 | CHAPTER XVI.
IN THE TWILIGHT. Moods |  |
16. CHAPTER XVI.
IN THE TWILIGHT.
If Sylvia needed another trial to make that hard week
harder, it soon came to her in the knowledge that Warwick
watched her. She well knew why, and vainly endeavored
to conceal from him that which she had succeeded in concealing
entirely from others. But he possessed the key to
her variable moods; he alone knew that now painful forethought,
not caprice dictated many of her seeming whims,
and ruled her simplest action. To others she appeared busy,
gay, and full of interest in all about her; to him, the industry
was a preventive of forbidden thoughts; the gayety a
daily endeavor to forget; the interest, an anxiety concerning
the looks and words of her companions, because she must
guard her own.
Sylvia felt something like terror in the presence of this
penetrating eye, this daring will, for the vigilance was unflagging
and unobtrusive, and with all her efforts she could
not read his heart as she felt her own was being read.
Adam could act no part, but bent on learning the truth
for the sake of all, he surmounted the dangers of the situation
by no artifice, no rash indulgence, but by simply shunning
solitary interviews with Sylvia as carefully as the
courtesy due his hostess would allow. In walks and drives,
and general conversation, he bore his part, surprising and
which seemed to have softened his rugged nature. But the
instant the family group fell apart and Moor's devotion to
his cousin left Sylvia alone, Warwick was away into the
wood or out upon the sea, lingering there till some meal,
some appointed pleasure, or the evening lamp brought all
together. Sylvia understood this, and loved him for it even
while she longed to have it otherwise. But Moor reproached
him for his desertion, doubly felt since the gentler acquirements
made him dearer to his friend. Hating all
disguises, Warwick found it hard to withhold the fact
which was not his own to give, and sparing no blame to
himself, answered Moor's playful complaint with a sad
sincerity that freed him from all further pleadings.
“Geoffrey, I have a heavy heart which even you cannot
heal. Leave it to time, and let me come and go as of old,
enjoying the social hour when I may, flying to solitude
when I must.”
Much as Sylvia had longed to see these friends, she
counted the hours of their stay, for the presence of one was
a daily disquieting, because spirits would often flag, conversation
fail, and an utter weariness creep over her when
she could least account for or yield to it. More than once
during that week she longed to lay her head on Faith's
kind bosom and ask help. Deep as was her husband's love
it did not possess the soothing power of a woman's sympathy,
and though it cradled her as tenderly as if she had
been a child, Faith's compassion would have been like
motherly arms to fold and foster. But friendly as they
soon became, frank as was Faith's regard for Sylvia, earnest
as was Sylvia's affection for Faith, she never seemed
to reach that deeper place where she desired to be. Always
us seek for in our friend, she felt that Faith drew back,
and a reserve as delicate as inflexible barred her approach
with chilly gentleness. This seemed so foreign to Faith's
nature that Sylvia pondered and grieved over it till the
belief came to her that this woman, so truly excellent and
loveworthy, did not desire to receive her confidence, and
sometimes a bitter fear assailed her that Warwick was not
the only reader of her secret trouble.
All things have an end, and the last day came none too
soon for one dweller under that hospitable roof. Faith
refused all entreaties to stay, and looked somewhat anxiously
at Warwick as Moor turned from herself to him with the
same urgency.
“Adam, you will stay? Promise me another week?”
“I never promise, Geoffrey.”
Believing that, as no denial came, his request was granted,
Moor gave his whole attention to Faith, who was to leave
them in an hour.
“Sylvia, while I help our cousin to select and fasten up
the books and prints she likes to take with her, will you
run down into the garden and fill your prettiest basket with
our finest grapes? You will like that better than fumbling
with folds and string; and you know one's servants should
not perform these pleasant services for one's best friends.”
