Prue kept hers so punctually that she was married with the bastings in her wedding gown and two dozen pocket-handkerchiefs still un-hemmed, —facts which disturbed her even during the ceremony. A quiet time throughout; and after a sober feast, a tearful farewell, Mrs. Gamaliel Bliss departed, leaving a great void behind and carrying joy to the heart of her spouse, comfort to the souls of the excited nine, destruction to the “High Life Below Stairs,” and order, peace, and plenty to the realm over which she was to know a long and prosperous reign.

Hardly had the excitement of this event subsided when another occurred to keep Sylvia from melancholy and bring an added satisfaction to her lonely days. Across the sea there came to her a little book, bearing her name upon its titlepage. Quaintly printed, and bound in some foreign style, plain and unassuming without, but very rich within, for there she found Warwick’s Essays, and between each of these one of the poems from Moor’s Diary. Far away there in Switzerland they had devised this pleasure for her, and done honor to the woman whom they both loved, by dedicating to her the first fruits of their lives.“Alpen Rosen” was its title, and none could have better suited it in Sylvia’s eyes, for to her Warwick was the Alps and Moor the roses. Each had helped the other; Warwick’s rugged prose gathered grace from Moor’s poetry, and Moor’s smoothly flowing lines acquired power from Warwick’s prose. Each had given her his best, and very proud was Sylvia of the little book, over which she pored day after day, living on and in it, eagerly collecting all praises, resenting all censures, and thinking it the one perfect volume in the world.

Others felt and acknowledged its worth as well; for though fashionable libraries were not besieged by inquiries for it, and no short-lived enthusiasm welcomed it, a place was found for it on many study-tables, where real work was done. Innocent girls sang the songs and loved the poet, while thoughtful women, looking deeper, honored the man.Young men received the Essays as brave protests against the evils of the times, and old men felt their faith in honor and honesty revive. The wise saw great promise in it, and the most critical could not deny its beauty and its power.

Early in autumn arrived a fresh delight; and Jessie’s little daughter became peacemaker as well as idol. Max forgave his enemies, and swore eternal friendship with all mankind the first day of his baby’s life; and when his sister brought it to him he took both in his arms, making atonement for many hasty words and hard thoughts by the broken whisper,—

“I have two little Sylvias now.”

This wonderful being absorbed both households, from grandpapa to the deposed sovereign Tilly, whom Sylvia called her own, and kept much with her; while Prue threatened to cause a rise in the price of stationery by the daily and copious letters full of warning and advice which she sent, feeling herself a mother in Israel among her tribe of nine, now safely carried through the Red Sea of scarlatina. Happy faces made perpetual sunshine round the little Sylvia, but to none was she so dear a boon as to her young godmother. Jessie became a trifle jealous of “old Sylvia,” as she now called herself, for she almost lived in baby’s nursery; hurrying over in time to assist at its morning ablutions, hovering about its crib when it slept, daily discovering beauties invisible even to its mother’s eyes, and working early and late on dainty garments, rich in the embroidery which she now thanked Prue for teaching her against her will.The touch of the baby hands seemed to heal her sore heart; the sound of the baby voice, even when most unmusical, had a soothing effect upon her nerves; the tender cares its helplessness demanded absorbed her thoughts, and kept her happy in a new world whose delights she had never known till now.

From this time a restful expression replaced the patient hopelessness her face had worn before, and in the lullabies she sang the listeners caught echoes of the cheerful voice they had never thought to hear again. Gay she was not, but serene. Quiet was all she asked; and shunning society seemed happiest to sit at home with baby and its gentle mother, with Max, now painting as if inspired, or with her father, who relinquished business and devoted himself to her. A pleasant pause seemed to have come after troublous days; a tranquil hush in which she sat waiting for what time should bring her. But as she waited the woman seemed to bloom more beautifully than the girl had done. Light and color revisited her countenance, clearer and deeper than of old; fine lines ennobled features faulty in themselves; and the indescribable refinement of a deep inward life made itself manifest in look, speech, and gesture, giving promise of a gracious womanhood.

As if to sever the last tie that bound her to the old home and make the new one her most natural refuge, Mr.Yule died suddenly. So painlessly and peacefully that no memory of suffering, no sad decay of mind, added to the sorrow of those who loved him most. His last words had been for Sylvia, “Goodnight, my daughter, and God bless you.” His last kiss was given to her, and she was the first to find him in the morning wrapped in the sleep from which there is no awakening here.

Then the tender satisfaction of knowing that her dutiful affection had been all in all to him was a cordial that sustained her, lightened her grief, and for a time made the new loneliness unfelt.

