University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.
NO.

Drawn curtains shut out the frosty night, the first fire
of the season burned upon the hearth, and basking in its
glow sat Sylvia, letting her thoughts wander where they
would. As books most freely open at pages oftenest read,
the romance of her summer life seldom failed to unclose at
passages where Warwick's name appeared. Pleasant as
were many hours of that time, none seemed so full of
beauty as those passed with him, and sweetest of them all
the twilight journey hand in hand. It now returned to
her so freshly that she seemed to hear again the evening
sounds, to feel the warm, fern-scented wind blow over her,
to see the strong hand offered helpfully, and with an impulse
past control she stretched her own to that visionary
Warwick as the longing of her heart found vent in an
eager

“Come!”

“I am here.”

A voice replied, a hand pressed hers, and springing up
she saw, not Adam, but Moor, standing beside her with a
beaming face. Concealing the thrill of joy, the pang of
pain he had brought her, she greeted him cordially, and
reseating herself, instinctively tried to turn the current of
her thoughts.

“I am glad you came, for I have built castles in the air
long enough, and you will give me more substantial entertainment,
as you always do.”

The broken dream had left tokens of its presence in the
unwonted warmth of Sylvia's manner; Moor felt it, and
for a moment did not answer. Much of her former shyness
had crept over her of late; she sometimes shunned him,
was less free in conversation, less frank in demonstration,
and once or twice had colored deeply as she caught his eye
upon her. These betrayals of Warwick's image in her
thoughts seemed to Moor the happy omens he had waited
eagerly to see, and each day his hope grew more assured.
He had watched her unseen while she was busied with her
mental pastime, and as he looked his heart had grown unspeakably
tender, for never had her power over him been
so fully felt, and never had he so longed to claim her in
the name of his exceeding love. A pleasant peace reigned
through the house, the girl sat waiting at his side, the moment
looked auspicious, the desire grew irresistible, and he
yielded to it.

“You are thinking of something new and pleasant to tell
me, I hope, — something in keeping with this quiet place
and hour,” said Sylvia, glancing up at him with the traitorous
softness still in her eyes.

“Yes, and hoping you would like it.”

“Then I have never heard it before?”

“Never from me.”

“Go on, please; I am ready.”

She folded her hands together on her knee, turned her
face attentively to his, and unwittingly composed herself to
listen to the sweet story so often told, and yet so hard to
tell. Moor meant to woo her very gently, for he believed

that love was new to her. He had planned many graceful
illustrations for his tale, and rounded many smoothly flowing
sentences in which to unfold it. But the emotions are
not well bred, and when the moment came nature conquered
art. No demonstration seemed beautiful enough to
grace the betrayal of his passion, no language eloquent
enough to tell it, no power strong enough to hold in check
the impulse that mastered him. He went to her, knelt
down upon the cushion at her feet, and lifting to her a face
flushed and fervent with the ardor of a man's first love,
said impetuously —

“Sylvia, read it here!”

There was no need for her to look; act, touch, and tone
told the story better than the most impassioned speech.
The supplication of his attitude, the eager beating of his
heart, the tender pressure of his hand, dispelled her blindness
in the drawing of a breath, and showed her what she
had done. Now neglected warnings, selfish forgetfulness,
and the knowledge of an unconscious but irremediable
wrong frightened and bewildered her; she hid her face
and shrunk back trembling with remorse and shame.
Moor, seeing in her agitation only maiden happiness or
hesitancy, accepted and enjoyed a blissful moment while
he waited her reply. It was so long in coming that he
gently tried to draw her hands away and look into her
face, whispering like one scarcely doubtful of assent —

“You love me, Sylvia?”

“No.”

Only half audible was the reluctant answer, yet he
heard it, smiled at what he fancied a shy falsehood, and
said tenderly —

“Will you let me love you, dear?”

“No.”

Fainter than before was the one word, but it reached
and startled him. Hurriedly he asked —

“Am I nothing to you but a friend?”

“No.”

With a quick gesture he put down her hands and looked
at her. Grief, regret, and pity, filled her face with trouble,
but no love was there. He saw, yet would not believe the
truth, felt that the sweet certainty of love had gone, yet
could not relinquish the fond hope.

“Sylvia, do you understand me?”

“I do, I do! but I cannot say what you would have me,
and I must tell the truth, although it breaks my heart.
Geoffrey, I do not love you.”

