Moods
"One frank word before I married you would have spared us this. Could
you not foresee the end and dare to speak it, Sylvia?"
"I see it now, I did not then, else I would have spoken as freely as I
speak to-night. I thought I had outlived my love for Adam; it seemed
kind to spare you a knowledge that would disturb your friendship, so
though I told the truth, I did not tell it all. I thought temptations
came from without; I could withstand such, and I did, even when it wore
Adam's shape. This temptation came so suddenly, seemed so harmless,
generous and just, that I yielded to it unconscious that it was one.
Surely I deceived myself as cruelly as I did you, and God knows I have
tried to atone for it when time taught me my fatal error."
"Poor child, it was too soon for you to play the perilous game of
hearts. I should have known it, and left you to the safe and simple joys
of girlhood. Forgive me that I have kept you a prisoner so long; take
off the fetter I put on, and go, Sylvia."
"No, do not put me from you yet; do not think that I can hurt you so,
and then be glad to leave you suffering alone. Look like your kind self
if you can; talk to me as you used to; let me show you my heart and you
will see how large a place you fill in it. Let me begin again, for now
the secret is told there is no fear to keep out love; and I can give my
whole strength to learning the lesson you have tried so patiently to
teach."
"You cannot, Sylvia. We are as much divorced as if judge and jury had
decided the righteous but hard separation for us. You can never be a
wife to me with an unconquerable affection in your heart; I can never be
your husband while the shadow of a fear remains. I will have all or
nothing."
"Adam foretold this. He knew you best, and I should have followed the
brave counsel he gave me long ago. Oh, if he were only here to help us
now!"
The desire broke from Sylvia's lips involuntarily as she turned for
strength to the strong soul that loved her. But it was like wind to
smouldering fire; a pang of jealousy wrung Moor's heart, and he spoke
out with a flash of the eye that startled Sylvia more than the rapid
change of voice and manner.
"Hush! Say anything of yourself or me, and I can bear it, but spare me
the sound of Adam's name to-night. A man's nature is not forgiving like
a woman's, and the best of us harbor impulses you know nothing of. If I
am to lose wife, friend, and home, for God's sake leave me my
self-respect."
All the coldness and pride passed from Moor's face as the climax of his
sorrow came; with an impetuous gesture he threw his arms across the
table, and laid down his head in a paroxysm of tearless suffering such
as men only know.
How Sylvia longed to speak! But what consolation could the tenderest
words supply? She searched for some alleviating suggestion, some happier
hope; none came. Her eye turned imploringly to the pictured Fates above
her as if imploring them to aid her. But they looked back at her
inexorably dumb, and instinctively her thought passed beyond them to the
Ruler of all fates, asking the help which never is refused. No words
embodied her appeal, no sound expressed it, only a voiceless cry from
the depths of a contrite spirit, owning its weakness, making known its
want. She prayed for submission, but her deeper need was seen, and when
she asked for patience to endure, Heaven sent her power to act, and out
of this sharp trial brought her a better strength and clearer knowledge
of herself than years of smoother experience could have bestowed. A
sense of security, of stability, came to her as that entire reliance
assured her by its all-sustaining power that she had found what she most
needed to make life clear to her and duty sweet. With her face in her
hands, she sat, forgetful that she was not alone, as in that brief but
precious moment she felt the exceeding comfort of a childlike faith in
the one Friend who, when we are deserted by all, even by ourselves, puts
forth His hand and gathers us tenderly to Himself.
Her husband's voice recalled her, and looking up she showed him such an
earnest, patient countenance, it touched him like an unconscious rebuke.
The first tears she had seen rose to his eyes, and all the old
tenderness came back into his voice, softening the dismissal which had
been more coldly begun.
"Dear, silence and rest are best for both of us to-night. We cannot
treat this trouble as we should till we are calmer; then we will take
counsel how soonest to end what never should have been begun. Forgive
me, pray for me, and in sleep forget me for a little while."
He held the door for her, but as she passed Sylvia lifted her face for
the good night caress without which she had never left him since she
became his wife. She did not speak, but her eye humbly besought this
token of forgiveness; nor was it denied. Moor laid his hand upon her
lips, saying, "these are Adam's now," and kissed her on the forehead.
Such a little thing: but it overcame Sylvia with the sorrowful certainty
of the loss which had befallen both, and she crept away, feeling herself
an exile from the heart and home whose happy mistress she could never be
again.
Moor watched the little figure going upward, and weeping softly as it
went, as if he echoed the sad "never any more," which those tears
expressed, and when it vanished with a backward look, shut himself in
alone with his great sorrow.
CHAPTER XVIII.
WHAT NEXT?
Sylvia laid her head down on her pillow, believing that this night would
be the longest, saddest she had ever known. But before she had time to
sigh for sleep it wrapt her in its comfortable arms, and held her till
day broke. Sunshine streamed across the room, and early birds piped on
the budding boughs that swayed before the window. But no morning smile
saluted her, no morning flower awaited her, and nothing but a little
note lay on the unpressed pillow at her side.
