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Snow-Blind

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<h2> CHAPTER VI </h2> In the big, rudely carved chair Sylvie leaned back her head and pressed her hands to her unseeing eyes. She was not sorry that Hugh had left her, for she was oppressed and unnerved by her own emotions. Until he had kissed her hair, she had not known that she loved him—or rather loved an invisible presence that had enveloped her in an atmosphere of sympathy, of protection, that had painted itself, so to speak, in heroic colors and proportions against her darkness, that had revealed both strength and tenderness in touch and movement, and warm, deep voice. For until now Sylvie's life had been entirely lacking in protection and tenderness; she had never known sympathy—her natural romanticism had been starved. The lacks in her life Hugh had supplied the more lavishly because he was aided, in her blindness, by the unrestricted powers of her fancy. But now in all the fervor of this, Sylvie felt, also for the first time, the full bitterness of her blindness. If she could see him—if only once! If she could see him! And there came to Sylvie unreasonably, disconnectedly, a keen memory of Pete's embrace when he had caught her up from falling on the hearth. A boy of fourteen? Strange that he should be so strong, that his heart should beat so loud, that his arms should draw themselves so closely, so powerfully about her. What were they really like, these people who moved unseen around her and who exerted such great power over her sudden helplessness? She got up and began to walk to and fro restlessly, gropingly across the room. She wished now that Hugh would come back. He had been with her so constantly that she had grown utterly dependent upon him. The dense red fog that lay so thick about her, frightened her when Hugh was not there to keep her mind busy with his talk to paint pictures for her, to command her with his magnetic presence. She stood still and strained her eyes. She must see again. If she tried hard, the red fog would surely lift. Happiness, and her new love, they would be strong enough to dispel the mist. There—already it was a shade lighter! She almost thought that she could make out the brightness of the fire. She went toward it and sat down on the bear-skin, holding out her tremulous, excited hands. And with a sudden impulse toward confidence she called: "Pete, O Pete! Come here a moment, please." He came, and she beckoned to him with a gesture and an upward, vaguely directed smile, to sit beside her. She was aware of the rigid reserve of his body holding itself at a distance. "Pete," she said wistfully, "what can I do to make you love me?" He uttered a queer, sharp sound, but said nothing. "Are you jealous?" "No, Sylvie," he muttered. "Oh, how I wish I could see you, Pete! I know then I'd understand you better. Pete, try to be a little more—more human. Tell me about yourself. Haven't you a bit of fondness for me? You see, I want—Pete—some day perhaps I'll be your sister—" "Then he has asked you to marry him?" He was usually so quiet that she was startled at this new tone. "Don't," she said. "Hush! We have only just found out. He went away because he couldn't bear his own happiness. Pete—" She felt for him and her hand touched his cheek. "Oh, Pete, your face is wet. You're crying." "No, I'm not," he denied evenly. "It was melting from the roof when I came in." She sighed. "You are so strange, Pete. Will you let me kiss you now—since you are going to be my big little brother?" "I can't," he whispered. "I can't." She laughed and crooked her arm about his neck, forcing his face down to hers. His lips were hard and cool. The face that Sylvie imagined a boy's face, shy and blushing, half frightened, half cross, perhaps a trifle pleased, was so white and patient a face in its misery that her blind tenderness seemed almost like an intentional cruelty. It was an intensity of feeling almost palpable, but Sylvie's mouth remained unburnt, though it removed itself with a pathetic little twist of disappointment. "You don't need to say anything," she said, "You've shown me how you feel. You can't like me. You are sorry I came. And I want so dreadfully for some one just now to talk to—to help me, to understand. It's all dark and wonderful and frightening. I wish I had a brother—" She bent her face to her knees and began to cry simply and passionately. At that Pete found it easy to forget himself. He put his arm very carefully about her, laying one of his hands on her bent head and stroking her hair. "You have a brother," he said. "Right here." The dark small silken head shook. "No. You don't like me." "I do—I