It lasted but a moment; yet in that moment each saw the other’s heart, and each turned a new page in the romance of their lives. Sylvia’s eyes fell first, but no blush followed, no sign of anger or perplexity, only a thoughtful silence which continued till the last violet thread dropped from his hands, and she said almost regretfully,—

“This is the end.”

“Yes, this is the end.”

As he echoed the words Warwick rose suddenly and went to talk with Max, whose sketch was done. Sylvia sat a moment as if quite forgetful where she was, so absorbing was some thought or emotion. Presently she seemed to glow and kindle with an inward fire; over face and forehead rushed an impetuous color, her eyes shone, and her lips trembled with the fluttering of her breath. Then a panic appeared to seize her, for, stealing noiselessly away, she hurried to her room, and covering up her face as if to hide it even from herself, whispered to that full heart of hers,—

“Now I know why I am happy!”

How long she lay there musing in the moonlight she never knew. Her sister’s call broke in upon the first love dream she had ever woven for herself, and she went down to bid the friends good-night. The hall was only lighted by the moon, and in the dimness no one saw traces of that midsummer shower on her cheeks, nor detected the soft trouble in her eyes, but for the first time Moor felt her hand tremble in his own, and welcomed the good omen joyfully.

Hating all forms, Warwick seldom shook hands, but that night he gave a hand to all with his most cordial expression, and Sylvia felt both her own taken in a warm lingering grasp, although he only said, “Good-by!” Then they went; but while the others paused on the steps, held by the beauty of the night, back on the wings of the wind came Warwick’s sonorous voice singing the song that Sylvia best loved. All down the avenue and far along the winding road they traced his progress, till the music died in the distance, leaving only the echo of the song to link them to the singer.

When evening came again the girl waited on the lawn to greet the friends, for love made her very shy. But Moor came alone, and his first words were,—

“Console me, Sylvia, Adam is gone. He went as unexpectedly as he came, and when I woke this morning a note was all the farewell I found.”

Pride kept her from betraying the sharp pang this disappointment cost her, and all that evening she seemed her gayest self, supported by an unnatural excitement till alone.

Then the reaction came, and Sylvia spent the night struggling with doubt, despair, shame, and bewilderment. She had deceived herself. It was not love she saw in Adam’s eyes last night, but pity. He read her secret before that compassionate glance revealed it to herself, and had gone away to spare her further folly. She was not the woman of whom he thought, forgetful of time and place, of whom he spoke with such a kindling face, to whom he had gone so eagerly when absence grew unbearable.

All night she tortured herself with this idea, but in the morning hope came, always the first consoler of the young, whispering that she had read that look aright, that some promise bound him which he had gone to be released from, and when free he would write or come to her. To this hope she clung, saying to herself,—

“He is so true, I will trust and wait.”

But days grew to weeks, and Warwick neither wrote nor came.

CHAPTER X

No

November, the dreariest month of all the year, had come; leaves lay sear and sodden on the frosty ground, and a chill rain dripped without as if joining in the lamentation of the melancholy wind.

Winter fires were kindled, and basking in the full glow of one of these lay Sylvia, coiled up in a deep chair, solacing her weariness with recollections of the happiest summer of her life.

As books open at pages oftenest read, she had been reliving that memorable voyage, the brightest hours of which were those spent with Warwick, guarding these as tenderly as patient Elaine guarded the shield, waiting for Launcelot to come again.

So vividly did those days return to her, that Sylvia forgot the pain of suspense, the thorn of regret, and was far away; so strong was the power of Adam’s influence upon her even in absence, that he seemed to be before her; so intense was her longing to feel again the touch of his hand, that like one in a dream she stretched her own toward the vision, whispering, half aloud,—

“Come!”

“I am here.”

A voice answered, a hand took hers, and starting up she saw Moor looking down at her. Hastening to compose herself, she smiled and leaned back in her chair, saying quietly,—

“I am glad you came, for I have built castles in the air long enough, and you will give me more substantial entertainment, as you always do.”

The broken dream had left tokens of its presence in the unwonted warmth of Sylvia’s manner; Moor felt it, and for a moment did not answer. Much of her former shyness had crept over her of late; she sometimes shunned him, was less free in conversation, less frank in demonstration, and once or twice had colored deeply as she caught his eye upon her.These betrayals of Warwick’s image in her thoughts seemed to Moor the happy omens he had waited eagerly to see, and each day his hope grew more assured. He had watched her unseen while she was busied with her mental pastime, and as he looked, his heart had grown unspeakably tender, for never had her power over him been so fully felt, and never had he so longed to claim her in the name of his exceeding love. A pleasant peace reigned through the house, the girl sat waiting at his side, the moment looked auspicious, the desire grew irresistible, and he yielded to it.

“You are thinking of something new and pleasant to tell me, I hope,—something in keeping with this quiet place and hour?” said Sylvia, glancing up at him with the traitorous softness still in her eyes.

“Yes, and hoping you would like it.”

“Then I have never heard it before?”

“Never from me.”

“Go on, please; I am ready.”

She folded her hands together on her knee, turned her face attentively to his, and unwittingly composed herself to listen to the sweet story so often told, and yet so hard to tell. Moor meant to woo her very gently, for he believed that love was new to her. He had planned many graceful illustrations for his tale, and rounded many smoothly flowing sentences in which to unfold it. But the emotions are not well bred, and when the moment came, nature conquered art. No demonstration seemed beautiful enough to grace the betrayal of his passion, no language eloquent enough to tell it, no power strong enough to hold in check the impulse that mastered him. He went to her, knelt down upon the cushion at her feet, and, lifting to her a face flushed and fervent with the ardor of a man’s first love, said impetuously,—

“Sylvia, read it here!”

There was no need for her to look; act, touch, and tone told the story better than the most impassioned speech.The supplication of his attitude, the eager beating of his heart, the tender pressure of his hand, dispelled her blindness in the drawing of a breath, and showed her what she had done. Now neglected warnings, selfish forgetfulness, and the knowledge of an unconscious, but irremediable wrong frightened and bewildered her; she hid her face, and shrunk back trembling with remorse and shame. Moor, seeing in her agitation only maiden happiness or hesitancy, accepted and enjoyed a blissful moment while he waited her reply. It was so long in coming that he gently tried to draw her hands away and look into her face, whispering like one scarcely doubtful of assent,—

“You love me, Sylvia?”

“No.”

Only half audible was the reluctant answer, yet he heard it, smiled at what he fancied a shy falsehood, and said tenderly,—

“Will you let me love you, dear?”

“No.”

Fainter than before was the one word, but it reached and startled him. Hurriedly he asked,—

“Am I nothing to you but a friend?”

“No.”

With a quick gesture he put down her hands and looked at her. Grief, regret, and pity filled her face with trouble, but no love was there. He saw, yet would not believe the truth,—felt that the sweet certainty of love had gone, yet could not relinquish the fond hope.

“Sylvia, do you understand me?”

“I do, I do! but I cannot say what you would have me, and I must tell the truth, although it breaks my heart. Geoffrey, I do not love you.”

“Can I not teach you?” he pleaded eagerly.

“I have no desire to learn.”

Softly she spoke, remorseful she looked, but the words wounded like a blow. All the glad assurance died, the passionate glow faded, the caress, half tender, half timid, fell away, and nothing of the happy lover remained in face or figure. He rose slowly as if the heavy disappointment oppressed both soul and body. He fixed on her a glance of mingled incredulity, reproach, and pain, and said, like one bent on ending suspense at once,—

“Did you not see that I loved you? Can you have been trifling with me? Sylvia, I thought you too simple and sincere for heartless coquetry.”

“I am! You shall not suspect me of that, though I deserve all other reproaches. I have been very selfish, very blind. I should have remembered that in your great kindness you might like me too well for your own peace. I should have believed Max, and been less candid in my expressions of esteem. But I wanted a friend so much; I found all I could ask in you; I thought my youth, my faults, my follies, would make it impossible for you to see in me anything but a wayward girl, who frankly showed her regard, and was proud of yours. It was one of my sad mistakes; I see it now; and now it is too late for anything but penitence. Forgive me if you can; I’ve taken all the pleasure, and left you all the pain.”

Sylvia spoke in a paroxysm of remorseful sorrow. Moor listened with a sinking heart, and when she dropped her face into her hands again, unable to endure the pale expectancy of his, he turned away, saying with an accent of quiet despair,—

“Then I have worked and waited all this summer to see my harvest fail at last. Oh, Sylvia, I so loved, so trusted you!”

He leaned his arm on the low chimney-piece, laid down his head upon it and stood silent, trying to forgive.

It is always a hard moment for any woman, when it demands her bravest sincerity to look into a countenance of eager love, and change it to one of bitter disappointment by the utterance of a monosyllable. To Sylvia it was doubly hard; for now her blindness seemed as incredible as cruel, her past frankness unjustifiable, her pleasure selfish, her refusal the blackest ingratitude, and her dream of friendship forever marred. In the brief pause that fell, every little service he had rendered her rose freshly in her memory; every hour of real content and genuine worth that he had given her seemed to come back and reproach her; every look, accent, action, of both happy past and sad present seemed to plead for him. Her conscience cried out against her, her heart overflowed with penitence and pity. She looked at him, longing to say something, do something that should prove her repentance, and assure him of the affection which she felt. As she looked, two great tears fell glittering to the hearth, and lay there such eloquent reproaches, that, had Sylvia’s heart been hard and cold as the marble where they shone, it would have melted then. She could not bear it; she went to him, took in both her own the rejected hand that hung at his side, and, feeling that no act could too tenderly express her sorrow, lifted it to her lips and kissed it.

An instant she was permitted to lay her cheek against it as a penitent child mutely imploring pardon might have done.Then it broke from her hold, and, gathering her to himself, Moor looked up, exclaiming with renewed hope, unaltered longing,—

“You do care for me, then? You give yourself to me in spite of that hard No? Ah, Sylvia, you are capricious even in your love.”

She could not answer, for if that first No had been hard to utter, this was impossible. It seemed like turning the knife in the wound, to disappoint the hope that had gathered strength from despair, and she could only lay her head down on his breast, weeping the saddest tears she had ever shed. Still happy in his new delusion, Moor softly stroked the shining hair, smiling so tenderly, so delightedly, that it was well for her she did not see the smile, the words were enough.

“Dear Sylvia, I have tried so hard to make you love me, how could you help it?”

The reason sprung to her lips, but maiden pride and shame withheld it.What could she tell except that she had cherished a passion, based only on a look? She had deceived herself in her belief that Moor was but a friend; she had deceived herself in believing Warwick was a lover. She could not own this secret, its betrayal could not alter her reply nor heal Moor’s wound, but the thought of Warwick strengthened her. It always did, as surely as the influence of his friend always soothed her, for one was an embodiment of power, the other of tenderness.

“Geoffrey, let me be true to you and to myself,” she said, so earnestly that it gave weight to her broken words. “I cannot be your wife, but I can be your friend forever. Try to believe this,—make my task easier by giving up your hope,—and oh, be sure that while I live I cannot do enough to show my sorrow for the great wrong I have done you.”

“Must it be so? I find it very hard to accept the truth and give up the hope that has made my happiness so long. Let me keep it, Sylvia; let me wait and work again. I have a firm belief that you will love me yet, because I cleave to you with heart and soul, long for you continually, and think you the one woman of the world.”

“Ah, if it were only possible!” she sighed.

“Let me make it so! In truth, I think I should not labor long.You are so young, dear, you have not learned to know your own heart yet. It was not pity nor penitence alone that brought you here to comfort me. Was it, Sylvia?”

“Yes. Had it been love, could I stand as I am now and not show it?”

She looked up at him, showed him that though her cheeks were wet there was no rosy dawn of passion there; though her eyes were as full of affection as of grief, there was no shy avoidance of his own, no dropping of the lids, lest they should tell too much; and though his arm encircled her, she did not cling to him as loving women cling when they lean on the strength which, touched by love, can both cherish and sustain. That look convinced him better than a flood of words. A long sigh broke from his lips, and, turning from her the eyes that had so wistfully searched and found not, they went wandering drearily hither and thither as if seeking the hope whose loss made life seem desolate. Sylvia saw it, groaned within herself, but still held fast to the hard truth, and tried to make it kinder.

“Geoffrey, I once heard you say to Max, ‘Friendship is the best college character can graduate from. Believe in it, seek for it, and when it comes keep it as sacredly as love.’ All my life I have wanted a friend, have looked for one, and when he came I welcomed him. May I not keep him, and preserve the friendship dear and sacred still, although I cannot offer love?”

Softly, seriously, she spoke, but the words sounded cold to him; friendship seemed so poor now, love so rich, he could not leave the blessed sunshine which transfigured the whole earth and sit down in the little circle of a kindly fire without keen regret.

“I ought to say yes, I will try to do it if nothing easier remains to me. Sylvia, for five years I have longed and waited for a home. Duty forbade it then, because poor Marion had only me to make her sad life happy, and my mother left her to my charge. Now the duty is ended, the old house very empty, my heart very hungry for affection.You are all in all to me, and I find it so difficult to relinquish my dream that I must be importunate. I have spoken too soon; you have had no time to think, to look into yourself and question your own heart. Go, now, recall what I have said, remember that I will wait for you patiently, and when I leave, an hour hence, come down and give me my last answer.”

Sylvia was about to speak, but the sound of an approaching step brought over her the shyness she had not felt before, and without a word she darted from the room. Then romance also fled, for Prue came bustling in, and Moor was called to talk of influenzas, while his thoughts were full of love.

Alone in her chamber Sylvia searched herself. She pictured the life that would be hers with Moor.The old house so full of something better than its opulence, an atmosphere of genial tranquillity which made it home-like to whoever crossed its threshold. Herself the daily companion and dear wife of the master who diffused such sunshine there, whose serenity soothed her restlessness, whose affection would be as enduring as his patience, whose character she so truly honored. She felt that no woman need ask a happier home, a truer or more tender lover. But when she looked into herself she found the cordial, unimpassioned sentiment he first inspired still unchanged, and her heart answered,—

“This is friendship.”

She thought of Warwick, and the other home that might be hers. Fancy painted in glowing colors the stirring life, the novelty, excitement, and ever new delight such wanderings would have for her.The joy of being always with him; the proud consciousness that she was nearest and dearest to such a man; the certainty that she might share the knowledge of his past, might enjoy his present, help to shape his future.There was no time to look into her heart, for up sprang its warm blood to her cheek, its hope to her eye, its longing to her lips, its answer glad and ready,—

“Ah, this is love!” She could not wait to prove the wisdom of either sentiment; impulse ruled her, and the mood of the moment blinded her now as often before.

The clock struck ten, and after lingering a little Sylvia went down. Slowly, because her errand was a hard one; thoughtfully, because she knew not where nor how she could best deliver it. No need to look for him or linger for his coming; he was already there. Alone in the hall, absently smoothing a little silken shawl she often wore, and waiting with a melancholy patience that smote her to the heart. He went to meet her, took both her hands in his, and looked into her face so tenderly, so wistfully! —

“Sylvia, is it good-night or good-by?”

Her eyes filled, her hands trembled, her color paled, but she answered steadily,—

“Forgive me! it is good-by.”

CHAPTER XI

Yes

Moor went away to live down his disappointment.The houses by the sea were shut, and the Yules went to town for the winter. No word came from Warwick, and Sylvia ceased to hope.

It is easy to say,“I will forget,” but perhaps the hardest task given us is to lock up a natural yearning of the heart, and turn a deaf ear to its plaint, for captive and jailer must inhabit the same small cell. Sylvia was proud, with that pride which is both sensitive and courageous, which can not only suffer, but wring strength from suffering.While she struggled with a grief that aged her with its pain, she asked no help, made no complaint; but when the forbidden passion stretched its arms to her, she thrust it back, and turned to pleasure for oblivion.

Those who knew her best were troubled and surprised by the craving for excitement which now took possession of her, the avidity with which she gratified it, regardless of time, health, or money. All day she hurried here and there, driving, shopping, sightseeing, or entertaining guests at home. Night brought no cessation of her dissipation, for when balls, masquerades, and concerts failed, there still remained the theatre. This soon became both a refuge and a solace, for, believing it to be less harmful than other excitements, her father indulged her new whim. But, had he known it, this was the most dangerous pastime she could have chosen. Calling for no exertion of her own, it left her free to passively receive a stimulant to her unhappy love in watching its mimic semblance through all phases of tragic suffering and sorrow, for she would see no comedies, and Shakespeare’s tragedies became her study.

This lasted for a time, then the reaction came. A black melancholy fell upon her, and energy deserted soul and body. She found it a weariness to get up in the morning, and weariness to lie down at night. She no longer cared even to seem cheerful, owned that she was spiritless, hoped she should be ill, and did not care if she died to-morrow.When this dark mood seemed about to become chronic, she began to mend, for youth is wonderfully recuperative, and the deepest wounds soon heal even against the sufferer’s will. A quiet apathy replaced the gloom, and she let the tide drift her where it would, hoping nothing, expecting nothing, asking nothing but that she need not suffer any more.

She lived fast; all processes with her were rapid; and the secret experience of that winter taught her many things. She believed it had only taught her to forget, for now the outcast love lay very still, and no longer beat despairingly against the door of her heart, demanding to be taken in from the cold. She fancied that neglect had killed it, and that its grave was green with many tears. Alas for Sylvia! how could she know that it had only sobbed itself to sleep, and would wake beautiful and strong at the first sound of its master’s voice.

Max became eventful. In his fitful fashion he had painted a picture of the Golden Wedding, from sketches taken at the time. Moor had suggested and bespoken it, that the young artist might have a motive for finishing it, because, though he excelled in scenes of that description, he thought them beneath him, and, tempted by more ambitious designs, neglected his true branch of the art. In April it was finished, and at his father’s request Max reluctantly sent it with his Clytemnestra to the annual Exhibition. One morning at breakfast, Mr.Yule suddenly laughed out behind his paper, and with a face of unmixed satisfaction passed it to his son, pointing to a long critique upon the picture. Max prepared himself to receive with becoming modesty the praises lavished upon his great work, but was stricken with amazement to find Clytemnestra disposed of in a single sentence, and the Golden Wedding lauded in a long enthusiastic paragraph.

“What the deuce does the man mean!” he ejaculated, staring at his father.

“He means that the work which warms the heart is greater than that which freezes the blood, I suspect. Moor knew what you could do, and has made you do it, sure that if you worked for fame unconsciously, you would win it. This is a success that I can appreciate, and I congratulate you heartily, my son.”

“Thank you, sir. But upon my word I don’t understand it, and if this wasn’t written by the best Art critic in the country I should feel inclined to say the writer was a fool. Why, that little thing was a daub compared to the other.”

He got no farther in his protest against this unexpected freak of fortune, for Sylvia seized the paper and read the paragraph aloud with such happy emphasis amid Prue’s outcries and his father’s applause, that Max began to feel that he really had done something praiseworthy, and that the “daub” was not so despicable after all.

“I’m going to look at it from this new point of sight,” was his sole comment as he went away.

Several hours afterward he appeared to Sylvia as she sat sewing alone, and startled her with the mysterious announcement,—

“I’ve done it!”

“Done what? Have you burnt poor Clytemnestra?”

“Hang Clytemnestra! I’ll begin at the beginning and prepare you for the grand finale. I went to the Exhibition, and stared at Father Blake and his family for an hour. Decided that wasn’t bad, though I still admire the other more. Then people began to come and crowd up, so that I slipped away, for I couldn’t stand the compliments. Dahlmann, Scott, and all the rest of my tribe were there, and, as true as my name is Max Yule, every man of them ignored the Greek party and congratulated me upon the success of that confounded Golden Wedding.”

“My dearest boy, I am so proud! so glad! What is the matter? Have you been bitten by a tarantula?”

She might well ask, for Max was dancing all over the carpet in a most extraordinary style, and only stopped long enough to throw a little case into Sylvia’s lap, asking as a whole faceful of smiles broke loose,—

“What does that mean?”

She opened it, and a suspicious circle of diamonds appeared, at sight of which she clapped her hands, and cried out,—

“You’re going to ask Jessie to wear it!”

“I have! I have!” sang Max, dancing more wildly than ever. Sylvia chased him into a corner and held him there, almost as much excited as he, while she demanded a full explanation, which he gave her, laughing like a boy and blushing like a girl.

“You have no business to ask, but of course I’m dying to tell you. I went from that Painter’s Purgatory, as we call it, to Mr. Hope’s, and asked for Miss Jessie. My angel came down; I told her of my success, and she smiled as never a woman did before; I added that I’d only waited to make myself more worthy of her, by showing that I had talent, as well as love and money to offer her, and she began to cry; whereat I took her in my arms and ascended straight into heaven.”

“Please be sober, Max, and tell me all about it.Was she glad? Did she say she would? And is everything as we would have it?”

“It is all perfect, divine, and rapturous, to the last degree. Jessie has liked me ever since she was born, she thinks; adores you and Prue for sisters; yearns to call my parent father; allowed me to say and do whatever I liked; and gave me a ravishing kiss just there. Sacred spot! I shall get a mate to it when I put this on her blessed little finger.Try it for me; I want it to be right, and your hands are of a size. That fits grandly. When shall I see a joyful sweetheart doing this on his own behalf, Sylvia?”

“Never!”

She shook off the ring as if it burned her, watching it roll glittering away with a somewhat tragical expression. Then she calmed herself, and, sitting down to her work, enjoyed Max’s raptures for an hour.

The happiness this new element brought into the family worked a change in all of them. Mr.Yule was proud of his son, Prue in a flutter of importance and pleasure at the prospect of a wedding, and Sylvia found it very interesting to watch the lovers, to enjoy a little of the sunshine that surrounded them, and to envy the tender regard all felt for them. Romance was not dead in her, nor the desire to be loved, by those at home at least, since fate denied the heart she coveted.

Having known Warwick, it was easy to admire courage, strength, and heroism; having known Moor, it was impossible not to see and feel the beauty of self-sacrifice; and, being in a mood both humble and remorseful, Sylvia longed to combine in herself some touch of the virtues she so respected in the man she loved and the man who loved her. She knew it would fill her family with comfort and gladness if she could love Moor; it seemed as if entire self-renunciation would be following Adam’s counsel, and in trying to make the real lover happy she might forget the imaginary one.

All through the winter there had come at intervals letters from Moor to Max, and gifts to herself, as if their friend desired to show them that he still thought of them and was glad to show that though his loss was great it had not imbittered the old affection.

This touched Sylvia, and during the holidays, when all the world feels kindly and akin, she wrote to thank him for the holly that made her Christmas gay, the lovely picture that came at New Year, and the good wishes which she heartily returned.