Max was master now, and Jessie took the seat Prue had filled so long. Sylvia wished it so, and thought to slip into her old place again as if nothing had been changed. But it was impossible; the wayward girl was gone, and in her place a thoughtful woman who could not be satisfied with what had fed her once. Youthful pleasures, hopes, and fancies were replaced by earnest aspirations, faithful labor, and quiet joys. She dreamed no more but lived, and in holy living and high thinking found the secret of self-knowledge and self-help.

As spring came on a great longing for a home of her own grew up in her, and where should she so naturally go as to the Manse, still waiting for its mistress? When she spoke of this Max inwardly exulted and Jessie openly rejoiced; both feeling that she would not long remain content there without recalling its master.They were right; for Sylvia’s resolve had been strengthening slowly ever since her father died, and to test it she went back to the home she had made so desolate. April saw her there, busy, quiet, but happy, if one might trust the serene face that seemed to brighten the closed rooms even more than the sunshine she let in. Before she left everything to others, now she set her house in order herself with a loving care which plainly betrayed it was for the coming of some dear and welcome guest.

But for the sincerity of her purpose, the warmth of her desire, the fidelity that never wavered from its duty, the memories that haunted the old house would have made it terrible to live there alone. It was sad, and with each day Sylvia longed more ardently for the return of the one companion who had the right to share it with her, the power to make it happy,—not with the former show of peace, but with a sober happiness too genuine to be wrecked again.

Hope painted a future full of content; for the suffering of the past, the hard-won repose of the present, proved that there was compensation for every loss, and that out of bitter sorrow strength and sweetness might be distilled by the Worker of all miracles.

Faith came to help her, as she had come many times that year, confirming each step she made, and cheering her to climb on with a brave heart and eyes fixed on heaven.

When all was ready Sylvia made a little pilgrimage through her Paradise Regained, lingering in many places to relive the sad or happy hours spent there; and when she came again to the study, she stood a moment, looking up at the Fates with something softer than a smile upon her face, as she said aloud,—

“I no longer fear you, pagan sisters. I am learning to spin my own life, trusting to a kinder hand than yours to weave some gold among the gray, and cut the thread when I am ready for a higher lesson.”

Faith entered as she spoke, heard what she said, saw the uplifted look, felt that the time she had hoped for and believed in had come, and longed to share it with the other patient waiter.

“Sylvia, I am writing to Geoffrey. Have you any message for him, dear?”

“Yes, this.”

Slowly Sylvia drew from her bosom a little note, opened it and held it before Faith, asking as a child might of its mother, “Shall I send it?”

Only three words, but Faith’s heart sang for joy as she answered, “Yes!” for the words were,—

“Husband, come home.”

CHAPTER XXI

Adam Keeps His Promise

In a small Italian town not far from Rome, a traveller stood listening to an account of a battle lately fought near by, in which the place had suffered much, yet been forever honored in the eyes of its inhabitants by having been the headquarters of the Hero of Italy. An inquiry of the traveller’s concerning a countryman of whom he was in search created a sensation at the little inn, and elicited the story of the battle, one incident of which was still the all-absorbing topic with the excited villagers.This was the incident which one of the group related with the dramatic effects of a language composed almost as much of gesture as of words, and an audience as picturesque as could well be conceived.

While the fight was raging on the distant plain, a troop of marauding Croats dashed into the town, whose defenders, although outnumbered, contested every inch of ground, while slowly driven back toward the convent, the despoiling of which was the object of the attack. This convent was both hospital and refuge; for there were gathered women and children, the sick, the wounded, and the old.To secure the safety of these rather than of the sacred relics, the Italians were bent on holding the town till the reinforcement for which they had sent could come up. It was a question of time, and every moment brought nearer the destruction of the helpless garrison, trembling behind the convent walls. A brutal massacre was in store for them if no help came; and remembering this the red-shirted Garibaldians fought as if they well deserved their sobriquet of “Scarlet Demons.”

Help did come, not from below, but from above. Suddenly a cannon thundered royally, and down the narrow street rushed a deathful defiance, carrying disorder and dismay to the assailants, joy and wonder to the nearly exhausted defenders,—wonder, for well they knew the gun had stood silent and unmanned since the retreat of the enemy two days before, and this unexpected answer to their prayers seemed Heaven-sent. Those below looked up as they fought, those above looked down as they feared, and midway between all saw that a single man held the gun. A stalwart figure, bareheaded, stern-faced, sinewy-armed, fitfully seen through clouds of smoke and flashes of fire, working with a silent energy that seemed almost superhuman to the eyes of the superstitious souls, who believed they saw and heard the convent’s patron saint proclaiming their salvation with a mighty voice.

