A common mistake

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CHAPTER I. “Gather ye rosebuds while ye may

Old time is still a-flying;

And this same flower that smiles to-day,

To-morrow will be dying.”

— Herrick,

Fifth Avenue in thevicinity of St. Thomas’ church was filled with a crowd of curious spectators, who pressed against openings in the red and white awning which stretched from the open door across the pavement, pushing and jostling each other in their efforts to catch a glimpse of the wedding guests as they crossed from their carriages to the church.

The greater portion of the crowd were women, drawn there by curiosity to see what they could of the smart wedding, with reference to which all the society papers had been filled for some time previous to the actual lighting of the hymeneal torch. Many hoped to elude the vigilance of ushers and policemen, and gain entrance to the sacred edifice, and there was much grumbling and many invidious remarks as to the severity of these functionaries, and the general selectness of the swell ‘‘400.”

Inside the church there was a subdued and wellbred murmur of voices, and the continuous frou-frou of silk and satin as one arrival after another walked

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slowly down the long aisle, smiling and chatting in an undertone with the accompanying usher, and one felt in the air that nervous tension which always accompanies expectancy. Each time the door opened h-eads were turned, and there was a continuous watching to see if anyone could catch the signal which would notify the organist that the wedding party had arrived.

In a pew a little to one side, but admirably located for seeing, two young girls in street costume were seated. By the smiles and bows lavished in every direction, it was evident they had numerous acquaintances among the throng; evident, also, that they were waiting for some one.

‘‘I wonderwhat keeps Sylvia?” said the older girl, a tall and stylish person with that peculiar air of being well dressed, and knowing it, which seems common to New York women. There was something particularly interesting about Kate Lawrence^s face; she was not handsome, but there was a charm about her irregular features which held the attention longer than more perfect beauty could have done; she was not a popular girl, but one of those people whose position is well assured, and with whom other girls are glad to be seen.

‘'Sylvia is always late,” answered her companion. “I think she runs back for a last peep in the glass.”

“I think, rather,” interrupted Miss Lawrence, “that she does it purposely. Sylvia likes to create a sensation whenever she can, and, no matter how mild a one it is, she enjoys it. It is very bad form, I think.”

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‘^You are too severe, Kate,’’ answered Margaret Seymour gently. “I am sure Sylvia does not intentionally make herself conspicuous.”

Miss Lawrence did not answer, but she looked kindly at her friend, thinking how sweet, pure and lovely her clear cut face was, and wishing in her inmost heart that all the world was as charitably disposed as Margaret.

‘‘I suppose Eva is very happy to-day,” said Miss Seymour.

“Do you really think so? ” returned Kate. “Well, I presume she has done what she thought best.”

“For you, happiness will not be too easily attained.”

“No, you know my motto is, ‘All or nothing.’” Kate spoke in a tone at once proud and tender, while a quick flash lighted up her brown eyes, making her for the moment pretty.

“I also have a motto,” said Margaret. “ ‘Be true to thyself.’ ”

“That is not enough in these days, my dear.”

Silence followed this remark, broken, at last by a slight exclamation from Margaret, who had caught sight of a fanciful pink hat in the distance.

“Here comes Sylvia ! ” she said.

The wearer of the pink hat came down the aisle smiling mischievously, and making big eyes at the handsome blonde man who conducted her.

“Do you know I hardly managed to get in,” she whispered breathlessly. “I arrived just after the bridal party; they were all arranging their dresses in the vestibule, and when I appeared in the doorway

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that hateful Fanny Morris exclaimed, ‘You are too late, Miss, you can’t go in ! ’ Eva overheard her and asked who it was, and when she learned it was me, she called Mr. Ballantine and told him to let me through. Eva looks beautifully,” she continued, “her dress is lovely.”

“What made you so late?” interrupted Miss Lawrence.

“It was my uncle’s fault; I could not get him started earlier; he says he hates weddings.”

“Come, Sylvia, be quiet! They will be coming in a moment,” said Margaret.