It was April now, and on Sylvia’s birthday arrived a basket full of moss in which snowdrops were set as if growing, with a card bearing only, “From your friend G. M.” The word “friend” was lightly underscored, as if to assure her that he still cherished the one tie permitted him, and sent the pretty token to lighten his regret that she could give him no tenderer one.

As she read, warm over Sylvia’s sore heart rushed the grateful thought, “He cares for me! he remembers me! If he would come back I would try to love him now.”

Did he hear the wordless cry, divine the loneliness that made the young heart ache for love, and come to profit by this propitious mood?

As the city clocks struck nine that night, a man paused before the house and scrutinized each window. Many were alight, but on the drawn curtain of one a woman’s shadow came and went. He watched it for a moment, then noiselessly went in. The hall was bright and solitary; from above came the sound of voices; from a room on the right the stir of papers and the scratch of a pen; from one on the left a rustle as of silk swept slowly to and fro. To the threshold of this door he stepped and looked in.

Sylvia was just turning in her walk, and as she came musing down the room, Moor saw her well.With some women dress has no relation to states of mind; with Sylvia it was often an indication of the mental garb she wore. Moor remembered this trait, and saw in both countenance and costume the change which had befallen her during his long absence. Her face was neither gay nor melancholy, but serious and coldly quiet, as if some inward twilight reigned. Her dress, a soft, sad gray with no decoration but a knot of snowdrops in the bosom. On these pale flowers her eyes were fixed, and as she walked with folded arms and drooping head, she sang low to herself St. Agnes’ song,—

“Upon the convent roof the snows
Lie sparkling to the moon;
My breath to heaven like incense goes,
May my soul follow soon.

 

“Lord, make my spirit pure and clear
As are the frosty skies,
Or this first snowdrop of the year,
That in my bosom lies.”

“Sylvia!”

Very gentle was the call, but she started as if it were an answer to a wish, looked an instant while light and color flashed into her face, then ran to him, exclaiming joyfully,—

“Oh, Geoffrey! I am glad! I am glad!”

There could be but one reply to such a welcome, and Sylvia received it as she stood there, not weeping now, but smiling with the sincerest satisfaction, the happiest surprise. Moor shared both emotions, feeling as a man might feel when, parched with thirst, he stretches out his hand for a drop of rain, and receives a brimming cup of water. He drank a deep draught gratefully, then, fearing that it might be as suddenly withdrawn, asked anxiously,—

“Sylvia, are we friends or lovers?”

“Anything, if you will only stay.”

She looked up as she spoke, and her face betrayed that a conflict between desire and doubt was going on within her. Impulse had sent her there, and now it was so sweet to know herself beloved, she found it hard to go away. Her brother’s happiness had touched her heart, roused the old craving for affection, and brought a strong desire to fill the aching void her lost love had left with this recovered one. She had not learned to reason yet, she could only feel, because, owing to the unequal development of her divided nature, the heart grew faster than the intellect. Instinct was her surest guide, and when she followed it, unblinded by a passion, un-thwarted by a mood, she prospered. But now she was so blinded and so thwarted, and now her great temptation came. Ambition, man’s idol, had tempted the father; love, woman’s god, tempted the daughter; and, as if the father’s atonement was to be wrought out through his dearest child, the daughter also made the false step that might be as fatal as his own.

“Then you have learned to love me, Sylvia?”

“No; the old feeling has not changed except to grow more remorseful, more eager to prove its truth. Once you asked me if I did not wish to love you; then I did not, now I sincerely do. If you still want me with my many faults, and will teach me in your gentle way to be all I should to you, I will gladly learn, because I never needed love as I do now. Geoffrey, shall I stay or go?”

“Stay, Sylvia. Thank God for this!”

If she had ever hoped that Moor would forget her for his own sake, she now saw how vain such hope would have been, and was both touched and troubled by the knowledge of her supremacy which that hour gave her. She was as much the calmer as friendship is than love, and was the first to speak again, still standing there content although her words expressed a doubt.

“Are you very sure you want me? Are you not tired of the thorn that has fretted you so long? Remember, I am so young, so ignorant, and unfitted for a wife. Can I give you real happiness? make home what you would have it? and never see in your face regret that some wiser, better woman was not in my place?”

“I am sure of myself, and satisfied with you, as you are, no wiser, no better, nothing but my Sylvia.”

“It is very sweet to hear you say that with such a look. I do not deserve it, but I will. Is the pain I once gave you gone now, Geoffrey?”

“Gone forever.”

“Then I am satisfied, and will begin my life anew by trying to learn well the lesson my kind master is to teach me.”

When Moor went that night Sylvia followed him, and as they stood together, this happy moment seemed to recall that other bitter one, for, taking her hands again, he asked, smiling now,—

“Dear, is it good-night or good-by?”

“It is good-night, and come to-morrow.”

CHAPTER XII

Wooing

Nothing could have been more unlike than the two pairs of lovers who from April to August haunted Mr.Yule’s house. One pair was of the popular order, for Max was tenderly tyrannical, Jessie adoringly submissive, and at all hours of the day they were to be seen making tableaux of themselves. The other pair were of the peculiar order, undemonstrative and unsentimental, but quite as happy. Moor knew his power, but used it generously, asking little while giving much. Sylvia as yet found nothing to regret, for so gently was she taught, the lesson could not seem hard, and when her affection remained unchanged in kind, although it deepened in degree, she said within herself,—

“That strong and sudden passion was not true love, but an unwise, unhappy delusion of my own. I should be glad that it is gone, because I know I am not fit to be Warwick’s wife. This quiet feeling which Geoffrey inspires must be a safer love for me, and I should be grateful that in making his happiness I may yet find my own.”

She tried heartily to forget herself in others, unconscious that there are times when the duty we owe ourselves is greater than that we owe to them. In the atmosphere of cheerfulness that now surrounded her she could not but be cheerful, and soon it would have been difficult to find a more harmonious household than this. One little cloud alone remained to mar the general sunshine. Max was in a frenzy to be married and had set his heart on a double wedding, but Sylvia would not fix a time, always pleading,—

“Let me be quite sure of myself before I take this step, and do not wait.”

Matters stood thus till Max, having prepared his honeymoon cottage between his father’s house and the Manse, as a relief to his impatience, found it so irresistible that he announced his marriage for the first of August, and declared no human power should change his purpose. Sylvia promised to think of it, but would give no decided answer, because, though she hardly owned it to herself, she longed to hear some news of Warwick before it was too late.

Max and Jessie came in from the city one warm morning and found Sylvia sitting idly in the breezy hall. She left all her preparations to Prue, who revelled in such affairs, and applied herself diligently to her new lesson as if afraid she might not learn it as well as she ought. Half-way up stairs Max paused to say,—

“You remember Warwick, Sylvia.”

“Yes.” And if the hall had not been so dark, her brother might have seen the flush of mingled pain and joy that came to Sylvia’s listless face.

“Well, I met a friend from England to-day who told me he came across old Adam, who was preparing to join one of the Polar expeditions. Isn’t that just like him?” And Max went on with a laugh.

As if chilled by a breath from that icy region, Sylvia’s last half-unconscious hope died then, and she gave herself with entire abandon to the happiness of others.

Moor had written to his friend when his suit failed, but the letter was still following Warwick in his wanderings, and, receiving no reply, Moor waited to hear some tidings of him before he wrote again to tell his happy news; while Adam, finding time and absence fail to lessen his love, seemed to have decided to go to the ends of the earth and cool his passion among the icebergs.

Max went on to consult Prue about his wedding gloves, and Jessie began to display her purchases before eyes that only saw a blur of shapes and colors.

“I should enjoy my pretty things a thousand times more if you would only please us all by being married when we are,” sighed Jessie, looking at her veil.

“I will.”

“What, really? Sylvia, you are a perfect darling! Max! Prue! she says she will!”

Away flew Jessie to proclaim the glad news, and Sylvia, with a curious expression of relief and resolve, repeated to herself that decided “I will.”

All took care that Miss Caprice should not have time to change her mind.The whole house was soon in a bustle, for Prue ruled supreme. Mr. Yule fled from the din of women’s tongues; the bridegrooms elect were kept on a very short allowance of bride, and Sylvia and Jessie were almost invisible, for milliners and mantua-makers swarmed about them till they felt like animated pin-cushions.

The last evening came at length, and weary Sylvia was just planning to escape into the garden, when Prue, whose tongue wagged as rapidly as her hands worked, exclaimed incoherently as usual,—

“How can you stand staring out of window when there is so much to do? Here are all these trunks to pack, Maria in bed with a frightful toothache, and that capable Jane What’s-her-name gone off while I was putting a chamomile poultice on her face. If you are tired sit down and try on all your shoes, for though Mr. Peggit has your measure, those absurd clerks seem to think it a compliment to send children’s sizes to grown women. I’m sure my rubbers were a perfect insult.”

Sylvia sat down, tugged on one boot and fell into a reverie with the other in her hand, while Prue clacked on like a wordmill in full operation.

“How I’m ever to get all these gowns into that trunk passes my comprehension.There’s a tray for each, of course; but a ball dress is such a fractious thing. I could shake that Antoinette Roche for disappointing you at the last minute; and what you are to do for a maid, I don’t know. You’ll have so much dressing to do you will be quite worn out; and I want you to look your best on all occasions, for you will meet everybody. This collar won’t wear well; Clara hasn’t a particle of judgment, though her taste is sweet. These hose, now, are a good, firm article; I chose them myself. Do be sure you get all your things from the wash. At those great hotels there’s a deal of pilfering, and you are so careless.”

Here Sylvia came out of her reverie with a sigh that was almost a groan.

“Don’t they fit? I knew they wouldn’t!” said Prue, with an air of triumph.

“The boots suit me, but the hotels do not; and if it was not ungrateful, after all your trouble, I should like to make a bonfire of this roomful of haberdashery, and walk quietly away to my new home by the light of it.”

As if the bare idea of such an awful proceeding robbed her of all strength, Miss Yule sat suddenly down in the trunk by which she was standing. Fortunately it was nearly full, but her appearance was decidedly ludicrous as she sat with the collar in one uplifted hand, the hose in the other, and the ball dress laid over her lap like a fainting lady; while she said, with imploring solemnity, which changed abruptly from the pathetic to the comic at the end of her speech,—

“Sylvia, if I ever cherished a wish in this world of disappointment, it is that your wedding shall have nothing peculiar about it, because every friend and relation you’ve got expects it. Do let me have the comfort of knowing that every one was surprised and pleased; for if the expression was elegant (which it isn’t, and only suggested by my trials with those dressmakers), I should say I was on pins and needles till it’s all over. Bless me! and so I am, for here are three on the floor and one in my shoe.” Prue paused to extract the appropriate figure of speech which she had chosen, and Sylvia said,—

“If we have everything else as you wish it, would you mind if we didn’t go the journey?”

“Of course I should. Every one goes a wedding trip, it’s part of the ceremony; and if two carriages and two bridal pairs don’t leave here tomorrow, I shall feel as if all my trouble had been thrown away.”

“I’ll go, Prue, I’ll go; and you shall be satisfied. But I thought we might go from here in style, and then slip off on some quieter trip. I am so tired I dread the idea of frolicking for a whole month, as Max and Jessie mean to do.”

It was Prue’s turn to groan now, and she did so dismally. But Sylvia had never asked a favor in vain, and this was not the moment to refuse to her anything, so worldly pride yielded to sisterly affection, and Prue said with resignation, as she fell to work more vigorously than ever, because she had wasted five good minutes,—

“Do as you like, dear, you shall not be crossed on your last day at home. Ask Geoffrey, and if you are happy I’m satisfied.”

Before Sylvia could thank her sister there came a tap and a voice asking,—

“Might I come in?”

“If you can get in,” answered Prue, as, reversing her plan in her hurry, she whisked the collar into a bag and the hose into a bandbox.

Moor paused on the threshold in a masculine maze, that one small person could need so much drapery.

“May I borrow Sylvia for a little while? A breath of air will do her good, and I want her bright and blooming for to-morrow, else young Mrs.Yule will outshine young Mrs. Moor.”

“What a thoughtful creature you are, Geoffrey! Take her and welcome, only pray put on a shawl, Sylvia, and don’t stay out late, for a bride with a cold in her head is the saddest of spectacles.”

Glad to be released, Sylvia went away, and, dropping the shawl as soon as she was out of Prue’s sight, paced up and down the garden walks upon her lover’s arm. Having heard her wish and given a hearty assent, Moor asked,—

“Where shall we go? Tell me what you would like best and you shall have it.You will not let me give you many gifts, but this pleasure you will accept from me, I know.”

“You give me yourself; that is more than I deserve. But I should like to have you take me to the place you like best. Don’t tell me beforehand, let it be a surprise.”

“I will; it is already settled, and I know you will like it. Is there no other wish to be granted, no doubt to be set at rest, or regret withheld that I should know? Tell me, Sylvia, for if ever there should be confidence between us it is now.”

As he spoke the desire to tell him of her love for Adam rose within her, but with the desire came a thought that modified the form in which impulse prompted her to make confession. Moor was both sensitive and proud; would not the knowledge of the fact mar for him the friendship that was so much to both? From Warwick he would never learn it, from her he should have only a half confidence, and so love both friend and wife with an untroubled heart. Few of us can always control the rebellious nature that so often betrays and then reproaches, few always weigh the moment and the act that bans or blesses it, and where is the life that has not known some turning-point when a fugitive emotion has decided great issues for good or ill? Such an emotion came to Sylvia then, and another temptation, wearing the guise of generosity, urged her to another false step, for when the first is taken a second inevitably follows.

“I have no wish, no regret, nothing but the old doubt of my unstable self, and the fear that I may fail to make you happy. But I should like to tell you something. I don’t know that you will care for it, or that there is any need to tell it, but when you said there should be confidence between us, I felt that I wanted you to know that I had loved some one before I loved you.”

He did not see her face, he only heard her quiet voice. He had no thought of Adam, whom she had known so short a time, who was so indifferent to women, and who always spoke of and treated Sylvia as a child. He fancied that she thought of some young lover who had touched her heart, and while he smiled at the nice sense of honor that prompted the innocent confession, he said, with no coldness, no curiosity in voice or face,—

“No need to tell it, dear. I have no jealousy of any one who has gone before me. Rest assured of this, for if I could not share so large a heart with one who will never claim my share I should not deserve it.”

“That is so like you! Now I am quite at ease.”

He looked down at her as she went beside him, thinking that of all the brides he had ever seen his own looked least like one.

“I always thought that you would make a very ardent lover, Sylvia; that you would be excited, gay, and brilliant at a time like this. But you are so quiet, so absorbed, and so unlike your former self that I begin to think I do not know you yet.”

“You will in time. I am passionate and restless by nature, but I am also very sensitive to all influences, personal or otherwise, and were you different from your tranquil, sunshiny self, I too should change. I am quiet because I seem in a pleasant state, half waking, half dreaming, from which I never wish to wake. I am tired of the past, contented with the present, and to you I leave the future.”

“It shall be a happy one if I can make it so, and to-morrow you will give me the dear right to try.”

“Yes,” she said; and, thinking of the solemn promises to be then made, she added thoughtfully,“I think I love, I know I honor, I will try to obey. Can I do more?”

Well for them both if they could have known that friendship is love’s twin, and the gentle sisters are too often mistaken for each other; that Sylvia was innocently deceiving both her lover and herself, by wrapping her friendship in the garb her lost love had worn, forgetting that the wanderer might return and claim its own, leaving the other to suffer for the borrowed warmth. They did not know it, and walked tranquilly together in the summer night, planning the new life as they went, and when they parted Moor pointed to a young moon hanging in the sky.

“See, Sylvia, our honeymoon has risen.”

“May it be a happy one!”

“It will be, and when the anniversary of this glad night comes round it shall be shining still. God bless my little wife!”

CHAPTER XIII

Wedding

Sylvia was awakened on her wedding morning by a curious choking sound, and starting up found Prue crying over her as if her heart were broken.

“What has happened? Is Geoffrey ill? Is all the silver stolen? Can’t the Bishop come?” she asked, wondering what calamity could move her sister to tears at such a busy time.

Prue took Sylvia in her arms, and, rocking to and fro as if she was still a baby, poured forth a stream of words and tears together.

“Nothing has happened; I came to call you, and broke down because it was the last time I should do it. I’ve been awake all night, thinking of you and all you’ve been to me since I took you in my arms eighteen years ago, and said you should be mine. My little Sylvia, I’ve been neglectful of so many things, and now I see them all; I’ve fretted you with my ways, and haven’t been patient enough with yours; I’ve been selfish even about your wedding, and it won’t be as you like it; you’ll reproach me in your heart, and I shall hate myself for it when you are gone never to be my care and comfort any more. And—oh, my dear, my dear, what shall I do without you!”

This unexpected demonstration from her prosaic sister touched Sylvia more than the most sentimental lamentations from another. It brought to mind all the past devotion, the future solitude of Prue’s life, and she clung about her neck tearless but very tender.

“I never shall reproach you, never cease to love and thank you for all you’ve been to me, my dear old Prue. You mustn’t grieve over me, or think I shall forget you, for you never shall be forsaken; and very soon I shall be back, almost as much your Sylvia as ever. Max will live on one side, I shall live on the other, and we’ll be merry and cosey together. And who knows but when we are both out of your way you will learn to think of yourself and marry also.”

At this Prue began to laugh hysterically, and exclaimed, with more than her usual incoherency,—

“I must tell you, it was so very odd! I didn’t mean to do so, because you children would tease me; but now I wish to laugh, for it’s a bad omen to cry over a bride, they say. My dear, that gouty Mr. MacGregor, when I went in with some of my nice broth last week (Hugh slops so, and he’s such a fidget, I took it myself ), after he had eaten every drop before my eyes, wiped his mouth and asked me to marry him.”

“And you would not, Prue?”

“Bless me, child, how could I? I must take care of my poor dear father, and he isn’t pleasant in the least, you know, but would wear my life out in a week. I really pitied him, however, when I refused him, with a napkin round his neck, and he tapped his waistcoat with a spoon so comically, when he offered me his heart, as if it were something good to eat.”

“How very funny! What made him do it, Prue?”

“He said he’d watched the preparations from his window, and got so interested in weddings that he wanted one himself, and felt drawn to me, I was so sympathetic. That means a good nurse and cook, my dear. I understand these invalid gentlemen, and will be a slave to no man so fat and fussy as Mr. Mac, as my brother calls him. It’s not respectful, but I like to refresh myself by saying it just now.”

“Never mind the old soul, Prue, but go and have your breakfast comfortably; for there is much to be done, and no one is to dress me but your own dear self.”

At this Prue relapsed into the pathetic again, and cried over her sister as if, despite the omen, brides were plants that needed much watering.

The appearance of the afflicted Maria, with her face still partially eclipsed by the chamomile comforter, and an announcement that the waiters had come and were “ordering round dreadful,” caused Prue to pocket her handkerchief and descend to turn the tables in every sense of the word.

The prospect of the wedding breakfast made the usual meal a mere mockery. Every one was in a driving hurry, every one was very much excited, and nobody but Prue and the colored gentlemen brought anything to pass. Sylvia went from room to room bidding them good-by as the child who had played there so long. But each looked unfamiliar in its state and festival array, and the old house seemed to have forgotten her already. She spent an hour with her father, paid Max a little call in the empty studio where he was bidding adieu to the joys of bachelorhood, and preparing himself for the jars of matrimony by a composing smoke, and then Prue claimed her.

The agonies she suffered during that long toilet are beyond the powers of language to portray, for Prue surpassed herself and was the very essence of fussiness. But Sylvia bore it patiently as a last sacrifice, because her sister was very tender-hearted still, and laughed and cried over her work till all was done, when she surveyed the effect with pensive satisfaction.

“You are very sweet, my dear, and so delightfully calm, you really do surprise me. I always thought you’d have hysterics on your wedding-day, and got my vinaigrette all ready. Keep your hands just as they are, with the handkerchief and bouquet; it looks very easy and rich. Dear me, what a spectacle I’ve made of myself! But I shall cry no more, not even during the ceremony, as many do. Such displays of feeling are in very bad taste, and I shall be firm, perfectly firm; so if you hear any one sniff, you’ll know it isn’t me. Now I must go and scramble on my dress; first, let me arrange you smoothly in a chair. There, my precious, now think of soothing things, and don’t stir till Geoffrey comes for you.”

Too tired to care what happened just then, Sylvia sat as she was placed, feeling like a fashion-plate of a bride, and wishing she could go to sleep. Presently the sound of steps as fleet as Max’s, but lighter, waked her up, and, forgetting orders, she rustled to the door with an expression which fashion-plates have not yet attained.

“Good-morning, little bride.”

“Good-morning, bonny bridegroom.”

Then they looked at one another, and both smiled. But they seemed to have changed characters; for Moor’s usually tranquil face was full of pale excitement, Sylvia’s usually vivacious one full of quietude, and her eyes wore the unquestioning content of a child who accepts some friendly hand, sure that it will lead it right.

“Prue desires me to take you out into the upper hall, and when Mr. Deane beckons, we are to go down at once.The rooms are full, and Jessie is ready. Shall we go?”

“One moment: Geoffrey, are you quite happy now?”

“Supremely happy!”

“Then it shall be the first duty of my life to keep you so.” And with a gesture soft yet solemn, Sylvia laid her hand in his, as if endowing him with both gift and giver. He held it fast, and never let it go until it was his own.

In the upper hall they found Max hovering about Jessie like an agitated bee about a very full-blown flower, and Clara Deane flapping him away, lest he should damage the effect of this beautiful white rose. For ten minutes, ages they seemed, the five stood together listening to the stir below, looking at one another till they were tired of the sight and scent of orange blossoms, and wishing that the whole affair was safely over. But the instant a portentous “Hem!” was heard, and a white glove seen to beckon from the stair-foot, every one fell into a flutter. Moor turned paler still, and Sylvia felt his heart beat hard against her hand. She herself was seized with a momentary desire to run away and say “No” again. Max looked as if nerving himself for immediate execution, and Jessie feebly whispered,—

“O Clara, I’m going to faint!”

“Good heavens, what shall I do with her? Max, support her! My darling girl, smell this and bear up. For mercy sake, do something, Sylvia, and don’t stand there looking as if you’d been married every day for a year.”

In his excitement, Max gave his bride a little shake. Its effect was marvellous. She rallied instantly, with a reproachful glance at her crumpled veil and a decided—

“Come quick, I can go now.”

