by Marion Bryce
“Mr. Sylvester I am sure! I thought Ona would remember us after a while. Come,-in sir, do, my sister will be home in a few moments.” And with a deprecatory flutter comical enough in a woman at least seventy odd years old, she led her distinguished guest into a large unused room where in spite of his remonstrances she at once proceeded to build a fire.
“It is a pleasure sir,” she said to every utterance of regret on his part at the trouble he was causing. And though her vocabulary was thus made to appear somewhat small, her sincerity was undoubted. “We have counted the days, Belinda and I, since we sent the last letter. It may seem foolish to you, sir; but Paula is growing so fast and Belinda says is so uncommon smart for her age that we did think that it was time Ona knew just what a straight we were in. Do you want to see Paula?”
“Very much,” he returned, shocked and embarrassed at the position in which he found himself put by the reticence of his wife on the subject of her relations. “They think I have come in reply to a letter,” he mused, “and I did not even know my wife had received one.”
“You will be surprised,” she exclaimed with a complacent nod as the fire blazed up brightly; “every one is surprised who sees her for the first time. Is my niece well?” And thus it was he learned the relation between his wife of ten years and these simple inhabitants of the little cottage in Grotewell.
He replied as in duty bound, and presently by the use of a few dexterous questions succeeded in eliciting from this simple-minded old lady, the few facts necessary to a proper understanding of the situation. Miss Abby and Miss Belinda were two maiden ladies, sisters of Mrs. Fairchild and Ona’s mother, who on the death of the former took up their abode in the little cottage for the purpose of bringing up the orphan Paula. They had succeeded in this by dint of the utmost industry, but Paula was not a common child, and Belinda, who was evidently the autocrat of the house, had decided that she ought to have other advantages. She had therefore written to Mrs. Sylvester concerning the child, in the hopes that that lady would take enough interest in her pretty little cousin to send her to boarding-school; but they had received no reply till now, all of which was perfectly right of course, Mrs. Sylvester being undoubtedly occupied and Mr. Sylvester himself being better than any letter.
“And does Paula herself know what efforts you have been making in her behalf,” asked Mr. Sylvester upon the receipt of this information.
The little lady shook her head with vivacity. “Belinda advised me to say nothing,” she remarked. “The child is contented with her home and we did not like to raise her expectations. You will never regret anything you may do for her,” she went on in a hurried way with a peep now and then towards the door as if while enjoying a momentary freedom of speech, she feared an intrusion that would cut that pleasure short. “Paula is a grateful child and never has given us a moment of concern from the time she began to put pieces of patchwork together. But there is Belinda,” she suddenly exclaimed, rising with the little dip and jerk of her left shoulder that was habitual to her whenever she was amused or excited. “Belinda,” she cried, going to the door and speaking with great impressiveness, “Mr. Sylvester is in the parlor.” And almost instantly a tall middle aged lady entered, whose plain but powerful countenance and dignified demeanor, stamped her at once as belonging to a very different type of woman from her sister.
“I am very glad to see you sir,” she exclaimed in a slow determined voice as dissimilar as possible from the piping tones of Mi»s Abby. “Is not Mrs. Sylvester with you?”
“No,” returned he, “I have come alone; my wife is not fond of travelling in winter.”
The slightest gleam shot from her bright keen eye. “Is she not well?”
“Yes quite well, but not over strong,” he rejoined quietly.
She gave him another quick look, settled some matter with herself and taking off her bonnet, sat down by the fire. At once her sister ceased in her hovering about the room and sitting also, became to all appearance her silent shadow.
“Paula has gone up stairs to take off her bonnet,” the younger woman said in a straightforward manner just short of being brusque. “She is a very remarkable girl, Mr. Sylvester, a genius I suppose some would call her, a child of nature I prefer to say. Whatever there is to be learned in this town she has learned. And in a place where nature speaks and good books abound that is not inconsiderable. I have taken pride in her talents I acknowledge, and have endeavored to do what I could to cultivate them to the best advantage. There is no girl in my school who can write so original a composition, nor is there one with a truer heart or more tractable disposition.”
