University of Virginia Library

18. 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.

It was a strange and solemn thing to look so deeply into
the private experience of a fellow being; to trace the birth
and progress of purposes and passions, the motives of action,
the secret aspirations, the besetting sins that made up the
inner life he had been leading beside her. Moor wrote

with an eloquent sincerity, because he had put himself into
his book, as if feeling the need of some confidante he had
chosen the only one that pardons egotism. Here, too,
Sylvia saw her chameleon self, etched with loving care, endowed
with all gifts and graces, studied with unflagging
zeal, and made the idol of a life.

Often a tuneful spirit seemed to assert itself, and passing
from smooth prose to smoother poetry, sonnet, song, or
psalm, flowed down the page in cadences stately, sweet, or
solemn, filling the reader with delight at the discovery of a
gift so genuine, yet so shyly folded up within itself, unconscious
that its modesty was the surest token of its worth.
More than once Sylvia laid her face into the book, and
added her involuntary comment on some poem or passage
made pathetic by the present; and more than once paused
to wonder, with exceeding wonder, why she could not give
such genius and affection its reward. Had she needed any
confirmation of the fact so hard to teach herself, this opening
of his innermost would have given it. For while she
bitterly grieved over the death-blow she had dealt his happy
hope, it no longer seemed a possibility to change her stubborn
heart, or lessen by a fraction the debt which she sadly
felt could only be repaid in friendship's silver, not love's
gold.

All night she lay there like some pictured Magdalene,
purer but as penitent as Correggio's Mary, with the book,
the lamp, the melancholy eyes, the golden hair that painters
love. All night she read, gathering courage, not consolation,
from those pages, for seeing what she was not showed
her what she might become; and when she turned the little
key upon that story without an end, Sylvia the girl was
dead, but Sylvia the woman had begun to live.

Lying in the rosy hush of dawn, there came to her a
sudden memory —

“If ever you need help that Geoffrey cannot give, remember
cousin Faith.”

This was the hour Faith foresaw; Moor had gone to her
with his trouble, why not follow, and let this woman, wise,
discreet, and gentle, show her what should come next?

The newly risen sun saw Sylvia away upon her journey to
Faith's home among the hills. She lived alone, a cheerful,
busy, solitary soul, demanding little of others, yet giving
freely to whomsoever asked an alms of her.

Sylvia found the gray cottage nestled in a hollow of the
mountain side; a pleasant hermitage, secure and still. Mistress
and maid composed the household, but none of the
gloom of isolation darkened the sunshine that pervaded it;
peace seemed to sit upon its threshold, content to brood
beneath its eaves, and the atmosphere of home to make it
beautiful.

When some momentous purpose or event absorbs us we
break through fears and formalities, act out ourselves forgetful
of reserve, and use the plainest phrases to express
emotions which need no ornament and little aid from language.
Sylvia illustrated this fact, then; for, without hesitation
or embarrassment, she entered Miss Dane's door,
called no servant to announce her, but went, as if by instinct,
straight to the room where Faith sat alone, and with
the simplest greeting asked —

“Is Geoffrey here?”

“He was an hour ago, and will be an hour hence. I
sent him out to rest, for he cannot sleep. I am glad you
came to him; he has not learned to do without you yet.”

With no bustle of surprise or sympathy Faith put away

her work, took off the hat and cloak, drew her guest beside
her on the couch before the one deep window looking down
the valley, and gently chafing the chilly hands in warm
ones, said nothing more till Sylvia spoke.

“He has told you all the wrong I have done him?”

“Yes, and found a little comfort here. Do you need consolation
also?”

“Can you ask? But I need something more, and no
one can give it to me so well as you. I want to be set
right, to hear things called by their true names, to be taken
out of myself and made to see why I am always doing
wrong while trying to do well.”

“Your father, sister, or brother are fitter for that task
than I. Have you tried them?”

