Moods
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
softly 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, might she not also have 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 dear 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 Mark, '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 should 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 sprung 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!"
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 IX.
HOLLY.
"Another gift for you, Sylvia. I don't know the writing, but it smells
like flowers," said Mark, as a smiling maid brought in a package on
Christmas morning.
Sylvia tore off the wrapper, lifted a cover, and exclaimed with
pleasure, though it was the simplest present she had received that day.
Only an osier basket, graceful in design and shape, lined with moss, and
filled with holly sprays, the scarlet berries glowing beautifully among
the polished green. No note, no card, no hint of its donor anywhere
appeared, for none of them recognized the boldly written address.
Presently a thought came to Sylvia; in a moment the mystery seemed to
grow delightfully clear, and she said to herself with a glow of joy,
"This is so like Adam I know he sent it."
"I must say it is the most peculiar present I ever saw, and it is my
belief that the boy who brought it stole whatever article of value it
contained, for it was very carelessly done up. No person in their senses
would send a few sprigs of common holly to a young lady in this odd
way," said Prue, poking here and there in hopes of finding some clue.
"It is not common, but very beautiful; we seldom see any so large and
green, and full of berries. Nor is it odd, but very kind, because from
the worn look of the wrapper I know it has been sent a long way to
please me. Look at the little ferns in the moss, and smell the sweet
moist odor that seems to take us into summer woods in spite of a
snowstorm. Ah, he knew what I should like."
"Who knew?" asked Mark, quickly.
"You must guess." And fearing that she had betrayed herself, Sylvia
hurried across the room to put the holly in water.
"Ah, ha, I see," said Mark, laughing.
"Who is it?" asked Prue, looking mystified.
"Geoffrey," whispered Mr. Yule, with an air of satisfaction.
Then all three looked at one another, all three nodded sagely, and all
three glanced at the small person bending over the table with cheeks
almost as rosy as the berries in her hand.
Every one knows what a Christmas party is when a general friendliness
pervades the air, and good wishes fly about like _confetti_ during
Carnival. To such an one went Sylvia and Mark that night, the brother
looking unusually blithe and debonair, because the beloved Jessie had
promised to be there if certain aunts and uncles would go away in time;
the sister in a costume as pretty as appropriate, for snow and holly
made her a perfect Yule. Sylvia loved dancing, and knew "wall flowers"
only by sight; therefore she was busy; her lover's gift shone greenly in
bosom, hair, and fleecy skirts; therefore she was beautiful, and the
thought that Adam had not forgotten her lay warm at her heart; therefore
she was supremely happy. Mark was devoted, but disappointed, for Jessie
did not come, and having doomed the detaining aunts and uncles to a
most unblessed fate, he sought consolation among less fair damsels.
"Now go and enjoy yourself. I shall dance no more round dances, for I'd