“No, they won’t,” returned Sylvia, “for Eva forgot her prayer book, and they had just sent a maid back forit as I came in. People always forget something at a wedding. What were you two talking about?”

“We were telling each other our mottoes. Mine is, ‘All or nothing, ’while Margaret’s is, ‘Be true to thyself.’”

A mischievous smile played round the comers of Sylvia’s mouth.”

“That is just like Margaret,” she said.

“ Which would you choose ? ”

“Neither. The first is too sad, the second too sentimental.”

“Now, Sylvia, think of some motto, summing up all the aspirations of a life-time,” said Miss Lawrence, curiously.

“If that is all, ‘Amuse oneself; ’ what do you say to that, my dears? ”

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Kate looked amused, Margaret slightly scandalized. “Fortunately no one heard you/^ she said.

“What harm if theyhad? retorted Sylvia. “Is it not what everyone does nowadays?

At that moment the organ pealed forth the joyous strains of the Swedish Wedding March, the clergyman and the groom and best man appearing in the chancel; conversation ceased, and all eyes turned toward the central aisle, up which the bridal procession slowly advanced toward the altar, until Eva Primrose and Philip Severance at last stood before the clergyman who was to make them husband and wife.

The occasion was one calculated to awaken long buried memories, or future hopes, and while their attention was ostensibly fixed on the ceremony taking place before them, all were more or less occupied with their individual concerns. Kate inwardly questioned the wisdom of her friend’s choice, and wondered vaguely when she too would stand before the chancel rails. In Margaret’s heart there was an unformed prayer for Eva’s happiness, and she paid reverent attention to the service. Sylvia looked about her with undisguised and smiling interest, and heaved a frank sigh of relief when the benediction was finally pronounced, and the bride turned to leave the church.

“ Areyou goingtothe reception, Kate? ” she asked, as the guests thronged into the aisles in the wake of the bridal party.

“ Yes, it is tiresome, but the Lawrences are connections, and mamma thinks we must go. She is to meet me with the carriage in Fifty-third street. It is

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a bore to have to dress and go there; I would far rather stay quietly at home/’

“An awful bore, truly! ” exclaimed Sylvia; “to be obliged to don a pretty gown and go where you have a chance of meeting all the pleasantest people in town, criticising your rivals, and fascinating the men.”

Miss Lawrence only smiled.

“Did you drive here, Sylvia? ” asked Margaret.

“Then come with us; we are not going to the reception. We can take Sylvia home, can we not, father?” she added, turning to an elderly man who had just joined them.

Mr. Seymour signed his acquiescence. He was a tall, spare, grey haired man, who could have passed more readily as Margaret’s grandfather than her father, but they formed an admirable contrast; he, with the austere beauty of advanced age which still retained some vestiges of its ancient vigor, she, resplendent and radiant as a youthful goddess, with her erect, slender figure, clear blue eyes and wealth of golden hair. Both father and daughter had the steady, calm expression characteristic of the Anglo- Saxon race, but in the eyes of the young girl there was a depth and soft languor found only in the natives of a warmer clime. This she inherited from her mother.

At thirty-nine Edward Seymour was still heartwhole. An intrepid traveler, his youth had been passed in studying Nature in her wildest moods, and in the oldest and most inaccessible parts of the globe.

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Taking a keen interest in scientific research, and absorbed by the double passion for study and adventure, no thought of love had ever troubled him.

It was during a winter spent in India that he met and loved a friendless girl, a governess ; and, as he was alone in the world, without any caste prejudices, he married her; two years later he was a widower.

At first his grief drove him almost to the verge of insanity, but gradually his despair assumed the form of settled melancholy, and, when he could trace more distinctly in the infantile features of his daughter the likeness to her adored mother, there awoke within his heart a new love, love without desire, grief softened by infinite tenderness. Prom that moment he consecrated his life to his child, who finally became the idol of his heart, the one tie which bound him to life.

While we have been indulging in retrospection our friends have been slowly wending their way out of the church, their silence only broken by an occasional greeting or word with a passing acquaintance.