Down they went, through a wilderness of summer silks, black coats, and bridal gloves. How they reached their places none of them ever knew; Max said afterward, that the instinct of self-preservation led him to the only means of extrication that circumstances allowed. The moment the Bishop opened his book, Prue took out her handkerchief and cried steadily through the entire ceremony; for, dear as were the proprieties, the “children” were dearer still.

At Sylvia’s desire, Max was married first, and as she stood listening to the sonorous roll of the service falling from the Bishop’s lips, she tried to feel devout and solemn, but failed to do so. She tried to keep her thoughts from wandering, but continually found herself wondering if that sob came from Prue, if her father felt it very much, and when it would be done. She tried to keep her eyes fixed timidly upon the carpet as she had been told to do, but they would rise and glance about against her will.

One of these derelictions from the path of duty nearly produced a catastrophe. Little Tilly, the gardener’s pretty child, had strayed in from among the servants peeping at a long window in the rear, and established herself near the wedding group, looking like a small ballet girl in her full white frock and wreath pushed rakishly askew on her curly pate. As she stood regarding the scene with dignified amazement, her eye met Sylvia’s. In spite of the unusual costume, the baby knew her playmate, and, running to her, thrust her head under the veil with a delighted “Peep a bo!” Horror seized Jessie, Max was on the brink of a laugh, and Moor looked like one fallen from the clouds. But Sylvia drew the little marplot close to her with a warning word, and there she stayed, quietly amusing herself with “pooring” the silvery dress, smelling the flowers, and staring at the Bishop.

After this, all prospered. The gloves came smoothly off, the rings went smoothly on; no one cried but Prue, no one laughed but Tilly; the brides were admired, the grooms envied; the service pronounced impressive, and when it ended, a tumult of congratulations arose.

Sylvia always had a very confused idea of what happened during the next hour. She remembered being kissed till her cheeks burned, and shaken hands with till her fingers tingled; bowing in answer to toasts, and forgetting to reply when addressed by the new name; trying to eat and drink, and discovering that everything tasted of wedding cake; finding herself up stairs hurrying on her travelling dress, then down stairs saying good-by; and when her father embraced her last of all, suddenly realizing, with a pang, that she was married and going away, never to be little Sylvia any more.

Prue was gratified to her heart’s content, for, when the two bridal carriages had vanished with handkerchiefs flying from their windows, in answer to the white whirlwind on the lawn, Mrs. Grundy, with an approving smile on her aristocratic countenance, pronounced this the most charming affair of the season.

CHAPTER XIV

Sylvia’s Honeymoon

It began with a pleasant journey. Day after day they loitered along country roads that led them through many scenes of summer beauty; pausing at old-fashioned inns and wayside farmhouses, or gypsying at noon in some green nook where their four-footed comrades dined off their table-cloth while they made merry over the less simple fare their last hostess had provided for them.When the scenery was uninteresting, as was sometimes the case,—for Nature will not disturb her domestic arrangements for any bridal pair,—one or the other read aloud, or both sang, while conversation was a never-failing pastime and silence had charms which they could enjoy. Sometimes they walked a mile or two, ran down a hillside, rustled through a grain-field, strolled into an orchard, or feasted from fruitful hedges by the way, as care-free as the squirrels on the wall, or the jolly brown bees lunching at the sign of “The Clover-top.” They made friends with sheep in meadows, cows at the brook, travellers morose or bland, farmers full of a sturdy sense that made their chat as wholesome as the mould they delved in; school-children barefooted and blithe, and specimens of womankind, from the buxom housewife, who took them under her motherly wing at once, to the sour, snuffy, shoe-binding spinster with “No Admittance” written all over her face.

To Moor the world was glorified with the purple light which seldom touches it but once for any of us; the journey was a wedding march, made beautiful by summer, victorious by joy; his young wife the queen of women, and himself an equal of the gods, because no longer conscious of a want. Sylvia could not be otherwise than happy; for, finding unbounded liberty and love her portion, she had nothing to regret, and regarded marriage as an agreeable process which had simply changed her name and given her protector, friend, and lover all in one. She was therefore her sweetest and sincerest self, miraculously docile and charmingly gay; interested in all she saw, and quite overflowing with delight when the last days of the week betrayed the secret that her destination was the mountains.

Loving the sea so well, her few flights from home had given her only marine experiences, and the flavor of entire novelty was added to the feast her husband had provided for her. It came to her not only when she could enjoy it most, but when she needed it most, soothing the unquiet, stimulating the nobler, elements which ruled her life by turns, and fitting her for what lay before her. Choosing the quietest roads, Moor showed her the wonders of a region whose wild grandeur and beauty make its memory a lifelong satisfaction. Day after day they followed mountain paths, studying the changes of an ever-varying landscape, watching the flush of dawn redden the granite fronts of these Titans scarred with centuries of storm, the lustre of noon brood over them until they smiled, the evening purple wrap them in its splendor, or moonlight touch them with its magic; till Sylvia, always looking up at that which filled her heart with reverence and awe, was led to look beyond, and through the medium of the friend beside her, learned that human love brings us nearer to the Divine, and is the surest means to that great end.

The last week of the honeymoon came all too soon, for then they had promised to return. The crowning glory of the range was left until the last, and after a day of memorable delights Sylvia sat in the sunset feasting her eyes upon the wonders of a scene which is indescribable, for words have limits and that is apparently illimitable. Presently Moor came to her, asking,—

“Will you join a party to the great ice palace, and see three acres of snow in August, worn by a waterfall into a cathedral, as white if not as durable as any marble?”

“I sit so comfortably here I think I had rather not. But you must go, because you like such wonders, and I shall rest till you come back.”

“Then I shall take myself off and leave you to muse over the pleasures of the day, which for a few hours has made you one of the most eminent women this side the Rocky Mountains. There is a bugle at the house here with which to make the echoes. I shall take it with me, and from time to time send up a sweet reminder that you are not to stray away and lose yourself.”

Sylvia sat for half an hour, then, wearied by the immensity of the wide landscape, she tried to rest her mind by examining the beauties close at hand. Strolling down the path the sightseers had taken, she found herself in a rocky basin, scooped in the mountain side like a cup for a little pool, so clear and bright it looked a diamond set in jet. A fringe of scanty herbage had collected about its brim, russet mosses, purple heath, and delicate white flowers, like a band of tiny hill-people keeping their revels by some fairy well. The spot attracted her, and, remembering that she was not to stray away, she sat down beside the path to wait for her husband’s return.

In the act of bending over the pool to sprinkle the thirsty little company about it, her hand was arrested by the tramp of approaching feet, and, looking up to discover who was the disturber of her retreat, she saw a man pausing at the top of the path opposite to that by which she had come. He seemed scrutinizing the solitary occupant of the dell before descending; but as she turned her face to him he flung away knapsack, hat, and staff, and then with a great start she saw no stranger, but Adam Warwick. Coming down to her so joyfully, so impetuously, she had only time to recognize him, and cry out, when she was swept up in an embrace as tender as irresistible, and lay there conscious of nothing, but that happiness, like some strong swift angel, had wrapt her away into the promised land so long believed in, hungered for, and despaired of, as forever lost. Soon she heard his voice, breathless, eager, but so fond it seemed another voice than his.

“My darling! did you think I should never come?”

“I thought you had forgotten me. Adam, put me down.”

But he only held her closer, and laughed such a happy laugh that Sylvia felt the truth before he uttered it.

“How could I forget you even if I had never come to tell you this? Sylvia, I know much that has passed. Geoffrey’s failure gave me courage to hope for success, and that the mute betrothal made with a look so long ago had been to you all it has been to me.”

“Adam, you are both right and wrong,—you do not know all,—let me tell you,” began Sylvia, as these proofs of ignorance brought her to herself with a shock of recollection and dismay. But Warwick was as absolute in his happiness as he had been in his self-denial, and took possession of her mentally as well as physically with a despotism too welcome and entire to be at once resisted.

“You shall tell me nothing till I have shown the cause of my hard-seeming silence. I must throw off that burden first, then I will listen to you until morning if you will. I have earned this moment by a year of patience; let me keep you here and enjoy it without alloy.”

The old charm had lost none of its power, for absence seemed to have gifted it with redoubled potency, the confirmation of that early hope to grace it with redoubled warmth. Sylvia let him keep her close beside him, feeling that he had earned that small reward for a year’s endeavor, resolving to grant all now left her to bestow, a few moments more of blissful ignorance, then to show him his loss and comfort him, sure that her husband would find no disloyalty in a compassion scarcely less deep and self-forgetful than his own would have been had he shared their secret. Only pausing to put off her hat and turn her face to his, regarding it with such unfeigned and entire content that she forgot everything but the rapid words she listened to, the countenance she watched, so beautifully changed and softened that it seemed as if she had never seen or known the man before.

“The night we walked together by the river—such a wilful yet winning comrade as I had that day, and how I enjoyed it all!—that night I suspected that Geoffrey loved you, Sylvia, and was glad to think it. A month later I was sure of it, and found in that knowledge the great hardship of my life, because I loved you myself. Audacious thing! how dared you steal into my heart and take possession when I had barred the door to love? You never seemed a child to me, Sylvia, because you have an old soul in a young body, and your father’s trials and temptations live again in you.This first attracted me. I liked to watch, to question, to study the human enigma to which I had found a clew from its maker’s lips. I liked your candor and simplicity, your courage and caprice. Even your faults found favor in my eyes; for pride, will, impetuosity, were old friends of mine, and I liked to see them working in another shape. At first you were a curiosity, then an amusement, then a necessity. I wanted you, not occasionally, but constantly.You put salt and savor into life for me; for whether you spoke or were silent, were sweet or sour, friendly or cold, I was satisfied to feel your nearness, and always took away an inward content which nothing else could give me. This affection was so unlike what I had fancied love to be that I deceived myself for a time—not long. I soon knew what had befallen me, soon felt that this sentiment was good to feel, because I forgot my turbulent and worser self and felt the nobler regenerated by the innocent companionship you gave me. I wanted you, but it was not the touch of hands or lips, the soft encounter of eyes, the tones of tenderness, I wanted most. It was that something beyond my reach, vital and vestal, invisible, yet irresistible; that something, be it heart, soul, or mind, which drew me to you by an attraction genial and genuine as itself. My Sylvia, that was love, and when it came to me I took it in, sure that whether its fruition was granted or denied I should be a manlier man for having harbored it even for an hour.Why turn your face away? Well, hide it if you will, but listen, for I have much to say.”

Still silent, Sylvia listened, as she would have done to one about to die.

“On that September evening, as I sat alone, I had been thinking of what might be and what must be. Had decided that I would go away for Geoffrey’s sake. He was fitter than I to have you, being so gentle, and in all ways ready to possess a wife. I was so rough, such a vagrant, so full of my own purposes and plans, how could I dare to take into my keeping such a tender little creature as yourself? I thought you did not care for me; I knew any knowledge of my love would only mar his own; so it was best to go at once and leave him to the happiness he so well deserved. Just then you came to me, as if the wind had blown my desire to my arms. Such a loving touch that was! it nearly melted my resolve, and made it very hard not to take the one thing I wanted when it came to me so opportunely. You could not understand my trouble, and when I sat before you so still, perhaps looking grim and cold, you did not know how I was wrestling with my unruly self. I am not truly generous, for the relinquishment of any cherished object always costs a battle, and I too often find I am worsted. For the first time I dared not meet your eyes till you dived into mine with that expression wistful and guileless, which has often made me feel as if we stood divested of our bodies, soul to soul.

“Tongue I could control, heart I could not. Up it sprung, stronger than will, swifter than thought, and answered you. Sylvia, had there been one ray of self-consciousness in those steady eyes of yours, one atom of maiden shame, or fear, or trouble, I should have claimed you as my own. There was not; and though you let me read your face like an open book, you never dreamed what eloquence was in it. Innocent heart, that loved and had not learned to know it! I saw this instantly, saw that a few more such encounters would show it to you likewise, and felt more strongly than before that if ever the just deed to you, the generous one to Geoffrey, were done, it should be then. For that was the one moment when your half-awakened heart could fall painlessly asleep again, if I did not disturb it, and dream on till Geoffrey woke it, to find a gentler master than I could be to it.”

“It could not, Adam; you had wholly roused it, and it cried for you so long, so bitterly, oh, why did you not come to answer it before?”

“How could I till I heard that Geoffrey had failed? He told me he should labor long and wait patiently till he won you, and I could not doubt that he would succeed. I went away singing the farewell I dared not speak, and for a year have kept myself hard at work. If ever labor of mine is blessed it will be that, for into it I put the heartiest endeavor of my life.

“So strong was my impulse to return to you that I put the sea between us, for I could not trust myself, and knew that Geoffrey would write me if he failed. He did; but, as if Providence meant to teach me patience, that one letter went astray and never reached me till two weeks ago.”

“My fate!” sighed Sylvia bitterly.

“No, my fault. I should have written, but I feared to betray myself to Geoffrey. It is hard to hide my thoughts behind words. I knew he would discover me, and sacrifice himself. I meant he should be happy at all costs. I did write him before I was to leave on my long voyage; but the lost letter arrived, and, never waiting for his reply to mine, I came as fast as steam could bring me to find you and tell you this.”

He bent to give her a tender welcome to eager heart and arms, but Sylvia arrested him.

“Not yet, Adam. Tell me all, and then I will answer you.”

He thought it was some maidenly scruple, and though he smiled at it he respected it; for this coyness in the midst of all her whims had always been one of her charms to him.

“Shy thing! I shall tame you yet, and draw you to me as confidingly as I drew the little bird to hop into my hand and eat.You must not fear me, or I shall grow tyrannical; for I hate fear, and love to see people freely and bravely accept what belongs to them, as I do now to you.”

“It is not you I fear, it is myself,” murmured Sylvia, adding aloud, anxious yet dreading to have the story done. “What led you here, Adam, hoping so much, knowing so little?”

Warwick laughed as he shook the hair off his broad forehead, and looked down at her, with a look she dared not meet.

“Do I not always aim straight at the end I have in view and pursue it by the shortest roads, heedless of obstacles? I often fail and go back to the slower, surer way; but my own is always the one tried first as impetuously as I hurled myself down that path, more as if storming a battery than going to meet my sweetheart. Among the persons I met on landing was a friend of your father’s: he was driving away in hot haste with his son; but, catching a glimpse of the familiar face, I bethought me that as it was the season for summer travel, you might be away, he would know, and time be saved. I asked one question, ‘Where are the Yules?’ He answered, as he vanished, ‘The young people are all at the mountains.’ That was enough, and, congratulating myself on the forethought which would save me some hundred miles of needless delay, away I went, and for days have been searching for you everywhere on that side of these hills which I know so well. But no Yules had passed, and, feeling sure you were on this side, I came, not around, but straight over, for this seemed a royal road to my love, and here I found her waiting for me by the way. Now, Sylvia, are your doubts all answered, your fears all laid, your heart at rest on mine?”

As the time drew nearer, Sylvia’s task daunted her. Warwick was so confident, so glad and tender over her, it seemed like pronouncing the death doom to say those hard words, “It is too late.” While she struggled to find some expression that should tell all kindly yet entirely, Adam, seeming to read some hint of her trouble, asked, with that new gentleness which now overlaid his former abruptness, and was the more alluring for the contrast,—

“Have I been too arrogant a lover? too sure of happiness, too blind to my small deserts? Sylvia, have I misunderstood the greeting you have given me?”

“Yes, Adam.”

He knit his brows, his eyes grew anxious, his content seemed rudely broken, but still hopefully he said,—

“You mean that absence has changed you, that you do not love me as you did, and pity made you kind? Well, I receive the disappointment, but I do not relinquish my hope.What has been may be; let me try again to earn you; teach me to be humble, patient, all that I should be to make myself more dear to you. Something disturbs you; be frank with me. I have shown you all my heart; what have you to show me in return?”

“Only this.”

She freed herself entirely from his hold and held up her hand before him. He did not see the ring; he thought she gave him all he asked, and with a glow of gratitude extended both his own to take it. Then she saw that delay was worse than weak, and though she trembled she spoke out bravely, ending his suspense at once,—

“Adam, I do not love you as I did, nor can I wish or try to bring it back, because—I am married.”

He sprang up as if shot through the heart, nor could a veritable bullet from her hand have daunted him with a more intense dismay than those three words. An instant’s incredulity, then conviction came to him, and he met it like a man; for though his face whitened and his eye burned with an expression that wrung her heart, he demanded steadily,—

“To whom, if not to Geoffrey?”

This was the hardest question of all, for well she knew the name would wound the deeper for its dearness, since he believed his friend had failed; and while it lingered pitifully upon her lips its owner answered for himself. Clear and sweet came up the music of the horn, bringing them a familiar air they all loved, and had often sung together. Warwick knew it instantly, felt the hard truth but rebelled against it, and put out his arm as if to ward it off as he exclaimed, with real anguish in countenance and voice,—

“Sylvia, it is he?”

“Yes!”

Then, as if all strength had gone out of her, she dropped down upon the mossy stone and covered up her face, feeling that the first sharpness of a pain like this was not for human eyes to witness. How many minutes passed she could not tell, the stillness of the spot remained unbroken by any sound but the whisper of the wind, and in this silence Sylvia found time to marvel at the calmness which came to her. Self had been forgotten in surprise and sympathy, and still her one thought was how to comfort Warwick. She had expected some outburst of feeling, some gust of anger or despair, but neither sigh nor sob, reproach nor regret, reached her, and soon she stole an anxious glance to see how it went with him. He was standing where she left him, both hands locked together till they were white with the passionate pressure. His eyes fixed on some distant object with a regard as imploring as unseeing, and through those windows of the soul he looked out darkly, not despairingly; but as if sure that somewhere there was help for him, and he waited for it with a stern patience more terrible to watch than the most tempestuous grief. Sylvia could not bear it, and, remembering that her confession had not yet been made, seized that instant for the purpose, prompted by an instinct which assured her that the knowledge of her pain would help him to bear his own.

She told him all, and ended, saying imploringly,—

“Adam, how can I comfort you?”

Sylvia was right; for through the sorrowful bewilderment that brought a brief eclipse of hope and courage, sympathy reached him like a friendly hand to uphold him till he found the light again.While speaking, she had seen the immobility that frightened her break up, and Warwick’s whole face flush and quiver with the rush of emotions controllable no longer. But the demonstration which followed was one she had never thought to see from him, for when she stretched her hands to him with that remorseful cry, she saw the deep eyes fill, and overflow. Then he threw himself down before her, and for the first time in her short life showed her that sad type of human suffering, a man weeping like a woman.

Warwick was one of those whose passions, as his virtues, were in unison with the powerful body they inhabited, and in such a crisis as the present but one of two reliefs was possible to him,—either wrathful denunciation, expostulation, and despair, or the abandon of a child. Against the former he had been struggling dumbly till Sylvia’s words had turned the tide; and, too entirely natural to feel a touch of shame at that which is not a weakness but a strength, too wise to reject so safe an outlet for so dangerous a grief, he yielded to it, letting the merciful magic of tears quench the fire, wash the first bitterness away, and leave reproaches only writ in water. It was better so, and Sylvia acknowledged it within herself as she sat mute and motionless, softly touching the brown head lying on the moss, her poor consolation silenced by the pathos of the sight, while through it all rose and fell the fitful echo of the horn, in very truth “a sweet reminder not to stray away and lose herself.” An hour ago it would have been a welcome sound, for peak after peak gave back the strain, and airy voices whispered it until the faintest murmur died. But now she let it soar and sigh half heard, for audible to her alone still came its sad accompaniment of bitter human tears. To Warwick it was far more; for Music, the comforter, laid her balm on his sore heart as no mortal pity could have done, and wrought the miracle which changed the friend who seemed to have robbed him of his love to an unconscious Orpheus, who subdued the savage and harmonized the man. Soon he was himself again; for to those who harbor the strong virtues with patient zeal, no lasting ill can come, no affliction can wholly crush, no temptation wholly vanquish. He rose with eyes the clearer for their stormy rain, twice a man for having dared to be a child again; humbler and happier for the knowledge that neither vain resentment nor unjust accusation had defrauded of its dignity the heavy hour that left him desolate but not degraded.

“I am comforted, Sylvia, rest assured of that. And now there is little more to say, but one thing to do. I shall not see your husband yet, and leave you to tell him what seems best; for with the instinct of an animal, I always go away to outlive my hurts alone. But remember that I acquit you of blame, and believe that I can yet be happy in your happiness. I know if Geoffrey were here, he would let me do this, because he has suffered as I suffer now.”

Bending, he gathered her to an embrace as different from that other as despair is from delight, and while he held her there, crowding into one short minute all the pain and passion of a year, she heard a low, but exceeding bitter cry,—“Oh, my Sylvia! it is hard to give you up.” Then, with a solemn satisfaction, which assured her as it did himself, he spoke out clear and loud,—

“Thank God for the merciful Hereafter, in which we may retrieve the blunders we make here.”

With that he left her, never turning till the burden so joyfully cast down had been resumed. Then, staff and hat in hand, he paused on the margin of that granite cup, to him a cup of sorrow, and looked into its depths again. Clouds were trooping eastward, but in that pause the sun glanced full on Warwick’s figure, lifting his powerful head into a flood of light, as he waved his hand to Sylvia with a gesture of courage and good cheer. The look, the act, the memories they brought her, made her heart ache with a sharper pang than pity, and filled her eyes with tears of impotent regret, as she turned her head as if to chide the blithe clamor of the horn. When she looked again, the figure and the sunshine were both gone, leaving her alone and in the shadow.

Her husband found her sitting where he left her, but so pale it filled him with anxiety and self-reproach.

“My poor child, you are tired out, and this rarefied air is too much for you.We will go down at once and you shall rest.”

“Yes, mountain-tops are too high for me; I am safer in the valley with you, Geoffrey,” she answered, clinging to his arm as if quite spent with the fateful hour that waked her from a dream of forgetfulness.

CHAPTER XV

A Fireside Fête

“Welcome to your new home. May it be a happy one to you, little dearest!” said Moor, some days later, as he led her into the old Manse, now wearing its holiday air in honor of the coming of a mistress.

“It does not seem new but very dear and lovely, Geoffrey. I was always happy here, and hope to be so now, if you are,” answered Sylvia, with a wistful look in the eyes that wandered to and fro as if seeking the peace she used to find in this tranquil place.

“No fear for me since you are here. Now will you rest a little or run about and view your new kingdom before you take possession?” asked Moor, eager to see her in the place he had so often pictured her as filling.

“Come and show me everything yourself. But, Geoffrey, please let all go on as before while I learn to be a housekeeper. Mrs. Best will like that, and Prue won’t worry over my failures as she did at home when she tried to teach me her own thrifty ways. I had rather be with you, if I may, and not let the prose of married life disturb the poetry too soon. Do you mind?”

