments of delicious remembrances floated through his brain. The very refinement of his nature seemed to exalt him to that high heaven of love, whose solemn mysteries it is not lawful to utter.

"I cannot quite understand" – in a curious dreamy tone, still spelled by the mastery of impassioned emotion – "how you could miss loving Sylvie; how she, woman-like, could help adoring you for your strength and heroism. Jack, if I were a woman, your very power would compel me to worship you. I should love you, whether or no."

Jack gave a bright, cheerful laugh. "It is that kind of strength you like in Sylvie," he made answer. "She will always spur a man up to his best. Her well-trained ear is quick to detect a false note in honor, ambition, or love. She will never be any kind of dead weight, and yet she is so deliciously womanly. There was a time – don't be vexed, Fred," – in a tender, pleading tone, – "when I thought you were not going to be worthy of her. But that is past."

"She rejected me then," Fred Lawrence said simply. "I offered her my father's wealth, the home he had made, my own folly and arrogance and self-conceit; and then, Jack, she boldly admitted that you were her hero! When I consider the sort of man my training and surroundings made me, I am filled with disgust. And yet I was no worse than hundreds of others at the present day. When I look at my mother, Irene, and myself, I feel that we were the product of the so-called culture of the day, which substitutes shallow creeds, conventional manners, and systems, for all that is pure, strong, and noble in manhood or womanhood. It is the sort of Greek temperament on which we pride our intellectual selves. We revel in a glowing, sensuous enjoyment, that intoxicates the brain, and leads us to disdain the real work of the world. We are trained to consider what society demands of us; we are polished and refined, and in too many instances left morally weak and ignorant. No wonder so many of us have not the strength to buffet across the stormy sea of hard experience, but are lost in the great whirlpool!"

Jack peered into the pale, handsome face by the faint light. Surely this man had to make a tremendous effort for salvation, when nearly every tide had been against him! He experienced a keener sympathy than he could express; he drew the arm within his, and they paced up and down again in silence, understanding dimly the sacred mysteries of each other's hearts, that needed not to be dragged to open day for inspection. In a pure friendship, faith is the highest element: with that there is supreme content; without it, distrust gnaws like a canker-worm.