On reaching the door Mr. Seymour consigned Kate to the care of the footman who was awaiting her, and, giving an arm to Sylvia and his daughter, soon elbowed a passage through the crowd to where his carriage awaited them.

‘‘Are you not coming with us, father? Margaret inquired as he drew back preparatory to closing the carriage door.

“No, the evening is so fine, and the distance so short, that I prefer to walk, and my absence will give

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you two a chance to discuss the wedding with perfect freedom.’^

‘‘I am afraid I have inconvenienced your father/' said Sylvia as the carriage rolled off.

‘‘No, he always prefers walking, and will do so whenever he can find a reasonable excuse for leaving me. Well, what did you think of the wedding? "

Sylvia settled herself comfortably in her corner of the brougham. “I thought of no end of things," she answered. “First that I should not care to marry as young as Eva has done, and I wondered whether I should ever be able ‘ to love, honor and obey ' any man. But most of all, I thought how glad I should be when I was fairly out, able to wear charming gowns, and try my hand at flirtation, as I saw all the women doing. Tell me, Margaret, do you think, as Kate does, that it is only the married women who enjoy themselves nowadays? If so," she added with a laugh, “I mean to get married at once, for, my sweet saint, I meant what I said in church, and I shall try to live up to my motto."

“Sylvia dear, I think one might have a very pleasant time in life and yet not make that one's sole endeavor. I don't believe you quite know what you are saying."

At that moment the carriage stopped in front of Mrs. Gilchrist's house, and Sylvia drew her furs up about her shoulders, preparatory to getting out. She paused a moment with her hand on the carriage door.

“Margaret," she said, “I am older and more worldly wise than you think, and I understand better

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what I want than you do. I don^t intend to do wrong, but do mean to have a good time; and I don^t intend that any poet shall say of me, as Alfred de Musset did of the dead lady, that I had let fall the book in which I had not read; I intend to read in myhook of life. Good-night — ^thanks awfully for bringing me home.’’

‘‘Good-night. I don’t quite believe all you say. I would rather think you inconsequent.”

Margaret drew the door to and the carriage drove away.

CHAPTER II. “When I reflect how little I have done

And add to that how little I have seen,

And furthermore how little I have now

Of joy, or good, how little I have known, or been,

I long for other life, more full, more keen,”

— Ingclow,

‘‘I AM answering your letter by return mail, dear Kate, because I do not wish you to hear of Sylvia’s latest exploit from any other source; she has need of affection and of the support of her own sex, and I want you to see and care for her as I do, and not be prejudiced by the gossips. I know that the first time a story is told it makes its deepest impression, and so I wish you to have my version of the affair.

‘‘You know how indolent Mrs. Gilchrist is. Worn out in last winter’s social treadmill, and knowing that next season she must bring Sylvia out, and that she will probably have her hands full chaperoning and keeping her in order, she has acceded to her daughter’s request for full and entire liberty during these last months of her girlhood. So, acting up to the principle on which many American girls are educated, and on the theory that away from town one

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may say au revoir to conventionality, Sylvia is allowed to ramble for hours alone about the country.

never go out to walk or drive without meeting her, either tramping across the fields in short skirts and sailor hat with her collie for company, or tearing madly along the roads, mounted on a horse which seems only half broken, and which, my father says, no girl ought to ride.

‘‘No one would take her to be more than sixteen, with her slender figure, her hair in two pig-tails, boarding school fashion, and her great, wide open, innocent blue eyes.

“Uncle Dan is here, and horribly shocked at his sister’s shortsighted indulgence, which he regards as a terrible infringement on established English customs. Since Mr. Gilchrist has developed into an Anglomaniac I find him a terrible bore; still he undoubtedly knows what is the correct thing to do, and tries to exercise a controlling influence over both Sylvia and her mother.

“In spite of his age, Dan Gilchrist likes society, and I fancy that he thinks escorting Sylvia an easy mode of gaining an entree every where, for his niece is pretty, an heiress, and is sure to find her way into all the best houses both at home and in England, if her mother determines to take her there as she talks of doing.