This belief inspired the Italians, caused a panic among the Croats, and saved the town. A few rounds turned the scale, the pursued became the pursuers, and when the reinforcement arrived, there was little for it to do but join in the rejoicing and salute the brave cannoneer, who proved to be no saint, but a stranger come to watch the battle, and thus opportunely lend his aid.

Enthusiastic were the demonstrations; vivas, blessings, tears, hand-kissing, and invocation of all the saints in the calendar, till it was discovered that the unknown gentleman had a bullet in his breast, and was in need of instant help. Whereupon the women, clustering about him like bees, bore him away to the hospital ward, where the inmates rose up in their beds to welcome him, and the clamorous crowd were with difficulty persuaded to relinquish him to the priest, the surgeon, and the rest he needed. Nor was this all; the crowning glory of the event to the villagers was the coming of the Chief at nightfall, and the scene about the stranger’s bed. Here the narrator glowed with pride, the women in the group began to sob, and the men took off their caps, with black eyes glittering through their tears.

“Excellenza, he who had fought for us like a tempest, an angel of doom, lay there beside my cousin Beppo, who was past help, and is now in holy Paradise. Speranza was washing the smoke and powder from him, the wound was easy. Death of my soul! may he who gave it die unconfessed! See you, I am there, I watch him, the friend of Excellenza, the great still man who smiled but said no word to us. Then comes the Chief,—silenzio, till I finish!—he comes, they have told him, he stays at the bed, he looks down, the fine eye shines, he takes the hand, he says low—‘I thank you,’—he lays his cloak—the gray cloak we know and love so well—over the wounded breast, and so goes on. We cry out, but what does the friend? Behold! he lifts himself, he lays the cloak upon my Beppo, he says in that so broken way of his—‘Comrade, the honor is for you who gave your life for him, I give but a single hour.’ Beppo saw, heard, comprehended; thanked him with a glance, and rose up to die crying, ‘Viva Italia! Viva Garibaldi!’ ”

The cry was caught up by all the listeners in a whirlwind of enthusiastic loyalty, and the stranger joined in it, thrilled with an equal love and honor for the Patriot Soldier, whose name upon Italian lips means liberty.

“Where is he now, this friend of mine, so nearly lost, so happily found?”

A dozen hands pointed to the convent, a dozen brown faces lighted up, and a dozen eager voices poured out directions, messages, and benedictions in a breath. Ordering his carriage to follow presently, the traveller rapidly climbed the steep road, guided by signs he could not well mistake. The convent gate stood open, and he paused for no permission to enter; for looking through it, down the green vista of an orchard path, he saw his friend and sprang to meet him.

“Adam!”

“Geoffrey!”

“Truant that you are, to desert me for ten days, and only let me find you when you have no need of me.”

“I always need you, but am not always needed. I went away because the old restlessness came upon me in that dead city, Rome. You were happy there, but I scented war, followed and found it by instinct, and have had enough of it. Look at my hands.”

He laughed as he showed them, still bruised and blackened with the hard usage they had received; nothing else but a paler shade of color from loss of blood showed that he had passed through any suffering or danger.

“Brave hands, I honor them for all their grime. Tell me about it, Adam; show me the wound; describe the scene, I want to hear it in calm English.”

But Warwick was slow to do so, being the hero of the tale, and very brief was the reply Moor got.

“I came to watch, but found work ready for me. It is not clear to me even now what I did, nor how I did it. One of my Berserker rages possessed me, I fancy; my nerves and muscles seemed made of steel and gutta-percha; the smell of powder intoxicated, and the sense of power was grand. The fire, the smoke, the din were all delicious, and I felt like a giant, as I wielded that great weapon, dealing many deaths with a single pair of hands.”

“The savage in you got the mastery just then; I’ve seen it, and have often wondered how you managed to control it so well. Now it has had a holiday and made a hero of you.”

“The savage is better out than in, and any man may be a hero if he will.What have you been doing since I left you poring over pictures in a mouldy palace?”

“You think to slip away from the subject, and after facing death at a cannon’s breach expect me to be satisfied with an ordinary greeting? I won’t have it; I insist upon asking as many questions as I like, hearing about the wound and seeing if it is doing well.Where is it?”

Warwick showed it, a little purple spot above his heart. Moor’s face grew anxious as he looked, but cleared again as he examined it, for the ball had glanced off and the wholesome flesh was already healing fast.

“Too near, Adam, but thank God it was no nearer. A little lower and I might have looked for you in vain.”

