_HER NAME WAS SYLVIA._
"San Mateo! Stages for Pescadero and Half-Moon Bay!" shouted theconductor, and a dozen or two of passengers left the uncomfortablycrowded car.
Some of them entered the handsome equipages in waiting, to carry them toluxurious country residences; a few sought their cottage in the suburbson foot; others, armed with satchels, shawls, and field-glasses,clambered into and on the stage. Among these, a young lady--whose glossybraids and brilliant eyes were not altogether hidden by a lightveil--stood irresolute, when the polite agent addressed her, "Have aseat outside, Miss--with the driver? Very gentlemanly person, Miss;ladies mostly like to ride with him." Her indecision was abruptly endedby the gloved hand of the driver, reaching down without more ado anddrawing her up, with the agent's assistance, gently, but irresistibly,out of the crowd and confusion below.
For the first five miles the young girl saw nothing and knew nothing ofwhat was on or in the stage; her eyes were feasting on the scenery, newto her, and fascinating in its beauty of park-like forest-strips andflower-grown dells, where tiny brooks were overhung by tangled brush andthe fresh foliage of maple-tree and laurel-wood. The sunshine of a wholeSan Francisco year seemed concentrated in the bright May morning; andthe breeze stirred just enough to turn to the sunlight, now the glossygreen side of the leaves on the live oaks, then the dull, grayishside--a coquetry of nature making artistic effects.
At Crystal Springs our friend suddenly became aware that she had thrownaside her veil, and a deep blush covered her features when she saw awonderfully white hand reaching up with a cluster of roses, evidentlymeant for her acceptance. The rustling of the trees, the sound of watersplashing, the sight of birds, coming in flocks to drink at thefountain, had so held her senses captive, that she did not even know howlong they had been stopping at this place; but the bunch of roses, andthe deep blue eyes looking up into hers, recalled her to reality. Hadshe not looked into these eyes before? Had not the stage-driver justsuch a long, tawny moustache? And was this he, offering the flowers withall the courtliness and easy self-possession of the gentleman? All thesethoughts flashed through her brain in a second, and she shrank,momentarily, from what seemed a piece of presumption on the part of theman. But a glance at the sad eyes, and the barely perceptible play ofsarcasm around the firm-closed lips, induced her to bend forward andaccept the offering, with a grace peculiarly her own.
Not a word was exchanged after he had remounted his seat; but since herveil was dropped she noticed that there were others on the outside ofthe stage beside herself. There was a female with a brown _barege_ veil,and a big lunch-basket on the seat back of her, who had been most intenton studying how the young lady could possibly have fastened on thoseheavy braids, that they looked so natural; whereas hers were alwayscoming apart, and showing the jute inside. And there were the twotourists--English people probably. They had never disturbed her yet by aword of conversation. Then her thoughts travelled to the inside of thestage, and her eyes rested uneasily for a moment on her neighbor, thedriver. Had she only dreamed of the white, well-shaped hand? Large,heavy gloves were on his fingers, and covered the wrist with a stiffgauntlet. Just as stiff was the brim of the light-colored hat; and itwas so provokingly put on that nothing was visible from under it but theend of the long moustache.
But she was soon lost in thought again, and in contemplation of theplacid blue ocean, that suddenly shone out beyond the low hills, awayoff to the right.
"Das Meer erglaenzte weit hinaus--"
She turned with a start, to see whether she had dreamed this too, orwhether a voice at her elbow had really hummed it--and was just in timeto see the driver gather up the lines of the six horses closer, while hestrove hard to banish the guilty color from his face.
A stage-driver, who offered her roses with the air of a cavalier of the_ancien regime_, and sang snatches of German music. It made her morethoughtful than ever; and when they reached Spanishtown, and had takendinner, she had decided on what course to pursue. The driver was on handto assist her back to her lofty perch, but she said, with perfect_sang-froid_:
"I think I should prefer to ride inside for the rest of the way; the sunis too hot outside."
Perhaps she had feared to see an expression of wounded feeling on thebronzed face, but it was rather a quizzical look that shot from his eyesas he answered:
"No sun after this; fog from here out--depend upon it."
