Moods
mistaken. God help us all."
CHAPTER XVI.
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 heavy heart which even you cannot heal. Leave it to
time, and let me come and go as of old, enjoying the social hour when I
may, 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 it 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 and
prints she likes to take with her, will you run down into the garden and
fill your prettiest basket with our finest grapes? You will like that
better than fumbling with folds and string; and you know one's servants
should not perform these pleasant services for one's best friends."
Glad to be away, Sylvia ran through the long grape walk to its sunniest
nook, and standing outside the arch, began to lay the purple clusters in
her basket. Only a moment was she there alone; Warwick's shadow,
lengthened by the declining sun, soon fell black along the path. He did
not see her, nor seem intent on following her; he walked slowly, hat in
hand, so slowly that he was but 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 cried 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
bent her head upon it 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 perhaps 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 fruity burden as she
went. At the first sound of her light step on the gravel 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 great content 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
that power which heaven has gifted with eternal youth.
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 grape 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 Mark 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