“Well, to return to Sylvia, let me tell you what she did. As she was walking alone on the lake shore in the direction of the small bay, which is used as an anchorage for boats, and where some

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children were playing at hide-and-seek on the banks, she was startled by hearing a wild shriek; one of the youngsters, a boy of about four, had lost his balance and fallen into the water. He sank immediately and only re-appeared at some distance from the shore. The children and attendant nursemaids, terrified, ran helplessly about, screaming frantically and utterly unable to explain what had occurred. There were a number of gentlemen in the vicinity, but they failed to comprehend what all the excitement was about. Sylvia, in the meantime had torn off her dress, petticoats and shoes and precipitated herself into the lake. She swims like a fish, and she soon reached the drowning child, but the little fellow clung so convulsively to her, that, when she finally got him into shallow water, she herself fell back exhausted ; and had not some of the men, who had at last grasped the situation, gone to her aid, I doubt whether matters would have ended so well. As it is, our Sylvia is the heroine of the day ; the men are all raving over her courage, and her figure, but you have no idea of the gossip and ill-natured insinuations the affair has given rise to among the women. At the hotel hop the other evening, Sylvia had some difficulty in distinguishing sincere commendation from the sneering compliments showered upon her from her dearest friends. We women are so pleased when one of our sisterhood distinguishes herself! Dan, who in spite of his Chesterfieldism is a man of rigid conventionality, was evidently annoyed. I am sure he would rather the boy had drowned, while his niece stood on the bank wringing her hands in an

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attitudeof ladylike helplessness, than to have had her go boldly to the rescue, and so be made a target for social criticism and public approval. Sylvia still continues to look childishly innocent, and meets praise and blame with the same candid smile and look of opened-eyed surprise; but I fear that in the bottom of her heart she revels in the situation. I am sure she acted from a purely generous impulse, but the consequences are not displeasing to her.

‘‘I am still lonely here; more lonely than I would be in desolate solitude. I love the country and the cherished solitude which brings us into close communication with nature^s heart, but I don^t like this mixture of country freedom and town conventionality; there is gaiety enough here, but neither the amusements oifered nor the people interest me. Not that I dislike my fellow creatures; I am, as a rule, on very good terms with them, yet it wSeems as though I did not understand them, nor they me. I have no real affinity with them. I am not the accomplished woman of the world Mme. Deportment endeavored to make me. Brought up in a quiet home with my dear father as my constant companion, surrounded with people to whom truth and high thinking were a second nature, I have not yet learned to detect the difference between natural nobility and honesty and the semblance of it, and I make frequent painful mistakes, and have many sad disenchantments. They tried to teach us to adopt unreasonable prejudices and to compromise with the sacred obligations we owe ourselves and our neighbors. But I cannot

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bow allegiance to that creed. Do you remember the day Eva was married, and my telling you that I had a presentiment that the union would not turn out well ? I cannot rid myself of the feeling, though Eva writes from Vienna that she is very happy. I fear I am too given to idealizing. Marriage to me means something more than a mere union of interests; love must sanctify the tie, or ill is sure to follow, and there was something in the atmosphere of the church that day which made me feel that that marriage would not be blessed.

********

‘‘Life without love is sad. It is the absence of it which makes us discouraged and unhappy. Is it not strange that the affection and devotion of parents and friends cannot satisfy a woman^s heart, that we continually but unconsciously crave for something more? Why do they describe as ardent those passions which only appeal to the senses? The soul is not a fire always in a blaze; our affections sometimes smoulder. It is said that even the sun grows colder by degrees, and that ‘the earth shall vanish away like smoke ^ when warmth can no longer be derived from its rays ; it is the same with us ; we grow daily older, colder. People say I am cold, and yet I feel within myself such capability for loving that I suffer, but I cannot find an outlet in flirtation for the exuberance of my affections as other girls do. I do not know how and I do not wish to learn to play at love, and because of that peculiarity in me I am

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called by all the objectionable epithets usually bestowed on a person who will not follow with the crowd.