Her face relaxed. "I don't know that I want to be enveloped in afog-cloud, either;" but she placed her foot on the wheel, and, withoutanother word, she was assisted back to her old seat. The ice was broken,and the fog that soon rolled in on them did more to thaw it away betweenthem than the sunshine of the morning had been able to do.
After awhile she told him that she was on her way to visit an uncle andaunt, who had taken up their residence at Pescadero, and that she meantto make them many a visit, as she was fond of them, and they petted herto her heart's content. And she liked the country, too. Then he told herof the pebbles to be found on the beach near Pescadero, and of theattractions of the sea-moss, at a point more distant; and he hoped thathe might always have the pleasure of carrying her through the country,whenever she came this way.
"Uncle shall surely let you know when I am coming back, so that I maycome with you," she said; "but what is your name?--so that he can findyou out."
"Jim!" he replied, grimly, pulling his hat far down over his eyes,apparently indifferent as to the impression his abbreviated appellationmight make on her. Then, with a touch of sarcasm in his voice, he asked,"And yours?"
"Stella," she answered simply; and they both laughed, and she fastenedthe roses in her hair before they came to the end of their journey,which had on the whole passed off so pleasantly.
So pleasantly that Stella reverted to it when in Aunt Sarah'scomfortable sitting-room, where Uncle Herbert was allowed to smoke hisafter-dinner cigar.
"I should like to go back with the same driver; his name is Jim. Do youknow him, uncle?" she continued, with the most innocent face, in which asharper eye than Uncle Herbert's would nevertheless have detected asomewhat heightened color.
"They have nicknamed him 'The Duke,'" he replied, knocking the ashes offhis cigar with a thoughtful look, "and they say he is quite a character.Proud and unapproachable, but the best driver on the road, and, so longas no one interferes or asks questions about himself, perfectlyobliging, and courteous in his manners."
After the usual round of dissipations, consisting of a sea-bath for themore venturesome, a visit to the pebble-beach, a more extended tour togather sea-moss, Stella was ready to return to San Francisco. To bothaunt and uncle she imparted her design of soon revisiting Pescadero, forthe purpose of exploring the distant hills, with their dark forests,where the redwood was said to reach a circumference of sixteen feet,which the wise little lady would not believe till her own eyes hadproved it. The old couple were without children, and nothing could bemore welcome than the niece's prospective visits.
Stella thought she could see a sudden light flash over the gloomy facewith the sunburnt moustache when she came out of the waiting-room tomount the stage, for she naturally wished to view in the light of themorning sun the scenery on which the evening shadows had lain when shecame. Not that she saw much of it, after all; the fog prevented her fromseeing what her veil did not shut out. But the sun breaking through thefog suddenly and driving it back, the sky became clear, her companionsaid, "heaven smiled once more;" and while he spoke he was careful tomanipulate the veil she had dropped, in such a manner that it found itsway into his coat-pocket, from where, he was determined, it was not tobe unearthed till the steeples of San Mateo should come into sight.
He listened with such an air of interest to Stella's recital of all shehad seen, that it did not strike her till after a long while that shehad really sustained conversation altogether on her side; and when shegrew quite still after this, he made no effort to draw her on or speakhimself. But when they approached the long, steep bridge across
theToanitas, and rolled along close by the sea, where the waves dashedagainst the crags with angry roar, through which there wept and moaned abitter grief and sighed a forlorn hope of peace to come, he pushed hishat back with an impatient motion, and, gazing moodily into the waters,he muttered:
"Bleib Du in Deinen Meerestiefen Wahnsinniger Traum."
"Do you really read Heine in the original?" she asked, quickly.
"And only a stage-driver," he returned, with the old sarcasm, seeingthat she hesitated. "Yes; I read Heine in German--or did. I read nothingnow. I drive stage."
There was painful silence; an apology would have made matters worse; butseeing the grieved expression on her face, he continued, in his gentlestvoice, "You say you are coming this way again in the course of theseason--coming with me--in my stage? You wonder how I came to bestage-driver; when we are better acquainted, and you think it worthwhile to remind me of my promise, I will tell you my story."
"And forgive me now?" she asked, extending her hand. The glove came offhis right hand, and the fingers that clasped hers were not less whiteand soft, but strong they looked--strong as iron. "Thanks," she said;and he felt, somehow, that she wanted her veil just then, and hepretended to discover it, by chance, on the seat.