“No, and I will not. They love me, but they could not
help me; for they would beg me to conceal if I cannot forget,
to endure if I cannot conquer, and abide by my mistake
at all costs. That is not the help I want. I desire to
know the one just thing to be done, and to be made brave
enough to do it, though friends lament, gossips clamor, and
the heavens fall. I am in earnest now. Rate me sharply,
drag out my weaknesses, shame my follies, show no mercy
to my selfish hopes; and when I can no longer hide from
myself put me in the way I should go, and I will follow it
though my feet bleed at every step.”

She was in earnest now, terribly so, but still Faith drew
back, though her compassionate face belied her hesitating
words.

“Go to Adam; who wiser or more just than he?”

“I cannot. He, as well as Geoffrey, loves me too well
to decide for me. You stand between them, wise as the
one, gentle as the other, and you do not care for me enough

to let affection hoodwink reason. Faith, you bade me come;
do not cast me off, for if you shut your heart against me I
know not where to go.”

Despairing she spoke, disconsolate she looked, and Faith's
reluctance vanished. The maternal aspect returned, her
voice resumed its warmth, her eye its benignity, and Sylvia
was reassured before a word was spoken.

“I do not cast you off, nor shut my heart against you.
I only hesitated to assume such responsibility, and shrunk
from the task because of compassion, not coldness. Sit
here, and tell me all your trouble, Sylvia?”

“That is so kind! It seems quite natural to turn to you
as if I had a claim upon you. Let me have, and if you
can, love me a little, because I have no mother, and need
one very much.”

“My child, you shall not need one any more.”

“I feel that, and am comforted already. Faith, if you
were me, and stood where I stand, beloved by two men,
either of whom any woman might be proud to call husband,
putting self away, to which should you cleave?”

“To neither.”

Sylvia paled and trembled, as if the oracle she had invoked
was an unanswerable voice pronouncing the inevitable.
She watched Faith's countenance a moment, groping
for her meaning, failed to find it, and whispered below
her breath —

“Can I know why?”

“Because your husband is, your lover should be your friend
and nothing more. You have been hardly taught the lesson
many have to learn, that friendship cannot fill love's place,
yet should be kept inviolate, and served as an austerer mistress
who can make life very beautiful to such as feel her

worth and deserve her delights. Adam taught me this,
for though Geoffrey took you from him, he still held fast
his friend, letting no disappointment sour, no envy alienate,
no resentment destroy the perfect friendship years of mutual
fidelity have built up between them.”

“Yes!” cried Sylvia, “how I have honored Adam for
that steadfastness, and how I have despised myself, because
I could not be as wise and faithful in the earlier, safer sentiment
I felt for Geoffrey.”

“Be wise and faithful now; cease to be the wife, but remain
the friend; freely give all you can with honesty, not
one jot more.”

“Never did man possess a truer friend than I will be to
him — if he will let me. But, Faith, if I may be that to
Geoffrey, may I not be something nearer and dearer to
Adam? Would not you dare to hope it, were you me?”

“No, Sylvia, never.”

“Why not?”

“If you were blind, a cripple, or cursed with some incurable
infirmity of body, would not you hesitate to bind
yourself and your affliction to another?”

“You know I should not only hesitate, but utterly refuse.”

“I do know it, therefore I venture to show you why, according
to my belief, you should not marry Adam. I cannot
tell you as I ought, but only try to show you where to
seek the explanation of my seeming harsh advice. There
are diseases more subtle and dangerous than any that vex
our flesh; diseases that should be as carefully cured if curable,
as inexorably prevented from spreading as any malady
we dread. A paralyzed will, a morbid mind, a mad temper,
a tainted heart, a blind soul, are afflictions to be as

much regarded as bodily infirmities. Nay, more, inasmuch
as souls are of greater value than perishable flesh.
Where this is religiously taught, believed, and practised,
marriage becomes in truth a sacrament blessed of God;
children thank parents for the gift of life; parents see in
children living satisfactions and rewards, not reproaches or
retributions doubly heavy to be borne, for the knowledge
that where two sinned, many must inevitably suffer.”