“This heart of mine is a tough organ, bullet-proof, I dare say, though I wear no breastplate.”

“But this!” Involuntarily Moor’s eye asked the question his lips did not utter as he touched a worn and faded case hanging on the broad breast before him. Silently Warwick opened it, showing not Sylvia’s face but that of an old woman, rudely drawn in sepia; the brown tints bringing out the marked features as no softer hue could have done, and giving to each line a depth of expression that made the serious countenance singularly lifelike and attractive.

Now Moor saw where Warwick got both keen eyes and firm mouth, as well as the gentler traits that softened his strong face; and felt that no other woman ever had or ever would hold so dear a place as the old mother whose likeness he had drawn and hung where other men wear images of mistress or of wife. With a glance as full of penitence as the other had been of disquiet, Moor laid back the little case, drew bandage and blouse over both wound and picture, and linked his arm in Warwick’s as he asked,—

“Who shot you?”

“How can I tell? I knew nothing of it till that flock of women fell to kissing these dirty hands of mine; then I was conscious of a stinging pain in my shoulder, and a warm stream trickling down my side. I looked to see what was amiss, whereat the good souls set up a shriek, took possession of me, and for half an hour wept and wailed over me in a frenzy of emotion and good-will that kept me merry in spite of the surgeon’s probes and the priest’s prayers. The appellations showered upon me would have startled even your ears, accustomed to soft words. Were you ever called ‘core of my heart,’ ‘sun of my soul,’ or ‘cup of gold’?”

“Cannonading suits your spirits excellently; I remember your telling me that you had tried and liked it. But there is to be no more of it, I have other plans for you. Before I mention them, tell me of the interview with Garibaldi.”

“That now is a thing to ask one about; a thing to talk of and take pride in all one’s days. I was half asleep and thought myself dreaming till he spoke. A right noble face, Geoffrey; full of thought and power; the look of one born to command others because master of himself. A square strong frame; no decorations, no parade; dressed like his men, yet as much the chief as if he wore a dozen orders on his scarlet shirt.”

“Where is the cloak? I want to see and touch it; surely you kept it as a relic?”

“Not I. Having seen the man, what do I care for the garment that covered him? I keep the handshake, the ‘Grazia,’ for my share. Poor Beppo lies buried in the hero’s cloak.”

“I grudge it to him, every inch of it; for, not having seen the man, I do desire the garment.Who but you would have done it?”

Warwick smiled, knowing that his friend was well pleased with him for all his murmuring.They walked in silence till Moor abruptly asked,—

“When can you travel, Adam?”

“I was coming back to you to-morrow.”

“Are you sure it is safe?”

“Quite sure; ten days is enough to waste upon a scratch like this.”

“Come now, I cannot wait till to-morrow.”

“Very good. Can you stop till I get my hat?”

“You don’t ask me why I am in such haste.”

Moor’s tone caused Warwick to pause and look at him. Joy, impatience, anxiety, contended with each other in his countenance; and as if unable to tell the cause himself he put a little paper into the other’s hand. Only three words were contained in it, but they caused Warwick’s face to kindle with all the joy betrayed in that of his friend, none of the impatience nor anxiety.

“What can I say to show you my pleasure? The months have seemed very long, but now comes the reward.The blessed little letter! so like herself; the slender slip, the delicate handwriting, the three happy words, each saying volumes.”

Moor did not speak, but still looked up anxiously, inquiringly; and Warwick answered with a glance he could not doubt,—

“Have no fears for me. I share the joy as heartily as I shared the sorrow; neither can separate us any more.”

“Thank Heaven for that! But, Adam, as I accept this good gift, am I not robbing you again? You never speak of the past, how is it with you now?”

“Quite well and happy; the pain is gone, the peace remains. I would not have it otherwise. Time and suffering have cured the selfishness of love, and left the satisfaction which nothing can change or take away. Believe that I say this without regret, and freely enjoy the happiness that comes to you.”

“I will, but not as I once should; for though I feel that you need neither sympathy nor pity, still I seem to take so much and leave you nothing.”

“You leave me myself, better and humbler than before. In the fierce half-hour I lived not long ago, I think a great and needful change was wrought in me. All lives are full of such, coming when least looked for, working out the end through unexpected means.The restless, domineering devil that haunted me was cast out then; and during the quiet time that followed a new spirit entered in and took possession.”

“What is it, Adam?”

