Moods
"Long ago, in my great trouble, Faith told me that for every human
effort or affliction there were two friendly helpers, Time and Death.
The first has taught me more gently than I deserved; has made me humble,
and given me hope that through my errors I may draw virtue from
repentance. But while I have been learning the lessons time can teach,
that other helper has told me to be ready for its coming. Geoffrey, I
sent for you because I knew you would love to see me again before we
must say the long good by."
"Oh, Sylvia! not that; anything but that. I cannot bear it now!"
"Dear heart, be patient; lean on me, and let me help you bear it, for it
is inevitable."
"It shall not be! There must be some help, some hope. God would not be
so pitiless as to take both."
"I shall not leave you yet. He does not take me; it is I, who, by
wasting life, have lost the right to live."
"But is it so? I cannot make it true. You look so beautiful, so
blooming, and the future seemed so sure. Sylvia, show it to me, if it
must be."
She only turned her face to him, only held up her transparent hand, and
let him read the heavy truth. He did so, for now he saw that the beauty
and the bloom were transitory as the glow of leaves that frost makes
fairest as they fall, and felt the full significance of the great change
which had come. He clung to her with a desperate yet despairing hold,
and she could only let the first passion of his grief have way, soothing
and sustaining, while her heart bled and the draught was very bitter to
her lips.
"Hush, love; be quiet for a little; and when you can bear it better, I
will tell you how it is with me."
"Tell me now; let me hear everything at once. When did you know? How are
you sure? Why keep it from me all this time?"
"I have only known it for a little while, but I am very sure, and I kept
it from you that you might come happily home, for knowledge of it would
have lengthened every mile, and made the journey one long anxiety. I
could not know that Adam would go first, and so make my task doubly
hard."
"Come to me, Sylvia; let me keep you while I may. I will not be
violent; I will listen patiently, and through everything remember you."
He did remember her, so thoughtfully, so tenderly, that her little story
flowed on uninterrupted by sigh or sob; and while he held his grief in
check, the balm of submission comforted his sore heart. Sitting by him,
sustaining and sustained, she told the history of the last six months,
till just before the sending of the letter. She paused there a moment,
then hurried on, gradually losing the consciousness of present emotion
in the vivid memory of the past.
"You have no faith in dreams; I have; and to a dream I owe my sudden
awakening to the truth. Thank and respect it, for without its warning I
might have remained in ignorance of my state until it was too late to
find and bring you home."
"God bless the dream and keep the dreamer!"
"This was a strange and solemn vision; one to remember and to love for
its beautiful interpretation of the prophecy that used to awe and sadden
me, but never can again. I dreamed that the last day of the world had
come. I stood on a shadowy house-top in a shadowy city, and all around
me far as eye could reach thronged myriads of people, till the earth
seemed white with human faces. All were mute and motionless, as if fixed
in a trance of expectation, for none knew how the end would come. Utter
silence filled the world, and across the sky a vast curtain of the
blackest cloud was falling, blotting out face after face and leaving the
world a blank. In that universal gloom and stillness, far above me in
the heavens I saw the pale outlines of a word stretching from horizon to
horizon. Letter after letter came out full and clear, till all across
the sky, burning with a ruddy glory stronger than the sun, shone the
great word Amen. As the last letter reached its bright perfection, a
long waft of wind broke over me like a universal sigh of hope from human
hearts. For far away on the horizon's edge all saw a line of light that
widened as they looked, and through that rift, between the dark earth
and the darker sky, rolled in a softly flowing sea. Wave after wave came
on, so wide, so cool, so still. None trembled at their approach, none
shrunk from their embrace, but all turned toward that ocean with a
mighty rush, all faces glowed in its splendor, and million after million
vanished with longing eyes fixed on the arch of light through which the
ebbing sea would float them when its work was done. I felt no fear, only
the deepest awe, for I seemed such an infinitesimal atom of the
countless host that I forgot myself. Nearer and nearer came the flood,
till its breath blew on my cheeks, and I, too, leaned to meet it,
longing to be taken. A great wave rolled up before me, and through its
soft glimmer I saw a beautiful, benignant face regarding me. Then I knew
that each and all had seen the same, and losing fear in love were glad
to go. The joyful yearning woke me as the wave seemed to break at my
feet, and ebbing leave me still alive."
"And that is all? Only a dream, a foreboding fancy, Sylvia?"
"When I woke my hair was damp on my forehead, my breath quite still, my
heart so cold I felt as if death had indeed been near me and left its
chill behind. So strong was the impression of the dream, so perfect was
the similitude between the sensations I had experienced then, and more
than once awake, that I felt that something was seriously wrong with
me."
"You had been ill then?"
"Not consciously, not suffering any pain, but consumed with an inward
fever that would not burn itself away. I used to have a touch of it in
the evenings, you remember; but now it burned all day, making me look
strong and rosy, yet leaving me so worn out at night that no sleep
seemed to restore me. A few weak and weary hours, then the fire was
rekindled and the false strength, color, spirits, returned to deceive
myself, and those about me, for another day."