"Sylvia, I have gone away to Faith, because this proud, resentful spirit
of mine must be subdued before I meet you. I leave that behind me which
will speak to you more kindly, calmly than I can now, and show you that
my effort has been equal to my failure. There is nothing for me to do
but submit; manfully if I must, meekly if I can; and this short exile
will prepare me for the longer one to come. Take counsel with those
nearer and dearer to you than myself, and secure the happiness which I
have so ignorantly delayed, but cannot wilfully destroy. God be with
you, and through all that is and is to come, remember that you remain
beloved forever in the heart of Geoffrey Moor."
Sylvia had known many sad uprisings, but never a sadder one than this,
and the hours that followed aged her more than any year had done. All
day she wandered aimlessly to and fro, for the inward conflict would not
let her rest. The house seemed home no longer when its presiding genius
was gone, and everywhere some token of his former presence touched her
with its mute reproach.
She asked no counsel of her family, for well she knew the outburst of
condemnation, incredulity, and grief that would assail her there. They
could not help her yet; they would only augment perplexities, weaken
convictions, and distract her mind. When she was sure of herself she
would tell them, endure their indignation and regret, and steadily
execute the new purpose, whatever it should be.
To many it might seem an easy task to break the bond that burdened and
assume the tie that blessed. But Sylvia had grown wise in
self-knowledge, timorous through self-delusion; therefore the greater
the freedom given her the more she hesitated to avail herself of it. The
nobler each friend grew as she turned from one to the other, the more
impossible seemed the decision, for generous spirit and loving heart
contended for the mastery, yet neither won. She knew that Moor had put
her from him never to be recalled till some miracle was wrought that
should make her truly his. This renunciation showed her how much he had
become to her, how entirely she had learned to lean upon him, and how
great a boon such perfect love was in itself. Even the prospect of a
life with Warwick brought forebodings with its hope. Reason made her
listen to many doubts which hitherto passion had suppressed. Would she
never tire of his unrest? Could she fill so large a heart and give it
power as well as warmth? Might not the two wills clash, the ardent
natures inflame one another, the stronger intellect exhaust the weaker,
and disappointment come again? And as she asked these questions,
conscience, the monitor whom no bribe can tempt, no threat silence,
invariably answered "Yes."
But chief among the cares that beset her was one that grew more
burdensome with thought. By her own will she had put her liberty into
another's keeping; law confirmed the act, gospel sanctioned the vow, and
it could only be redeemed by paying the costly price demanded of those
who own that they have drawn a blank in the lottery of marriage. Public
opinion is a grim ghost that daunts the bravest, and Sylvia knew that
trials lay before her from which she would shrink and suffer, as only a
woman sensitive and proud as she could shrink and suffer. Once apply
this remedy and any tongue would have the power to wound, any eye to
insult with pity or contempt, any stranger to criticise or condemn, and
she would have no means of redress, no place of refuge, even in that
stronghold, Adam's heart.
All that dreary day she wrestled with these stubborn facts, but could
neither mould nor modify them as she would, and evening found her spent,
but not decided. Too excited for sleep, yet too weary for exertion, she
turned bedward, hoping that the darkness and the silence of night would
bring good counsel, if not rest.
Till now she had shunned the library as one shuns the spot where one has
suffered most. But as she passed the open door the gloom that reigned
within seemed typical of that which had fallen on its absent master, and
following the impulse of the moment Sylvia went in to light it with the
little glimmer of her lamp. Nothing had been touched, for no hand but
her own preserved the order of this room, and all household duties had
been neglected on that day. The old chair stood where she had left it,
and over its arm was thrown the velvet coat, half dressing-gown, half
blouse, that Moor liked to wear at this household trysting-place. Sylvia
bent to fold it smoothly as it hung, and feeling that she must solace
herself with some touch of tenderness, laid her cheek against the soft
garment, whispering "Good night." Something glittered on the cushion of
the chair, and looking nearer she found a steel-clasped book, upon the
cover of which lay a dead heliotrope, a little key.
It was Moor's Diary, and now she understood that passage of the note
which had been obscure before. "I leave that behind me which will speak
to you more kindly, calmly, than I can now, and show you that my effort
has been equal to my failure." She had often begged to read it,
threatened to pick the lock, and felt the strongest curiosity to learn
what was contained in the long entries that he daily made. Her requests
had always been answered with the promise of entire possession of the
book when the year was out. Now he gave it, though the year was not
gone, and many leaves were yet unfilled. He thought she would come to
this room first, would see her morning flower laid ready for her, and,
sitting in what they called their Refuge, would draw some comfort for
herself, some palliation for his innocent offence, from the record so
abruptly ended.
She took it, went away to her own room, unlocked the short romance of
his wedded life, and found her husband's heart laid bare before her.