X
SYLVIA SIGHS
The house was of brick. So being, in a land where most dwellings are ofwood, it had gathered beauty from time and dignity from tried strength,and with satisfying grace joined itself to its grounds, whose abundanceand variety of flowering, broad-leaved evergreens lent, in turn, apoetic authenticity to its Greek columns and to the Roman arches of itsdoors and windows. Especially in these mild, fragrant, blue nights wasthis charm potent, and the fair home seemed to its hidden beholderforever set apart from the discords and distresses of a turbulent world.And now an upper window brightened, its sash went up, and at theveranda's balustrade Anna stood outlined against the inner glow.
She may have intended but one look at the stars, but they and the spicedair were enchanting, and in confidence that no earthly eye was on hershe tarried, gazing out to the farthest gleam of the river where itswung southward round the English Turn.
Down in the garden a mirthful ecstasy ran through all the blood of herculprit observer and he drank to her only with his eyes. Against thewindow's brightness her dark outline showed true, and every smalleststrand of her hair that played along the contours of brow and headchanged his merriment to reverence and bade his heart recognize howinfinitely distant from his was her thought. Hilary Kincaid! can youread no better than that?
Her thought was of him. Her mind's eye saw him on his homeward ride. Itmarked the erectness of his frame, the gayety of his mien, the dance ofhis locks. By her inner ear she heard his horse's tread passing up thenarrow round-stone pavements of the Creole Quarter, presently to echo inold St. Peter Street under the windows of Pontalba Row--one of which wasFlora's. Would it ring straight on, or would it pause between thatwindow and the orange and myrtle shades of Jackson Square? Constance hadsaid that day to Miranda--for this star-gazer to overhear--that she didnot believe Kincaid loved Flora, and the hearer had longed to ask herwhy, but knew she could not tell. Why is a man's word. "They're ashelpless without it," the muser recalled having very lately written on asecret page, "as women are before it. And yet a girl can be very hungry,at times, for a why. They say he's as brave as a lion--why is he neverbrave to me?"
So futilely ended the strain on the remembered page, but while hisunsuspected gaze abode on her lifted eyes her thought prolonged thenote: "If he meant love to-night, why did he not stand to his meaningwhen I laughed it away? Was that for his friend's sake, or is he onlynot brave enough to make one wild guess at me? Ah, I bless Heaven he'sthe kind that cannot! And still--oh, Hilary Kincaid, if you were thegirl and I the man! I shouldn't be on my way home; I'd be down in thisgarden--." She slowly withdrew.
Hilary, stepping back to keep her in sight, was suddenly aware of thefamily coachman close at his side. Together they moved warily a fewsteps farther.
"You mus' escuse me, Cap'n," the negro amiably whispered. "You allright, o' co'se! Yit dese days, wid no white gen'leman apputtainin' ontode place--"
"Old man!" panted Hilary, "you've saved my life!"
"Oh, my Lawd, no! Cap'n, I--"
"Yes, you have! I was just going into fits! Now step in and fetch me outhere--" He shaped his arms fantastically and twiddled his fingers.
Bending with noiseless laughter the negro nodded and went.
Just within her window, Anna, still in reverie, sat down at a slenderdesk, unlocked a drawer, then a second one inside it, and drew forth--nomere secret page but--a whole diary! "To Anna, from Miranda, Christmas,1860." Slowly she took up a pen, as gradually laid it by again, andopposite various dates let her eyes rest on--not this, though it wasstill true:
"The more we see of Flora, the more we like her."
Nor this: "Heard a great, but awful, sermon on the duty of resistingNorthern oppression."
But this: "Connie thinks he 'inclines' to me. Ho! all he's ever said hasbeen for his far-away friend. I wish he would incline, or else go tentimes as far away! Only not to the war--God forbid! Ah, me, how I longfor his inclining! And while I long he laughs, and the more he laughsthe more I long, for I never, never so doted on any one's laugh. Oh,shame! to love before--"
What sound was that below? No mocking-bird note, no south wind in thefoliage, but the kiss of fingers on strings! Warily it stole in at thewindow, while softly as an acacia the diary closed its leaves. The benthead stirred not, but a thrill answered through the hearer's frame as asecond cadence ventured up and in and a voice followed it in song.Tremblingly the book slid into the drawer, inner and outer lock clickedwhisperingly, and gliding to a door she harkened for any step of thehousehold, while she drank the strains, her bosom heaving with equalalarm and rapture.
