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."