Glad to be away, Sylvia ran through the long grape
walk to its sunniest nook, and standing outside the arch,
began to lay the purple clusters in her basket. Only a
moment was she there alone; Warwick's shadow, lengthened
by the declining sun, soon fell black along the path. He
did not see her, nor seem intent on following her; he walked
slowly, hat in hand, so slowly that he was but midway down
in haste, as her hurried step and almost breathless words
betrayed; and losing not an instant, she cried before they
met —
“Adam, you will come with me? I cannot leave you
here.”
“Do you doubt me, Faith?”
“No; but loving women are so weak.”
“So strong, you mean; men are weakest when they
love.”
“Adam, will you come?”
“I will follow you; I shall speak with Geoffrey first.”
“Must you tell him so soon?”
“I must.”
Faith's hand had been on Warwick's arm; as he spoke
the last words she bent her head upon it for an instant,
then without another word turned and hurried back as
rapidly as she had come, while Warwick stood where she left
him, motionless as if buried in some absorbing thought.
All had passed in a moment, a moment too short, too full
of intense surprise to leave Sylvia time for recollection and
betrayal of her presence. Half hidden and wholly unobserved
she had seen the unwonted agitation of Faith's
countenance and manner, had heard Warwick's softly spoken
answers to those eager appeals, and with a great pang had
discovered that some tender confidence existed between these
two of which she had never dreamed. Sudden as the discovery
was its acceptance and belief; for, knowing her own
weakness, Sylvia found something like relief in the hope
that a new happiness for Warwick had ended all temptation,
and in time perhaps all pain for herself. Impulsive as ever
she leaned upon the seeming truth, and making of the fancy
thinking, in the brief pause that followed Faith's departure
—
“This is the change we see in him; this made him watch
me, hoping I had forgotten, as I once said and believed. I
should be glad, I will be glad, and let him see that even
while I suffer I can rejoice in that which helps us both.”
Full of her generous purpose, yet half doubtful how to
execute it, Sylvia stepped from the recess where she had
stood, and slowly passed toward Warwick, apparently intent
on settling her fruity burden as she went. At the
first sound of her light step on the gravel he turned, feeling
at once that she must have heard, and eager to learn what
significance that short dialogue possessed for her. Only a
hasty glance did she give him as she came, but it showed
him flushed cheeks, excited eyes, and lips a little tremulous
as they said —
“These are for Faith; will you hold the basket while I
cover it with leaves?”
He took it, and as the first green covering was deftly
laid, he asked, below his breath —
“Sylvia, did you hear us?”
To his unutterable amazement she looked up clearly, and
all her heart was in her voice, as she answered with a fervency
he could not doubt —
“Yes; and I was glad to hear, to know that a nobles
woman filled the place I cannot fill. Oh, believe it, Adam;
and be sure that the knowledge of your great content will
lighten the terrible regret which you have seen as nothing
else ever could have done.”
Down fell the basket at their feet, and taking her face
between his hands, Warwick bent and searched with a glance
she struggled to escape, but the grasp that held her was
immovable. She tried to oppose a steadfast front and baffle
that perilous inspection, but quick and deep rushed the
traitorous color over cheek and forehead with its mute betrayal.
She tried to turn her eyes away, but those other eyes,
dark and dilated with intensity of purpose, fixed her own,
and the confronting countenance wore an expression which
made its familiar features look awfully large and grand to
her panic-stricken sight. A sense of utter helplessness fell
on her, courage deserted her, pride changed to fear, defiance
to despair; as the flush faded, the fugitive glance was arrested
and the upturned face became a pale blank, ready to receive
the answer that strong scrutiny was slowly bringing to the
light, as invisible characters start out upon a page when fire
passes over them. Neither spoke, but soon through all opposing
barriers the magnetism of an indomitable will drew
forth the truth, set free the captive passion pent so long,
and wrung from those reluctant lineaments a full confession
of that power which heaven has gifted with eternal youth.
The instant this assurance was his own beyond a doubt,
Warwick released her, snatched up his hat, and hurrying
down the path vanished in the wood. Spent as with an
hour's excitement, and bewildered by emotions which she
could no longer master, Sylvia lingered in the grape walk
till her husband called her. Then hastily refilling her
basket, she shook her hair about her face and went to bid
Faith good by. Moor was to accompany her to the city,
and they left early, that Faith might pause for adieux to
Mark and Prudence.