In the course of the season she came again--more than once--comingalways when she knew she would meet his stage at the San Mateo depot.
One bright day in October, when, after the drought of the long summer,the earth had been refreshed by generous autumn showers, Stella againsat beside him, high up, on the driver's seat. The same azure was in thesky, the same deep blue on the waters; it was all as it had been the dayshe first saw the tangled wildwood by the brook, the spreading live-oakby the roadside--only, the foliage on the brush had changed its colorsto deep-red and yellow.
"You once said," began Stella, timidly--for she had learned that histemper was very uneven--"that if I reminded you of your promise when wewere better acquainted, you would tell me your story."
He turned and looked steadily into her faltering eyes a moment, thendrew his hat down over his brows, and commenced, without furtherpreliminaries:
"Her name was Sylvia--and her eyes were as deep as a well; so deep thatI don't think I ever quite fathomed them. When my mother died, she saidwe were both young, and we must not be married until at least a year hadpassed over my mother's grave. I was touched with the sympathy shedisplayed on this sorrowful occasion; so was my father. I was his onlyson, and would undoubtedly fall heir to his wealth--great wealth--afterhis death. I had grown up as rich men's only sons generally grow up; hadvisited schools, colleges, universities; was called good-looking, aclever fellow generally, the best driver of a four-in-hand, the bestshot--in short, a great catch for any girl to make. Sylvia told me soherself often. But, after all, I was only the son, you see, and myfather might live for twenty years longer, and if Sylvia married me, shemarried only a prospect--whereas, if she married my father, she was thewife of a wealthy man at once. I had not been brought up to businesshabits, as Sylvia pointed out, and if my father ever became displeasedwith me--of which he showed strong symptoms about this time--I should bethrown on the world with a wife as helpless as myself, and as poor. ForSylvia, though brought up among aristocratic relatives, was as poor as achurch mouse. What need to make many words? She married my father beforethe year was out, and I left home secretly on the morning of theirwedding-day, with never a cent of the riches which had bought mybest-beloved to be my father's bride--never a dollar of all the wealth Ihad been taught to look upon as my own.
"For years I read in every Eastern paper that happened to fall into myhands the promises of reward to any who might bring tidings of me--deador alive--to my father; but I never could tell: Was it his own heartthat urged him to this long continued search, or was it she that feltsome slight compunction at having driven the son from the father'shouse? There are officious people everywhere--greedy people--who will doanything for money. One of these soul-sellers, worming himself into myconfidence when sick and broken from unaccustomed labor, strung togetherwhat might have passed with others for the ravings of a deliriouspatient, and wrote my father of my whereabouts and occupation. Before Ihad recovered, my father was with me, urging me with much kindness, Imust say, to go with him, if not to his home, at least to the city,where he proposed to set me up in business for myself, in case I was tooindependent to live under his roof.
"His wife's health, delicate since her marriage, had been so muchbenefited by the climate of California that she advocated theirremaining here, and he intended to settle in San Francisco. I thankedhim for all his kindness--I did, indeed; he is a weak old man, but hehad been an over-indulgent father to me in my boyhood, and why should Iharbor an unkind feeling against him? But I would not go with him. Hesaid I was taking a cruel revenge on him. That is not so, however--or doyou too blame me for being a stage-driver?" He bent down toward herquickly and raised her face with his hand. There were tears in her eyes,and his arm stole around her as gently as though he had forgotten aboutthe six horses he was guiding with his other hand.
Don't be shocked, reader; there was no one on the outside of the stagebut these two. And supposing even that he had pressed her head to hisbreast and kissed her forehead; no one saw it, or made remarks about it,except the sea waves, and they seemed rippling all over with good natureand laughter, and rejoicings at the new light in the man's eyes, and thetears and the smiles in the woman's.
For a long while neither spoke; but when the stage halted he lifted herdown so tenderly, and she looked up into his face so confidingly, thatwords seemed unnecessary between them. Then he went his way, and Stellaknew that she must not expect to see him again till she should be readyto return to the city; for neither Uncle Herbert nor any one else in theplace had ever succeeded in enticing him to visit their homes.