“You try to tell me gently, Faith, but I see that you
consider me one of the innocent unfortunates, who have no
right to marry till they be healed, perhaps never. I have
dimly felt this during the past year, now I know it, and
thank God that I have no child to reproach me hereafter,
for bequeathing it the mental ills I have not yet outlived.”

“Dear Sylvia, you are an exceptional case in all respects,
because an extreme one. The ancient theology of two contending
spirits in one body, is strangely exemplified in you,
for each rules by turns, and each helps or hinders as moods
and circumstances lead. Even in the great event of a woman's
life, you were thwarted by conflicting powers; impulse
and ignorance, passion and pride, hope and despair.
Now you stand at the parting of the ways, looking wistfully
along the pleasant one where Adam seems to beckon, while
I point down the rugged one where I have walked, and
though my heart aches as I do it, counsel you as I would a
daughter of my own.”

“I thank you, I will follow you, but my life looks very
barren if I must relinquish my desire.”

“Not as barren as if you possessed your desire, and
found in it another misery and mistake. Could you have
loved Geoffrey, it might have been safe and well with you;
loving Adam, it is neither. Let me show you why. He is

an exception like yourself; perhaps that explains your attraction
for each other. In him the head rules, in Geoffrey
the heart. The one criticises, the other loves mankind.
Geoffrey is proud and private in all that lies nearest him,
clings to persons, and is faithful as a woman. Adam has
only the pride of an intellect which tests all things, and
abides by its own insight. He clings to principles; persons
are but animated facts or ideas; he seizes, searches, uses
them, and when they have no more for him, drops them like
the husk, whose kernel he has secured; passing on to find
and study other samples without regret, but with unabated
zeal. For life to him is perpetual progress, and he obeys
the law of his nature as steadily as sun or sea. Is not this
so?”

“All true; what more, Faith?”

“Few women, if wise, would dare to marry this man,
noble and love-worthy as he is, till time has tamed and
experience developed him. Even then the risk is great, for
he demands and unconsciously absorbs into himself the
personality of others, making large returns, but of a kind
which only those as strong, sagacious, and steadfast as
himself can receive and adapt to their individual uses,
without being overcome and possessed. That none of us
should be, except by the Spirit stronger than man, purer
than woman. You feel, though you do not understand this
power. You know that his presence excites, yet wearies
you; that, while you love, you fear him, and even when
you long to be all in all to him, you doubt your ability to
make his happiness. Am I not right?”

“I must say, yes.”

“Then, it is scarcely necessary for me to tell you that I
think this unequal marriage would be but a brief one for

you; bright at its beginning, dark at its end. With him
you would exhaust yourself in passionate endeavors to follow
where he led. He would not know this, you would not
confess it, but too late you might both learn that you were
too young, too ardent, too frail in all but the might of love,
to be his wife. It is like a woodbird mating with an eagle,
straining its little wings to scale the sky with him, blinding
itself with gazing at the sun, striving to fill and warm
the wild eyrie which becomes its home, and perishing in
the stern solitude the other loves. Yet, too fond and faithful
to regret the safer nest among the grass, the gentler
mate it might have had, the summer life and winter flitting
to the south for which it was designed.”

“Faith, you frighten me; you seem to see and show me all
the dim forebodings I have hidden away within myself,
because I could not understand or dared not face them.
How have you learned so much? How can you read me so
well? and who told you these things of us all?”

“I had an unhappy girlhood in a discordant home; early
cares and losses made me old in youth, and taught me to
observe how others bore their burdens. Since then solitude
has led me to study and reflect upon the question toward
which my thoughts inevitably turned. Concerning yourself
and your past Geoffrey told me much but Adam more.”

“Have you seen him? Has he been here? When,
Faith, when?”

Light and color flashed back into Sylvia's face, and the
glad eagerness of her voice was a pleasant sound to hear
after the despairing accents gone before. Faith sighed, but
answered fully, carefully, while the compassion of her look
deepened as she spoke.

“I saw him but a week ago, vehement and vigorous as

ever. He has come hither often during the winter, has
watched you unseen, and brought me news of you which
made Geoffrey's disclosure scarcely a surprise. He said
you bade him hear of you through me, that he preferred to
come, not write, for letters were often false interpreters,
but face to face one gets the real thought of one's friend by
look, as well as word, and the result is satisfactory.”