“Where is Adam? Has he gone before, or been inveigled
into staying?”
Moor spoke to Sylvia, but busied in fastening the basketlid,
she seemed not to hear, and Faith replied for her.
“He will take a later boat, we need not wait for him.”
When Faith embraced Sylvia, all the coldness had melted
from her manner, and her voice was tender as a mother's as
she whispered low in her ear —
“Dear child, if ever you need any help that Geoffrey
cannot give, remember cousin Faith.”
For two hours Sylvia sat alone, not idle, for in the first
real solitude she had enjoyed for seven days she looked
deeply into herself, and putting by all disguises owned the
truth, and resolved to repair the past if possible, as Faith
had counselled in the case which she had now made her
own. Like so many of us, Sylvia often saw her errors too
late to avoid committing them, and failing to do the right
thing at the right moment, kept herself forever in arrears
with that creditor who must inevitably be satisfied. She
had been coming to this decision all that weary week, and
these quiet hours left her both resolute and resigned.
As she sat there while the early twilight began to gather,
her eye often turned to Warwick's travelling bag, which
Faith, having espied it ready in his chamber, had brought
down and laid in the library, as a reminder of her wish.
As she looked at it, Sylvia 's heart yearned toward it in the
fond, foolish way which women have of endowing the possessions
of those they love with the attractions of sentient
things, and a portion of their owner's character or claim
upon themselves. It was like Warwick, simple and strong,
no key, and every mark of the long use which had tested
its capabilities and proved them durable. A pair of gloves
lay beside it on the chair, and though she longed to touch
anything of his, she resisted the temptation till, pausing
rent in the glove that lay uppermost, — that appeal was
irresistible, — “Poor Adam! there has been no one to care
for him so long, and Faith does not yet know how; surely
I may perform so small a service for him if he never knows
how tenderly I do it?”
Standing ready to drop her work at a sound, Sylvia
snatched a brief satisfaction which solaced her more than
an hour of idle lamentation, and as she kissed the glove
with a long, sad kiss, and put it down with eyes that dimly
saw where it should be, perhaps there went as much real
love and sorrow into that little act as ever glorified some
greater deed. Then she went to lie in the “Refuge,” as
she had named an ancient chair, with her head on its embracing
arm. Not weeping, but quietly watching the flicker
of the fire, which filled the room with warm duskiness,
making the twilight doubly pleasant, till a sudden blaze
leaped up, showing her that her watch was over and Warwick
come. She had not heard him enter, but there he was
close before her, his face glowing with the frosty air, his
eye clear and kind, and in his aspect that nameless charm
which won for him the confidence of whosoever read his countenance.
Scarce knowing why, Sylvia felt reassured that
all was well, and looked up with more welcome in her heart
than she dared betray in words.
“Come at last! where have you been so long, Adam?”
“Round the Island I suspect, for I lost my way, and had
no guide but instinct to lead me home again. I like to say
that word, for though it is not home it seems so to me now.
May I sit here before I go, and warm myself at your fire,
Sylvia?”
Sure of his answer he established himself on the stool at
on with some inward resolution lending its power and depth
to his voice.
“I had a question to settle with myself and went to find
my best counsellors in the wood. Often when I am harassed
by some perplexity or doubt to which I can find no
wise or welcome answer, I walk myself into a belief that it
will come; then it appears. I stoop to break a handsome
flower, to pick up a cone, or watch some little creature happier
than I, and there lies my answer, like a good luck
penny, ready to my hand.”
“Faith has gone, but Geoffrey hopes to keep you for
another week,” said Sylvia, ignoring the unsafe topic.
“Shall he have his wish?”
“Faith expects you to follow her.”
“And you think I ought?”
“I think you will.”
“When does the next boat leave?”
“An hour hence.”