But when he assisted Stella into her usual place on the morning of herdeparture for San Francisco, his eyes told her that his thoughts hadbeen with her all the days since relating to her "his story." He had notencouraged any one else to ride on the outside; and once clear of thetown, he touched Stella's hand with his lips, drew it through his armand pressed it, very much, I am afraid, as any ordinary lover might havedone. But when the fog rolled away, he sent out his clear baritone togreet the sun-kissed ocean, and the burden of his song was once more:
"Das Meer erglaenzte weit hinaus!"
And the hat was not drawn down over his face when she turned to him, andhis eyes were like the ocean, dark-blue, and a sunny light laughing inthem.
"It is my farewell to the sea," he said, gayly. "I am never coming backagain. I am going to San Francisco, turn 'gentleman,' put on 'storeclothes,' and enter the ranks of respectable business men."
She laughed as he straightened himself and put on a severely sober face,and he relaxed and urged his horses on with a smart cut of the whip, asthough he could not enter the state of a "respectable business man" soonenough. When they came to Crystal Springs he brought a bunch of redroses once more, and held them up to her with a roguish smile on his nolonger gloomy face. She took them with a little blush at the remembranceof his first attempt at gallantry; and when he sat beside her again, hefastened them with his own hands in her shining braids. They were asmerry as children out for a holiday; and only when they drove up to thedepot at San Mateo did the old gloom come back into his face as helifted her from her elevated position.
"After three days, if in the land of the living, I will come to claimyou for my bride"--what more he said was lost in the din and racket ofthe approaching train.
She saw nothing of him after she had watched the supple figure at thelast moment springing lightly on the platform of the last car. But sheknew he was near and was happy.
Early the next forenoon, in the counting-room of a mercantile firm onFront street, sat one of the principals, enjoying his Havana, when thedoor was darkened by the shadow of a tall figure standing in it.
"Jim--old fellow!" he cried, seizing the newcomer by both ha
nds."Welcome--thrice welcome! Have you come to stay, vagabond and rover? Sayat once--I read something in your face that tells me you are unbendingat last. Are you in love, my dear boy?--or what hath wrought thischange?"
"How you do run on, Luke. You have not changed, at least. Yes, I am theprodigal son, returning to his father to be--set up in business.And--no--I'm not in love; I have simply learned to worship the dearest,noblest girl, and will make her mine--or die," he added, in a lowertone.
"Why not accept my offer, Jim? The desk at my elbow is always keptvacant for you. Your father, poor man, is not the only friend you have,remember." He laid his hand impressively on his friend's arm, and lookedwith frank affection into his face.
Their interview was a lengthy one: friend Luke seemed averse to partingwith his old chum, and the son seemed in no great haste to greet hisfather. But as we need not intrude on their first meeting, we can rejoinfather and son as they ascend the broad stairs in front of the familyresidence, whither the father has taken his son in the first flush ofhappiness.
"You will love little Willie, I know; he is a brave boy, with longflaxen ringlets just like my--like his mother." For the first timesomething like hesitation came into his speech, and even the son's heartbeat faster for an instant as the door swung open in answer to the oldman's ring. He preceded him through the corridor, threw open a door andcalled out, "Jim has come home, my dear; we are going into the library,and will be ready for lunch after a while."
She had known of their coming just a moment before they entered; he feltit, for she had snatched up the boy, and half hid her face in his dress.Very faded she looked; her cheeks, softly rounded once, were thin, andthe pink and white of her complexion had grown sallow. The "long fairringlets," too, were but limp, stringy curls, that hung without grace orfulness down her back. The eyes, pale blue, though radiant once withhealth and happiness, were weak and expressionless--save that a dumbterror was written in them now.
A smile, half contemptuous, half pitying, flitted over the young man'sface as he passed through the room, with only a silent bow to the woman.
When they had vanished she stood like a statue, till the prattling ofthe boy on her arm recalled her to herself.
"He spoke not one word to me," she said, as she put the boy down, "notone word. Oh, to hear the tone of his voice once more--only once more."The door was open through which they had passed, and her burning eyesseemed to pursue the form last vanished through it. She silently rose,like one in a dream, and walked slowly, slowly along the corridor thatled to the library.
Little Willie pulled over mamma's willow work-stand first, and thenfound harmless amusement in winding a spool of crimson embroidering-silkaround and around the legs of a convenient table.