If any song is good which serves a lover's ends we need claim no morefor the one that rose to Anna on the odors of the garden and drove herabout the room, darting, clinging, fluttering, returning, like her ownterrified bird above her in its cage.
When Sylvia sighs And veils the worshipped wonder Of her blue eyes Their sacred curtains under, Naught can so nigh please me as my tender anguish. Only grief can ease me while those lashes languish. Woe best beguiles; Mirth, wait thou other whiles; Thou shalt borrow all my sorrow When Sylvia smiles.
But what a strange effect! Could this be that Anna. Callender who "wouldno more ever again seem small, than the ocean?" Is this that maiden ofthe "belated, gradual smile" whom the singer himself so lately named "aprofound pause?" Your eyes, fair girl, could hardly be more dilated ifthey saw riot, fire, or shipwreck. Nor now could your brow show moreexaltation responsive to angels singing in the sun; nor now your frameshow more affright though soldiers were breaking in your door. Anna,Anna! your fingers are clenched in your palms, and in your heart onefrenzy implores the singer to forbear, while another bids him sing onthough the heavens fall. Anna Callender! do you not know this? You havedropped into a chair, you grip the corners of your desk. Now you are upagain, trembling and putting out your lights. And now you seek torelight them, but cannot remember the place or direction of anything,and when you have found out what you were looking for, do not know howmuch time has flown, except that the song is still in its first stanza.Are you aware that your groping hand has seized and rumpled into itspalm a long strand of slender ribbon lately unwound from your throat?
A coy tap sounds on her door and she glides to it. "Who--who?" But inspite of her it opens to the bearer of a lamp, her sister Constance.
"Who--who--?" she mocks in soft glee. "That's the question! 'Who isSylvia?'"
"Don't try to come in! I--I--the floor is all strewn with matches!"
The sister's mirth vanishes: "Why, Nan! what is the matter?"
"Do-on't whisper so loud! He's right out there!"
"But, dearie! it's nothing but a serenade."
"It's an outrage, Con! How did he ever know--how did he dare toknow--this was my window? Oh, put out that lamp or he'll think I lightedit--No! no! don't put it out, he'll think I did that, too!"
"Why, Nan! you never in your life--"
"Now, Connie, that isn't fair! I won't stay with you!" The speaker fled.Constance put out the light.
A few steps down and across a hall a soft sound broke, and Anna stood inMiranda's doorway wearing her most self-contained smile: "Dearie!" shequietly said, "isn't it _too_ ridiculous!"
Miranda crinkled a smile so rife with love and insight that Anna's eyessuddenly ran full and she glided to her knees by the seated one and intoher arms, murmuring, "You ought both of you to be ashamed of yourselves!You're totally mistaken!"
Presently, back in the dusk of her own room, an audible breathingbetrayed her return, and Constance endeavoured to slip out, but Annaclung: "You sha'n't go! You sha'--" Yet the fugitive easily got away.
Down among the roses a stanza had just ended. Anna tiptoed out halfacross the dim veranda, tossed her crumpled ribbon over the rail,flitted back, bent an ear, and knew by a brief hush of the strings thatthe token had drifted home.
The die was cast. From brow and heart fled all perturbation and oncemore into her eyes came th
eir wonted serenity--with a tinge ofexultation--while the strings sounded again, and again rose the song:
When Sylvia smiles Her eyes to mine inclining, Like azure isles In seas of lovelight shining, With a merry madness find I endless pleasure-- Till she sighs--then sadness is my only treasure. Woe best beguiles; Mirth, wait thou other whiles, Thou shalt borrow all my sorrow When Sylvia smiles.