do. Please tell me everything you feel like telling; I'd like awfully to help you, to understand, to listen to you. You see, you've been so much with Hugh, I haven't had a chance to know you as he does. And I guess—well—maybe I'm sort of shy." She lifted her head at that, took his stroking hand and held it in both of hers under her chin, as a little girl holds her pet kitten for the pleasure of its warmth. "You must get over being shy with me, Pete. We both love Hugh; we both admire him so. I'd so love to talk to you about him—" "Then do, Sylvie." "I've never seen him," she sighed, "and you can see him all day long, Pete; will you try your best now to describe Hugh to me—every bit of him? Tell me the color of his eyes and the shape of his face and—everything. Tell me all you remember about him always." "I—I'm no good at that, Sylvie. A fellow you see all day long—why, you don't know what he looks like, 'specially if he's your own brother." "Well, you certainly know the color of his eyes." "He has hazel eyes—I think you'd call them—" "Yes?" she drank in his words eagerly, pressing his hand tighter in her excitement. "Go on. If only you were a girl, now, you'd do this so much better." "I—I—but I don't know what else to say, Sylvie. He is very strong." "Of course. I know that. Didn't he pick me up out of the snow and carry me home? He moved as though he had a feather on his arm. You are very strong too, Pete—very strong. Are your eyes hazel?" "No; blue." "I always liked blue eyes. I like to imagine that Hugh is just the Viking sort of man I dreamed about when I was a little girl. You think I'm a silly goose, don't you?" "Yes, rather." "Don't keep trying to pull your hand away, dear; you can't guess how it comforts me. I'm awfully alone here, and strange. I don't suppose you know how queer and frightening it's been—this getting lost and being brought here in the dark, and then—living on in the dark, just trusting my instincts, my intuitions, instead of my eyes. Voices tell a lot about people, don't they?—more than I ever dreamed they could. Pete, there is nothing in that—that splendid, generous thing Hugh did, the thing I am not to talk about, nothing to keep Hugh now from going back to the world—some place—that is, far away from where it happened—and beginning again, is there?" "I hope not, Sylvie." She sighed. "Of course it was wonderful. If he hadn't told me of it, I never should have known half of his greatness; yet I can't help wishing he were free. It's sad to think there will always be the memory of that dreadful suffering and danger in his life." "Very sad," said Pete. "How alone we both are—he and I! Bella, and you, Pete—don't be angry, please—I don't think you quite understand Hugh, quite appreciate him." "Perhaps not." "He has always been lonely. You are so young, and Bella is so stupid—stupid and cross." "No, she isn't, Sylvie. I know Bella a lot better than you do. She's not stupid or cross—" "Well, I like you to stick up for your old nurse. She certainly must have loved you a lot to bring you way out here and to stay here all these years to take care of you. I wonder where she'll go and what she'll do when Hugh and I get married. You're too old for a nurse now, Pete. Do you mind if I lean back against you that way? It's so comfortable. I'd be happier without Bella, Pete, you know." "Would you, Sylvie? Well, Bella and I will have to go away together somewhere, I guess." "I didn't say you, dear. I love you a lot—next best to Hugh. There's something awfully sweet about you—you great strong overgrown thing! Your heart goes thump-thump-thump-thump, as though it was as big as the sun.... I feel much better and happier now. Things have got steady again. Only—I wish Hugh would come back." Pete gave a strangled sigh. "He'll be back." And he began to draw himself away from her. "I think I hear him now, Sylvie." "Stay where you are," she laughed. "Don't be ashamed of being found with a sister leaning against you and holding your hand. Are you afraid of Hugh? I think sometimes he's rather hard with you—I'll have to speak to him about that. Oh"—in a sudden ecstasy—"how happy I am! I feel as light as the air. I want every one to be happy. Tell me when Hugh comes in how happy he looks, Pete—promise me, quick! There he is at the door now." "Yes," he whispered, "I promise. Let me go, please, Sylvie." He pulled himself away and stood up. At the instant, the door was opened and shut quickly, stealthily. It was Hugh, breathing hard, gray with fear. "They're coming," he said harshly. "Pete, they're after me. Men are coming across the flat." <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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