What was it that turned his little beating heart and his puny whiteface to stone all at once? Was this really a Medusa on which he looked?The long ringlets seemed serpents, indeed; every one of them instinctwith the wild despair the bitter hatred pictured on the face that lookedso meek and inoffensive but a while ago. "His bride!"--the serpentshissed it into her ears--"His bride! Never--never. She shall die--andhe? I will murder him with these hands, first. His bride--and I am to bea friend to her--ha! ha! ha! The dotard." Every one of the serpentsechoed the mad laugh, as the woman threw back her head and clinched herhands in wild defiance. The child broke out into shrill complainingcries, and she sprang toward him, seized him and shook him by theshoulders till his breath failed. But in the midst of her mad fury thedoor opened, after a soft knock, and a female servant entered the room.
"Is Master Willie troublesome?" she asked. "Dear heart; let me take him,mum."
"Leave the room instantly, nurse; Master Willie is naughty and willremain with me."
Two little arms were stretched out imploringly; but nurse had towithdraw--with her own opinion of Master Willie's naughtiness, and"Missus' temper."
But the furies were banished, and when father and son entered the roomsome time after to say that they would take lunch down town, "Sylvia,"as the old man addressed her, came forward quietly, leading the child bythe hand, and spoke words of welcome to him, in his little brother'sname. And she gave him her hand as she said "good-by," to the old man'sunspeakable joy.
Poor old man! He fondly dreamed the gods were propitiated, the furiesappeased; that the son whom he really loved had been restored to hisrightful place, and would be guardian at some future day to the childof his old age--the son his idolized young wife had given him.
Yet he had not strength to battle against the storm that the idolizedyoung wife called up--the storm that was to sweep from him again thelong-lost, bitterly mourned son. Ah! well; it is not hard to fancy howshe strained every nerve to wrest from another the happiness once withinher own reach. Had she not bartered away her peace when she ruthlesslydeserted the man she loved? And should some other woman be happier thanshe? No! Let them all be wrecked together. What cared she? Her husband;bah! Her child, yes; she strained him to her breast, and bemoaned him,and caressed him, and said that he was to be robbed by that wicked,wicked man, who had come to disturb their quiet happiness. That hisunnatural father was about to squander on his undutiful older son, whohad deserted him and disgraced him for years, the fortune she had beenso sparing of--knowing that she would be left alone in the world someday, with no one to provide for herself and her child. And she wouldtake her child now--a fresh burst of hysterical grief--right now, andstart out into the cold world to earn her daily bread, or beg, for herchild--for it would come to that, now that this cruel, hard-hearted manhad undertaken to provide for his profligate, vagabond son.
And the child, little knowing how useful a tool he was in his mother'shands, wept with her, and would not be comforted by the distractedfather, but clung to his mother's neck, crying, when she made a feint ofleaving the house at the dead of night. Then the old man in his anguishpromised to abandon his "vagabond" son, and was but too happy to havepeace restored to his troubled home at this price. After all, the boyhad lived away from him so many years; had never troubled himself abouthim; then why should his father heap all this trouble on his own headfor what might be only a passing whim of the boy's?
The third day had dawned since the long-lost son's return. Friend Lukeagain sat in his counting-room, in company with his early Havana, hismeditations were disturbed by a boy, who was shown in by one of theclerks. "A note for you, sir," and he had vanished.
But the young merchant seized his hat when he had glanced at thecontents, and repaired, breathlessly, to his friend's hotel. Cold sweatstood on his forehead when he knocked at the door, and it was opened bya stranger. One glance at the bed and at those standing around it wassufficient.
"I was his friend," he said, and they respectfully made room for him.
He touched the cold hand, and gently lifted the cloth that hid the rigidface. His friend had always been a good shot, and Luke groaned as hereplaced the cloth.
"Poor girl, poor girl--and I am to break the news to her!"
The doctor who had been called in, a shock-headed, spectacled German,looked at him, first from under his glasses, then over them, and at lastthrough them. "Aha!" he said, with evident satisfaction, catching atLuke's words, "now we have it. It vas a voman who made dis misfortune,after all."
"A woman"--Luke repeated, softly; "yes, but her name was Sylvia."