"Did you tell no one of this, Sylvia?"
"Not at first, because I fancied it a mental ill. I had thought so much,
so deeply, it seemed but natural that I should be tired. I tried to rest
myself by laying all my cares and sorrows in God's hand, and waiting
patiently to be shown the end. I see it now, but for a time I could only
sit and wait; and while I did so my soul grew strong but my ill-used
body failed. The dream came, and in the stillness of that night I felt a
strange assurance that I should see my mother soon."
"Dear, what did you do?"
"I determined to discover if I had deceived myself with a superstitious
fancy, or learned a fateful fact in my own mysterious way. If it were
false, no one would be made anxious by it; if true, possessing the first
knowledge of it would enable me to comfort others. I went privately to
town and consulted the famous physician who has grown gray in the study
of disease."
"Did you go alone, Sylvia?"
"Yes, alone. I am braver than I used to be, and have learned never to
feel quite alone. I found a grave, stern-looking man; I told him that I
wished to know the entire truth whatever it might be, and that he need
not fear to tell me because I was prepared for it. He asked many
questions, thought a little, and was very slow to speak. Then I saw how
it would be, but urged him to set my mind at rest. His stern old face
grew very pitiful as he took my hand and answered gently--'My child, go
home and prepare to die.'"
"Good God, how cruel! Sylvia, how did you bear it?"
"At first the earth seemed to slip away from under me, and time to stand
still. Then I was myself again, and could listen steadily to all he
said. It was only this,--I had been born with a strong nature in a
feeble frame, had lived too fast, wasted health ignorantly, and was past
help."
"Could he do nothing for you?"
"Nothing but tell me how to husband my remaining strength, and make the
end easy by the care that would have kept me longer had I known this
sooner."
"And no one saw your danger; no one warned you of it; and I was away!"
"Father could not see it, for I looked well and tried to think I felt
so. Mark and Jessie were absorbed in baby Sylvia, and Prue was gone. You
might have seen and helped me, for you have the intuitions of a woman in
many things, but I could not send for you then because I could not give
you what you asked. Was it wrong to call you when I did, and try to make
the hard fact easier to bear by telling it myself?"
"Heaven bless you for it, Sylvia. It was truly generous and kind. I
never could have forgiven you had you denied me the happiness of seeing
you again, and you have robbed the truth of half its bitter pain by
telling it yourself."
A restful expression came into her face, and a sigh of satisfaction
proved how great was the relief of feeling that for once her heart had
prompted her aright. Moor let her rest a little, then asked with a look
more pathetic than his words--
"What am I to you now? Where is my home to be?"
"My friend forever, no more, no less; and your home is here with us
until I leave my father to your care. All this pain and separation were
in vain if we have not learned that love can neither be forced nor
feigned. While I endeavored to do so, God did not help me, and I went
deeper and deeper into sorrow and wrong doing. When I dropped all
self-delusion and desperate striving, and stood still, asking to be
shown the right, then he put out his hand and through much tribulation
led me to convictions that I dare not disobey. Our friendship may be a
happy one if we accept and use it as we should. Let it be so, and for
the little while that I remain, let us live honestly before heaven and
take no thought for the world's opinion."
Adam might have owned the glance she bent upon her husband, so clear, so
steadfast was it; but the earnestness was all her own, and blended with
it a new strength that seemed a late compensation for lost love and
waning life. Remembering the price both had paid for it, Moor gratefully
accepted the costly friendship offered him, and soon acknowledged both
its beauty and its worth.
"One question more; Sylvia, how long?"
It was very hard to answer, but folding the sharp fact in the gentlest
fancy that appeared to her she gave him the whole truth.
"I shall not see the spring again, but it will be a pleasant time to lay
me underneath the flowers."
Sylvia had not known how to live, but now she proved that she did know
how to die. So beautifully were the two made one, the winning girl, the
deep-hearted woman, that she seemed the same beloved Sylvia, yet Sylvia
strengthened, purified, and perfected by the hard past, the solemn
present. Those about her felt and owned the unconscious power, which we
call the influence of character, and which is the noblest that gives
sovereignty to man or woman.
So cheerfully did she speak of it, so tranquilly did she prepare to meet
it, that death soon ceased to be an image of grief or fear to those
about her, and became a benignant friend, who, when the mortal wearies,
blesses it with a brief sleep, that it may wake immortal. She would have
no sad sick-chamber, no mournful faces, no cessation of the wholesome
household cares and joys, that do so much to make hearts strong and
spirits happy. While strength remained, she went her round of daily
duties, doing each so lovingly, that the most trivial became a delight,
and taking unsuspected thought for the comfort or the pleasure of those
soon to be left behind, so tenderly, that she could not seem lost to
them, even when she was gone.
Faith came to her, and as her hands became too weak for anything but
patient folding, every care slipped so quietly into Faith's, that few