“I cannot tell, yet I welcome it. This peaceful mood may not last perhaps, but it brings me that rare moment—pity that it is so rare, and but a moment—when we seem to see temptation at our feet; when we are conscious of a willingness to leave all in God’s hand, ready for whatever he may send; feeling that whether it be suffering or joy we shall see the Giver in the gift, and when He calls can answer cheerfully, ‘Lord, here am I.’ ”

It was a rare moment, and in it Moor for the first time clearly saw the desire and design of his friend’s life; saw it because it was accomplished, and for the instant Adam Warwick was what he aspired to be. A goodly man, whose stalwart body seemed a fit home for a strong soul, wise with the wisdom of a deep experience, genial with the virtues of an upright life, devout with that humble yet valiant piety which comes through hard-won victories over “the world, the flesh, and the devil.” Despite the hope that warmed his heart, Moor felt poor beside him, as a new reverence warmed the old affection. His face showed it, though he did not speak and Warwick laid an arm about his shoulders as he had often done of late when they were alone, drawing him gently on again, as he said, with a touch of playfulness to set both at ease,—

“Tell me your plans, ‘my cup of gold,’ and let me lend a hand toward filling you brimful of happiness.You are going home?”

“At once; you also.”

“Is it best?”

“Yes; you came for me, I stay for you, and Sylvia waits for both.”

“She says nothing of me in this short, sweet note of hers,” and Warwick smoothed it carefully in his large hand, eying it as if he wished there were some little word for him.

“True, but in the few letters she has written there always comes a message to you, though you never write a line; nor would you go to her now had she sent for you alone; she knew that, and sends for me, sure that you will follow.”

“Being a woman she cannot quite forgive me for loving her too well to make her miserable. Dear soul, she will never know how much it cost me, but I knew that my only safety lay in flight.Tell her so a long while hence.”

“You shall do it yourself, for you are coming to America with me.”

“What to do there?”

“All you ever did; walk up and down the face of the earth, waxing in power and virtue, and coming often to us when we get fairly back into our former ways, for you are still the house friend.”

“I shall not disturb you yet. I’ll see you safe across, and then vanish for another year. I was wondering, as I walked here, what my next summons would be, when lo, you came. Go on, I’ll follow you; one could hardly have a better guide.”

“You are sure you are able, Adam?”

“Shall I uproot a tree or fling you over the wall to convince you, you motherly body? I am nearly whole again, and a breath of sea air will complete the cure. Let me cover my head, say farewell to the good Sisters, and I shall be glad to slip away without further demonstrations from the volcanoes below there.”

Laying one hand on the low wall, Warwick vaulted over with a backward glance at Moor, who followed to the gateway, there to wait till the adieux were over.Very brief they were, and presently Warwick reappeared, evidently touched yet ill-pleased at something, for he both smiled and frowned as he paused on the threshold as if loath to go. A little white goat came skipping from the orchard, and, seeing the stranger, took refuge at Warwick’s knee. The act of the creature seemed to suggest a thought to the man. Pulling off the gay handkerchief some grateful woman had knotted round his neck, he fastened it about the goat’s, having secured something in one end, then rose as if content.

“What are you doing?” called Moor, wondering at this arrangement.

“Widening the narrow entrance into heaven set apart for rich men unless they leave their substance behind, as I am trying to do. The kind creatures cannot refuse it now; so trot away to your mistress, little Nanna, and tell no tales as you go.”

As the goat went tapping up the steps a stir within announced the dreaded demonstration. Warwick did not seem to hear it; he stood looking far across the trampled plain and ruined town toward the mountains shining white against the deep Italian sky. A rapt, far-reaching look, as if he saw beyond the purple wall, and seeing forgot the present in some vision of the future.

“Come, Adam! I am waiting.”

His eye came back, the rapt look passed, and cheerily he answered, —

“I am ready.”

A fortnight later in the dark hour before the dawn, with a murky sky above them, a hungry sea below them, the two stood together, the last to leave a sinking ship.

“Room for one more, choose quick!” shouted a hoarse voice from the boat tossing underneath, freighted to the water’s edge with trembling lives.

“Go, Geoffrey, Sylvia is waiting.”

“Not without you, Adam.”

“But you are exhausted; I can bear a rough hour better than yourself, and morning will bring help.”

“It may not. Go, I am the lesser loss.”

“What folly! I will force you to it; steady there, he is coming.”

“Push off, I am not coming.”