“That is Adam! But what more did he say? How did
you advise him? I know he asked counsel of you, as we
all have done.”

“He did, and I gave it as frankly as to you and Geoffrey.
He made me understand you, judge you leniently,
see in you the virtues you have cheri hed despite drawbacks
such as few have to struggle with. Your father made
Adam his confessor during the happy month when you first
knew him. I need not tell you how he received and preserved
such a trust. He betrayed no confidence, but in
speaking of you I saw that his knowledge of the father
taught him to understand the daughter. It was well and
beautifully done, and did we need anything to endcar him
to us this trait of character would do it, for it is a rare endowment,
the power of overcoming all obstacles of pride,
age, and the sad reserve self-condemnation brings us, and
making confession a grateful healing.”

“I know it; we tell our sorrows to such as Geoffrey, our
sins to such as Adam. But, Faith, when you spoke of me,
did you say to him what you have been saying to me about
my unfitness to be his wife because of inequality, and my
unhappy inheritance?”

“Could I do otherwise when he fixed that commanding
eye of his upon me asking, `Is my love as wise as it is
warm?' He is one of those who force the hardest truths

from us by the simple fact that they can bear it, and would
do the same for us. He needed it then, for though instinct
was right, — hence his anxious question, — his heart, never
so entirely roused as now, made it difficult for him to judge
of your relations to one another, and there my woman's insight
helped him.”

“What did he do when you told him? I see that you
will yet hesitate to tell me. I think you have been preparing
me to hear it. Speak out. Though my cheeks
whiten and my hands tremble I can bear it, for you shall
be the law by which I will abide.”

“You shall be a law to yourself, my brave Sylvia. Put
your hands in mine and hold fast to the friend who loves
and honors you for this. I will tell you what Adam did
and said. He sat in deep thought many minutes; but with
him to see is to do, and soon he turned to me with the
courageous expression which in him signifies that the fight
is fought, the victory won. `It is necessary to be just, it
is not necessary to be happy. I shall never marry Sylvia,
even if I may,' — and with that paraphrase of words,
whose meaning seemed to fit his need, he went away. I
think he will not come again either to me — or you.”

How still the room grew as Faith's reluctant lips uttered
the last words! Sylvia sat motionless looking out into the
sunny valley, with eyes that saw nothing but the image of
that beloved friend leaving her perhaps forever. Well she
knew that with this man to see was to do, and with a woful
sense of deselation falling cold upon her heart, she felt
that there was nothing more to hope for but a brave submission
like his own. Yet in that pause there came a feeling
of relief after the first despair. The power of choice was no
longer left her, and the help she needed was bestowed by

one who could decide against himself, inspired by a sentiment
which curbed a strong man's love of power, and made
it subject to a just man's love of right. Great examples
never lose their virtue; what Pompey was to Warwick that
Warwick became to Sylvia, and in the moment of supremest
sorrow she felt the fire of a noble emulation kindling within
her from the spark he left behind.

“Faith, what comes next?”

“This,” and she was gathered close while Faith confessed
how hard her task had been by letting tears fall fast upon
the head which seemed to have found its proper resting-place,
as if despite her courage and her wisdom the woman's
heart was half broken with its pity. Better than any words
was the motherly embrace, the silent shower, the blessed
balm of sympathy which soothed the wounds it could not
heal. Leaning against each other the two hearts talked
together in the silence, feeling the beauty of the tie kind
Nature weaves between the hearts that should be knit.
Faith often turned her lips to Sylvia's forehead, brushed
back her hair with a lingering touch, and drew her nearer
as if it was very pleasant to see and feel the little creature
in her arms. Sylvia lay there, tearless and tranquil;
thinking thoughts for which she had no words, and trying
to prepare herself for the life to come, a life that now looked
very desolate. Her eye still rested on the valley where the
river flowed, the elms waved their budding boughs in the
bland air, and the meadows wore their earliest tinge of
green. But she was not conscious of these things till
the sight of a solitary figure coming slowly up the hill
recalled her to the present and the duties it still held
for her.