“I'll wait for it here. Did I wake you coming in?”
“I was not asleep; only lazy, warm, and quiet.”
“And deadly tired; — dear soul, how can it be otherwise,
leading the life you lead.”
There was such compassion in his voice, such affection in
his eye, such fostering kindliness in the touch of the hand
he laid upon her own, that Sylvia cried within herself, —
“Oh, if Geoffrey would only come!” and hoping for that
help to save her from herself, she hastily replied —
“You are mistaken, Adam, — my life is easier than I
deserve, — my husband makes me very —”
“Miserable, — the truth to me, Sylvia.”
Warwick rose as he spoke, closed the door and came back
gesture of entreaty —
“No no, I will not hear you! Adam, you must not
speak!”
He paused opposite her, leaving a little space between
them, which he did not cross through all that followed, and
with that look, inflexible yet pitiful, he answered steadily —
“I must speak and you will hear me. But understand
me, Sylvia. I desire and design no French sentiment nor sin
like that we heard of, and what I say now I would say if
Geoffrey stood between us. I have settled this point after
long thought and the heartiest prayers I ever prayed; and
much as I have at stake, I speak more for your sake than
my own. Therefore do not entreat nor delay, but listen and
let me show you the wrong you are doing yourself, your
husband, and your friend.”
“Does Faith know all the past? does she desire you to do
this that her happiness may be secure?” demanded Sylvia.
“Faith is no more to me, nor I to Faith, than the friendliest
regard can make us. She suspected that I loved you
long ago; she now believes that you love me; she pities
her cousin tenderly, but will not meddle with the tangle we
have made of our three lives. Forget that folly, and let
me speak to you as I should. When we parted I thought
that you loved Geoffrey; so did you. When I came here
I was sure of it for a day; but on that second night I saw
your face as you stood here alone, and then I knew what I
have since assured myself of. God knows, I think my gain
dearly purchased by his loss. I see your double trial; I
know the tribulations in store for all of us; yet, as an
honest man, I must speak out, because you ought not to
delude yourself or Geoffrey another day.”
“What right have you to come between us and decide
my duty, Adam?” Sylvia spoke passionately, roused to
resistance by his manner and the turmoil of emotions warring
within her.
“The right of a sane man to save the woman he loves
from destroying her own peace forever, and undermining
the confidence of the friend dearest to them both, I know
this is not the world's way in such matters; but I care not;
because I believe one human creature has a right to speak
to another in times like these as if they two stood alone.
I will not command, I will appeal to you, and if you are
the candid soul I think you, your own words shall prove
the truth of what I say. Sylvia, do you love your husband?”
“Yes, Adam, dearly.”
“More than you love me?”
“I wish I did! I wish I did!”
“Are you happy with him?”
“I was till you came; I shall be when you are gone.”
“Never! It is impossible to go back to the blind tranquillity
you once enjoyed. Now a single duty lies before
you; delay is weak, deceit is wicked; utter sincerity
alone can help us. Tell Geoffrey all; then, whether you
live your life alone, or one day come to me, there is no
false dealing to repent of, and looking the hard fact in
the face robs it of one half its terrors. Will you do this,
Sylvia?”
“No, Adam. Remember what he said that night: `I
love but few, and those few are my world,' — I am chief in
that world; shall I destroy it, for my selfish pleasure? He
waited for me very long, is waiting still; can I for a second
time disappoint the patient heart that would find it easier
I ought not, dare not do it yet.”
“If you dare not speak the truth to your friend, you do
not deserve him, and the name is a lie. You ask me to remember
what he said that night, — I ask you to recall the
look with which he begged you not to try him too hardly.
Put it to yourself, — which is the kinder justice, a full confession
now, or a late one hereafter, when longer subterfuge
has made it harder for you to offer, bitterer for him to receive?
I tell you, Sylvia, it were more merciful to murder
him outright than to slowly wear away his faith, his peace,
and love by a vain endeavor to perform as a duty what
should be your sweetest pleasure, and what will soon become
a burden heavier than you can bear.”