In times like that, few pause for pity or persuasion; the instinct of self-preservation rules supreme, and each is for himself, except those in whom love of another is stronger than love of life. Even while the friends generously contended the boat was swept away, and they were left alone in the deserted ship, swiftly making its last voyage downward. Spent with a day of intense excitement, and sick with hope deferred, Moor leaned on Warwick, feeling that it was adding bitterness to death to die in sight of shore. But Warwick never knew despair; passive submission was not in his power while anything remained to do or dare, and even then he did not cease to hope. It was certain death to linger there; other boats less heavily laden had put off before, and might drift across their track; wreckers waiting on the shore might hear and help; at least it were better to die bravely and not “strike sail to a fear.” About his waist still hung a fragment of the rope which had lowered more than one baby to its mother’s arms; before them the shattered taffrail rose and fell as the waves beat over it. Wrenching a spar away he lashed Moor to it, explaining his purpose as he worked. There was only rope enough for one, and in the darkness Moor believed that Warwick had taken equal precautions for himself.

“Now, Geoffrey, your hand, and when the next wave ebbs let us follow it. If we are parted and you see her first, tell her I remembered, and give her this.”

In the black night with only Heaven to see them the men kissed tenderly as women, then hand in hand sprang out into the sea. Drenched and blinded they struggled up after the first plunge, and struck out for the shore, guided by the thunder of the surf they had listened to for twelve long hours, as it broke against the beach, and brought no help on its receding billows. Soon Warwick was the only one who struggled, for Moor’s strength was gone, and he clung half conscious to the spar, tossing from wave to wave, a piteous plaything for the sea.

“I see a light!—they must take you in—hold fast—I’ll save you for the little wife at home.”

Moor heard but two words, “wife” and “home;” strained his dim eyes to see the light, spent his last grain of strength to reach it, and in the act lost consciousness, whispering, “She will thank you,” as his head fell against Warwick’s breast and lay there, heavy and still. Lifting himself above the spar, Adam lent the magnificent power of his voice to the shout he sent ringing through the storm. He did not call in vain, a friendly wind took the cry to human ears, a relenting wave swept them within the reach of human aid, and the boat’s crew, pausing involuntarily, saw a hand clutch the suspended oar, a face flash up from the black water, and heard a breathless voice issue the command,—

“Take in this man! he saved you for your wives, save him for his.”

One resolute will can sway a panic-stricken multitude; it did so then. The boat was rocking in the long swell of the sea; a moment and the coming wave would sweep them far apart. A woman sobbed, and as if moved by one impulse four sturdy arms clutched and drew Moor in. While loosening his friend Warwick had forgotten himself, and the spar was gone. He knew it, but the rest believed that they left the strong man a chance of life equal to their own in that overladen boat.Yet in the memories of all who caught that last glimpse of him there long remained the recollection of a dauntless face floating out into the night, a steady voice calling through the gale, “A good voyage, comrades!” as he turned away to enter port before them.

Wide was the sea and pitiless the storm, but neither could dismay the unconquerable spirit of the man who fought against the elements as bravely as if they were adversaries of mortal mould, and might be vanquished in the end. But it was not to be; soon he felt it, accepted it, turned his face upward toward the sky, where one star shone, and when Death whispered “Come!” answered as cheerily as to that other friend, “I am ready.” Then with a parting thought for the man he had saved, the woman he had loved, the promise he had kept, a great and tender heart went down into the sea.

 

Sometimes the Sculptor, whose workshop is the world, fuses many metals and casts a noble statue; leaves it for humanity to criticise, and when time has mellowed both beauties and blemishes, removes it to that inner studio, there to be carved in enduring marble.

Adam Warwick was such an one, with much alloy and many flaws; but beneath all defects the Master’s eye saw the grand lines that were to serve as models for the perfect man, and when the design had passed through all necessary processes,—the mould of clay, the furnace fire, the test of time,—He washed the dust away, and pronounced it ready for the marble.

CHAPTER XXII

At Last

News of the wreck reached the Yules some days before Moor could let them know of his safety and Adam’s loss. The belief that both were gone was almost too much for Sylvia, and for a week she sat in the shadow of a great despair, feeling that her mistakes and weaknesses had sent them to their death.

“I was not worthy of either, and God denies me the reward I have worked so hard to earn. I could have spared Adam. I had given him up and learned to see that it was best. But Geoffrey, my husband, who had waited so long, who hoped so much, whom I was going to make so happy, never to know how well I loved him after all this pain and separation—oh, it is too hard, too bitter to lose him now!”

This was all her thought, her lamentation; Warwick seemed forgotten, the lesser loss was swallowed up in the greater, and Sylvia mourned for her husband like a woman and a wife, feeling at last the nearness and dearness of the sacred tie that bound them together. Death taught her in the anguish of that hour how impossible it was to love any other with the passion born of that pain, touched with the tender memory of his past loyalty, the fervent desire to atone by future devotion and the sincerest fidelity.