‘ Amuse oneself! ’ When Sylvia made that profession of faith, you smiled^ because you understood that the thoughtless little creature, without fully understanding all she said, expressed the spirit of the times. Perhaps, with her way of thinking, she is not mistaken. To ‘amuse oneself^ in her opinion means the accomplishment and enjoyment of all her desires, but that is not enough to suit me, for often my desires are too indefinite for me to be able to satisfy them. I long for I know not what ; but I suffer all the same. I am so constituted that I cannot glide along with the rest of the world, taking life as a pleasant joke, content with many acquaintances but no friends. I know that the veritable cause of my depression is the absence of all serious purpose in my own life, and in the lives led by most of those around me. The only safeguards for women are love, genius, or occupation. I am without occupation, and in vain my soul takes its flight toward genius or love. I suppose you would tell me I ought to create an occupation, but it is so difficult to do anything steadily and earnestly when surrounded by people who have no sympathy with one’s pursuits, and I fear I lack strength to work out my salvation unaided. I feel unhappy, lonely, depressed, and I long for the Persuis who shall break my chains and carry me away to a life of loving usefulness.”

CHAPTER III. “Wisdom cries out in the streets, and no man regards it.”

— King Henry IV.

“ She was a phantom of delight,

When first she gleamed upon my sight ;

A lovely apparition, sent To be a moment’s ornament.”

— Wordsworth.

In a luxuriously appointed room, the family sitting room of the Gilchrist household, Mr. Daniel Gilchrist stood with his back to the fireplace, the tails of his coat carefully drawn through his arms, in true British attitude. His head slightly bent forward, and a placid smile adorning his features.

He was in evening dress, his grey hair was carefully brushed, his moustache waxed, his general appearance that of a well dressed, well preserved, genial old gentleman. There was no trace of impatience or boredom on his features, for, many long years before, he had acquired the habit of living only for others, a habit easily acquired, for Uncle Dan had naturally a sweet and unselfish nature.

Richard Gilchrist, his brother, had died when Sylvia was a little girl of eight, leaving to Daniel the guardianship of his wife and daughter, and the manageinent of his large fortune.

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Daniel had proven worthy of the trust reposed in him, the estate had been carefully administered, and increased in value under his judicious management. He had been a kindly and sagacious adviser to his frivolous and inconsequent sister-in-law. He had done his best regarding Sylvia^s training and education, but there he did not feel that he had been wholly successful ; for Mrs. Gilchrist’s wavering character, one moment rigidly strict with her daughter, the next weakly and foolishly indulgent, made Uncle Dan’s role of guardian an3^thing but a sinecure. This mother, short sighted in her indulgent good-nature, intrenched behind a wall of virtue which she had never been called upon to defend, could neither see nor believe the temptations and dangers to which a young girl is exposed in the whirlpool of modern fashionable life. She had provided her daughter with the most expensive French nurses and foreign governesses, and had secured for her the best masters, and Sylvia had been tossed about from one hand to another, acquiring a superficial knowledge of many things, but never receiving any moral training such as would have fitted her young soul for the combat of life.

Mr. Gilchrist was not lacking in penetration, nor ' blinded by his affection for his niece, and he knew that although a careful education had done much to develop her natural intelligence,>it had not been of the kind to eradicate the faults and tendencies of a passionate and impulsive nature; a nature which stood in need of gentle, but firm guidance, and on

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this evening Uncle Dan’s air of calm indifference was more superficial than real.

Sylvia was to make her entree into society this evening, and he regarded this step as one of great importance. He knew that this young girl, loved, admired and petted in her family, would not meet with the same unbounded indulgence at the hands of Mrs. Grundy, and while he had determined to accompany Sylvia everywhere, and to give her the benefit of his experience, yet he felt that his own knowledge of social life was hardly sufficient to make him a suitable mentor for his niece, and he feared that Mrs. Gilchrist’s habitual indolence and indulgence would militate against his best endeavors.