“You have then been her teacher as well as her friend, she owes you a double debt of gratitude.”
A look hard to understand flashed over her homely face. “I have never thought of debt or gratitude in connection with Paula. The only effort which I have ever made in her behalf which cost me any thing, is this one which threatens me with her loss.” Then as if fearing she had said too much, set her firm lips still firmer and ignoring the subject of the child, astonished him by certain questions on the leading issues of the day that at once betrayed a truly virile mind.
“She is a study,” thought he to himself, but meeting her on the ground she had taken, replied at once and to her evident satisfaction in the direct and simple manner that appeals the most forcibly to a strong if somewhat unpolished understanding, while the meek little Miss Abby glanced from one to the other with a humble awe more indicative of her appreciation for their superiority than of her comprehension of the subject.
But what with Miss Belinda’s secret anxiety and Mr. Sylvester’s unconscious listening for a step upon the stair, the conversation, brisk as it had opened, gradually languished, and are long with a sort of clairvoyant understanding of her sister’s wishes, Miss Abby arose and with her customary jerk left the room for Paula.
“The child is not timid but has an unaccountable aversion to entering the presence of strangers alone,” Miss Belinda explained; but Mr. Sylvester did not hear her, for at that moment the door re-opened and Miss Abby stepped in with the young girl thus heralded.
Edward Sylvester never forgot that moment, and indeed few men could have beheld the picture of extraordinary loveliness thus revealed, without a shock of surprise equal to the delight it inspired. She was not pretty; the very word was a misnomer, she was simply one of nature’s most exquisite and undeniable beauties. From the crown of her ebon locks to the sole of her dainty foot, she was perfect as the most delicate coloring and the utmost harmony of contour could make her. And not in the conventional type either. There was an individuality in her style that was as fresh as it was uncommon. She was at once unique and faultless, something that can be said of few women however beautiful or alluring.
Mr. Sylvester had not expected this, as indeed how could he, and for a moment he could only gaze with a certain swelling of the heart at the blooming loveliness that in one instant had transformed the odd little parlor into a bower fit for the habitation of princes. But soon his natural self-possession returned, and rising with his most courteous bow, he greeted the blushing girl with words of simple welcome.
Instantly her eyes which had been hitherto kept bent upon the floor flashed upward to his face and a smile full of the wonder of an unloosed for, almost unhoped for delight, swept radiantly over her lips, and he saw with deep and sudden satisfaction that the hour which had made such an impression upon him, had not been forgotten by her; that his voice had recalled what his face failed to do, and that he was recognized.
“It’s Mr. Sylvester, your cousin Ona’s husband, Miss Belinda interposed in a matter-of-fact way, evidently attributing the emotion of the child to her astonishment at the imposing appearance of their guest.
“And it was you who married Ona!” she involuntarily murmured, blushing the next moment at this simple utterance of her thoughts.
“Yes, dear child,” Mr. Sylvester hastened to say. “And so you remember me?” he presently a
dded, smiling down upon her with a sense of new life that for the moment made every care and anxiety shrink into the background.
“Yes,” she simply returned, taking the chair beside him with the unconscious grace of perfect self-forgetfulness. “It was the first time I had found any one to listen to my childish enthusiasms; it is natural such kindness should make its impression.”
“Little Paula and I met long ago,” quoth Mr. Sylvester turning to the somewhat astonished Miss Belinda. “It was before my marriage and she was then—”
“Just ten years old,” finished Paula, seeing him cast her an inquiring glance.
“Very young for such a thoughtful little miss,” he exclaimed. “And have those childish enthusiasms quite departed?” he continued, smiling upon her with gentle encouragement. “Do you no longer find a fairyland in the view up the river?”
She flushed, casting a timid glance at her aunt, but meeting his eyes again seemed to forget everything and everybody in the inspiration which his presence afforded.