Charmed with the suggestion and glad to keep her to himself, Moor readily consented, and Sylvia began her new life so quietly that little seemed changed from the old, except the constant presence of the friend who still was more like a lover than a husband, and lived for her alone, knowing nothing of the inner world his young wife hid from him.

Of Warwick’s confession she had never spoken, for it came too late to bring happiness to her, too soon to make it possible for her to cloud Moor’s joy by telling it. She would be as brave as Adam, and silently live down importunate memories, dangerous thoughts, vain regrets; folding the leaf over the bitter past, trying to make the present what it should be, leaving the future to Heaven’s will submissively.

The knowledge that she had not given that first love of hers unsought soothed her pride, comforted her heart, and made compassion for Adam seem a safe sentiment to cherish, since any softer one was now forbidden. She had suffered so much before that now regret had lost its sharpest sting, renunciation grown easier, and a sincere desire to be worthy the regard of both the men who loved her gave her a strength that for a time at least wore the semblance of content, if not happiness.

Max wondered at the quiet life she preferred, Prue thought her wise to leave the reins in Mrs. Best’s accomplished hands, and her father hoped she was safely anchored in a peaceful harbor with a very tender pilot to guard her if storms came. It seemed a lovely home, and those who saw its proud master, its little mistress, fancied that their future was without a cloud, blessed as they were with all that makes this world a foretaste of Heaven.

But the high mood which sustained Sylvia’s soul at first, as the pure mountain air braced her body, slowly lost its efficacy when the strain of daily life began to wear upon her nerves, and duty passed from willing effort to a constant struggle to forget. It was possible for days, and she would think she had won an enduring calm, when some trifle would bring the old pang, some truant thought would stray from her control, some involuntary wish startle her with a fear of disloyalty, and the battle was all to be fought over again.

Moor felt a subtle change in her, indescribable, yet visible, for she seemed to have left girlhood behind her with her honeymoon, and to be pausing on the threshold of womanhood, half fearing to cross it and assume the weightier duties, more sacred joys, and tenderer hopes that lay waiting for her beyond. He had been a faithful friend and a patient lover, now he was a generous and devoted husband, leaving time and tenderness to make her wholly his. He asked no questions, made no comments, demanded no sacrifices, but bore her moods as if he loved her in any guise she chose to wear, and never doubted that he should one day understand all that perplexed or troubled him now. So three months passed, and then Moor unconsciously marred his own peace by a vain effort to please Sylvia, whose growing ennui could not escape his anxious eyes.

“Just a year to-night since a hard-hearted little girl said she would not even try to love me. I thought she would change her mind, and this proves that I was right. Were you thinking of it also?” he asked, coming into the study one dull November evening to find Sylvia in the great chair gazing at the fire that glowed on the wide hearth.

She looked up and smiled, as she always did when he joined her.

“No; this splendid fire reminded me of another before which I once sat roasting corn and apples, and telling stories.”

“Ah, that was our voyage up the river.You enjoyed that very much, I remember.”

“Yes, I was a little girl then, and felt so free, so happy, it is impossible to forget it.”

Sylvia spoke honestly, for she was always true when it was possible, as if the memory of one secret made her anxious to have no more.

“Dear child, you speak as if you had left youth far behind you and ‘age had clawed you in its clutch,’ ” said Moor, leaning over the high chair-back to smooth the wavy gold of the beloved head that leaned there.

“I do feel very old sometimes. My responsibilities rather weigh upon me, and I want to drop them for an hour and be a little girl again. Just one of my moods; don’t mind it, Geoffrey.”

“Nothing shall burden you if I can help it. Drop these troublesome responsibilities now, and be a little girl again. I’ll show you how.”

Moor spoke so cheerfully, looked so well pleased at something, and seemed so ready to grant her wish that Sylvia sat up with an inquiring face, a lighter tone in her quiet voice.

“You are always ready to please me and I’m very grateful, dear.What shall we do? You look as if you had some nice little plan or surprise waiting to be told.”

“I have; but my surprise comes to-morrow, and you can amuse yourself with guessing what it is till then. My plan now is to sit upon the rug and roast apples, pop corn, tell stories, and be young again. It is so rainy no one will come, unless Max happens in, and he will give us another comrade. I wish Adam were here, then we should have all the actors in that pretty little play of ours.”

Sylvia did not echo the wish aloud, but as if to escape from thought by action, she sprang up eagerly, and Moor, fancying the plan pleased her well, threw himself heartily into it for her sake.

“That sweeping dress of yours and the crown of hair with which you try to make yourself look matronly will never do for the little girl. Run away and change yourself into the Sylvia you were that summer, then nothing will break the illusion. I’ll put on my garden-jacket and look as much like the old Geoffrey as possible.”

“Yes, do; I always like you so because you look like Shelley, with the round jacket, the fine forehead, and poetic eyes,” said Sylvia, with the affectionate pride which pleased him, though he vaguely felt its lack of wifely warmth.

“I’ll write you a poem in return for that compliment. Now I must set the stage and prepare for a fireside fête which shall prove that all the poetry is not gone from married life.”

No lad could have spoken with a blither face, for Moor had preserved much of the boy in spite of his thirty years. His cheerfulness was so infectious, that Sylvia already began to forget her ennui, and hurried away to do her part. Putting on a short, girlish gown, kept for scrambles among the rocks, she braided her long hair, with butterfly bows at the ends, and improvised a pinafore. When she went down she found her husband in the garden-jacket, collar turned over a ribbon, hair in a curly tumble, and jackknife in hand, seated on the rug before a roaring fire and a semicircle of apples, whittling and whistling like a very boy. They examined one another with mirthful commendations, and Moor began his part by saying,—

“Isn’t this jolly? Now come and sit beside me, and see which will keep it up the longest.”

“What would Prue say? and who would recognize the elegant Mr. Moor in this big boy? Putting dignity and broadcloth aside makes you look about eighteen, and very charming I find you,” said Sylvia, looking about twelve herself, and also very charming.

“Here is a wooden fork for you to tend the roast with, while I prepare a vegetable snowstorm. What will you have, little girl? You look as if you wanted something?”

“I was only thinking that I should have a doll to match your knife. I feel as if I should enjoy trotting a staring fright on my knee, and singing Hush-a-by. But I fancy even your magic cannot produce such a thing,—can it, my lad?”

“In exactly five minutes a lovely doll will appear, though such a thing has not been seen in my bachelor establishment for years.”

With which mysterious announcement Moor ran off, blundering over the ottomans and slamming the doors as a true boy should. Sylvia pricked chestnuts, and began to forget her bosom trouble as she wondered what would come with the impatient curiosity appropriate to the character she had assumed. Presently her husband reappeared with a squirming bundle in his arms. Triumphantly unfolding a shawl, he displayed little Tilly in her nightgown.

“There is sorcery for you, and a doll worth having. Being one of the sort that can shut its eyes, it was going to bed, but its mamma relented and lends it to us for an hour. She is spending the night here, as her husband is away, so your wish could easily be granted. Here are some clothes, so you can dress your dolly to suit yourself or leave her as she is.”

Sylvia received her pretty plaything with enthusiasm, and Tilly felt herself suddenly transported to a baby’s Paradise, where beds were unknown and fruit and freedom were her welcome portion. Merrily popped the corn, nimbly danced the nuts upon the shovel, lustily remonstrated the rosy martyrs on the hearth, and cheerfully the minutes slipped away. Sylvia sang every jubilant air she knew, Moor whistled astonishing accompaniments, and Tilly danced over the carpet with nutshells on her toes, and tried to fill her little gown with “pitty flowers” from its garlands and bouquets. Without the wind lamented, the sky wept, and the sea thundered on the shore; but within, youth, innocence, and love held their blithe revel undisturbed.

“How are the spirits now?” asked one playmate of the other.

“Quite merry, thank you; and I should think I was little Sylvia again but for the sight of this.”

She held up the hand that wore a single ornament; but the hand had grown so slender since it was first put on, that the ring would have fallen had she not caught it at her finger-tip. There was nothing of the boy in her companion’s face, as he said, with an anxious look,—

“If you go on thinning so fast I shall begin to fear that the little wife is not happy with her old husband. Is she, dear?”

“She would be a most ungrateful woman if she were not. I always get thin as winter comes on; but I’m so careless I’ll find a guard for my ring to-morrow.”

“No need to wait till then; wear this to please me, and let Marion’s cipher signify that you are mine.”

With a gravity that touched her more than the bestowal of so dear a relic, Moor unslung a signet ring from his watchguard, and with some difficulty pressed it to its place on Sylvia’s finger, a most effectual keeper for that other ring whose tenure seemed so slight. She shrunk a little and glanced up at him, because his touch was more firm than tender, and his face wore a masterful expression seldom seen there; for instinct, subtler than perception, prompted both act and aspect. Then her eye fell and fixed upon the dark stone with the single letter engraved upon its tiny oval, and to her it took a double significance as her husband held it there, claiming her again, with that emphatic “Mine.” She did not speak, but something in her manner caused the fold between his brows to smooth itself away as he regarded the small hand lying passively in his, and said, half playfully, half earnestly,—

“Forgive me if I hurt you, but you know my wooing is not over yet; and till you love me with real love I cannot feel that my wife is wholly mine.”

“Wait for me, Geoffrey, a little longer, for indeed I do my best to be all you would have me.”

Something brought tears into her eyes and made her lips tremble, but in a breath the smile came back, and she added gayly,—

“How can I help being grave sometimes, and getting thin, with so many housekeeping cares upon my shoulders, and such an exacting, tyrannical husband to wear upon my nerves. Don’t I look like the most miserable of wives?”

She certainly did not as she shook the popper laughingly, and looked over her shoulder at him, with the bloom of firelight on her cheeks, its cheerfulness in her eyes.

“Keep that expression for every-day wear, and I am satisfied. I want no tame Griselda, but the young girl who once said she was always happy with me. Assure me of that, and, having won my Leah, I can work and wait still longer for my Rachel. Bless the baby! what has she done to herself now?”

Tilly had retired behind the sofa, after she had swarmed over every chair and couch, examined everything within her reach, on étagère and table, embraced the Hebe in the corner, played a fantasia on the piano, and choked herself with the stopper of the odor bottle. A doleful wail betrayed her hiding-place, and she now emerged with a pair of nut-crackers, ditto of pinched fingers, and an expression of great mental and bodily distress. Her woes vanished instantaneously, however, when the feast was announced, and she performed an unsteady pas seul about the banquet, varied by darts at any unguarded viand that tempted her.

No ordinary table service would suit the holders of this fireside fête. The corn was heaped in a bronze urn, the nuts in a graceful basket, the apples lay on a plate of curiously ancient china, and the water turned to wine through the medium of a purple flagon of Bohemian glass.The refection was spread upon the rug as on a flowery table, and all the lustres were lighted, filling the room with a festal glow. Prue would have held up her hands in dismay, like the benighted piece of excellence she was, but Max would have enjoyed the picturesque group and sketched a mate to the Golden Wedding. For Moor, armed with the wooden fork, did the honors; Sylvia, leaning on her arm, dropped corn after corn into a baby mouth that birdlike always gaped for more; and Tilly lay luxuriously between them, warming her little feet as she ate and babbled to the flames.

The clock was on the stroke of eight, the revel at its height, when the door opened and a servant announced,—

“Miss Dane and Mr.Warwick.”

An impressive pause followed, broken by a crow from Tilly, who seized this propitious moment to bury one hand in the nuts and with the other capture the big red apple which had been denied her. The sound seemed to dissipate the blank surprise that had fallen on all parties, and brought both host and hostess to their feet, the former exclaiming heartily,—

“Welcome, friends, to a modern saturnalia and the bosom of the Happy Family!”

“I know you did not expect us till to-morrow, but Mr.Warwick was impatient, I was a little anxious, and so we came on at once,” said Miss Dane, looking about her as if the cheerful scene and faces were the reverse of what she expected to find.

Warwick also looked rather bewildered and very anxious. But Moor seemed quite satisfied with the effect of his surprise, for he had written to both simply saying that he wanted them at once.

“We are playing children to-night, so just put yourselves back a dozen years, and let us all be merry together. Sylvia, this is the cousin of whom I have told you so much. Faith, here is your new kinswoman, not as imposing as she would have been if you had not taken a base advantage of us. Little dearest, I invited these friends because I thought they would do us good. I wanted you to know Faith, and could not resist the desire to catch Adam before he set off to the North Pole, if he ever does.”

A short stir ensued while hands were shaken, wraps put away, and some degree of order restored to the room, then they all sat down and began to talk.With well-bred oblivion of the short gown and long braids of her bashful-looking hostess, Miss Dane suggested and discussed various subjects of mutual interest, while Sylvia tried to keep her eyes from wandering to the mirror opposite, which reflected the figures of her husband and his friend.

Warwick sat erect in the easy-chair, for he never lounged; and Moor, still supporting his character, was perched upon the arm, talking with boyish vivacity. Every sense being unwontedly alert, Sylvia found herself listening to both guests at once, and bearing her own part in one conversation so well that occasional lapses were only attributed to natural embarrassment. What she and Miss Dane said she never remembered; what the other pair talked of she never forgot.The first words she caught were her husband’s.

“You see I have begun to live for myself, Adam.”

“I also see that it agrees with you excellently.”

“Better than so much solitude does with you.What have you been at to get this gaunt, uncanny look, Adam?”

“Carrying on the old fight with the world, the flesh, and the devil, and getting the worst of it sometimes.”

“Then it will be good for you to rest a little in a friend’s house.You should not have waited to be asked. Remember that whatever changes come to me, my home is always yours.”

“I know it, but I feared to disturb your happiness. Your brief note alarmed me, for I thought something must be amiss, and hurried to you at once.”

“I thought that mysterious message would bring you. Peace reigns here, as you see, but I fancied Sylvia needed more society; she is hard to please, and I knew you and Faith would suit her. No need to tell how glad I am to see my two best friends under my roof.”

“Was it wise to surprise her? Are you sure she will like it?” asked Warwick, with such unaccustomed doubt and hesitation that Moor laughed, and pulled a lock of the brown mane as if to tease the lion into a display of the self-confidence and composure he seemed to have lost.

“How shy you are of speaking the new name! ‘She’ will like it, I assure you, for she makes my friends hers. Sylvia, come here, and tell Adam he is welcome; he dares to doubt it. Come and talk over old times while I do the same with Faith.”

She went, trembling inwardly, but outwardly composed, for she took refuge in one of those commonplace acts which in such moments we gladly perform, and bless in our secret souls. She had often wondered where they would next meet, and how she should comport herself at such a trying time. She had never imagined that he would come in this way, or that a hearth-brush would save her from the betrayal of emotion. So it was, however, and an involuntary smile passed over her face as she managed to say quite naturally, while brushing the nutshells tidily out of sight,—

“You know you are always welcome, Mr. Warwick. ‘Adam’s Room,’ as we call it, is always ready, and Geoffrey was wishing for you only yesterday.”

“I am sure of his satisfaction at my coming, can I be equally sure of yours? May I, ought I to stay?”

He leaned forward as he spoke, with an eager, yet submissive look, that Sylvia dared not meet, and in her anxiety to preserve her self-possession, she forgot that to this listener every uttered word became a truth, because his own were always so.

“Why not, if you can bear our quiet life, for we are a Darby and Joan already, though we do not look so to-night, I acknowledge.”

Men seldom understand the subterfuges women instinctively use to conceal many a natural emotion which they are not strong enough to control, not brave enough to confess. To Warwick, Sylvia seemed almost careless, her words a light answer to the real meaning of his question, her smile one of tranquil welcome. Her manner wrought an instant change in him, and when he spoke again he was the Warwick of a year ago.

“I hesitated, Mrs. Moor, because I have sometimes heard young wives complain that their husbands’ friends were marplots, and I have no desire to be one.”

This speech, delivered with frosty gravity, made Sylvia as cool and quiet as itself. She put her ally down, looked full at Warwick, and said with a blending of dignity and cordiality which even the pinafore could not destroy,—

“Whatever pleases Geoffrey pleases me. Do not let my presence here make him inhospitable to old friends.”

“Thanks; and now that the hearth is scrupulously clean may I offer you a chair?”

The old keenness was in his eye, the old firmness about the mouth, as Warwick presented the seat, with an inclination that to her seemed ironical. She sat down, but when she cast about her mind for some safe and easy topic to introduce, every idea had fled; even memory and fancy turned traitors; not a lively sally could be found, not a pleasant remembrance returned to help her, and she sat dumb. Before the dreadful pause grew awkward, however, rescue came in the form of Tilly. Nothing daunted by the severe simplicity of her little wrapper, she planted herself before Warwick, and, shaking her hair out of her eyes, stared at him with an inquiring glance and cheeks as red as her apple. She seemed satisfied in a moment, and climbing to his knee established herself there, coolly taking possession of his watch, and examining the brown beard curiously as it parted with the white flash of teeth, when Warwick smiled his warmest smile.

“This recalls the night you fed the sparrow in your hand. Do you remember, Adam?” and Sylvia looked and spoke like her old self again.

“I seldom forget anything. But pleasant as that hour was this is more to me, for the bird flew away, the baby stays and gives me what I need.”

He wrapped the child closer in his arms, leaned his dark head on the bright one, and took the little feet into his hand with a fatherly look that caused Tilly to pat his cheek and begin an animated recital of some nursery legend, which ended in a sudden gape, reminding Sylvia that one of her guests was keeping late hours.

“What comes next?” asked Warwick.

“Now I lay me, and byelow in the trib,” answered Tilly, stretching herself over his arm with a great yawn.

Warwick kissed the rosy half-open mouth, and seemed loath to part with the pious baby, for he took the shawl Sylvia brought and did up the drowsy bundle himself. While so busied she stole a furtive glance at him, having looked without seeing before.Thinner and browner, but as strong as ever was the familiar face she saw, yet neither sad nor stern, for the grave gentleness which had been a fugitive expression before now seemed habitual. This, with a slow dropping of the eyes, as if an inward life absorbed him more, were the only tokens of the sharp experience he had been passing through. Born for conflict and endurance, he seemed to have manfully accepted the sweet uses of adversity and grown the richer for his loss.

Those who themselves are quick to suffer are also quick to see the marks of suffering in others; that hasty scrutiny assured Sylvia of all she had yearned to know, yet wrung her heart with a pity the deeper for its impotence. Tilly’s heavy head drooped between her bearer and the light as they left the room, but in the dusky hall a few hot tears fell on the baby’s hair, and her new nurse lingered long after the lullaby was done. When she reappeared the girlish dress was gone, and she was Madam Moor again, as her husband called her when she assumed the stately air and trailing silks that failed to make a matron of her. All smiled at the change, but he alone spoke of it.

“I win the applause, Sylvia; for I sustain my character to the end, while you give up before the curtain falls.You are not so good an actress as I thought you.”

Sylvia’s smile was sadder than her tears as she briefly answered,—

“No; I find I cannot be a child again.”

CHAPTER XVI

Early and Late

One of Sylvia’s first acts when she rose was most significant. She shook down her abundant hair, carefully arranged a part in thick curls over cheeks and forehead, gathered the rest into its usual coil, and said to herself, as she surveyed her face half hidden in the shining cloud,—

“It looks very sentimental, and I hate the weakness that drives me to it, but it must be done, because my face is such a traitor. Poor Geoffrey! he said I was no actress; I am learning fast.”

Why every faculty seemed sharpened, every object assumed an unwonted interest, and that quiet hour possessed an excitement that made her own room and countenance look strange to her, she would not ask herself, as she paused on the threshold of the door to ascertain if her guests were stirring. Nothing was heard but the sound of regular footfalls on the walk before the door, and with an expression of relief, she slowly went down. Moor was taking his morning walk bareheaded in the sun. Usually Sylvia ran to join him, but now she stood musing on the steps, until he saw and came to her. As he offered the flower always ready for her, he said smiling,—

“Did the play last night so captivate you that you go back to the curls because you cannot keep the braids?”

“A sillier whim than that, even. I am afraid of those two people; and as I am so quick to show my feelings in my face, I intend to hide behind this veil if I get shy or troubled. Did you think I could be so artful?”

“Your craft amazes me. But, dearest child, you need not be afraid of Faith and Adam. Both already love you for my sake, and soon will for your own. Both are so much older that they can easily overlook any little shortcoming, in consideration of your youth. Sylvia, I want to tell you something which will both amuse and interest you, I hope. Faith wrote me some time ago that she had met Adam, and found him all I had told her. He also sent me a message once, that he had discovered a superior woman, who sympathized in his ideas and purposes. I mentioned it at the time to you, I think? We so seldom hear from this nomadic fellow that news is an event.”

“Yes, I remember.”

Sylvia’s head was bent as if to enjoy the sweetness of the flower she held, and all her husband saw was the bright hair blowing in the wind.

“Now you will laugh, for I confess that, being very happy myself, I took it into my head that these two fine creatures belonged to one another, and only needed a little gentle management to find it out. I wanted to see them together, so invited them here, knowing you would enjoy them, and hoping they would take a hint from us and go and do likewise.”

“God forbid!” thought Sylvia. The pathetic unconsciousness of her husband filled her with new remorse, and made it impossible for her to wish Warwick the shadow of happiness which she vainly tried to change into its substance.

“I never thought you would turn match-maker, Geoffrey. Isn’t it a dangerous part to play?” she asked, half wishing some insurmountable barrier might rise between her and the man whose presence always dominated her will and excited her heart.

“Not as I shall play it, and you can help. I fancy Adam already feels the hand of the great tamer, and that explains the new gentleness I see in him. I intend to study him and satisfy myself of this.You must say a good word for him to Faith, as you women so well know how to do. You like and believe in him; paint him in your vivid, happy way, and help her to know him. A mate like Faith is what he needs to perfect him, and we can show him this unless I am greatly mistaken.”

“Perhaps for all his blindness Geoffrey is right; perhaps in this way I may atone for the pain I have given Adam. Heaven help me to do my duty and forget myself,” thought Sylvia, feeling as if a new page in the tragic romance of her life was turned for her by the hand that tried to make it a tender, happy story for them all.

“I had best not meddle, Geoffrey, I am so ignorant, so unlucky. Let me see you play the good genius and not risk spoiling your work.”

“I think you will soon be glad to lend a hand; most women find it impossible to abstain. I mean to make the week very pleasant to them both. Adam shall revisit his old haunts, and we will show Faith ours. In the evening we will have Prue, Max, and Jessie over here, or all go and entertain your father; so the days shall be busy and the nights cheerful with the sort of pleasure we all like best. Faith longs to know you, and I am sure she is the friend you need to fill a place I cannot fill.”

