 | CHAPTER XV.
EARLY AND LATE. Moods |  |
15. CHAPTER XV.
EARLY AND LATE.
One of Sylvia's first acts when she rose was most significant.
She shook down her abundant hair, carefully
arranged a part in thick curls over cheeks and forehead,
gathered the rest into its usual coil, and said to herself, as
she surveyed her face half hidden in the shining cloud —
“It looks very sentimental, and I hate the weakness that
drives me to it, but it must be done, because my face is such
a traitor. Poor Geoffrey! he said I was no actress; I am
learning fast.”
Why every faculty seemed sharpened, every object assumed
an unwonted interest, and that quiet hour possessed
an excitement that made her own room and countenance
look strange to her, she would not ask herself, as she paused
on the threshold of the door to ascertain if her guests were
stirring. Nothing was heard but the sound of regular footfalls
on the walk before the door, and with an expression of
relief she slowly went down. Moor was taking his morning
walk bareheaded in the sun. Usually Sylvia ran to join
him, but now she stood musing on the steps, until he saw
and came to her. As he offered the flower always ready
for her, he said smiling —
“Did the play last night so captivate you, that you go
back to the curls, because you cannot keep the braids?”
“A sillier whim than that, even. I am afraid of those
two people; and as I am so quick to show my feelings in
my face, I intend to hide behind this veil if I get shy or
troubled. Did you think I could be so artful?”
“Your craft amazes me. But, dearest child, you need
not be afraid of Faith and Adam. Both already love you
for my sake, and soon will for your own. Both are so much
older, that they can easily overlook any little short-coming,
in consideration of your youth. Sylvia, I want to tell you
something about Adam. I never spoke of it before, because,
although no promise of silence was asked or given,
I knew he considered it a confidence. Now that it is all
over, I know that I may tell my wife, and she will help me
comfort him.”
“Tell on, Geoffrey, I hear you.”
“Well, dear, when we went gypsying long ago, on the
night you and Adam lost the boat, as I sat drying your
boots, and privately adoring them in spite of the mud, I
made a discovery. Adam loved, was on some sort of probation,
and would be married in June. He was slow to speak
of it, but I understood, and last night when I went to his
room with him, I asked how he had fared. Sylvia, it would
have made your heart ache to have seen his face, as he said
in that brief way of his — “Geoffrey, the woman I loved is
married, ask me nothing more.” I never shall; but I know,
by the change I see in him, that the love was very dear, the
wound very deep.”
“Poor Adam! how can we help him?”
“Let him do as he likes. I will take him to his old
haunts, and busy him with my affairs till he forgets his
own. In the evenings we will have Prue, Mark, and Jessie
over here, will surround him with social influences, and
wont lie awake and think all night, as I suspect he has been
doing of late. Sylvia, I should like to see that woman;
though I could find it in my heart to hate her for her perfidy
to such a man.”
Sylvia's head was bent as if to inhale the sweetness of
the flower she held, and all her husband saw was the bright
hair blowing in the wind.
“I pity her for her loss as well as hate her. Now, let
us talk of something else, or my tell-tale face will betray
that we have been talking of him, when we meet Adam.”
They did so, and when Warwick put up his curtain, the
first sight he saw, was his friend walking with his young
wife under the red-leaved maples, in the sunshine. The
look Moor had spoken of, came into his eyes, darkening
them with the shadow of despair. A moment it gloomed
there, then passed, for Honor said reproachfully to Love —
“They are happy, should not that content you?”
“It shall!” answered the master of both, as he dropped
the curtain and turned away.
In pursuance of his kindly plan, Moor took Adam out
for a long tramp soon after breakfast, and Sylvia and Miss
Dane sat down to sew. In the absence of the greater fear,
Sylvia soon forgot the lesser one, and began to feel at ease,
to study her new relative and covet her esteem.
Faith was past thirty, shapely and tall, with much natural
dignity of carriage, and a face never beautiful, but always
singularly attractive from its mild and earnest
character. Looking at her, one felt assured that here was
a right womanly woman, gentle, just, and true; possessed of
a well-balanced mind, a self-reliant soul, and that fine gift
which is so rare, the power of acting as a touchstone to all
level, unconscious of the test applied. Her presence was
comfortable, her voice had motherly tones in it, her eyes a
helpful look. Even the soft hue of her dress, the brown
gloss of her hair, the graceful industry of her hands, had
their attractive influence. Sylvia saw and felt these things
with the quickness of her susceptible temperament, and
found herself so warmed and won, that soon it cost her an
effort to withhold anything that tried or troubled her, for
Faith was a born consoler, and Sylvia's heart was full.
However gloomy her day might have been she always
brightened in the evening as naturally as moths begin to
flutter when candles come. On the evening of this day the
friendly atmosphere about her, and the excitement of Warwick's
presence so affected her, that though the gayety of
girlhood was quite gone she looked as softly brilliant as
some late flower that has gathered the summer to itself
and gives it out again in the bloom and beauty of a single
hour.