The armchair usually tenanted by Mrs. Gilchrist stretched out its arms invitingly, but Uncle Dan had his eyes fixed on the piano which stood behind it, its white keys gleaming in the semi-obscurity of the softly lighted room. He walked slowly to the instrument and closed it carefully. It often happened that Uncle Dan had to perform this duty after Sylvia had been playing. •

‘‘How everything changes!” he thought, as he glanced at the sheets of music scattered about. Une nuit dEspagne was the title of one piece which attracted his eyes by its cover, and which he remembered to have heard Sylvia sing. “How everything changes! ” he repeated, “and is it indeed for the better? ”

He thought of the old-fashioned ballads, the sweet old Scotch and English tunes, and harmlessly sentimental ditties which girls used to sing when he was

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a young man, and, as he contrasted them with Massenet^s passionate love song, the lines on his forehead became more visible.

He kept gazing into the space beyond the piano, and memory evoked other pianos, other music in severe binding, voices which used to sing sweetly if without so much cultivation, and a soft tumult of emotion, of youthful dreams and longings — an echo from the past — brought back the color to his cheeks, as if some beneficent fairy, in passing, had touched him with her wand and recalled the freshness of his youth.

His eyes happened to fall upon a Japanese cabinet, and a sudden idea possessed him. Concealed in the recesses of the cabinet lay Sylvia’s last doll, a waxen beauty with rosy cheeks, wide-open, questioning eyes, fully developed bust and rounded arms, uncovered and polished as marble. This doll, if he could trust his memory, had originally held in her hand a mirror, and a microscopic silver box containing rice powder and a tiny puff. Someway Sylvia and the doll were vaguely confused in his mind.

Suddenly the portiere was violently pushed aside, and the thread of his thoughts was broken, as Sylvia rushed like a whirlwind into the middle of the room.

‘‘Look at me, uncle! Look, and admire! ”

She pronounced these words with an air of triumph as if sure of the effect she wished to produce, and, as her uncle did not immediately respond, she added impatiently:

“Well, do you not think me pretty? ”

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“Yes, you are beautiful.”

“How strangely you speak ! What are you thinking about?”

Uncle Dan was thinking that the doll lying hidden and forgotten in the Japanese cabinet, had taught her lesson well, and that Sylvia even wore a certain resemblance to her. Nevertheless, he answered in a tone of mingled affection and gallantry :

“You are looking uncommonly pretty, as you always do.”

“How delightful! I think a great deal of your opinion, uncle mine. Oh! How I shall enjoy myself!” She clapped her hands with glee, held herself very erect for an instant, with difficulty maintaining her equilibrium on her exaggeratedly high heeled shoes, then made Dan a sweeping courtesy and fluttered across the room to admire herself in the long pier glass which stood between the windows.

Sylvia Gilchrist had no claim to real beauty as she imagined herself to have. She was slight, yet her one greatest beauty was her figure, which was perfectly proportioned. The expression of her face was bright and intelligent, her eyes were deep blue, large, wide open, questioning, like the dolks. Her mouth betrayed a disposition to mockery, her nose was small and sharp, herj aw had a tendency toward squareness, and a phrenologistwould havejudged from it that the little lady had her share of obstinacy. She had very small ears, undisfigured by earrings, which looked like two little pink shells half hidden by her blonde hair. She was piquantCy original, fascinating, but she was not

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beautiful. Sbe possessed a remarkably clear and penetrating Yoice, sweet in speaking, brilliant when she sang. She had remarkably small hands and feet, and no end of fascinating little ways which one failed to observe at the first glance, but which added infinitely to her charm. She took short steps in walking, and had a childish, almost babyish demeanor. She was graceful, without being dignified, and undeniably stylish.

As Sylvia appeared at this moment, she looked the incarnation of innocent girlhood, the French ideal of a jeune £lle innocente et pure. Dressed in white tulle, which fell in diaphanous folds about her slender figure, her fair hair, caught up in a mass of little curls on the top of her head, and falling in a soft, wavy fringe over her forehead, she had a positively angelic look. A tight fitting satin bodice showed to advantage, and even served to exaggerate the con tour of her figure, leaving exposed to view her shoulders and arms, save where a wreath of roses which served as garniture and sleeves dropped their snowy petals against her soft flesh, as though, in their modesty, they would screen her.