“You do not see as I see; you cannot understand what
I am to him, nor can I tell you what he is to me. It is
not as if I could dislike or despise him for any unworthiness
of his own; nor as if he were a lover only. Then I
could do much which now is worse than impossible, for
I have married him, and it is too late.”
“Oh, Sylvia! why could you not have waited?”
“Why? because I am what I am, too easily led by circumstances,
too entirely possessed by whatever hope, belief,
or fear rules me for the hour. Give me a steadfast nature
like your own and I will be as strong. I know I am weak,
but I am not wilfully wicked; and when I ask you to be
silent, it is because I want to save him from the pain of
doubt, and try to teach myself to love him as I should. I
must have time, but I can bear much and endeavor more
persistently than you believe. If I forgot you once, can I
not again? and should I not? I am all in all to him,
while you, so strong, so self-reliant, can do without my love
for the loss of that which might have made us happy had
I been more patient.”
“Yes, I shall outlive it, else I should have little faith in
myself. But I shall not forget; and if you would remain
forever what you now are to me, you will so act that nothing
may mar this memory, if it is to be no more. I doubt your
power to forget an affection which has survived so many
changes and withstood assaults such as Geoffrey must unconsciously
have made upon it. But I have no right to
condemn your beliefs, to order your actions, or force you
to accept my code of morals if you are not ready for it.
You must decide, but do not again deceive yourself, and
through whatever comes hold fast to that which is better
worth preserving than husband, happiness, or friend.”
His words fell cold on Sylvia's ear, for with the inconsistency
of a woman's heart she thought he gave her up too
readily, yet honored him more truly for sacrificing both
himself and her to the principle that ruled his life and
made him what he was. His seeming resignation steadied
her, for now he waited her decision, while before he was
only bent on executing the purpose wherein he believed salvation
lay. She girded up her strength, collected her
thoughts, and tried to show him what she believed to be
her duty.
“Let me tell you how it is with me, Adam, and be patient
if I am not wise and brave like you, but far too young,
too ignorant to bear such troubles well. I am not leaning
on my own judgment now, but on Faith's, and though you
do not love her as I hoped, you feel she is one to trust. She
said the wife, in that fictitious case which was so real to us,
the wife should leave no effort unmade, no self-denial
what she had promised. Then, and then only, had she a
right to undo the tie that had bound her. I must do this
before I think of your love or my own, for on my marriage
morning I made a vow within myself that Geoffrey's happiness
should be the first duty of my life. I shall keep that
vow as sacredly as I will those I made before the world,
until I find that it is utterly beyond my power, then I will
break all together.”
“You have tried that once, and failed.”
“No, I have never tried it as I shall now. At first, I
did not know the truth, then I was afraid to believe, and
struggled blindly to forget. Now I see clearly, I confess it,
I resolve to conquer it, and I will not yield until I have
done my best. You say you must respect me. Could you
do so if I no longer respected myself? I should not, if I
forgot all Geoffrey had borne and done for me, and could
not hear and do this thing for him. I must make the effort,
and make it silently; for he is very proud with all his gentleness,
and would reject the seeming sacrifice though he would
make one doubly hard for love of me. If I am to stay with
him, it spares him the bitterest pain he could suffer; if I am
to go, it gives him a few more months of happiness, and I
may so prepare him that the parting will be less hard.
How others would act I cannot tell, I only know that this
seems right to me; and I must fight my fight alone, even if
I die in doing it.”
She was so earnest, yet so humble; so weak in all but
the desire to do well; so young to be tormented with such
fateful issues, and withal so steadfast in the grateful yet
remorseful tenderness she bore her husband, that though
sorely disappointed and not one whit convinced, Warwick
her with redoubled love, both for what she was and what
she aspired to be.
“Sylvia, what would you have me do?”
“You must go away, and for a long time, Adam; because
when you are near 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
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
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 XVI.
IN THE TWILIGHT. Moods | |