"Come over here," pleaded Sylvie: "you will be cooler. The wind is south, and doesn't blow in those windows. You are sure you feel quite well?" scanning him anxiously. "You look pale."
"It was only momentary." He wondered now what had so moved him. "I am like good old John Bunyan's Pilgrim,"—laughing faintly,—"'tumbled up and down' with these excitements. I wish they were at an end. We were going on so nicely when that McPherson came! Don't let us think any more about it," throwing up his head with a nervous shake. "Sylvie, I wish you would sing something."
"With pleasure. Fred and I have been practising duets. When Yerbury is laid in ashes we can go off as strolling minstrels;" and she laughed gayly, as she went to the piano. That exquisite tact in changing a mood or scene was a familiar characteristic of Sylvie Barry.
As the sound of their blending voices floated out on the summer night air, there leaped up in Darcy's soul a subtle, forceful, vivifying flame, touching to a white heat the farthest pulse of his being. Resistance appeared impossible: he did not even dream what manner of influence this might be. Long afterward—it seemed ages to him—as their heads were bent together over the pages of the music, he raised his eyes, and let them wander slowly toward Irene Lawrence.
Was there something quite new in the face,—a sort of strange, wondering, troubled expression, as if some unseen, almost unknown, depth had been stirred?
He did not need to ask the question now. Wild as it was, he loved that statue over yonder, and it seemed to him that his passion in its enduring vitality must awaken her soul to kindred life! An exultant strength and determination rose within him. What might have abashed another man, filled him with a deathless courage, as high as it was pure.
He thanked Sylvie and Fred for the song, but resisted their entreaties to remain. When he said good-night, he went over to Miss Lawrence, and took her hand. It was cold and passive, and her eyes fell beneath his.