In the midst of this despair came the glad tidings that Moor was safe and on his way to her from the distant port whither the survivors had been carried by the ship that saved them.

Then Sylvia fell on her knees and made a thank-offering of her life, dedicating it with tears and prayers and voiceless hymns of gratitude to this man saved for her by the friend who loved them both better than his own life, and died so gladly for their sake.

Max thought the joy would kill her, but she came out of the room where she had lain in darkness, looking like one risen from the tomb. A peace beyond words to describe transfigured her face, “clear shining after rain,” making her silence more eloquent than speech, and every hour seemed to bring new strength, beauty, and serenity to make the wan and weary body a fitter home for a soul just entering into the world of higher thought and feeling to which it had attained after much pain and struggle.

“Go and meet him, Max. I will wait for him at home, and give my welcome there. Come soon, and tell him I have no room for sorrow, my heart is so full of gratitude and joy.”

May had come again and the Manse wore its loveliest aspect to greet its master, who came at last and alone. But not to an empty home, for on the threshold stood his wife, not the wayward child he wooed, the melancholy girl he married, but a woman with her soul in her face, her heart upon her lips, and outstretched arms that seemed to hold all that was dearest in the world when they clasped him with the tender cry,—

“Thank God! I have my husband safe.”

They had been together for an hour. The first excitement was over, and Sylvia stood beside him pale but calm with intensity of joy, while Moor leaned his weary head against her, trying to forget his great sorrow, and realize the greater happiness that had befallen him. Hitherto all their talk had been of Adam, and as Moor concluded the history of the year so tragically ended, for the first time he ventured to express surprise at the calmness with which his bearer received the sad story.

“How quietly you listen to words it wrings my heart to utter. Have you wept your tears dry, or do you still hope?”

“No, I feel that we shall never see him again; but I have no desire to weep, for tears and lamentations do not belong to him. He died a noble death; the sea is a fitting grave for him, and it is pleasant to think of him quiet at last,” answered Sylvia, still tearless and tranquil.

“I cannot feel so; I find it hard to think of him as dead; he was so full of life, so fit to live.”

“And therefore fit to die. Imagine him as I do, enjoying the larger life he longed for, and growing to be the nobler man whose foreshadowing we saw and loved so here.”

“Sylvia, I have told you of the beautiful change which came over him in those last weeks, and now I see something of the same change in you, as if the weaker part had slipped away and left the spirit visible. Are you, too, about to leave me, just as I have recovered you?”

Moor held her close and searched her face, feeling that he hardly dared believe the beautiful miracle time had wrought.

“I shall stay with you all my life, please God. There will be no shadow of turning now. Let me tell you why I do not mourn for Adam, and why you may trust the love that has cost us all so much.”

Drawing his head to its former resting-place, she touched it very tenderly, seeing with a pang how many silver threads had come among the brown; and as her hand went to and fro with an inexpressibly soothing gesture she went on in a tone whose quietude controlled his agitation like a spell.

“Long ago in my great trouble, Faith told me that for every human effort or affliction there were two great helpers, Time and Death. After you left me I fell ill, more ill than you ever knew, dear, and for days believed that death was to end all perplexity and pain for me. I thought I should be glad that the struggle was over, but I was not, and longed to live that I might atone.While lying thus I had a dream which seemed to foreshadow what has come to pass. I did not understand it then, now I do. You have no faith in dreams, I have, and to this one I owe much of the faith that kept me up in those first hard days.”

“God bless the dream then, and send another as helpful.Tell it to me, love.”

“It was a strange and solemn vision; one to remember for its curious mingling of the familiar and the sublime, one to love for the message it seemed to bring me from lips that will never speak to me again. I dreamed that the last day of the world had come. I stood on the cliffs we know so well, you were beside me, and Adam apart and above us. All around as far as eye could reach thronged myriads of people, till the earth seemed white with human faces. All were mute and motionless, as if fixed in a trance of expectation, for none knew how the end would come. Utter silence filled the world, and across the sky a vast curtain of the blackest cloud was falling, blotting out face after face and leaving the world a blank. In that universal gloom and stillness, high above me in the heavens I saw the pale outlines of a word stretching from horizon to horizon. Letter after letter came out full and clear, till all across the sky, burning with a ruddy glory stronger than the sun, shone the great word Amen. As the last letter reached its bright perfection, a long waft of wind broke over me like a universal sigh of hope from human hearts. For far away on the horizon’s edge all saw a line of light that widened as they looked, and through that rift, between the dark earth and the darker sky, rolled in a softly flowing sea. Wave after wave came on, so wide, so cool, so still. None trembled at their approach, none shrunk from their embrace, but all turned toward that ocean with a mighty rush, all faces glowed in its splendor, and million after million vanished with longing eyes fixed on the arch of light through which the ebbing sea would float them when its work was done. I felt no fear, only the deepest awe, for I seemed such an infinitesimal atom of the countless host that I forgot myself. Nearer and nearer came the flood, till its breath blew on my cheeks, and I, too, leaned to meet it, longing to be taken. It broke over us, but you held me fast, and when the bitter waters ebbed away we stood alone, stranded on the green nook where the pine and birch trees grow. I caught my breath and was so glad to live, that when the next billow came in, I clung to you longing to be kept. The great wave rolled up before me, and through its soft glimmer I saw a beautiful, benignant face, regarding us with something brighter than a smile, as the wave broke at our feet and receded carrying the face away to be lost in the sunshine that suddenly turned the sea to gold. Adam was gone, but I knew that I had seen him as he will look in Heaven, and woke wondering what the vision meant. Now I know.”

