Moods
me my will is swayed by yours, and what you desire I long to give you.
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."
How strangely Ottila came back to him, and all the scenes he had passed
through with her!--a perilous contrast just then. Yet, despite his pride
in the loving little creature who put him from her that she might be
worthy of him, one irrepressible lament swelled his heart and passed his
lips--
"Ah, Sylvia! I thought that parting on the mountain was the hardest I
could ever know, but this is harder; for now 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 regathered 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? Oh, 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 little couch where she had wept away childish woes and
dreamed girlish dreams, 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 XVII.
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 wrapt 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 sleepwalker
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 Milton's curling locks in the
picture overhead. The smile had hardly risen when it was scared away,
for Sylvia suddenly sprung 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, Mrs. 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 footstool, 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 cosy 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 within 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, sueing 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 forever 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 supremely content 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