“Here is Geoffrey! How wearily he walks, — how

changed and old he looks, — oh, why was I born to be a
curse to all who love me!”

“Hush, Sylvia, say anything but that, because it casts
reproach upon your father. Your life is but just begun;
make it a blessing, not a curse, as all of us have power to
do; and remember that for every affliction there are two
helpers, who can heal or end the heaviest we know — Time
and Death. The first we may invoke and wait for; the
last God alone can send when it is better not to live.”

“I will try to be patient. Will you meet and tell
Geoffrey what has passed? I have no strength left but for
passive endurance.”

Faith went; Sylvia heard the murmur of earnest conversation;
then steps came rapidly along the hall, and
Moor was in the room. She rose involuntarily, but for a
moment neither spoke, for never had they met as now.
Each regarded the other as if a year had rolled between
them since they parted, and each saw in the other the
changes that one day had wrought. Neither the fire of resentment
nor the frost of pride now rendered Moor's face
stormy or stern. Anxious and worn it was, with newly
graven lines upon the forehead and melancholy curves about
the mouth, but the peace of a conquered spirit touched it
with a pale serenity, and some perennial hope shone in the
glance he bent upon his wife. For the first time in her life
Sylvia was truly beautiful, — not physically, for never had
she looked more weak and wan, but spiritually, as the inward
change made itself manifest in an indescribable
expression of meekness and of strength. With suffering
came submission, with repentance came regeneration, and
the power of the woman yet to be, touched with beauty the
pathos of the woman now passing through the fire.

“Faith has told you what has passed between us, and
you know that my loss is a double one,” she said. “Let
me add that I deserve it, that I clearly see my mistakes,
will amend such as I can, bear the consequences of such as
are past help, try to profit by all, and make no new ones.
I cannot be your wife, I ought not to be Adam's; but I
may be myself, may live my life alone, and being friends
with both wrong neither. This is my decision; in it I believe,
by it I will abide, and if it be a just one God will
not let me fail.”

“I submit, Sylvia; I can still hope and wait.”

So humbly he said it, so heartily he meant it, she felt
that his love was as indomitable as Warwick's will, and the
wish that it were right and possible to accept and reward it
woke with all its old intensity. It was not possible; and
though her heart grew heavier within her, Sylvia answered
steadily —

“No, Geoffrey, do not hope, do not wait; forgive me and
forget me. Go abroad as you proposed; travel far and stay
long away. Change your life, and learn to see in me only
the friend I once was and still desire to be.”

“I will go, will stay till you recall me, but while you
live your life alone I shall still hope and wait.”

This invincible fidelity, so patient, so persistent, impressed
the listener like a prophecy, disturbed her conviction,
arrested the words upon her lips and softened them.

“It is not for one so unstable as myself to say, `I shall never
change.' I do not say it, though I heartily believe it, but
will leave all to time. Surely I may do this; may let
separation gently, gradually convince you or alter me; and
as the one return which I can make for all you have given
me, let this tie between us remain unbroken for a little

longer. Take this poor consolation with you; it is the best
that I can offer now. Mine is the knowledge that however
I may thwart your life in this world, there is a beautiful
eternity in which you will forget me and be happy.”

She gave him comfort, but he robbed her of her own as
he drew her to him, answering with a glance brighter than
any smile —

“Love is immortal, dear, and even in the `beautiful
eternity' I shall still hope and wait.”

How soon it was all over! the return to separate homes,
the disclosures, and the storms; the preparations for the
solitary voyage, the last charges and farewells.

Mark would not, and Prue could not, go to see the traveller
off; the former being too angry to lend his countenance
to what he termed a barbarous banishment, the latter,
being half blind with crying, stayed to nurse Jessie, whose
soft heart was nearly broken at what seemed to her the most
direful affliction under heaven.