“I fear I must acknowledge that it is more a fairyland to me than ever,” she softly replied. “Knowledge does not always bring disillusion, and though I have learned one by one the names of the towns scattered along those misty banks, and though I know they are no less prosaic in their character than our own humdrum village, yet I cannot rid myself of the notion that those verdant slopes with their archway of clouds, hide the portals of Paradise, and that I have only to follow the birds in their flight up the river to find myself on the verge of a mystery, the banks at my feet can never disclose.”
“May the gates of God’s Paradise never recede as those would do, my child, if like the birds you attempted to pierce them.”
“Paula is a dreamer,” quoth Miss Belinda in a matter-of-fact tone, “but she is a good girl notwithstanding and can solve a geometrical problem with the best.”
“And sew on the machine and make a very good pie,” timidly put in Miss Abby.
“That is well,” laughed Mr. Sylvester, observing that the poor child’s head had fallen forward in maidenly shame at her aunts’ eulogiums as well as at the length of the speech into which she had been betrayed. “It shows that her eyes can see what is at hand as well as what is beyond our reach.” Then with a touch of his usual formal manner intended to restore her to herself, “Do you like study, Paula?”
In an instant her eyes flashed. “I more than like it; it feeds me. Knowledge has its vistas too,” she added with an arch look, the first he had seen on her hitherto serious countenance. “I can never outgrow my recognition of the portals it discloses or the fairyland it opens up to every inquiring eye.”
“Even geometry,” he ventured, more anxious to probe this fresh young mind than he had ever been to sound the opinions of the most notable men of the day.
“Even geometry,” she smiled. “To be sure its portals are somewhat methodical in shape, allowing no scope to the fancy, but from its triangles and circles have been born the grandeurs of architecture, and upright on the threshold of its exact laws and undeviating calculations, I see an angel with a golden rod in his hand, measuring the heavens.”
“Even a stone speaks to a poet,” said Mr. Sylvester with a glance at Miss Belinda.
“But Paula is no poet,” returned that lady with strict and impartial honesty. “She has never put a line on paper to my knowledge. Have you child?”
“No aunt, I would as soon imprison a falling sunbeam or try to catch the breeze that lifts my hair or kisses my cheek.”
“You see,” continued Mr. Sylvester still looking at Miss Belinda.
She answered with a doubtful shake of the head and an earnest glance at the girl as if she perceived something in that bright young soul, that even she had never observed before.
“Have you ever been away from home?” he now asked.
“Never, I know as little of the great world as a callow nestling. No, I should not say that, for the young bird has no Aunt Belinda to tell of the great cathedrals and the wonderful music she has heard and the glorious pictures she has seen in her visits to the city. It is almost as good as travelling one’s self to hear Aunt Belinda talk.”
It was now the turn of the mature plain woman to blush, which she did under Mr. Sylvester’s searching eye.
“You have then been in the habit of visiting New York?”
“I have been there twice,” she returned evasively.
“Since my marriage?”
“Yes sir;” with a firm closing of her lips.
“I did not know you were there or I should have insisted upon your remaining at my house.”
“Thank you,” said she with a quick triumphant glance at her demure little shadow, who looked back in amaze and was about to speak when Miss Belinda proceeded. “My visits usually have been on business; I should not think of troubling Mrs. Sylvester.” And then he knew that his wife had been aware of those visits if he had not.
But he refrained from testifying to his discovery. “You speak of music,” said he, turning gently back to Paula. “Have you a taste for it? Would it make you happy to hear such music as your aunt tells about?”
“O yes, I can conceive nothing grander than to sit in a church whose every line is beauty and listen while the great organ utters its song of triumph or echoes in the wonderful way it does, the emotions you have tried to express and could not. I would give a whole week of my life on the hills, dear as it is, for one such hour, I think.”