A touch of regret made the last word a little sad, and Sylvia felt it like a keen reproach; but less now than ever could she tell the secret that would destroy her husband’s peace and mar all his happy hopes for others. With an earnest longing to find Faith all he suggested, she answered with a look of satisfaction that gratified Moor more than her words,—

“I know that I shall love her; and if I need any one beside you, dear, she shall help me to be what I ought, to make you as happy as I wish you. Now let us speak of something else, or my telltale face will betray that we have been talking of our guests, when we meet them.”

They did so, and as Warwick parted his curtains, the first sight he saw was his friend walking in the sunshine with the young wife who hung upon his arm as if she loved to lean there listening to his voice.

For a moment Adam’s face was darkened by a shadow, then it passed, as he bravely accepted the seeming truth, and turned to join them, saying to himself,—

“Geoffrey is happy and she is learning to forget. I may venture to stay since I am here. I can trust myself, and perhaps give them some pleasure.”

In pursuance of his plan Moor took Adam out for a long tramp soon after breakfast, and Sylvia devoted herself to Miss Dane. In the absence of the greater interest she enjoyed the lesser, soon felt at ease, and began to study her new relative.

Faith was thirty, shapely and tall, with much native dignity of carriage, and a face singularly attractive from its mild and earnest beauty. Looking at her one felt assured that here was a right womanly woman, gentle, just, and true; possessed of a well-balanced mind, a self-reliant soul, and that fine gift which is so rare, the power of a noble character to act as a touchstone to all who approached, forcing them to rise or fall to their true level, unconscious of the test applied. Her presence was comfortable, her voice had motherly tones in it, her eyes a helpful look. Even the soft hue of her dress, the brown gloss of her hair, the graceful industry of her hands, had their attractive influence. Sylvia saw and felt these things with the quickness of her susceptible temperament, and found herself so warmed and won, that soon it cost her an effort to withhold anything that tried or troubled her, for Faith was a born consoler, and Sylvia’s heart was full.

However gloomy her day might have been, she always brightened in the evening as naturally as moths begin to flutter when candles come. On the evening of this day, the friendly atmosphere about her and the excitement of Warwick’s presence so affected her, that though the gayety of girlhood was quite gone she looked as softly brilliant as some late flower that has gathered the summer to itself and gives it out again in the bloom and beauty of a single hour.

When tea was over (for heroes and heroines must eat if they are to do anything worth the paper on which their triumphs and tribulations are recorded), the women gathered about the library table, work in hand, as female tongues go easier when their fingers are occupied. Sylvia left Prue and Jessie to enjoy Faith, and while she fabricated some trifle with scarlet silk and an ivory shuttle, she listened to the conversation of the gentlemen who roved about the room till a remark of Prue’s brought the party together.

“Helen Chesterfield has run away from her husband in the most disgraceful manner.”

Max and Moor drew near, Adam leaned on the chimney-piece, the workers paused, and, having produced her sensation, Prue proceeded to gratify their curiosity as briefly as possible; for all knew the parties in question, and all waited anxiously to hear particulars.

“She married a Frenchman old enough to be her father, but very rich. She thought she loved him, but when she got tired of her fine establishment, and the novelties of Paris, she found she did not, and was miserable. Many of her new friends had lovers, so why should not she; and presently she began to amuse herself with this Louis Gustave Isadore Theodule de Trouville—there’s a name for a Christian man! Well, she began in play, grew in earnest, and when she could bear her domestic trouble no longer she just ran away, ruining herself for this life, and really I don’t know but for the next also.”

“Poor soul! I always thought she was a fool, but upon my word I pity her,” said Max.

“Remember she was very young, so far away from her mother, with no real friend to warn and help her, and love is so sweet. No wonder she went.”

“Sylvia, how can you excuse her in that way? She should have done her duty whether she loved the old gentleman or not, and kept her troubles to herself in a proper manner.You young girls think so much of love, so little of moral obligations, decorum, and the opinions of the world, you are not fit judges of the case. Mr. Warwick agrees with me, I am sure.”

“Not in the least.”

“Do you mean to say that Helen should have left her husband?”

“Certainly, if she could not love him.”

“Do you also mean to say that she did right to run off with that Gustave Isadore Theodule creature?”

“By no means. It is worse than folly to attempt the righting of one wrong by the commission of another.”

“Then what in the world should she have done?”

“She should have honestly decided which she loved, have frankly told the husband the mistake both had made, and demanded her liberty. If the lover was worthy, have openly married him and borne the world’s censures. If not worthy, have stood alone, an honest woman in God’s eyes, whatever the blind world might have thought.”

Prue was scandalized to the last degree; for with her marriage was more a law than a gospel,—a law which ordained that a pair once yoked should abide by their bargain, be it good or ill, and preserve the proprieties in public no matter how hot a hell their home might be for them and for their children.

“What a dreadful state society would be in if your ideas were adopted! People would constantly be finding out that they were mismatched, and go running about as if playing that game where every one changes places. I’d rather die at once than live to see such a state of things as that,” said the worthy spinster.

“So would I, and recommend prevention rather than a dangerous cure.”

“I really should like to hear your views, Mr. Warwick, for you quite take my breath away.”

Much to Sylvia’s surprise Adam appeared to like the subject, and placed his views at Prue’s disposal with alacrity.

“I would begin at the beginning, and teach young people that marriage is not the only aim and end of life, yet would fit them for it as for a sacrament too high and holy to be profaned by a light word or thought. Show them how to be worthy of it and how to wait for it. Give them a law of life both cheerful and sustaining; a law that shall keep them hopeful if single, sure that here or hereafter they will find that other self and be accepted by it; happy if wedded, for their own integrity of heart will teach them to know the true god when he comes, and keep them loyal to the last.”

“That is all very excellent and charming, but what are the poor souls to do who haven’t been educated in this fine way?” asked Prue.

“Unhappy marriages are the tragedies of our day, and will be, till we learn that there are truer laws to be obeyed than those custom sanctions, other obstacles than inequalities of fortune, rank, and age. Because two persons love, it is not always safe or wise for them to marry, nor need it necessarily wreck their peace to live apart. Often what seems the best affection of our hearts does more for us by being thwarted than if granted its fulfilment and proved a failure which imbitters two lives instead of sweetening one.”

He paused there; but Prue wanted a clearer answer, and turned to Faith, sure that the woman would take her own view of the matter.

“Which of us is right, Miss Dane, in Helen’s case?”

“I cannot venture to judge the young lady, knowing so little of her character or the influences that have surrounded her, and believing that a certain divine example is best for us to follow at such times. I agree with Mr. Warwick, but not wholly, for his summary mode of adjustment would not be quite just nor right in all cases. If both find that they do not love, the sooner they part the wiser; if one alone makes the discovery, the case is sadder still, and harder for either to decide. But as I speak from observation only, my opinions are of little worth.”

“Of great worth, Miss Dane; for to women like yourself observation often does the work of experience, and despite your modesty I wait to hear the opinions.”

Warwick spoke, and spoke urgently, for the effect of all this upon Sylvia was too absorbing a study to be relinquished yet. As he turned to her, Faith gave him an intelligent glance, and answered like one speaking with intention and to some secret but serious issue,—

“You shall have them. Let us suppose that Helen was a woman possessed of a stronger character, a deeper nature; the husband a younger, nobler man; the lover truly excellent, and above even counselling the step this pair have taken. In a case like that the wife, having promised to guard another’s happiness, should sincerely endeavor to do so, remembering that in making the joy of others we often find our own, and that having made so great a mistake the other should not bear all the loss. If there be a strong attachment on the husband’s part, and he a man worthy of affection and respect, who has given himself confidingly, believing himself beloved by the woman he so loves, she should leave no effort unmade, no self-denial unexacted, till she has proved beyond all doubt that it is impossible to be a true wife. Then, and not till then, has she the right to dissolve the tie that has become a sin, because where no love lives inevitable suffering and sorrow enter in, falling not only upon guilty parents, but the innocent children who may be given them.”

“And the lover, what of him?” asked Adam, still intent upon his purpose; for though he looked steadily at Faith, he knew that Sylvia drove the shuttle in and out with a desperate industry that made her silence significant to him.

“I would have the lover suffer and wait; sure that, however it may fare with him, he will be the richer and the better for having known the joy and pain of love.”

“Thank you.” And to Max’s surprise Warwick bowed gravely, and Miss Dane resumed her work with a preoccupied air.

“Well, for a confirmed celibate, it strikes me you take a remarkable interest in matrimony,” said Max. “Or is it merely a base desire to speculate upon the tribulations of your fellow-beings, and congratulate yourself upon your escape from them?”

“Neither; I not only pity and long to alleviate them, but have a strong desire to share them, for the wish of my life for the last year has been to marry.”

Outspoken as Warwick was at all times and on all subjects, there was something in this avowal that touched those present, for with the words a quick rising light and warmth illuminated his whole countenance, and the energy of his desire tuned his voice to a key which caused one heart to beat fast, one pair of eyes to fill with sudden tears. Moor could not see his friend’s face, but he saw Max’s, divined the indiscreet inquiry hovering on his lips, and arrested it with a warning gesture.

Prue spoke first, very much disturbed by having her prejudices and opinions opposed, and very anxious to prove herself in the right.

“Max and Geoffrey look as if they agreed with Mr.Warwick in his—excuse me if I say, dangerous ideas; but I fancy the personal application of them would change their minds. Now, Max, just look at it; suppose some one of Jessie’s lovers should discover an affinity for her, and she for him, what would you do?”

“Shoot him or myself, or all three, and make a neat little tragedy of it.”

“There is no getting a serious answer from you, and I wonder I ever try. Geoffrey, I put the case to you; if Sylvia should find she adored Julian Haize, who fell ill when she was married, you know, and should inform you of that agreeable fact some fine day, should you think it quite reasonable and right to say, “Go, my dear; I’m very sorry, but it can’t be helped.”

The way in which Prue put the case made it impossible for her hearers not to laugh. But Sylvia held her breath while waiting for her husband’s answer. He was standing behind her chair, and spoke with the smile still on his lips, too confident to harbor even a passing fancy.

“Perhaps I ought to be generous enough to do so, but not being a Jaques, with a convenient glacier to help me out of the predicament, I am afraid I should be hard to manage. I love but few, and those few are my world; so do not try me too hardly, Sylvia.”

“I shall do my best, Geoffrey.”

She dropped her shuttle as she spoke, and, stooping to pick it up, down swept the long curls over either cheek; thus, when she fell to work again, nothing of her face was visible but a glimpse of forehead, dark lashes, and faintly smiling mouth. Moor led the conversation to other topics, and was soon deep in an art discussion with Max and Miss Dane, while Prue and Jessie chatted away on that safe subject, dress. But Sylvia worked silently, and Warwick still leaned there, watching the busy hand as if he saw something more than a pretty contrast between the white fingers and the scarlet silk.

When the other guests had left, and Faith and himself had gone to their rooms, Warwick, bent on not passing another sleepless night, went down again to get a book.The library was still lighted, and standing there alone he saw Sylvia, wearing an expression that startled him. Both hands pushed back and held her hair away as if she scorned concealment from herself. Her eyes seemed fixed with a despairing glance on some invisible disturber of her peace. All the light and color that made her beautiful were gone, leaving her face worn and old, and the language of both countenance and attitude was that of one suddenly confronted with some hard fact, some heavy duty, that must be accepted and performed.

This revelation lasted but a moment. Moor’s step came down the hall, the hair fell, the anguish passed, and nothing but a wan and weary face remained. But Warwick had seen it, and as he stole away unperceived he pressed his hands together, saying mournfully within himself, “I was mistaken. God help us all!”

CHAPTER XVII

In the Twilight

If Sylvia needed another trial, to make that hard week harder, it soon came to her in the knowledge that Warwick watched her. She well knew why, and vainly endeavored to conceal from him that which she had succeeded in concealing entirely from others. But he possessed the key to her variable moods; he alone knew that now painful forethought, not caprice, dictated many of her seeming whims, and ruled her simplest action. To others she appeared busy, gay, and full of interest in all about her; to him, the industry was a preventive of forbidden thoughts; the gayety, a daily endeavor to forget; the interest, an anxiety concerning the looks and words of her companions, because she must guard her own.

Sylvia felt something like terror in the presence of this penetrating eye, this daring will; for the vigilance was unflagging and unobtrusive, and with all her efforts she could not read his heart as she felt her own was being read. Adam could act no part, but, bent on learning the truth for the sake of all, he surmounted the dangers of the situation by no artifice, no rash indulgence, but by simply shunning solitary interviews with Sylvia as carefully as the courtesy due his hostess would allow. In walks and drives and general conversation, he bore his part, surprising and delighting those who knew him best by the genial change which seemed to have softened his rugged nature. But the instant the family group fell apart, and Moor’s devotion to his cousin left Sylvia alone, Warwick was away into the wood or out upon the sea, lingering there till some meal, some appointed pleasure, or the evening lamp brought all together. Sylvia understood this, and loved him for it even while she longed to have it otherwise. But Moor reproached him for his desertion, doubly felt since the gentler acquirements made him dearer to his friend. Hating all disguises, Warwick found it hard to withhold the fact which was not his own to give, and, sparing no blame to himself, answered Moor’s playful complaint with a sad sincerity that freed him from all further pleadings, —

“Geoffrey, I have a question to settle and you cannot help me. Leave it to time, and let me come and go as of old, enjoying the social hour when I can, flying to solitude when I must.”

Much as Sylvia had longed to see these friends, she counted the hours of their stay; for the presence of one was a daily disquieting, because spirits would often flag, conversation fail, and an utter weariness creep over her when she could least account for or yield to it. More than once during that week she longed to lay her head on Faith’s kind bosom and ask help. Deep as was her husband’s love, it did not possess the soothing power of a woman’s sympathy, and though is cradled her as tenderly as if she had been a child, Faith’s compassion would have been like motherly arms to fold and foster. But friendly as they soon became, frank as was Faith’s regard for Sylvia, earnest as was Sylvia’s affection for Faith, she never seemed to reach that deeper place where she desired to be. Always when she thought she had found the innermost that each of us seek for in our friend, she felt that Faith drew back, and a reserve as delicate as inflexible barred her approach with chilly gentleness. This seemed so foreign to Faith’s nature that Sylvia pondered and grieved over it till the belief came to her that this woman, so truly excellent and loveworthy, did not desire to receive her confidence, and sometimes a bitter fear assailed her that Warwick was not the only reader of her secret trouble.

All things have an end, and the last day came none too soon for one dweller under that hospitable roof. Faith refused all entreaties to stay, and looked somewhat anxiously at Warwick as Moor turned from herself to him with the same urgency.

“Adam, you will stay? Promise me another week?”

“I never promise, Geoffrey.”

Believing that, as no denial came, his request was granted, Moor gave his whole attention to Faith, who was to leave them in an hour.

“Sylvia, while I help our cousin to select and fasten up the books she likes to take with her, will you fill your prettiest basket with flowers? Servants should not perform these pleasant services for one’s best friends.”

Glad to be away, Sylvia went into the conservatory, and was standing in a corner trimming her basket with ferns when Warwick’s step approached. He did not see her, nor seem intent on following her; he walked slowly, hat in hand, so slowly that he was midway down the leafy lane when Faith’s voice arrested him. She was in haste, as her hurried step and almost breathless words betrayed; and, losing not an instant, she said before they met,—

“Adam, you will come with me? I cannot leave you here.”

“Do you doubt me, Faith?”

“No; but loving women are so weak.”

“So strong, you mean; men are weakest when they love.”

“Adam, will you come?”

“I will follow you; I shall speak with Geoffrey first.”

“Must you tell him so soon?”

“I must.”

Faith’s hand had been on Warwick’s arm; as he spoke the last words she looked up at him for an instant, then without another word turned and hurried back as rapidly as she had come, while Warwick stood where she left him, motionless as if buried in some absorbing thought.

All had passed in a moment, a moment too short, too full of intense surprise, to leave Sylvia time for recollection and betrayal of her presence. Half hidden and wholly unobserved, she had seen the unwonted agitation of Faith’s countenance and manner, had heard Warwick’s softly spoken answers to those eager appeals, and with a great pang had discovered that some tender confidence existed between these two of which she had never dreamed. Sudden as the discovery was its acceptance and belief; for, knowing her own weakness, Sylvia found something like relief in the hope that a new happiness for Warwick had ended all temptation, and in time all pain for herself. Impulsive as ever, she leaned upon the seeming truth, and, making of the fancy a fact, passed into a perfect passion of self-abnegation, thinking, in the brief pause that followed Faith’s departure,—

“This is the change we see in him; this made him watch me, hoping I had forgotten, as I once said and believed. I should be glad, I will be glad, and let him see that even while I suffer I can rejoice in that which helps us both.”

Full of her generous purpose, yet half doubtful how to execute it, Sylvia stepped from the recess where she had stood, and slowly passed toward Warwick, apparently intent on settling her flowery burden as she went. At the first sound of her light step on the walk he turned, feeling at once that she must have heard, and eager to learn what significance that short dialogue possessed for her. Only a hasty glance did she give him as she came, but it showed him flushed cheeks, excited eyes, and lips a little tremulous as they said,—

“These are for Faith; will you hold the basket while I cover it with leaves?”

He took it and as the first green covering was deftly laid, he asked, below his breath,

“Sylvia, did you hear us?”

To his unutterable amazement she looked up clearly, and all her heart was in her voice, as she answered with a fervency he could not doubt,—

“Yes; and I was glad to hear, to know that a nobler woman filled the place I cannot fill. Oh, believe it Adam! and be sure that the knowledge of your happiness will lighten the terrible regret which you have seen as nothing else ever could have done.”

Down fell the basket at their feet, and, taking her face between his hands,Warwick bent and searched with a glance that seemed to penetrate to her heart’s core. For a moment she struggled to escape, but the grasp that held her was immovable. She tried to oppose a steadfast front and baffle that perilous inspection, but quick and deep rushed the traitorous color over cheek and forehead with its mute betrayal. She tried to turn her eyes away, but those other eyes, dark and dilated with intensity of purpose, fixed her own, and the confronting countenance wore an expression which made its familiar features look awfully large and grand to her panic-stricken sight. A sense of utter helplessness fell on her, courage deserted her, pride changed to fear, defiance to despair; as the flush faded, the fugitive glance was arrested and the upturned face became a pale blank, ready to receive the answer that strong scrutiny was slowly bringing to the light, as invisible characters start out upon a page when fire passes over them. Neither spoke, but soon through all opposing barriers the magnetism of an indomitable will drew forth the truth, set free the captive passion pent so long, and wrung from those reluctant lineaments a full confession of his power and her weakness.

The instant this assurance was his own beyond a doubt,Warwick released her, snatched up his hat, and, hurrying down the path, vanished in the wood. Spent as with an hour’s excitement, and bewildered by emotions which she could no longer master, Sylvia lingered in the fern-walk till her husband called her. Then, hastily refilling her basket, she shook her hair about her face and went to bid Faith good-by. Moor was to accompany her to the city, and they left early, that Faith might pause for adieux to Max and Prudence.

“Where is Adam? Has he gone before, or been inveigled into staying?”

Moor spoke to Sylvia; but, busied in fastening the basket-lid, she seemed not to hear, and Faith replied for her,—

“He will take a later boat, we need not wait for him.”

When Faith embraced Sylvia, all the coldness had melted from her manner, and her voice was tender as a mother’s as she whispered low in her ear,—

“Dear child, if ever you need any help that Geoffrey cannot give, remember Cousin Faith.”

For two hours Sylvia sat alone, not idle, for in the first real solitude she had enjoyed for seven days, she looked deeply into herself, and putting by all disguises owned the truth, and resolved to repair the past if possible, as Faith had counselled in the case which she had now made her own. Like so many of us, Sylvia often saw her errors too late to avoid committing them, and, failing to do the right thing at the right moment, kept herself forever in arrears with that creditor who must inevitably be satisfied. She had been coming to this decision all that weary week, and these quiet hours left her both resolute and resigned.

As she sat there while the early twilight began to gather, her eye often turned to Warwick’s travelling-bag, which Faith, having espied it ready in his chamber, had brought down and laid in the library, as a reminder of her wish. As she looked at it, Sylvia’s heart yearned toward it in the fond, foolish way which women have of endowing the possessions of those they love with the attractions of sentient things, and a portion of their owner’s character or claim upon themselves. It was like Warwick, simple and strong, no key, and every mark of the long use which had tested its capabilities and proved them durable. A pair of gloves lay beside it on the chair, and though she longed to touch anything of his, she resisted the temptation till, pausing near them in one of her journeys to the window, she saw a rent in the glove that lay uppermost,—that appeal was irresistible,—“Poor Adam! there has been no one to care for him so long, and Faith does not yet know how; surely I may perform so small a service for him if he never knows how tenderly I do it?”

Standing ready to drop her work at a sound, Sylvia snatched a brief satisfaction which solaced her more than an hour of idle lamentation, and as she put down the glove with eyes that dimly saw where it should be, perhaps there went as much real love and sorrow into that little act as ever glorified some greater deed.Then she went to lie in the “Refuge,” as she had named the ancient chair, with her head on its embracing arm. Not weeping, but quietly watching the flicker of the fire, which filled the room with warm duskiness, making the twilight doubly pleasant, till a sudden blaze leaped up, showing her that her watch was over, and Warwick come. She had not heard him enter, but there he was, close before her, his face glowing with the frosty air, his eye clear and kind, and in his aspect that nameless charm which won for him the confidence of whosoever read his countenance. Scarce knowing why, Sylvia felt reassured that all was well, and looked up with more welcome in her heart than she dared betray in words.

“Come at last! where have you been so long, Adam?”

“Round the Island, I suspect, for I lost my way, and had no guide but instinct to lead me home again. I like to say that word, for though it is not home it seems so to me now. May I sit here before I go, and warm myself at your fire, Sylvia?”

Sure of his answer he established himself in the low lounging-chair beside her, stretched his hands to the grateful blaze, and went on with some inward resolution lending its power and depth to his voice.

“I had a question to settle with myself and went to find my best counsellors in the wood. Often when I am harassed by some perplexity or doubt to which I can find no wise or welcome answer, I walk myself into a belief that it will come; then it appears. I stoop to break a handsome flower, to pick up a cone, or watch some little creature happier than I, and there lies my answer, like a good luck penny, ready to my hand.”

“Faith has gone, but Geoffrey hopes to keep you for another week,” said Sylvia, ignoring one unsafe topic for another.

“Shall he have his wish?”

“Faith expects you to follow her.”