“Can I not teach you?” he pleaded eagerly.

“I have no desire to learn.”

Softly she spoke, remorseful she looked, but the words
wounded like a blow. All the glad assurance died, the
passionate glow faded, the caress, half tender, half timid,
fell away, and nothing of the happy lover remained in face
or figure. He rose slowly as if the heavy disappointment
oppressed both soul and body. He fixed on her a glance of
mingled incredulity, reproach, and pain, and said, like one
bent on ending suspense at once —

“Did you not see that I loved you? Can you have been
trifling with me? Sylvia, I thought you too simple and
sincere for heartless coquetry.”

“I am! You shall not suspect me of that, though I deserve
all other reproaches. I have been very selfish, very
blind. I should have remembered that in your great kindness
you might like me too well for your own peace. I
should have believed Mark, and been less candid in my

expressions of esteem. But I wanted a friend so much; I
found all I could ask in you; I thought my youth, my
faults, my follies, would make it impossible for you to see
in me anything but a wayward girl, who frankly showed
her regard, and was proud of yours. It was one of my sad
mistakes; I see it now; and now it is too late for anything
but penitence. Forgive me if you can; I've taken all the
pleasure, and left you all the pain.”

Sylvia spoke in a paroxysm of remorseful sorrow. Moor
listened with a sinking heart, and when she dropped her
face into her hands again, unable to endure the pale expectancy
of his, he turned away, saying with an accent of
quiet despair —

“Then I have worked and waited all this summer to see
my harvest fail at last. Oh, Sylvia, I so loved, so trusted
you.”

He leaned his arm on the low chimney piece, laid down
his head upon it and stood silent, trying to forgive.

It is always a hard moment for any woman, when it demands
her bravest sincerity to look into a countenance of
eager love, and change it to one of bitter disappointment by
the utterance of a monosyllable. To Sylvia it was doubly
hard, for now her blindness seemed as ineredible as cruel;
her past frankness unjustifiable; her pleasure selfish; her
refusal the blackest ingratitude, and her dream of friendship
forever marred. In the brief pause that fell, every
little service he had rendered her, rose freshly in her memory;
every hour of real content and genuine worth that he
had given her, seemed to come back and reproach her;
every look, accent, action, of both happy past and sad present
seemed to plead for him. Her conscience cried out
against her, her heart overflowed with penitence and pity.

She looked at him, longing to say something, do something
that should prove her repentance, and assure him of the affection
which she felt. As she looked, two great tears fell
glittering to the hearth, and lay there such eloquent reproaches,
that, had Sylvia's heart been hard and cold as
the marble where they shone, it would have melted then.
She could not bear it, she went to him, took in both her
own the rejected hand that hung at his side, and feeling
that no act could too tenderly express her sorrow, lifted it
to her lips and softly kissed it.

An instant she was permitted to lay her cheek against it
as a penitent child mutelyy imploring pardon might have
done. Then it broke from her hold, and gathering her to
himself, Moor looked up exclaiming with renewed hope, unaltered
longing —

“You do care for me, then? You give yourself to me in
spite of that hard No? Ah, Sylvia, you are capricious
even in your love.”

She could not answer, for if that first No had been hard
to utter, this was impossible. It seemed like turning the
knife in the wound, to disappoint the hope that had gathered
strength from despair, and she could only lay her head
down on his breast, weeping the saddest tears she had ever
shed. Still happy in his new delusion, Moor softly stroked
the shining hair, smiling so tenderly, so delightedly, that
it was well for her she did not see the smile, the words were
enough.

“Dear Sylvia, I have tried so hard to make you love me
how could you help it?”

The reason sprung to her lips, but maiden pride and
shame withheld it. What could she tell except that she
had cherished a passion, based only on a look. She had

deceived herself in her belief that Moor was but a friend,
might she not also have deceived herself in believing Warwick
was a lover? She could not own this secret, its betrayal
could not alter her reply, nor heal Moor's wound,
but the thought of Warwick strengthened her. It always
did, as surely as the influence of his friend always soothed
her, for one was an embodiment of power, the other of tenderness.

“Geoffrey, let me be true to you and to myself,” she
said, so earnestly that it gave weight to her broken words.
“I cannot be your wife, but I can be your dear friend forever.
Try to believe this, — make my task easier by giving
up your hope, — and oh, be sure that while I live I cannot
do enough to show my sorrow for the great wrong I have
done you.”