When tea was over, for heroes and heroines must eat if
they are to do anything worth the paper on which their
triumphs and tribulations are recorded, the women gathered
about the library table, work in hand, as female tongues go
easier when their fingers are occupied. Sylvia left Prue
and Jessie to enjoy Faith, and while she fabricated some
trifle with scarlet silk and an ivory shuttle, she listened to
the conversation of the gentlemen who roved about the room
till a remark of Prue's brought the party together.
“Helen Chesterfield has run away from her husband in
the most disgraceful manner.”
Mark and Moor drew near, Adam leaned on the chimney-piece,
the workers paused, and having produced her sensation,
possible, for all knew the parties in question and all waited
anxiously to hear particulars.
“She married a Frenchman old enough to be her father,
but very rich. She thought she loved him, but when she
got tired of her fine establishment, and the novelties of
Paris, she found she did not, and was miserable. Many of
her new friends had lovers, so why should not she; and
presently she began to amuse herself with this Louis
Gustave Isadore Theodule de Roueville — There's a name
for a Christian man! Well, she began in play, grew in
earnest, and when she could bear her domestic trouble no
longer she just ran away, ruining herself for this life, and
really I don't know but for the next also.”
“Poor soul! I always thought she was a fool, but upon
my word I pity her,” said Mark.
“Remember she was very young, so far away from her
mother, with no real friend to warn and help her, and love
is so sweet. No wonder she went.”
“Sylvia, how can you excuse her in that way? She
should have done her duty whether she loved the old
gentleman or not, and kept her troubles to herself in a
proper manner. You young girls think so much of love, so
little of moral obligations, decorum, and the opinions of the
world, you are not fit judges of the case. Mr. Warwick
agrees with me, I am sure.”
“Not in the least.”
“Do you mean to say that Helen should have left her
husband?”
“Certainly, if she could not love him.”
“Do you also mean to say that she did right to run off
with that Gustave Isadore Theodule creature?”
“By no means. It is worse than folly to attempt the
righting of one wrong by the commission of another.”
“Then what in the world should she have done?”
“She should have honestly decided which she loved, have
frankly told the husband the mistake both had made, and
demanded her liberty. If the lover was worthy, have
openly married him and borne the world's censures. If
not worthy, have stood alone, an honest woman in God's
eyes, whatever the blind world might have thought.”
Prue was scandalized to the last degree, for with her
marriage was more a law than a gospel; a law which ordained
that a pair once yoked should abide by their bargain,
be it good or ill, and preserve the proprieties in public no
matter how hot a hell their home might be for them and
for their children.
“What a dreadful state society would be in if your ideas
were adopted! People would constantly be finding out
that they were mismatched, and go running about as if
playing that game where every one changes places. I'd
rather die at once than live to see such a state of things as
that,” said the worthy spinster.
“So would I, and recommend prevention rather than a
dangerous cure.”
“I really should like to hear your views, Mr. Warwick,
for you quite take my breath away.”
Much to Sylvia's surprise Adam appeared to like the
subject, and placed his views at Prue's disposal with
alacrity.
“I would begin at the beginning, and teach young people
that marriage is not the only aim and end of life, yet would
fit them for it, as for a sacrament too high and holy to be
profaned by a light word or thought. Show them how to
life both cheerful and sustaining; a law that shall keep them
hopeful if single, sure that here or hereafter they will find
that other self and be accepted by it; happy if wedded, for
their own integrity of heart will teach them to know the
true god when he comes, and keep them loyal to the last.”
“That is all very excellent and charming, but what are
the poor souls to do who have n't been educated in this
fine way?” asked Prue.
“Unhappy marriages are the tragedies of our day, and
will be, till we learn that there are truer laws to be obeyed
than those custom sanctions, other obstacles than inequalities
of fortune, rank, and age. Because two persons love,
it is not always safe or wise for them to marry, nor need
it necessarily wreck their peace to live apart. Often what
seems the best affection of our hearts does more for us by
being thwarted than if granted its fulfilment and prove a
failure which embitters two lives instead of sweetening one.”
He paused there, but Prue wanted a clearer answer, and
turned to Faith, sure that the woman would take her own
view of the matter.
“Which of us is right, Miss Dane, in Helen's case?”
“I cannot venture to judge the young lady, knowing so
little of her character or the influences that have surrounded
her, and believing that a certain divine example is best
for us to follow at such times. I agree with Mr. Warwick,
but not wholly, for his summary mode of adjustment would
not be quite just nor right in all cases. If both find that
they do not love, the sooner they part the wiser; if one
alone makes the discovery the case is sadder still, and
harder for either to decide. But as I speak from observation
only my opinions are of little worth.”
“Of great worth, Miss Dane; for to women like yourself
observation often does the work of experience, and despite
your modesty I wait to hear the opinions.”