“And you think I ought?”

“I think you will.”

“When does the next boat leave?”

“An hour hence.”

“I’ll wait for it here. Did I wake you coming in?”

“I was not asleep; only lazy, warm, and quiet.”

“And deadly tired;—dear soul, how can it be otherwise, leading the life you lead!”

There was such compassion in his voice, such affection in his eye, such fostering kindliness in the touch of the hand he aid upon her own, that Sylvia cried within herself, “Oh, if Geoffrey would only come!” and, hoping for that help to save her from herself, she hastily replied,—

“You are mistaken, Adam,—my life is easier than I deserve,—I am very—”

“Miserable,—the truth to me, Sylvia.”

Warwick rose as he spoke, closed the door, and came back wearing an expression which caused her to start up with a gesture of entreaty,—

“No, no, I will not hear you! Adam, you must not speak!”

He paused opposite her, leaving a little space between them, which he did not cross through all that followed, and with that look, inflexible yet pitiful, he answered steadily,—

“I must speak and you will hear me. But understand me, Sylvia, I desire and design no French sentiment nor sin like that we heard of, and what I say now I would say if Geoffrey stood between us. I ask nothing for myself. I have settled this point after long thought and the heartiest prayers I ever prayed; but you have much at stake and I speak for your sake, not my own. Therefore do not entreat nor delay, but listen and let me show you the wrong you are doing yourself, your husband, and your friend.”

“Does Faith know all the past? does she desire you to do this that her happiness may be secure?” demanded Sylvia.

“Faith is no more to me, nor I to Faith, than the friendliest regard can make us. She suspected that I loved you long ago; she now believes that you love me; she pities her cousin tenderly, but will not meddle with the tangle we have made of our three lives. But I believe that secrets kill, the truth alone can save and heal; so let me speak. When we parted I thought that you loved Geoffrey; so did you.When I came here I was sure of it for a day; but on that second night I saw your face as you stood here alone, and then I knew what I have since assured myself of. God knows, I think my gain dearly purchased by his loss. I see your double trial; I know the tribulations in store for all of us; yet as an honest man, I must speak out, because you ought not to delude yourself or Geoffrey another day.”

“What right have you to come between us and decide my duty, Adam?” Sylvia spoke passionately, roused to resistance by his manner and the turmoil of emotions warring within her.

“The right of a sane man to save the woman he loves from destroying her own peace forever, and undermining the confidence of the friend dearest to them both. I know this is not the world’s way in such matters; but I care not; because I believe one human creature has a right to speak to another in times like these, as if they two stood alone. I will not command, I will appeal to you, and if you are the candid soul I think you, your own words shall prove the truth of what I say. Sylvia, do you love your husband?”

“Yes, Adam, dearly.”

“More than you love me?”

“I wish I did! I wish I did!”

“Are you happy with him?”

“I was till you came; I shall be when you are gone.”

“It is impossible to go back to the blind tranquillity you once enjoyed. Now a single duty lies before you; delay is weak, deceit is wicked; utter sincerity alone can help us. Tell Geoffrey all; then whether you live your life alone, or stay with him, there is no false dealing to repent of, and looking the hard fact in the face robs it of one half its terrors.Will you do this, Sylvia?”

“No, Adam. Remember what he said that night: ‘I love but few, and those few are my world,’—I am chief in that world; shall I destroy it, for my selfish pleasure? He waited for me very long, is waiting still; can I for a second time disappoint the patient heart that would find it easier to give up life than the poor possession which I am? No, I ought not, dare not do it yet.”

“If you dare not speak the truth to your friend, you do not deserve him, and the name is a lie. You ask me to remember what he said that night,—I ask you to recall the look with which he begged you not to try him too hardly. Put it to yourself,—which is the kinder justice, a full confession now, or a late one hereafter, when longer subterfuge has made it harder for you to offer, bitterer for him to receive? I tell you, Sylvia, it were more merciful to murder him outright than to slowly wear away his faith, his peace, and love by a vain endeavor to perform as a duty what should be your sweetest pleasure, and what will soon become a burden heavier than you can bear.”

“You do not see as I see; you cannot understand what I am to him, nor can I tell you what he is to me. It is not as if I could dislike or despise him for any unworthiness of his own; nor as if he were a lover only.Then I could do much which now is worse than impossible, for I have married him, and it is too late.”

“O Sylvia! why could you not have waited?”

“Why? Because I am what I am, too easily led by circumstances, too entirely possessed by whatever hope, belief, or fear rules me for the hour. Give me a steadfast nature like your own and I will be as strong. I know I am weak, but I am not wilfully wicked; and when I ask you to be silent, it is because I want to save him from the pain of doubt, and try to teach myself to love him as I should. I must have time, but I can bear much and endeavor more persistently than you believe. If I forgot you once, can I not again? and should I not? I am all in all to him, while you, so strong, so self-reliant, can do without my love as you have done till now, and will soon outlive your sorrow for the loss of that which might have made us happy had I been more patient.”

“Yes, I shall outlive it, else I should have little faith in myself. But I shall not forget; and if you would remain forever what you now are to me, you will so act that nothing may mar this memory, since it can be no more. I doubt your power to forget an affection which has survived so many changes and withstood assaults such as Geoffrey must unconsciously have made upon it. But I have no right to condemn your beliefs, to order your actions, or force you to accept my code of morals if you are not ready for it.You must decide, but do not again deceive yourself, and through whatever comes, hold fast to that which is better worth preserving than husband, happiness, or friend,—truth.”

His words fell cold on Sylvia’s ear, for with the inconsistency of a woman’s heart she thought he gave her up too readily, yet honored him more truly for sacrificing both himself and her to the principle that ruled his life and made him what he was. His seeming resignation steadied her, for now he waited her decision, while before he was only bent on executing the purpose wherein he believed salvation lay. She girded up her strength, collected her thoughts, and tried to show him what she believed to be her duty.

“Let me tell you how it is with me, Adam, and be patient if I am not wise and brave like you, but far too young, too ignorant, to bear such troubles well. I am not leaning on my own judgment now, but on Faith’s, and though you do not love her as I hoped, you feel she is one to trust. She said the wife, in that fictitious case which was so real to us,—the wife should leave no effort unmade, no self-denial unexacted, till she had fairly proved that she could not be what she had promised. Then, and then only, had she a right to undo the tie that had bound her. I must do this before I think of your love or my own, for on my marriage morning I made a vow within myself that Geoffrey’s happiness should be the first duty of my life. I shall keep that vow as sacredly as I will those I made before the world, until I find that it is utterly beyond my power, then I will break all together.”

“You have tried that once, and failed.”

“No, I have never tried it as I shall now. At first, I did not know the truth, then I was afraid to believe, and struggled blindly to forget. Now I see clearly, I confess it, I resolve to conquer it, and I will not yield until I have done my best.You say you must respect me. Could you do so if I no longer respected myself ? I should not, if I forgot all Geoffrey had borne and done for me, and could not bear and do this thing for him. I must make the effort, and make it silently; for he is very proud with all his gentleness, and would reject the seeming sacrifice though he would make one doubly hard for love of me. If I am to stay with him, it spares him the bitterest pain he could suffer; if I am to go, it gives him a few more months of happiness, and I may so prepare him that the parting will be less hard. How others would act I cannot tell, I only know that this seems right to me; and I must fight my fight alone, even if I die in doing it.”

She was so earnest, yet so humble; so weak in all but the desire to do well; so young to be tormented with such fateful issues, and withal so steadfast in the grateful yet remorseful tenderness she bore her husband, that though sorely disappointed and not one whit convinced, Warwick could only submit to this woman-hearted child, and love her with redoubled love, both for what she was and what she aspired to be.

“Sylvia, what can I do to help you?”

“You must go away, Adam; because when you are near me my will is swayed by yours, and what you desire I long to do. Go quite away, and through Faith you may learn whether I succeed or fail. It is hard to say this, yet you know it is a truer hospitality in me to send you from my door than to detain and offer you temptation for your daily bread.”

It was hard to submit; for though he asked nothing for himself, he longed intensely to share in some way the burden that he could not lighten.

“Ah, Sylvia! I thought that parting on the mountain was the hardest I could ever know, but this is harder; for now I know I have but to say Come to me! and you would come.”

But the bitter moment had its drop of honey, whose sweetness nourished him when all else failed. Sylvia answered with a perfect confidence in that integrity which even her own longing could not bribe,—

“Yes, Adam, but you will not say it, because, feeling as I feel, you know I must not come to you.”

He did know it, and confessed his submission by folding fast the arms half opened for her, and standing dumb with the words trembling on his lips. It was the bravest action of a life full of real valor, for the sacrifice was not made with more than human fortitude. The man’s heart clamored for its right, patience was weary, hope despaired, and all natural instincts mutinied against the command that bound them. But no grain of virtue ever falls wasted to the ground; it drops back upon its giver a re-gathered strength, and cannot fail of its reward in some kindred soul’s approval, imitation, or delight. It was so then, as Sylvia went to him; for though she did not touch nor smile upon him, he felt her nearness; and the parting assured him that its power bound them closer than the happiest union. In her face there shone a look half fervent, half devout, and her voice had no falter in it now.

“You show me what I should be. All my life I have desired strength of heart and stability of soul; may I not hope to earn for myself a little of the integrity I love in you? If courage, self-denial, and self-help make you what you are, can I have a more effectual guide? You say you shall outlive this passion; why should not I imitate your brave example, and find the consolations you shall find? O Adam, let me try.”

“You shall.”

“Then go; go now, while I can say it as I should.”

“The good Lord bless and help you, Sylvia.”

She gave him both her hands, but though he only pressed them silently, that pressure nearly destroyed the victory she had won; for the strong grasp snapped the slender guard-ring Moor had given her a week ago. She heard it drop with a golden tinkle on the hearth, saw the dark oval, with its doubly significant character, roll into the ashes, and felt Warwick’s hold tighten as if he echoed the emphatic word uttered when the ineffectual gift was first bestowed. Superstition flowed in Sylvia’s blood, and was as unconquerable as the imagination which supplied its food. This omen startled her. It seemed a forewarning that endeavor would be vain, that submission was wisdom, and that the husband’s charm had lost its virtue when the stronger power claimed her.The desire to resist began to waver as the old passionate longing sprang up more eloquent than ever; she felt the rush of a coming impulse, knew that it would sweep her into Warwick’s arms, there to forget her duty, to forfeit his respect. With the last effort of a sorely tried spirit she tore her hands away, fled up to the room which had never needed lock or key till now, and stifling the sound of those departing steps among the cushions of the couch where she had already hidden many tears, she struggled with the great sorrow of her too early womanhood, uttering with broken voice that petition oftenest quoted from the one prayer which expresses all our needs,—

“Lead me not into temptation, but deliver me from evil.”

CHAPTER XVIII

Asleep and Awake

March winds were howling round the house, the clock was striking two, the library lamp still burned, and Moor sat writing with an anxious face. Occasionally he paused to look backward through the leaves of the book in which he wrote; sometimes he sat with suspended pen, thinking deeply; and once or twice he laid it down, to press his hand over eyes more weary than the mind that compelled them to this late service.

Returning to his work after one of these pauses, he was a little startled to see Sylvia standing on the threshold of the door. Rising hastily to ask if she were ill, he stopped half-way across the room, for, with a thrill of apprehension and surprise, he saw that she was asleep. Her eyes were open, fixed, and vacant, her face reposeful, her breathing regular, and every sense apparently wrapped in the profoundest unconsciousness. Fearful of awakening her too suddenly, Moor stood motionless, yet full of interest, for this was his first experience of somnambulism, and it was a strange, almost an awful sight, to witness the blind obedience of the body to the soul that ruled it.

For several minutes she remained where she first appeared. Then, as if the dream demanded action, she stooped, and seemed to take some object from a chair beside the door, held it an instant, kissed it softly and laid it down. Slowly and steadily she went across the room, avoiding all obstacles with the unerring instinct that often leads the sleep-walker through dangers that appall his waking eyes, and sat down in the great chair he had left, leaned her cheek upon its arm, and rested tranquilly for several minutes. Soon the dream disturbed her, and, lifting her head, she bent forward, as if addressing or caressing some one seated at her feet. Involuntarily her husband smiled; for often when they were alone he sat there reading or talking to her, while she played with his hair, likening its brown abundance to young Shelley’s curling locks in the picture overhead. The smile had hardly risen when it was scared away; for Sylvia suddenly sprang up with both hands out, crying in a voice that rent the silence with its imploring energy,—

“No, no, you must not speak! I will not hear you!”

Her own cry woke her. Consciousness and memory returned together, and her face whitened with a look of terror, as her bewildered eyes showed her not Warwick, but her husband. This look, so full of fear, yet so intelligent, startled Moor more than the apparition or the cry had done, for a conviction flashed into his mind that some unsuspected trouble had been burdening Sylvia, and was now finding vent against her will. Anxious to possess himself of the truth, and bent on doing so, he veiled his purpose for a time, letting his unchanged manner reassure and compose her.

“Dear child, don’t look so lost and wild.You are quite safe, and have only been wandering in your sleep. Why, Lady Macbeth, have you murdered some one, that you go crying out in this uncanny way, frightening me as much as I seem to have frightened you?”

“I have murdered sleep. What did I do? what did I say?” she asked, trembling and shrinking as she dropped into her chair.

Hoping to quiet her, he took his place on the low seat, and told her what had passed. At first, she listened with a divided mind, for so strongly was she still impressed with the vividness of the dream, she half expected Warwick to rise like Banquo, and claim the seat that a single occupancy seemed to have made his own. An expression of intense relief replaced that of fear, when she had heard all, and she composed herself with the knowledge that her secret was still hers. For, dreary bosom-guest as it was, she had not yet resolved to end her trial.

“What set you walking, Sylvia?”

“I recollect hearing the clock strike one, and thinking I would come down to see what you were doing so late, but must have dropped off and carried out my design asleep.You see I put on wrapper and slippers as I always do when I take nocturnal rambles awake. How pleasant the fire feels, and how cosey you look here; no wonder you like to stay and enjoy it.”

She leaned forward, warming her hands in unconscious imitation of Adam, on the night which she had been recalling before she slept. Moor watched her with increasing disquiet; for never had he seen her in a mood like this. She evaded his question, she averted her eyes, she half hid her face, and with a gesture that of late had grown habitual, seemed to try to hide her heart. Often had she baffled him, sometimes grieved him, but never before showed that she feared him.This wounded both his love and pride, and this fixed his resolution to wring from her an explanation of the changes which had passed over her during those winter months, for they had been many and mysterious. As if she feared silence, Sylvia soon spoke again.

“Why are you up so late? This is not the first time I have seen your lamp burning when I woke.What are you studying so deeply?”

“My wife.”

Leaning on the arm of her chair, he looked up wistfully, tenderly, as if inviting confidence, suing for affection. The words, the look, smote Sylvia to the heart, and but for the thought, “I have not tried long enough,” she would have uttered the confession that leaped to her lips. Once spoken, it would be too late for secret effort or success, and this man’s happiest hopes would vanish in a breath. Knowing that his nature was almost as sensitively fastidious as a woman’s, she also knew that the discovery of her love for Adam, innocent as it had been, self-denying as it tried to be, would mar the beauty of his wedded life for Moor. No hour of it would seem sacred, no act, look, or word of hers entirely his own, nor any of the dear delights of home remain undarkened by the shadow of his friend. She could not speak yet, and, turning her eyes to the fire, she asked,—

“Why study me? Have you no better book?”

“None that I love to read so well or have such need to understand; because, though nearest and dearest as you are to me, I seem to know you less than any friend I have. I do not wish to wound you, dear, nor be exacting; but since we were married you have grown more shy than ever, and the act which should have drawn us tenderly together seems to have estranged us. You never talk now of yourself, or ask me to explain the working of that busy mind of yours; and lately you have sometimes shunned me, as if solitude were pleasanter than my society. Is it, Sylvia?”

“Sometimes; I always liked to be alone, you know.”

She answered as truly as she could, feeling that his love demanded every confidence but the one cruel one which would destroy its peace past help.

“I knew I had a most tenacious heart, but I hoped it was not a selfish one,” he sorrowfully said. “Now I see that it is, and deeply regret that my hopeful spirit, my impatient love, has brought disappointment to us both. I should have waited longer, should have been less confident of my own power to win you, and never let you waste your life in vain endeavors to be happy when I was not all to you that you expected. I should not have consented to your wish to spend the winter here so much alone with me. I should have known that such a quiet home and studious companion could not have many charms for a young girl like you. Forgive me, I will do better, and this one-sided life of ours shall be changed; for while I have been happy you have been miserable.”

It was impossible to deny it, and with a tearless sob she laid her arm about his neck, her head on his shoulder, and mutely confessed the truth of what he said.The trouble deepened in his face, but he spoke out more cheerfully, believing that he had found the secret sorrow.

“Thank heaven, nothing is past mending; and we will yet be happy. An entire change shall be made; you shall no longer devote yourself to me, but I to you.Will you go abroad, and forget this dismal home until its rest grows inviting, Sylvia?”

“No, Geoffrey, not yet. I will learn to make the home pleasant, I will work harder, and leave no time for ennui and discontent. I promised to make your happiness, and I can do it better here than anywhere. Let me try again.”

“No, Sylvia, you work too hard already; you do everything with such vehemence you wear out your body before your will is weary, and that brings melancholy. I am very credulous, but when I see that acts belie words I cease to believe. These months assure me that you are not happy; have I found the secret thorn that frets you?”

She did not answer, for truth she could not, and falsehood she would not, give him. He rose, went walking to and fro, searching memory, heart, and conscience for any other cause, but found none, and saw only one way out of his bewilderment. He drew a chair before her, sat down, and, looking at her with the masterful expression dominant in his face, asked briefly,—

“Sylvia, have I been tyrannical, unjust, unkind, since you came to me?”

“O Geoffrey, too generous, too just, too tender!”

“Have I claimed any rights but those you gave me? entreated or demanded any sacrifices knowingly and wilfully?”

“Never.”

“Now I do claim my right to know your heart; I do entreat and demand one thing, your confidence.”

Then she felt that the hour had come, and tried to prepare to meet it as she should by remembering that she had endeavored prayerfully, desperately, despairingly, to do her duty, and had failed. Warwick was right, she could not forget him. There was such vitality in the man and in the sentiment he inspired, that it endowed his memory with a power more potent than the visible presence of her husband. The knowledge of his love now undid the work that ignorance had helped patience and pride to achieve before. Once she had held the secret, now it held her; the hidden wound was poisoning her life, and tempting her to escape by thoughts of death. Now she saw the wisdom of Adam’s warning, and felt that he knew both his friend’s heart and her own better than herself. Now she bitterly regretted that she had not spoken out when he was there to help her, and before the least deceit had taken the dignity from sorrow. Nevertheless, though she trembled she resolved; and while Moor spoke on, she made ready to atone for past silence by a perfect loyalty to truth.

“My wife, concealment is not generosity, for the heaviest trouble shared together could not so take the sweetness from my life, the charm from home, or make me more miserable than this want of confidence. It is a double wrong, because you not only mar my peace but destroy your own by wasting health and happiness in vain endeavors to bear some grief alone.Your eye seldom meets mine now, your words are measured, your actions cautious, your innocent gayety all gone.You hide your heart from me, you hide your face; I seem to have lost the frank girl whom I loved, and found a melancholy woman, who suffers silently till her honest nature rebels, and brings her to confession in her sleep. There is no page of my life which I have not freely shown you; do I not deserve an equal candor? Shall I not receive it?”

“Yes!”

“Sylvia, what stands between us?”

“Adam Warwick.”

Earnest as a prayer, brief as a command, had been the question; instantaneous was the reply, as Sylvia knelt down before him, put back the veil that should never hide her from him any more, looked up into her husband’s face without one shadow in her own, and steadily told all.

The revelation was too utterly unexpected, too difficult of belief, to be at once accepted or understood. Moor started at the name, then leaned forward, breathless and intent, as if to seize the words before they left her lips; words that recalled incidents and acts dark and unmeaning till the spark of intelligence fired a long train of memories and enlightened him with terrible rapidity. Blinded by his own devotion and the knowledge of Adam’s character, the thought that he loved Sylvia never had occurred to him, and seemed incredible even when her own lips told it. She had been right in fearing the effect this knowledge would have upon him. It stung his pride, wounded his heart, and for a time at least marred his faith in love and friendship. As the truth broke over him, cold and bitter as a billow of the sea, she saw gathering in his face the still white grief and indignation of an outraged spirit, suffering with all a woman’s pain, with all a man’s intensity of passion. His eye grew fiery and stern, the veins rose dark upon his forehead, the lines about the mouth showed hard and grim, the whole face altered terribly. As she looked, Sylvia thanked heaven that Warwick was not there to feel the sudden atonement for an innocent offence which his friend might have exacted before this natural temptation had passed by.

“Now I have given all my confidence, though I may have broken both our hearts in doing it. I do not hope for pardon yet, but I am sure of pity, and I leave my fate in your hands. Geoffrey, what shall I do?”

“Wait for me.” And, putting her away, Moor left the room.

Suffering too much in mind to remember that she had a body, Sylvia remained where she was, and leaning her head upon her hands tried to recall what had passed, to nerve herself for what was to come. Her first sensation was one of unutterable relief. The long struggle was over; the haunting care was gone; there was nothing now to conceal; she might be herself again, and her spirit rose with something of its old elasticity as the heavy burden was removed. A moment she enjoyed this hard-won freedom; then the memory that the burden was not lost, but laid on other shoulders, filled her with an anguish too sharp to find vent in tears, too deep to leave any hope of cure except in action. But how act? She had performed the duty so long, so vainly delayed, and when the first glow of satisfaction passed, found redoubled anxiety, regret, and pain before her. Clear and hard the truth stood there, and no power of hers could recall the words that showed it to her husband, could give them back the early blindness, or the later vicissitudes of hope and fear. In the long silence that filled the room she had time to calm her perturbation and comfort her remorse by the vague but helpful belief which seldom deserts sanguine spirits, that something, as yet unseen and unsuspected, would appear to heal the breach, to show what was to be done, and to make all happy in the end.

Where Moor went or how long he stayed Sylvia never knew, but when at length he came, her first glance showed her that pride is as much to be dreaded as passion. No gold is without alloy, and now she saw the shadow of a nature which had seemed all sunshine. She knew he was very proud, but never thought to be the cause of its saddest manifestation: one which showed her that its presence could make the silent sorrow of a just and gentle man a harder trial to sustain than the hottest anger, the bitterest reproach. Scarcely paler than when he went, there was no sign of violent emotion in his countenance. His eye shone keen and dark, an anxious fold crossed his forehead, and a melancholy gravity replaced the cheerful serenity his face once wore. Wherein the alteration lay Sylvia could not tell, but over the whole man some subtle change had passed. The sudden frost which had blighted the tenderest affection of his life seemed to have left its chill behind, robbing his manner of its cordial charm, his voice of its heartsome ring, and giving him the look of one who sternly said, “I must suffer, but it shall be alone.”