But Sylvia and her father followed Moor till his foot
left the soil, and still lingered on the wharf to watch the
steamer out of port. An uncongenial place in which to
part; carriages rolled up and down, a clamor of voices filled
the air, the little steamtug snorted with impatience, and
the waves flowed seaward with the ebbing of the tide.
But father and daughter saw only one object, heard only
one sound, Moor's face as it looked down upon them from
the deck, Moor's voice as he sent cheery messages to those
left behind. Mr. Yule was endeavoring to reply as cheerily,
and Sylvia was gazing with eyes that saw very dimly
through their tears, when both were aware of an instantaneous
change in the countenance they watched. Something

beyond themselves seemed to arrest Moor's eye; a moment
he stood intent and motionless, then flushed to the forehead
with the dark glow Sylvia remembered well, waved
his hand to them and vanished down the cabin stairs.

“Papa, what did he see?”

There was no need of any answer; Adam Warwick came
striding through the crowd, saw them, paused with both
hands out, and a questioning glance as if uncertain of his
greeting. With one impulse the hands were taken; Sylvia
could not speak, her father could, and did approvingly —

“Welcome, Warwick; you are come to say good by to
Geoffrey?”

“Rather to you, sir; he needs none, I go with him.”

“With him!” echoed both hearers.

“Ay, that I will. Did you think I would let him go
away alone feeling bereaved of wife, and home, and
friend?”

“We should have known you better. But, Warwick,
he will shun you; he hid himself just now as you approached;
he has tried to forgive, but he cannot so soon
forget.”

“All the more need of my helping him to do both. He
cannot shun me long with no hiding-place to fly to but the
sea, and I will so gently constrain him by the old-time love
we bore each other, that he must relent and take me back
into his heart again.”

“Oh, Adam! go with him, stay with him, and bring
him safely back to me when time has helped us all.”

“I shall do it, God willing.”

Unmindful of all else Warwick bent and took her to him
as he gave the promise, seemed to put his whole heart into
a single kiss and left her trembling with the stress of his

farewell. She saw him cleave his way through the throng,
leap the space left by the gangway just withdrawn, and
vanish in search of that lost friend. Then she turned her
face to her father's shoulder, conscious of nothing but the
fact that Warwick had come and gone.

A cannon boomed, the crowd cheered, the last cable was
flung off, and the steamer glided from her moorings with
the surge of water and the waft of wind like some sea-monster
eager to be out upon the ocean free again.

“Look up, Sylvia; she will soon pass from sight.”

“Are they there?”

“No.”

“Then I do not care to see. Look for me, father, and
tell me when they come.”

“They will not come, dear; both have said good by,
and we have seen the last of them for many a long day.”

“They will come! Adam will bring Geoffrey to show
me they are friends again. I know it; you shall see it.
Lift me to that block and watch the deck with me that we
may see them the instant they appear.”

Up she sprung, eyes clear now, nerves steady, faith
strong. Leaning forward so utterly forgetful of herself,
she would have fallen into the green water tumbling there
below, had not her father held her fast. How slowly the
minutes seemed to pass, how rapidly the steamer seemed to
glide away, how heavily the sense of loss weighed on her
heart as wave after wave rolled between her and her heart's
desire.

“Come down, Sylvia, it is giving yourself useless pain
to watch and wait. Come home, my child, and let us comfort
one another.”

She did not hear him, for as he spoke the steamer swung

slowly round to launch itself into the open bay, and with a
cry that drew many eyes upon the young figure with its
face of pale expectancy, Sylvia saw her hope fulfilled.

“I knew they would come! See, father, see! Geoffrey
is smiling as he waves his handkerchief, and Adam's hand
is on his shoulder. Answer them! oh, answer them! I
can only look.”

The old man did answer them enthusiastically, and Sylvia
stretched her arms across the widening space as if to
bring them back again. Side by side the friends stood
now; Moor's eye upon his wife, while from his hand the
little flag of peace streamed in the wind. But Warwick's
glance was turned upon his friend, and Warwick's hand
already seemed to claim the charge he had accepted.

Standing thus they passed from sight, never to come
sailing home together as the woman on the shore was praying
God to let her see them come.