Moods
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 kissed the glove with a long, sad kiss, and put it down 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 an 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 on the stool at her feet,
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 the unsafe topic.
"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 laid 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,--my husband
makes me 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 have settled
this point after long thought and the heartiest prayers I ever prayed;
and much as I have at stake, I speak more for your sake than 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. Forget that folly, and let
me speak to you as I should. 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."
"Never! 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 one day come to me, 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."
"Oh, 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, if it is to 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."
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 would you have me do?"
"You must go away, and for a long time, Adam; because when you are near