Cold and quiet, he stood regarding her with a strange expression, as if endeavoring to realize the truth, and see in her not his wife but Warwick’s lover. Oppressed by the old fear, now augmented by a measureless regret, she could only look up at him, feeling that her husband had become her judge. Yet as she looked she was conscious of a momentary wonder at the seeming transposition of character in the two so near and dear to her. Strong-hearted Warwick wept like any child, but accepted his disappointment without complaint and bore it manfully. Moor, from whom she would sooner have expected such demonstration, grew stormy first, then stern, as she once believed his friend would have done. She forgot that Moor’s pain was the sharper, his wound the deeper, for the patient hope cherished so long; the knowledge that he never had been loved as he loved; the sense of wrong that could not but burn even in the meekest heart at such a late discovery, such an entire loss.

Sylvia spoke first, not audibly, but with a little gesture of supplication, a glance of sorrowful submission. He answered both, not by lamentation or reproach, but by just enough of his accustomed tenderness in touch and tone to make her tears break forth, as he placed her in the ancient chair so often occupied together, took the one opposite, and, sweeping a clear space on the table between them, looked across it with the air of a man bent on seeing his way and following it at any cost.

“Now, Sylvia, I can listen as I should.”

“O Geoffrey, what can I say?”

“Repeat all you have already told me. I only gathered one fact then, now I want the circumstances, for I find this confession difficult of belief.”

Perhaps no sterner expiation could have been required of her than to sit there, face to face, eye to eye, and tell again that little history of thwarted love and fruitless endeavor. Excitement had given her courage for the first confession, now it was torture to carefully repeat what had poured freely from her lips before. But she did it, glad to prove her penitence by any test he might apply. Tears often blinded her, uncontrollable emotion often arrested her; and more than once she turned on him a beseeching look, which asked as plainly as words, “Must I go on?”

Intent on learning all, Moor was unconscious of the trial he imposed, unaware that the change in himself was the keenest reproach he could have made, and still, with a persistency as gentle as inflexible, he pursued his purpose to the end. When great drops rolled down her cheeks he dried them silently; when she paused, he waited till she calmed herself; and when she spoke, he listened with few interruptions but a question now and then. Occasionally a sudden flush of passionate pain swept across his face, as some phrase, implying rather than expressing Warwick’s love or Sylvia’s longing, escaped the narrator’s lips; and when she described their parting on that very spot, his eye went from her to the hearth her words seemed to make desolate, with a glance she never could forget. But when the last question was answered, the last appeal for pardon brokenly uttered, nothing but the pale pride remained; and his voice was cold and quiet as his mien.

“Yes, it is this which has baffled and kept me groping in the dark so long, for I wholly trusted what I wholly loved.”

“Alas, it was that very confidence that made my task seem so necessary and so hard. How often I longed to go to you with my great trouble as I used to do with lesser ones! But here you would suffer more than I; and, having done the wrong, it was for me to pay the penalty. So, like many another weak yet willing soul, I tried to keep you happy at all costs.”

“One frank word before I married you would have spared us this. Could you not foresee the end and dare to speak it, Sylvia?”

“I see it now, I did not then, else I would have spoken as freely as I speak to-night. I thought I had outlived my love for Adam; it seemed kind to spare you a knowledge that would disturb your friendship, so, though I told the truth, I did not tell it all. I thought temptations came from without; I could withstand such, and I did, even when it wore Adam’s shape. This temptation came so suddenly, seemed so harmless, generous, and just, that I yielded to it, unconscious that it was one. Surely I deceived myself as cruelly as I did you, and God knows I have tried to atone for it when time taught me the fatal error of yielding to a mood.”

“Poor child, it was too soon for you to play the perilous game of hearts. I should have known it, and left you to the safe and simple joys of girlhood. Forgive me that I have kept you a prisoner so long; take off the fetter I put on, and go, Sylvia.”

“No, do not put me from you yet; do not think that I can hurt you so, and then be glad to leave you suffering alone. Look like your kind self if you can; talk to me as you used to; let me show you my heart and you will see how large a place you fill in it. Let me begin again, for now the secret is told, there is no fear to keep out love; and I can give my whole strength to learning the lesson you have tried so patiently to teach.”

“You cannot, Sylvia. We are as much divorced as if judge and jury had decided the righteous but hard separation for us.You can never be a wife to me with an unconquerable affection in your heart; I can never be your husband while the shadow of a fear remains. I will have all or nothing.”

“Adam foretold this. He knew you best, and I should have followed the brave counsel he gave me long ago. Oh, if he were only here to help us now!”

The desire broke from Sylvia’s lips involuntarily as she turned for strength to the strong soul that loved her. But it was like wind to smouldering fire; a pang of jealousy wrung Moor’s heart, and he spoke out with a flash of the eye that startled Sylvia more than the rapid change of voice and manner.

“Hush! Say anything of yourself or me, and I can bear it, but spare me the sound of Adam’s name to-night. A man’s nature is not forgiving like a woman’s, and the best of us harbor impulses you know nothing of. If I am to lose wife, friend, and home, for God’s sake leave me my self-respect.”

All the coldness and pride passed from Moor’s face as the climax of his sorrow came; with an impetuous gesture he threw his arms across the table, and laid down his head in a paroxysm of tearless suffering such as men only know.

How Sylvia longed to speak! But what consolation could the tenderest words supply? She searched for some alleviating suggestion, some happier hope; none came. Her eye turned to the pictured Fates above her as if imploring them to aid her. But they looked back at her inexorably dumb, and instinctively her thought passed beyond them to the Ruler of all fates, asking the help which never is refused. No words embodied her appeal, no sound expressed it, only a voiceless cry from the depths of a contrite spirit, owning its weakness, making known its want. She prayed for submission, but her deeper need was seen, and when she asked for patience to endure, Heaven sent her power to act, and out of this sharp trial brought her a better strength and clearer knowledge of herself than years of smoother experience could have bestowed. A sense of security, of stability, came to her as that entire reliance assured her by its all-sustaining power that she had found what she most needed to make life clear to her and duty sweet.With her face in her hands, she sat, forgetful that she was not alone, as in that brief but precious moment she felt the exceeding comfort of a childlike faith in the one Friend who, when we are deserted by all, even by ourselves, puts forth His hand and gathers us tenderly to Himself.

Her husband’s voice recalled her, and looking up she showed him such an earnest, patient countenance, it touched him like an unconscious rebuke.The first tears she had seen rose to his eyes, and all the old tenderness came back into his voice, softening the dismissal which had been more coldly begun.

“Dear, silence and rest are best for both of us to-night. We cannot treat this trouble as we should till we are calmer; then we will take counsel how soonest to end what never should have been begun. Forgive me, pray for me, and in sleep forget me for a little while.”

He held the door for her, but as she passed Sylvia lifted her face for the good-night caress without which she had never left him since she became his wife. She did not speak, but her eye humbly besought this token of forgiveness; nor was it denied. Moor laid his hand upon her lips, and kissed her on the forehead.

Such a little thing: but it overcame Sylvia with the sorrowful certainty of the loss which had befallen both, and she crept away, feeling herself an exile from the heart and home whose happy mistress she might have been.

Moor watched the little figure going upward, and weeping softly as it went, as if he echoed the sad “never any more,” which those tears expressed, and when it vanished with a backward look, shut himself in alone with his great sorrow.

CHAPTER XIX

What Next?

Sylvia laid her head down on her pillow, believing that this night would be the longest, saddest she had ever known. But before she had time to sigh for sleep it wrapped her in its comfortable arms, and held her till day broke. Sunshine streamed across the room, and early birds piped on the budding boughs that swayed before the window. But no morning smile saluted her, no morning flower awaited her, and nothing but a little note lay on the unpressed pillow at her side.

“Sylvia, I have gone away to Faith, because this proud, resentful spirit of mine must be subdued before I meet you. I leave that behind me which will speak to you more kindly, calmly, than I can now, and show you that my effort has been equal to my failure. There is nothing for me to do but submit; manfully if I must, meekly if I can; and this short exile will prepare me for the longer one to come. Take counsel with those nearer and dearer to you than myself, and secure the happiness which I have so ignorantly delayed, but cannot wilfully destroy. God be with you, and through all that is and is to come, remember that you remain beloved forever in the heart of Geoffrey Moor.”

Sylvia had known many sad uprisings, but never a sadder one than this, and the hours that followed aged her more than any year had done. All day she wandered aimlessly to and fro, for the inward conflict would not let her rest. The house seemed home no longer when its presiding genius was gone, and everywhere some token of his former presence touched her with its mute reproach.

She asked no counsel of her family, for well she knew the outburst of condemnation, incredulity, and grief that would assail her there. They could not help her yet; they would only augment perplexities, weaken convictions, and distract her mind. When she was sure of herself she would tell them, endure their indignation and regret, and steadily execute the new purpose, whatever it should be.

To many it might seem an easy task to break the bond that burdened and assume the tie that blessed. But Sylvia had grown wise in self-knowledge, timorous through self-delusion; therefore the greater the freedom given her, the more she hesitated to avail herself of it.The nobler each friend grew as she turned from one to the other, the more impossible seemed the decision; for generous spirit and loving heart contended for the mastery, yet neither won. She knew that Moor had put her from him never to be recalled till some miracle was wrought that should make her truly his.This renunciation showed her how much he had become to her, how entirely she had learned to lean upon him, and how great a boon such perfect love was in itself. Even the prospect of a life with Warwick brought forebodings with its hope. Reason made her listen to many doubts which hitherto passion had suppressed. Would she never tire of his unrest? Could she fill so large a heart and give it power as well as warmth? Might not the two wills clash, the ardent natures inflame one another, the stronger intellect exhaust the weaker, and disappointment come again? And as she asked these questions, conscience, the monitor whom no bribe can tempt, no threat silence, invariably answered “Yes.”

But chief among the cares that beset her was one that grew more burdensome with thought. By her own will she had put her liberty into another’s keeping; law confirmed the act, gospel sanctioned the vow, and it could only be redeemed by paying the costly price demanded of those who own that they have drawn a blank in the lottery of marriage. Public opinion is a grim ghost that daunts the bravest, and Sylvia knew that trials lay before her from which she would shrink and suffer, as only a woman sensitive and proud as she could shrink and suffer. Once apply this remedy, and any tongue would have the power to wound, any eye to insult with pity or contempt, any stranger to criticise or condemn, and she would have no means of redress, no place of refuge, even in that stronghold, Adam’s heart.

All that dreary day she wrestled with these stubborn facts, but could neither mould nor modify them as she would, and evening found her spent, but not decided. Too excited for sleep, yet too weary for exertion, she turned bedward, hoping that the darkness and the silence of night would bring good counsel, if not rest.

Till now she had shunned the library as one shuns the spot where one has suffered most. But as she passed the open door, the gloom that reigned within seemed typical of that which had fallen on its absent master, and, following the impulse of the moment, Sylvia went in to light it with the little glimmer of her lamp. Nothing had been touched; for no hand but her own preserved the order of this room, and all household duties had been neglected on that day.The old chair stood where she had left it, and over its arm was thrown the velvet coat Moor liked to wear at this household trysting-place. Sylvia bent to fold it smoothly as it hung, and, feeling that she must solace herself with some touch of tenderness, laid her cheek against the soft garment, whispering “Good-night.” Something glittered on the cushion of the chair, and looking nearer she found a steel-clasped book, upon the cover of which lay a dead heliotrope, a little key.

It was Moor’s Diary, and now she understood that passage of the note which had been obscure before. “I leave that behind me which will speak to you more kindly, calmly, than I can now, and show you that my effort has been equal to my failure.” She had often begged to read it, threatened to pick the lock, and felt the strongest curiosity to learn what was contained in the long entries that he daily made. Her requests had always been answered with the promise of entire possession of the book when the year was out. Now he gave it, though the year was not gone, and many leaves were yet unfilled. He thought she would come to this room first, would see her morning flower laid ready for her, and, sitting in what they called their Refuge, would draw some comfort for herself, some palliation for his innocent offence, from the record so abruptly ended.

She took it, went away to her own room, unlocked the short romance of his wedded life, and found her husband’s heart laid bare before her.

It was a strange and solemn thing to look so deeply into the private experience of a fellow-being; to trace the birth and progress of purposes and passions, the motives of action, the secret aspirations, the besetting sins that made up the inner life he had been leading beside her. Moor wrote with an eloquent sincerity, because he had put himself into his book, as if, feeling the need of some confidante, he had chosen the only one that pardons egotism. Here, too, Sylvia saw her chameleon self, etched with loving care, endowed with all gifts and graces, studied with unflagging zeal, and made the idol of a life.

Often a tuneful spirit seemed to assert itself, and, passing from smooth prose to smoother poetry, sonnet, song, or psalm, flowed down the page in cadences stately, sweet, or solemn, filling the reader with delight at the discovery of a gift so genuine, yet so shyly folded up within itself, unconscious that its modesty was the surest token of its worth. More than once Sylvia laid her face into the book, and added her involuntary comment on some poem or passage made pathetic by the present; more than once paused to wonder, with exceeding wonder, why she could not give such genius and affection its reward; and more than once asked the Maker of these mysterious hearts of ours to work the miracle which should change a tender friendship to an undying love.

All night she lay there like some pictured Magdalene, purer but as penitent as Correggio’s Mary, with the book, the lamp, the melancholy eyes, the golden hair that painters love. All night she read, gathering courage and consolation from those pages; for seeing what she was not showed her what she might become, and when she turned the little key upon that story without an end, Sylvia the girl was dead, but Sylvia the woman had begun to live.

Lying in the rosy hush of dawn, there came to her a sudden memory,—

“If ever you need help that Geoffrey cannot give, remember Cousin Faith.”

This was the hour Faith foresaw. Moor had gone to her with his trouble; why not follow, and let this woman, wise, discreet, and gentle, show her what should come next?

The newly risen sun saw Sylvia away upon her journey to Faith’s home among the hills. She lived alone, a cheerful, busy, solitary soul, demanding little of others, yet giving freely to whomsoever asked an alms of her.

Sylvia found the gray cottage nestled in a hollow of the mountain side; a pleasant hermitage, secure and still. Mistress and maid composed the household, but none of the gloom of isolation darkened the sunshine that pervaded it; peace seemed to sit upon its threshold, content to brood under its eaves, and the atmosphere of home to make it beautiful.

When some momentous purpose or event absorbs us, we break through fears and formalities, act out ourselves, forgetful of reserve, and use the plainest phrases to express emotions which need no ornament and little aid from language. Sylvia illustrated this fact then; for, without hesitation or embarrassment, she entered Miss Dane’s door, called no servant to announce her, but went, as if by instinct, straight to the room where Faith sat alone, and with the simplest greeting asked,—

“Is Geoffrey here?”

“He was an hour ago, and will be an hour hence. I sent him out to rest, for he cannot sleep. I am glad you came to him; he has not learned to do without you yet.”

With no bustle of surprise or sympathy Faith put away her work, took off the hat and cloak, drew her guest beside her on the couch before the one deep window looking down the valley, and gently chafing the chilly hands in warm ones, said nothing more till Sylvia spoke.

“He has told you all the wrong I have done him?”

“Yes, and found a little comfort here. Do you need consolation also?”

“Can you ask? But I need something more, and no one can give it to me so well as you. I want to be set right, to hear things called by their true names, to be taken out of myself and made to see why I am always doing wrong while trying to do well.”

“Your father, sister, or brother, is fitter for that task than I. Have you tried them?”

“No, and I will not. They love me, but they could not help me; for they would beg me to conceal if I cannot forget, to endure if I cannot conquer, and abide by my mistake at all costs.That is not the help I want. I desire to know the one just thing to be done, and to be made brave enough to do it, though friends lament, gossips clamor, and the heavens fall. I am in earnest now. Rate me sharply, drag out my weaknesses, shame my follies, show no mercy to my selfish hopes; and when I can no longer hide from myself put me in the way I should go, and I will follow it though my feet bleed at every step.”

She was in earnest now, terribly so, but still Faith drew back, though her compassionate face belied her hesitating words.

“Adam is wise and just, but he, as well as Geoffrey, loves me too well to decide for me.” Sylvia went on: “You stand between them, wise as the one, gentle as the other, and you do not care for me enough to let affection hoodwink reason. Faith, you bade me come; do not cast me off, for if you shut your heart against me I know not where to go.”

Despairingly she spoke, disconsolate she looked, and Faith’s reluctance vanished. The maternal aspect returned, her voice resumed its warmth, her eye its benignity, and Sylvia was reassured before a word was spoken.

“I do not cast you off, nor shut my heart against you. I only hesitated to assume such responsibility, and shrank from the task because of compassion, not coldness. Sit here, and tell me all your trouble, Sylvia.”

“That is so kind! It seems quite natural to turn to you as if I had a claim upon you. Let me have; and if you can, love me a little, because I have no mother, and need one very much.”

“My child, you shall not need one any more.”

“I feel that, and am comforted already.Tell me first which of the two who love me I should have married had fate given me a choice in time.”

“Neither.”

Sylvia paled and trembled, as if the oracle she had invoked was an unanswerable voice pronouncing the truth she must abide by.

“Why, Faith?”

“Because you were too young, too unstable, and guided by impulse, not by principle. You, of all women, should have waited long, chosen carefully, and guarded yourself from every shadow of doubt before it was too late.”

“Had I done so, would it have been safe and happy to have loved Adam?”

“No, Sylvia, never.”

“Why, Faith?”

“If you were blind, a cripple, or cursed with some incurable infirmity of body, would you not hesitate to bind yourself and your affliction to another?”

“You know I should not only hesitate, but utterly refuse.”

“I do know it, therefore I venture to tell you why, according to my belief, you should not marry Adam. There are diseases more subtle and dangerous than any that vex our flesh,—diseases that should be as carefully cured, if curable, as inexorably prevented from increasing, as any malady we dread. A feeble will, a morbid mind, a mad temper, an evil heart, a blind soul, are afflictions to be as much regarded as bodily infirmities; nay, more, inasmuch as souls are of greater value than perishable flesh. Where this is religiously taught, believed, and practised, marriage becomes, in truth, a sacrament blessed of God; children thank parents for the gift of life; parents see in children living satisfactions and rewards, not reproaches or retributions doubly heavy to be borne, for the knowledge that where two sinned, many must inevitably suffer.”

“You try to tell me gently, Faith, but I see that you consider me one of the innocent unfortunates, who have no right to marry till they be healed, perhaps never. I have dimly felt this during the past year, now I know it, and thank God that I have no child to reproach me hereafter for bequeathing it the mental ills I have not yet outlived.”

“Dear Sylvia, you are an exceptional case in all respects, because an extreme one.The ancient theology of two contending spirits in one body is strangely exemplified in you, for each rules by turn, and each helps or hinders as moods and circumstances lead. Even in the great event of a woman’s life you were thwarted by conflicting powers,—impulse and ignorance, passion and pride, hope and despair. Now you stand at the parting of the ways, looking wistfully along the pleasant one where love seems to beckon, while I point down the rugged one that leads to duty, and, though my heart aches as I do it, counsel you as I would a daughter of my own.”

“I thank you; I will follow you, but life looks very barren.”

“Not as barren as if you possessed your desire, and found in it another misery and mistake. Could you love Geoffrey, it would be safe and well with you; loving Adam, it would be neither. Let me show you why. He is an exception like yourself; perhaps that explains your attraction for each other. In him the head rules, in Geoffrey the heart. The one criticises, the other loves, mankind. Geoffrey is proud and private in all that lies nearest him, clings to persons, and is faithful as a woman. Adam has only the pride of an intellect which tests all things and abides by its own insight. He clings to principles; persons are but animated facts or ideas; he seizes, searches, uses them, and when they have no more for him, drops them like the husk, whose kernel he has secured; passing on to find and study other samples without regret, but with unabated zeal. For life to him is perpetual progress, and he obeys the law of his nature as steadily as sun or sea. Is not this so?”

“All true; what more, Faith?”

“Few women, if wise, would dare to marry this man, noble as he is, till time has tamed and experience developed him. Even then the risk is great, for he demands and unconsciously absorbs into himself the personality of others, making large returns, but of a kind which only those as strong, sagacious, and steadfast as himself can receive and adapt to their individual uses, without being overcome and possessed. That none of us should be, except by the Spirit stronger than man, purer than woman.You feel, though you do not understand this power.You know that his presence excites, yet wearies you; that, while you love, you fear him, and even when you long to be all in all to him, you doubt your ability to make his happiness. Am I not right?”

“I must say yes.”

“Then it is scarcely necessary for me to tell you that I think this unequal marriage would be but a brief one for you; bright at the beginning, dark at its end. With him you would exhaust yourself in passionate endeavors to follow where he led. He would not see this; you would not confess it, but too late you would both learn that you were too young, too frail in all but the strength of love, to be his wife. It is like a wood bird mating with an eagle; straining its little wings to scale the sky with him, blinding itself with gazing at the sun, vainly striving to fill and warm the wild eyrie, and perishing in the stern solitude the other loves.”

“Faith, you frighten me! You seem to see and show me all the dim forebodings I have hidden away from myself because I could not understand or dared not face them. How have you learned so much? How can you read me so well?”

“I had an unhappy girlhood in a discordant home, and there was no escape except by a marriage that would be slavery to me. Many cares and losses made me early old, and taught me to observe the failures, mistakes, and burdens of others. Since then solitude has led me to study and reflect upon the question toward which my thoughts inevitably turned.”

“But, Faith, why have you never found a home and partner for yourself, as other women do?—you who are so nobly fitted for all the duties, joys, and sorrows of married life?”

“Because I never met the man who could satisfy me. My ideal is a high one, and I believe that whatever we are worthy of we shall find and enjoy hereafter if not here.”

“Not even Adam? Surely he is heroic enough for any woman’s ideal.”

“Not even Adam, for the reasons I have told you. I know his value, and feel the charm of his strength, truth, and courage, but I should not dare to marry him. Sylvia, unhappy marriages are the tragedies of the world, and will be till men and women are taught to make principle not pleasure, love not passion, mutual fitness not reckless impulse, the guides and guards to the most beautiful and sacred relation God gives us for our best training and highest happiness.”