Mr. Sylvester smiled. “It is a rare kind of action to offer for such a simple pleasure, but it may meet with its acceptance, nevertheless;” and in his look and in his voice there was an appearance of affectionate interest that completed the subjugation of the watchful Miss Belinda, who now became doubly assured that whatever neglect had been shown her by her niece was not due to that niece’s husband.
Mr. Sylvester recognized the effect he had produced and hastened to complete it, feeling that the good opinion of Miss Belinda would be valuable to any man. “I have been a boy on these hills,” said he, “and know what it is to long for what is beyond while enjoying what is present. You shall hear the organ my child.” And stopped, wondering to himself over the new sweet interest he seemed to take in the prospect of pleasures which he had supposed himself to have long ago exhausted.
“Hear the organ, I? why that means—O what does it mean?” she inquired, turning with a look of beaming hope towards her aunt.
“You must ask Mr. Sylvester,” that uncompromising lady replied, with a straightforward look at the fire.
And he with a smile told the blushing gill that according to his reading, mortals went blindfold into fairyland; and she understood what he meant and was silent, whereupon he turned the conversation upon more commonplace subjects.
For how could he tell her then of the intention that had awakened in his breast at the first glimpse of her grand young beauty. To make her his child, to bequeath to her the place of the babe that had perished in his arms three long years before—That meant to give Ona a care if not a rival in his affections, and Ona shrank from care, and was not a subject for rivalry. And the if which this implied weighed heavily on his heart as moment after moment flew by, and he felt again the reviving power of an unsullied mind and an aspiring nature.
X. THE BARRED DOOR.
“A school boy’s tale; the wonder of an hour.”
—BYRON.
“Did you know that your niece was gifted with rare beauty as well as talents?” asked Mr. Sylvester of Miss Belinda as a couple of hours or so later, they sat alone by the parlor fire, preparatory to his departure.
“No, that is,” she hastily corrected herself, “I knew she was very pretty of course, prettier by far than any of her mates, but I did not suppose she was what you call a beauty, or at least would be so considered by a person accustomed to New York society.”
“I do not know of a woman in New York who can boast of any such claims to transcendent loveliness. Such faces are rare outside of art, Miss Belinda
; was Mrs. Fairchild a handsome woman?”
“She was my sister and if I may say so, my favorite sister, but she was no more agreeable to the eye than some others of her family,” grimly returned the heavy browed spinster with a compression of her lips. “What beauty Paula has inherited came from her father. Her chief charm in my eyes, however, springs from her pure nature and the unselfish impulses of her heart.”
“And in mine,” rejoined he quietly. Then with a sudden change of tone as he realized the necessity of saying something definite to this woman in regard to his intentions toward the child, he remarked, “Her great and unusual talents and manifest disposition to learn, demand as you say, superior advantages to any she can have in a small country town like this, fruitful as it has already been to her under your wise and fostering care and such shall she have; but just when and how I cannot say till I have seen my wife and learned what her wishes are likely to be in regard to the subject.”
“You are very kind, sir,” returned Miss Belinda. “I have no doubt as to the good-will of your intentions, and the child shall be prepared at once for a change.”
“And will the child,” he exclaimed with a smile as Paula re-entered the room, “be so kind as to give me her company in the walk I must now take to the cars?”
“Of course,” replied her aunt before the young girl could speak, “we owe you that much attention I am sure.”
And so it was that when he came to retrace his way through the village with its heavy memories, he had a guardian spirit at his side that robbed them of their power to sadden and oppress.
“What shall I say for you to the grim city streets when I get back?” inquired he as they hastened on over the snow covered road.
“Say to them from me? O you may give them my greeting,” she responded half shyly, half confidingly. Evidently for her he was one of those rare persons whose presence is perfect freedom and with whom she could not only think her best but speak it also. “I should like to make their acquaintance, but indeed they would have to do well to vie in attraction with these white roads girded by their silver-limbed trees. The very rush of life must seem oppressive. So many hopes, so many fears, so many interests jostling you at every step! Yet the thought is exhilarating too; don’t you find it so?”