Warwick spoke, and spoke urgently, for the effect of all
this upon Sylvia was too absorbing a study to be relinquished
yet. As he turned to her, Faith gave him an
intelligent glance, and answered like one speaking with
intention and to some secret but serious issue —
“You shall have them. Let us suppose that Helen was
a woman possessed of a stronger character, a deeper nature;
the husband a younger, nobler man; the lover truly
excellent, and above even counselling the step this pair have
taken. In a case like that the wife, having promised to
guard another's happiness, should sincerely endeavor to do
so, remembering that in making the joy of others we often
find our own, and that having made so great a mistake the
other should not bear all the loss. If there be a strong
attachment on the husband's part, and he a man worthy of
affection and respect, who has given himself confidingly,
believing himself beloved by the woman he so loves, she
should leave no effort unmade, no self-denial unexacted,
till she has proved beyond all doubt that it is impossible to
be a true wife. Then, and not till then, has she the right
to dissolve the tie that has become a sin, because where no
love lives inevitable suffering and sorrow enter in, falling
not only upon guilty parents, but the innocent children
who may be given them.”
“And the lover, what of him?” asked Adam, still intent
upon his purpose, for, though he looked steadily at
Faith, he knew that Sylvia drove the shuttle in and out
with a desperate industry that made her silence significant
to him.
“I would have the lover suffer and wait; sure that, however
it may fare with him, he will be the richer and the
better for having known the joy and pain of love.”
“Thank you.” And to Mark's surprise Warwick bowed
gravely, and Miss Dane resumed her work with a preoccupied
air.
“Well, for a confirmed celibate, it strikes me you take a
remarkable interest in matrimony,” said Mark. “Or is it
merely a base desire to speculate upon the tribulations of
your fellow-beings, and congratulate yourself upon your
escape from them?”
“Neither; I not only pity and long to alleviate them,
but have a strong desire to share them, and the wish
and purpose of my life for the last year has been to
marry.”
Outspoken as Warwick was at all times and on all subjects,
there was something in this avowal that touched
those present, for with the words a quick rising light and
warmth illuminated his whole countenance, and the energy
of his desire tuned his voice to a key which caused one
heart to beat fast, one pair of eyes to fill with sudden tears.
Moor could not see his friend's face, but he saw Mark's,
divined the indiscreet inquiry hovering on his lips, and
arrested it with a warning gesture.
A pause ensued, during which each person made some
mental comment on the last speech, and to several of the
group that little moment was a memorable one. Remembering
the lost love Warwick had confessed to him, Moor
thought with friendliest regret — “Poor Adam, he finds it
impossible to forget.” Reading the truth in the keen delight
the instant brought her, Sylvia cried out within herself,
“Oh, Geoffrey, forgive me, for I love him!” and
still, we have ventured far enough.”
Prue spoke first, very much disturbed by having her
prejudices and opinions opposed, and very anxious to prove
herself in the right.
“Mark and Geoffrey look as if they agreed with Mr.
Warwick in his — excuse me if I say, dangerous ideas; but
I fancy the personal application of them would change their
minds. Now, Mark, just look at it; suppose some one of
Jessie's lovers should discover an affinity for her, and she
for him, what would you do?”
“Shoot him or myself, or all three, and make a neat
little tragedy of it.”
“There is no getting a serious answer from you, and I
wonder I ever try. Geoffrey, I put the case to you; if
Sylvia should find she adored Julian Haize, who fell sick
when she was married, you know, and should inform you
of that agreeable fact some fine day, should you think it
quite reasonable and right to say, “Go, my dear, I'm very
sorry, but it can't be helped.”
The way in which Prue put the case made it impossible
for her hearers not to laugh. But Sylvia held her breath
while waiting for her husband's answer. He was standing
behind her chair, and spoke with the smile still on his lips,
too confident to harbor even a passing fancy.
“Perhaps I ought to be generous enough to do so, but
not being a Jaques, with a convenient glacier to help me
out of the predicament, I am afraid I should be hard to
manage. I love but few, and those few are my world; so
do not try me too hardly, Sylvia.”
“I shall do my best, Geoffrey.”
She dropped her shuttle as she spoke, and stooping to
thus, when she fell to work again, nothing of her face was
visible but a glimpse of forehead, black lashes and faintly
smiling mouth. Moor led the conversation to other topics,
and was soon deep in an art discussion with Mark and Miss
Dane, while Prue and Jessie chatted away on that safe subject,
dress. But Sylvia worked silently, and Warwick still
leaned there watching the busy hand as if he saw something
more than a pretty contrast between the white fingers
and the scarlet silk.
When the other guests had left, and Faith and himself
had gone to their rooms, Warwick, bent on not passing another
sleepless night full of unprofitable longings, went
down again to get a book. The library was still lighted,
and standing there alone he saw Sylvia, wearing an expression
that startled him. Both hands pushed back and held
her hair away as if she scorned concealment from herself.
Her eyes seemed fixed with a despairing glance on some invisible
disturber of her peace. All the light and color
that made her beautiful were gone, leaving her face worn
and old, and the language of both countenance and attitude
was that of one suddenly confronted with some hard fact,
some heavy duty, that must be accepted and performed.
This revelation lasted but a moment, Moor's step came
down the hall, the hair fell, the anguish passed, and nothing
but a wan and weary face remained. But Warwick
had seen it, and as he stole away unperceived he pressed
his hands together, saying mournfully within himself, “I
was mistaken. God help us all.”
| CHAPTER XV.
EARLY AND LATE. Moods | |