“Ah, if some one had told me these things a year ago, how much pain I might have spared myself and others! Prue thinks whatever is is right, and poor Papa cares only to see me happy. All this will break his heart.”

Sylvia paused to sigh over his great disappointment; then returned with a still heavier sigh to her own.

“Who told you so much about us? You cannot have divined it all?”

“Concerning yourself Geoffrey told me much, but Adam more.”

“Have you seen him? Has he been here? When, Faith, when?”

Light and color flashed back into Sylvia’s face, and the eagerness of her voice was a pleasant sound after the despair which had saddened it before. Faith answered fully and with care, while the compassion of her look deepened as she spoke,—

“I saw him but a week ago; vehement and vigorous as ever. He has come hither often during the winter. He said you bade him hear of you through me; that he preferred to come, not write, for letters were often false interpreters, but face to face one gets the real thought of one’s friend by look as well as word, and the result is satisfactory.”

“That is Adam! But what more did he say? How did you advise him? I know he asked counsel of you, as we all have done.”

“He did, and I gave it as frankly as to you and Geoffrey. He made me understand you, judge you leniently, see in you the virtues you have cherished despite drawbacks such as few have to struggle with. Your father made Adam his confessor during the happy month when you first knew him. I need not tell you how he received and preserved such a trust. He betrayed no confidence, but in speaking of you I saw that his knowledge of the father taught him to understand the daughter. It was well and beautifully done, and did we need anything to endear him to us this trait of character would do it; for it is a rare endowment,—the power of overcoming all obstacles of pride, age, and the sad reserve self-condemnation brings us, and making confession a grateful healing.”

“I know it; we tell our sorrows to such as Geoffrey, our sins to such as Adam. But, Faith, when you spoke of me, did you say to him what you have been saying to me about my unfitness to be his wife because of inequality and my unhappy inheritance?”

“Could I do otherwise when he fixed that commanding eye of his upon me, asking, ‘Is my love as wise as it is warm?’ He is one of those who force the hardest truths from us by the simple fact that they can bear it, and would do the same for us. He needed it then; for though instinct was right,—hence his anxious question,—his heart, never so entirely roused as now, made it difficult for him to judge of your relations to each other, and there my woman’s insight helped him.”

“What did he do when you told him? I see that you hesitate to tell me. I think you have been preparing me to hear it. Speak out.Though my cheeks whiten and my hands tremble, I can bear it, for you shall be the law by which I will abide.”

“You shall be a law to yourself, my brave Sylvia. Put your hands in mine, and hold fast to the friend who loves and honors you for this. I will tell you what Adam did and said. He sat in deep thought many minutes; but with him to see is to do, and soon he turned to me with the courageous expression which in him signifies that the fight is fought, the victory won. ‘It is necessary to be true, it is not necessary to be happy. I would never marry Sylvia, even if I might,’—and with that paraphrase of words, whose meaning seemed to fit his need, he went away. I think he will not come again either to me—or you.”

How still the room grew as Faith’s reluctant lips uttered the last words! Sylvia sat motionless, looking out into the sunny valley with eyes that saw nothing but the image of that beloved friend leaving her perhaps forever. Well she knew that with this man to see was to do, and with a woful sense of desolation falling cold upon her heart, she felt that there was nothing more to hope for but a brave submission like his own.Yet in that pause there came a feeling of relief after the first despair. The power of choice was no longer left her, and the help she needed was bestowed by one who could decide against himself, inspired by a sentiment which curbed a strong man’s love of self, and made it subject to a just man’s love of right. Great examples never lose their virtue; what Pompey was to Warwick that Warwick became to Sylvia, and in the moment of supremest sorrow she felt the fire of a noble emulation kindled in her from the spark he left behind.

“Faith, what must I do?”

“Your duty.”

“And that is?”

“To love and live for Geoffrey.”

“Can I ever forget? Will he ever forgive? Is there anything before me but one long repentance for the suffering I have given?”

“The young always think that life is ruined by one misfortune, one mistake; but they learn that it is possible to forget, forgive, and live on till they have wrung both strength and happiness out of the hard experience that seemed to crush them. Wait a year, do nothing hastily, lest, when the excitement of this hour is past, you find you have renounced or promised more than you can give up or perform. Geoffrey will pardon freely, wait patiently, and if I know you both, will welcome back in time a wife who will be worthy of his love and confidence.”

“Can time work that miracle?” asked Sylvia, ready to learn more, yet incredulous of the possibility of such an utter change in herself.

“You have been the victim of moods, now live by principle, and hold fast by the duty you see and acknowledge. Let nothing turn you from it; shut your ears to the whispers of temptation, keep your thoughts from straying, your heart full of hope, your soul of faith, humility, submission, and leave the rest to God.”

“I will! Faith, what comes next?”

“This.” And she was gathered close while Faith confessed how hard her task had been by letting tears fall fast upon the head which seemed to have found its proper resting-place, as if, despite her courage and her wisdom, her woman’s heart was half broken with its pity. Better than any words was the motherly embrace, the tender tears, the balm of sympathy which soothed the wounds it could not heal.

Leaning on each other, the two hearts talked together in the silence, feeling the beauty of the tie kind Nature weaves between consoler and consoled. Faith often turned her lips to Sylvia’s forehead, brushed back her hair with a lingering touch, and drew her closer, as if it was very sweet to see and feel the young creature in her arms. Sylvia lay there, tearless and tranquil, thinking thoughts for which she had no words, trying to prepare herself for the life before her, and to pierce the veil that hid the future. Her eyes rested on the valley where the river flowed, the elms waved their budding boughs in the bland air, and the meadows wore their earliest tinge of green. But she was not conscious of these things till the sight of a solitary figure coming slowly up the hill recalled her to the present and the duties it still held for her.

“Here is Geoffrey! How wearily he walks, how changed and old he looks,—oh, why was I born to be a curse to all who love me!”

“Hush, Sylvia, say anything but that, because it casts reproach upon your father.Your life is but just begun; make it a blessing, not a curse, as all of us have power to do; and remember that for every affliction there are two helpers, who can heal or end the heaviest we know,—Time and Death.The first we may invoke and wait for; the last God alone can send when it is better not to live.”

“I will try to be patient. Will you meet and tell Geoffrey what has passed? I have no strength left but for passive endurance.”

Faith went; Sylvia heard the murmur of earnest conversation; then steps came rapidly along the hall, and Moor was in the room. She rose involuntarily, but for a moment neither spoke, for never had they met as now. Each regarded the other as if a year had rolled between them since they parted, and each saw in the other the changes that one day had wrought. Neither the fire of resentment nor the frost of pride now rendered Moor’s face stormy or stern. Anxious and worn it was, with newly graven lines upon the forehead, and melancholy curves about the mouth, but the peace of a conquered spirit touched it with a pale serenity, and some perennial hope shone in the glance he bent upon his wife. For the first time in her life Sylvia was truly beautiful,—not physically, for never had she looked more weak and wan, but spiritually, as the inward change made itself manifest in an indescribable expression of meekness and of strength.With suffering came submission, with repentance came regeneration, and the power of the woman yet to be, touched with beauty the pathos of the woman now passing through the fire.

“Faith has told you what has passed between us, and the advice she gives us in our present strait?”

“I submit, Sylvia; I can still hope and wait.”

So humbly he said it, so heartily he meant it, she felt that his love was as indomitable as Warwick’s will, and the wish to be worthy of it woke with all its old intensity, since no other was possible to her.

“It is not for one so unstable as I to say,‘I shall not change.’ I leave all to time and my earnest longing to do right. Go, and leave me to grow worthy of you; and if death parts us, remember that however I may thwart your life here, there is a beautiful eternity where you may forget me and be happy.”

“I will go, I will stay till you recall me, but death will not change me. Love is immortal, dear, and even in the ‘beautiful eternity’ I shall still hope and wait.”

This invincible fidelity, so patient, so persistent, impressed Sylvia like a prophecy, and remained to comfort her in the hard year to come.

How soon it was all over,—the return to separate homes, the disclosures, and the storms; the preparations for the solitary voyage, for Moor decided to go abroad, the last charges and farewells!

Max would not, and Prue could not, go to see the traveller off,—the former too angry to lend his countenance to what he termed a barbarous banishment; the latter, being half blind with crying, stayed to nurse Jessie, whose soft heart was nearly broken at what seemed to her the most direful affliction under heaven.

But Sylvia and her father followed Moor till his foot left the soil, and still lingered on the wharf to watch the steamer out of port. An uncongenial place in which to part; carriages rolled up and down, a clamor of voices filled the air, the little steam-tug snorted with impatience, and the waves flowed seaward with the ebbing of the tide. But father and daughter saw only one object, heard only one sound,—Moor’s face as it looked down upon them from the deck, Moor’s voice as he sent cheery messages to those left behind. Mr. Yule was endeavoring to reply as cheerily, and Sylvia was gazing with eyes that saw very dimly through their tears, when both were aware of an instantaneous change in the countenance they watched. Something beyond themselves seemed to arrest Moor’s eye; a moment he stood intent and motionless, then flushed to the forehead with the dark glow Sylvia remembered well, waved his hand to them, and vanished down the cabin stairs.

“Papa, what did he see?”

There was no need of any answer, for Warwick came striding through the crowd, saw them, paused with both hands out, and a questioning glance as if uncertain of his greeting.With one impulse the hands were taken; Sylvia could not speak, her father could, and did approvingly, —

“Welcome, Adam; you are come to say good-by to Geoffrey?”

“Rather to you, sir; he needs none, I go with him.”

“With him!” echoed both hearers.

“Ay, that I will! Did you think I would let him go away alone, feeling bereaved of wife and home and friend?”

“We should have known you better. But, Warwick, he will shun you; he hid himself just now as you approached; he has tried to forgive, but he cannot so soon forget.”

“All the more need of my helping him to do both. He cannot shun me long with no hiding-place to fly to but the sea, and I will so gently constrain him by the old-time love we bore each other, that he must relent and take me back into his heart again.”

“O Adam! go with him, stay with him, and bring him safely back to me when time has helped us all.”

“I shall do it, God willing.”

Unmindful of all else,Warwick bent and took her to him as he gave the promise, seemed to put his whole heart into a single kiss, and left her trembling with the stress of his farewell. She saw him cleave his way through the throng, leap the space left by the gangway just withdrawn, and vanish in search of that lost friend. Then she turned her face to her father’s shoulder, conscious of nothing but the fact that Warwick had come and gone.

A cannon boomed, the crowd cheered, the last cable was flung off, and the steamer glided from her moorings with the surge of water and the waft of wind, like some sea-monster eager to be out upon the ocean free again.

“Look up, Sylvia; she will soon pass from sight.”

“Are they there?”

“No.”

“Then I do not care to see. Look for me, father, and tell me when they come.”

“They will not come, dear; both have said good-by, and we have seen the last of them for many a long day.”

“They will come! Adam will bring Geoffrey to show me they are friends again. I know it; you shall see it. Lift me to that block, and watch the deck with me that we may see them the instant they appear.”

Up she sprang, eyes clear now, nerves steady, faith strong. Leaning forward so utterly forgetful of herself, she would have fallen into the green water tumbling there below, had not her father held her fast. How slowly the minutes seemed to pass, how rapidly the steamer seemed to glide away, how heavily the sense of loss weighed on her heart as wave after wave rolled between her and her heart’s desire!

“Come down, Sylvia, it is giving yourself useless pain to watch and wait. Come home, my child, and let us comfort each other.”

She did not hear him; for as he spoke, the steamer swung slowly round to launch itself into the open bay, and with a cry that drew many eyes upon the young figure with its face of pale expectancy, Sylvia saw her hope fulfilled.

“I knew they would come! See, father, see! Geoffrey is smiling as he waves his handkerchief, and Adam’s hand is on his shoulder. Answer them! oh, answer them! I can only look.”

The old man did answer them enthusiastically, and Sylvia stretched her arms across the widening space as if to bring them back again. Side by side the friends stood now; Moor’s eye upon his wife, while from his hand the little flag of peace streamed in the wind. But Warwick’s glance was turned upon his friend, and Warwick’s hand already seemed to claim the charge he had accepted.

Standing thus they passed from sight, never to come sailing home together as the woman on the shore was praying God to let her see them come.

CHAPTER XX

A Year

Sylvia was spared all effort but passive endurance during the first month of trial, for she fell ill.The overwrought mind preyed upon the body, and exhaustion forced both to rest. For a few days there was danger, and she knew it, yet was not glad as she once would have been. Lying in the shadow of death, her life looked such a sorrowful failure she longed for a chance to retrieve it. What had she done worth the doing? Whom had she made happy? Where was the humble satisfaction that should come hand in hand with death? There was a time when she would have answered these self-accusations by saying, “It is my fate,” and so drifted on to life or death, ready for neither. Now conscience as well as heart suffered, and a nobler courage than resignation was growing in her. An earnest desire to atone, to rise above all obstacles and turn the seeming defeat into a sweet success, so possessed her that it seemed cowardly to die, and she asked for life, feeling that she had learned to use if not to enjoy it more truly than before. In those quiet weeks of enforced seclusion she grew fast, and when she rose a stronger and more patient soul shone through the frail body like the flame that makes the lamp transparent.

The ensuing year seemed fuller of events than any Sylvia had ever known. At first she found it very hard to live her life alone; for inward cares oppressed her, and external trials were not wanting. Only to the few who had a right to know, had the whole trouble been confided. They were discreet from family pride, if from no tenderer feeling; but the curious world outside of that small circle was full of shrewd surmises, of keen eyes for discovering domestic breaches, and shrill tongues for proclaiming them. Warwick escaped suspicion, being so little known, so seldom seen; but for the usual nine days matrons and venerable maids wagged their caps, lifted their hands, and sighed as they sipped their dish of scandal and of tea,—

“Poor young man! I always said how it would be, she was so peculiar. My dear creature, haven’t you heard that Mrs. Moor isn’t happy with her husband, and that he has gone abroad quite broken-hearted?”

Sylvia felt this deeply, but received it as her just punishment, and bore herself so meekly that public opinion soon turned a somersault, and the murmur changed to,—

“Poor young thing! what could she expect? My dear, I have it from the best authority, that Mr. Moor has made her miserable for a year, and now left her broken-hearted.” After that the gossips took up some newer tragedy, and left Mrs. Moor to mend her heart as best she could, a favor very gratefully received.

As Hester Prynne seemed to see some trace of her own sin in every bosom, by the glare of the Scarlet Letter burning on her own, so Sylvia, living in the shadow of a household grief, found herself detecting various phases of her own experience in others. She had joined that sad sisterhood called disappointed women; a larger class than many deem it to be, though there are few of us who have not seen members of it. Unhappy wives; mistaken or forsaken lovers; meek souls, who make life a long penance for the sins of others; gifted creatures kindled into fitful brilliancy by some inward fire that consumes but cannot warm.These are the women who fly to convents, write bitter books, sing songs full of heart-break, act splendidly the passion they have lost or never won; who smile, and try to lead brave uncomplaining lives, but whose tragic eyes betray them, whose voices, however sweet or gay, contain an undertone of hopelessness, whose faces sometimes startle one with an expression which haunts the observer long after it is gone.

Undoubtedly Sylvia would have joined the melancholy chorus, and fallen to lamenting that ever she was born, had she not possessed a purpose that took her out of herself and proved her salvation. Faith’s words took root and blossomed. Intent on making her life a blessing, not a reproach to her father, she lived for him entirely. He had taken her back to him, as if the burden of her unhappy past should be upon his shoulders, the expiation of her faults come from him alone. Sylvia understood this now, and nestled to him so gladly, so confidingly, he seemed to have found again the daughter he had lost and be almost content to have her all his own.

How many roofs cover families or friends who live years together, yet never truly know each other; who love, and long, and try to meet, yet fail to do so till some unexpected emotion or event performs the work. In the year that followed the departure of the friends, Sylvia discovered this and learned to know her father. No one was so much to her as he; no one so fully entered into her thoughts and feelings; for sympathy drew them tenderly together, and sorrow made them equals. As man and woman they talked, as father and daughter they loved; and the beautiful relation became their truest solace and support.

Miss Yule both rejoiced at and rebelled against this; was generous, yet mortally jealous; made no complaint, but grieved in private, and one fine day amazed her sister by announcing that, being of no farther use at home, she had decided to be married. Both Mr.Yule and Sylvia had desired this event, but hardly dared to expect it in spite of sundry propitious signs and circumstances.

A certain worthy widower had haunted the house of late, evidently on matrimonial thoughts intent. A solid gentleman, both physically and financially speaking; possessed of an ill-kept house, bad servants, and nine neglected children. This prospect, however alarming to others, had great charms for Prue; nor was the Reverend Gamaliel Bliss repugnant to her, being a rubicund, bland personage, much given to fine linen, long dinners, and short sermons. His third spouse had been suddenly translated, and though the year of mourning had not yet expired, things went so hardly with Gamaliel, that he could no longer delay casting his pastoral eyes over the flock which had already given three lambs to his fold, in search of a fourth. None appeared whose meek graces were sufficiently attractive, or whose dowries were sufficiently large. Meantime the nine olive-branches grew wild, the servants revelled, the ministerial digestion suffered, the sacred shirts went buttonless, and their wearer was wellnigh distraught. At this crisis he saw Prudence, and fell into a way of seating himself before the well-endowed spinster, with a large cambric pocket-handkerchief upon his knee, a frequent tear meandering down his florid countenance, and volcanic sighs agitating his capacious waistcoat as he poured his woes into her ear. Prue had been deeply touched by these moist appeals, and was not much surprised when the reverend gentleman went ponderously down upon his knee before her in the good old-fashioned style which frequent use had endeared to him, murmuring with an appropriate quotation and a subterranean sob,—

“Miss Yule, ‘a good wife is a crown to her husband;’ be such an one to me, unworthy as I am, and a mother to my bereaved babes, who suffer for a tender woman’s care.”

She nearly upset her sewing-table with an appropriate start, but speedily recovered, and with a maidenly blush murmured in return,—

“Dear me, how very unexpected! pray speak to papa,—oh, rise, I beg.”

“Call me Gamaliel, and I obey!” gasped the stout lover, divided between rapture and doubts of his ability to perform the feat alone.

“Gam-aliel,” sighed Prue, surrendering her hand.

“My Prudence, blessed among women!” responded the blissful Bliss. And having saluted the fair member, allowed it to help him rise; when, after a few decorous endearments, he departed to papa, and the bride elect rushed up to Sylvia with the incoherent announcement,—

“My dearest child, I have accepted him! It was such a surprise, though so touchingly done. I was positively mortified; Maria had swept the room so ill, his knees were white with lint, and I’m a very happy woman, bless you, love!”

“Sit down, and tell me all about it,” cried her sister. “Don’t try to sew, but cry if you like, and let me pet you, for indeed I am rejoiced.”

But Prue preferred to rock violently, and boggle down a seam as the best quietus for her fluttered nerves, while she told her romance, received congratulations, and settled a few objections made by Sylvia, who tried to play the prudent matron.

“I am afraid he is too old for you, my dear.”

“Just the age; a man should always be ten years older than his wife. A woman of thirty-five is in the prime of life, and if she hasn’t arrived at years of discretion then, she never will. Shall I wear pearl-colored silk and a white bonnet, or just a very handsome travelling dress?”

“Whichever you like. But, Prue, isn’t he rather stout, I won’t say corpulent?”

“Sylvia, how can you! Because papa is a shadow, you call a fine, manly person like Gam—Mr. Bliss, corpulent. I always said I would not marry an invalid (Macgregor died of apoplexy last week, I heard, at a small dinner-party; fell forward with his head upon the cheese, and expired without a groan), and where can you find a more robust and healthy man than Mr. Bliss? Not a gray hair, and gout his only complaint. So aristocratic. You know I’ve loads of fine old flannel, just the thing for him.”

Sylvia commanded her countenance with difficulty, and went on with her maternal inquiries.

“He is a personable man, and an excellent one I believe, yet I should rather dread the responsibility of nine small children, if I were you.”

“They are my chief inducement to the match. Just think of the state those dears must be in, with only a young governess, and half a dozen giddy maids to see to them. I long to be among them, and named an early day, because measles and scarlatina are coming round again, and only Fanny, and the twins, Gus and Gam, have had either. I know all their names and ages, dispositions and characters, and love them like a mother already. He perfectly adores them, and that is very charming in a learned man like Mr. Bliss.”

“If that is your feeling it will all go well, I have no doubt. But, Prue,—I don’t wish to be unkind, dear,—do you quite like the idea of being the fourth Mrs. Bliss?”

“Bless me, I never thought of that! Poor man, it only shows how much he must need consolation, and proves how good a husband he must have been. No, Sylvia, I don’t care a particle. I never knew those estimable ladies, and the memory of them shall not keep me from making Gamaliel happy if I can.What he goes through now is almost beyond belief. My child, just think!—the coachman drinks; the cook has tea-parties whenever she likes, and supports her brother’s family out of her perquisites, as she calls her barefaced thefts; the house-maids romp with the indoor man, and have endless followers; three old maids set their caps at him, and that hussy,—I must use a strong expression,—that hussy of a governess makes love to him before the children. It is my duty to marry him; I shall do it, and put an end to this fearful state of things.”

Sylvia asked but one more question,—

“Now, seriously, do you love him very much? Will he make you as happy as my dear girl should be?”

Prue dropped her work, and, hiding her face on Sylvia’s shoulder, answered with a plaintive sniff or two, and much real feeling,—

“Yes, my dear, I do. I tried to love him, and I did not fail. I shall be happy, for I shall be busy. I am not needed here any more, and so I am glad to go away into a home of my own, feeling sure that you can fill my place; and Maria knows my ways too well to let things go amiss. Now, kiss me, and smooth my collar, for papa may call me down.”

The sisters embraced and cried a little, as women usually find it necessary to do at such interesting times; then fell to planning the wedding outfit, and deciding between the “light silk and white bonnet,” or the “handsome travelling suit.”

Miss Yule made a great sacrifice to the proprieties by relinquishing her desire for a stately wedding, and, much to Sylvia’s surprise and relief, insisted that, as the family was then situated, it was best to have no stir or parade, but to be married quietly at church and slip unostentatiously out of the old life into the new. Her will was law, and as the elderly bridegroom felt that there was no time to spare, and the measles continued to go about seeking whom they might devour, Prue did not keep him waiting long. “Three weeks is very little time, and nothing will be properly done, for one must have everything new when one is married, of course, and mantua-makers are but mortal women (exorbitant in their charges this season, I assure you), so be patient, Gamaliel, and spend the time in teaching my little ones to love me before I come.”

“My dearest creature, I will.” And well did the enamored gentleman perform his promise.