“Must it be so? I find it very hard to accept the truth
and give up the hope that has made my happiness so long.
Let me keep it, Sylvia; let me wait and work again. I
have a firm belief that you will love me yet, because I
cleave to you with heart and soul, long for you continually,
and think you the one woman of the world.”

“Ah, if it were only possible!” she sighed.

“Let me make it so! In truth, I think I should not
labor long. You are so young, dear, you have not learned
to know your own heart yet. It was not pity nor penitence
alone that brought you here to comfort me. Was it,
Sylvia?”

“Yes. Had it been love, could I stand as I am now and
not show it?”

She looked up at him, showed him that though her cheeks
were wet there was no rosy dawn of passion there; though
her eyes were as full of affection as of grief, there was no

shy avoidance of his own, no dropping of the lids, lest they
should tell too much; and though his arm encircled her,
she did not cling to him as loving women cling when they
lean on the strength which, touched by love, can both
cherish and sustain. That look convinced him better than
a flood of words. A long sigh broke from his lips, and,
turning from her the eyes that had so wistfully searched
and found not, they went wandering drearily hither and
thither as if seeking the hope whose loss made life seem
desolate. Sylvia saw it, groaned within herself, but still
held fast to the hard truth, and tried to make it kinder.

“Geoffrey, I once heard you say to Mark, `Friendship
is the best college character can graduate from. Believe in
it, seek for it, and when it comes keep it as sacredly as
love.' All my life I have wanted a friend, have looked for
one, and when he came I welcomed him. May I not keep
him, and preserve the friendship dear and sacred still, although
I cannot offer love?”

Softly, seriously, she spoke, but the words sounded cold
to him; friendship seemed so poor now, love so rich, he
could not leave the blessed sunshine which transfigured the
whole earth and sit down in the little circle of a kindly
fire without keen regret.

“I should say yes, I will try to do it if nothing easier
remains to me. Sylvia, for five years I have longed and
waited for a home. Duty forbade it then, because poor
Marion had only me to make her sad life happy, and my
mother left her to my charge. Now the duty is ended, the
old house very empty, my heart very hungry for affection.
You are all in all to me, and I find it so difficult to relinquish
my dream that I must be importunate. I have
spoken too soon, you have had no time to think, to look into

yourself and question your own heart. Go, now, recall
what I have said, remember that I will wait for you
patiently, and when I leave, an hour hence, come down and
give me my last answer.”

Sylvia was about to speak, but the sound of an approaching
step brought over her the shyness she had not felt before,
and without a word she darted from the room. Then romance
also fled, for Prue came bustling in, and Moor was
called to talk of influenzas while his thoughts were full of
love.

Alone in her chamber Sylvia searched herself. She pictured
the life that would be hers with Moor. The old
house so full of something better than its opulence, an
atmosphere of genial tranquillity which made it home-like
to whoever crossed its threshold. Herself the daily companion
and dear wife of the master who diffused such
sunshine there; whose serenity soothed her restlessness;
whose affection would be as enduring as his patience; whose
character she so truly honored. She felt that no woman
need ask a happier home, a truer or more tender lover.
But when she looked into herself she found the cordial, unimpassioned
sentiment he first inspired still unchanged, and
her heart answered —

“This is friendship.”

She thought of Warwick, and the other home that might
be hers. Fancy painted in glowing colors the stirring life,
the novelty, excitement, and ever new delight such wanderings
would have for her. The joy of being always with
him; the proud consciousness that she was nearest and
dearest to such a man; the certainty that she might share
the knowledge of his past, might enjoy his present, help to
shape his future. There was no time to look into her heart,

for up sprung its warm blood to her check, its hope to her
eye, its longing to her lips, its answer glad and ready —

“Ah, this is love!”

The clock struck ten, and after lingering a little Sylvia
went down. Slowly, because her errand was a hard one;
thoughtfully, because she knew not where nor how she could
best deliver it. No need to look for him or linger for his
coming; he was already there. Alone in the hall, absently
smoothing a little silken shawl she often wore, and waiting
with a melancholy patience that smote her to the heart
He went to meet her, took both her hands in his, and looked
into her face so tenderly, so wistfully! —

“Sylvia, is it good night or good by?”

Her eyes filled, her hands trembled, her color paled, but
she answered steadily —

“Forgive me; it is good by.”