For a moment neither spoke, for Sylvia was pale with the mere memory of that prophetic dream, and Moor absorbed in reading the interpretation of it in her altered face. She helped him by telling what God and Faith had done for her during that long year of probation, effort, and hard-won success. She laid her heart bare, and when the sad story reached its happy end Moor stood up to receive the reward she so gladly yet so meekly gave him, as she laid both hands in his saying with tears now,—

“I love you! Trust me, and let me try again.”

No need to record his answer, nor the welcome she received as she was gathered to the home where she no longer felt an alien nor a prisoner.

Standing together in the hush of the pleasant room they both loved best, Sylvia pointed up to the picture which now replaced the weird Sisters, as if she hoped to banish the faces that had looked down relentless on that bitter night a year ago.

It was a lovely painting of the moonlight voyage down the river; Max’s last gift and peace-offering to Sylvia. He had effaced himself behind the sail, a shadow in the light that silvered its white wing. But the moon shone full on Warwick at the helm, looking out straight and strong before him, with the vigilant expression native to him touched by the tender magic of the new sentiment for which he had found no name as yet. Moor leaned to look at Sylvia, a quiet figure full of grace and color, couched under the green arch; not asleep, but just waking, as if conscious of the eyes that watched and waited for an answering look. On either hand the summer woods made vernal gloom, behind the hills rose sharply up against the blue, and all before wound a shining road, along which the boat seemed floating like a white-winged bird between two skies.

“See, Geoffrey, how beautiful it is, not only as a souvenir of that happy time, but a symbol of the happier one to come. I am awake now, you see, and you are smiling as you used to smile. He is in the light, parted from us only by the silvery mist that rises from the stream. Could we have a better guide as we set sail again to voyage down the river that ends in the ocean he has already crossed?”

“No. Death makes a saint of him, may life make a hero of me,” answered Moor, with no bitter drop to mar the sweetness of that memory now.

“Love and God’s help can work all miracles since it has worked this one so well,” answered Sylvia, with a look Adam might have owned, so full of courage, hope, and ardor was it as she turned from the painted romance to the more beautiful reality, to live, not dream, a long and happy life, unmarred by the moods that nearly wrecked her youth; for now she had learned to live by principle, not impulse, and this made it both sweet and possible for love and duty to go hand in hand.

 

 

 

 

THE END.

Behind a Mask: or, A Woman’s Power is probably Alcott’s best-known and most highly regarded work of sensation fiction. It appeared as the title story in Madeleine B. Stern’s first collection of Alcott’s thrillers, Behind a Mask: The Unknown Thrillers of Louisa May Alcott, published by Avenel Books in 1975, and has since been reprinted several times.The novella was first published in James R. Elliott’s The Flag of Our Union under the pseudonym A. M. Barnard two years after the publication of Moods and two years before Little Women, part 1. Stern’s selection of Behind a Mask as the title for her volume suggests a major source of the story’s appeal, for it implies that Alcott herself was writing from behind a mask of pseudonymity and thus insinuating herself into the literary marketplace much as her heroine, Jean Muir, was infiltrating the patriarchal home. Critics have gone on to speculate that Alcott’s later portrayal of little women and her seeming advocacy of little women values constituted her real mask or disguise just as Jean’s impersonation of an ingenue governess—both a little woman herself and a guide to one—enabled her to exploit and subvert Victorian notions of a woman’s role. Surely, to read Moods, Behind a Mask, and Little Women in rapid succession is to gain a strong sense of the disjunctions and the continuities in Alcott’s remarkably various career.