 | CHAPTER XXI.
OUT OF THE SHADOW. Moods |  |
21. CHAPTER XXI.
OUT OF THE SHADOW.
They had been together for an hour, the husband and
the wife. The first excitement was now over, and Sylvia
stood behind him tearless and tranquil, while Moor, looking
like a man out of whom the sea had drenched both strength
and spirit, leaned his weary head against her, trying to
accept the great loss, enjoy the great gain which had befallen
him. Hitherto all their talk had been of Warwick,
and as Moor concluded the history of the months so tragically
ended, for the first time he ventured to express wonder
at the calmness with which his hearer received the sad
story.
“How quietly you listen to words which it wrings my
heart to utter. Have you wept your tears dry, or do you
still cling to hope?”
“No, I feel that we shall never see him any more; but
I have no desire to weep, for tears and lamentations do not
belong to him. He died a beautiful, a noble death; the
sea is a fitting grave for him, and it is pleasant to think of
him asleep there, quiet at last.”
“I cannot feel so; I find it hard to think of him as dead;
he was so full of life, so fit to live.”
“And therefore fit to die. Imagine him as I do, enjoying
the larger life he longed for, and growing to be the
so here.”
“Sylvia, I have told you of the beautiful change which
befell him in those last days, and now I see the same in
you. Are you, too, about to leave me when I have just
recovered you?”
“I shall stay with you all my life.”
“Then Adam was less to you than you believed, and I
am more?”
“Nothing is changed. Adam is all he ever was to me,
you are all you ever can be; but I —”
“Then why send for me? Why say you will stay with
me all your life? Sylvia, for God's sake, let there be no
more delusion or deceit!”
“Never again! I will tell you; I meant to do it at
once, but it is so hard —”
She turned her face away, and for a moment neither
stirred. Then drawing his head to its former resting-place
she touched it very tenderly, seeing how many white threads
shone among the brown; and as her hand went to and fro
with an inexpressibly soothing gesture, she said, in a tone
whose quietude controlled his agitation like a spell —
“Long ago, in my great trouble, Faith told me that for
every human effort or affliction there were two friendly
helpers, Time and Death. The first has taught me more
gently than I deserved; has made me humble, and given
me hope that through my errors I may draw virtue from
repentance. But while I have been learning the lessons
time can teach, that other helper has told me to be ready
for its coming. Geoffrey, I sent for you because I knew
you would love to see me again before we must say the long
good by.”
“Oh, Sylvia! not that; anything but that. I cannot
bear it now!”
“Dear heart, be patient; lean on me, and let me help
you bear it, for it is inevitable.”
“It shall not be! There must be some help, some hope.
God would not be so pitiless as to take both.”
“I shall not leave you yet. He does not take me; it is
I, who, by wasting life, have lost the right to live.”
“But is it so? I cannot make it true. You look so
beautiful, so blooming, and the future seemed so sure.
Sylvia, show it to me, if it must be.”
She only turned her face to him, only held up her transparent
hand, and let him read the heavy truth. He did
so, for now he saw that the beauty and the bloom were
transitory as the glow of leaves that frost makes fairest as
they fall, and felt the full significance of the great change
which had come. He clung to her with a desperate yet
despairing hold, and she could only let the first passion of
his grief have way, soothing and sustaining, while her heart
bled and the draught was very bitter to her lips.”
“Hush, love; be quiet for a little; and when you can
bear it better, I will tell you how it is with me.”
“Tell me now; let me hear everything at once. When
did you know? How are you sure? Why keep it from
me all this time?”
“I have only known it for a little while, but I am very
sure, and I kept it from you that you might come happily
home, for knowledge of it would have lengthened every
mile, and made the journey one long anxiety. I could not
know that Adam would go first, and so make my task
doubly hard.”
“Come to me, Sylvia; let me keep you while I may. I
everything remember you.”
He did remember her, so thoughtfully, so tenderly, that
her little story flowed on uninterrupted by sigh or sob; and
while he held his grief in check, the balm of submission
comforted his sore heart. Sitting by him, sustaining and
sustained, she told the history of the last six months, till
just before the sending of the letter. She paused there a
moment, then hurried on, gradually losing the consciousness
of present emotion in the vivid memory of the past.
“You have no faith in dreams; I have; and to a dream
I owe my sudden awakening to the truth. Thank and respect
it, for without its warning I might have remained in
ignorance of my state until it was too late to find and
bring you home.”
“God bless the dream and keep the dreamer!”
“This was a strange and solemn vision; one to remember
and to love for its beautiful interpretation of the prophecy
that used to awe and sadden me, but never can again.
I dreamed that the last day of the world had come. I
stood on a shadowy house-top in a shadowy city, and all
around me far as eye could reach thronged myriads of people,
till the earth seemed white with human faces. All were
mute and motionless, as if fixed in a trance of expectation,
for none knew how the end would come. Utter silence
filled the world, and across the sky a vast curtain of the
blackest cloud was falling, blotting out face after face and
leaving the world a blank. In that universal gloom and
stillness, far above me in the heavens I saw the pale outlines
of a word stretching from horizon to horizon. Letter
after letter came out full and clear, till all across the sky,
burning with a ruddy glory stronger than the sun, shone
perfection, a long waft of wind broke over me like a universal
sigh of hope from human hearts. For far away on
the horizon's edge all saw a line of light that widened
as they looked, and through that rift, between the dark
earth and the darker sky, rolled in a softly flowing sea.
Wave after wave came on, so wide, so cool, so still. None
trembled at their approach, none shrunk from their embrace,
but all turned toward that ocean with a mighty rush, all
faces glowed in its splendor, and million after million vanished
with longing eyes fixed on the arch of light through
which the ebbing sea would float them when its work was
done. I felt no fear, only the deepest awe, for I seemed
such an infinitesimal atom of the countless host that I forgot
myself. Nearer and nearer came the flood, till its breath
blew on my cheeks, and I, too, leaned to meet it, longing
to be taken. A great wave rolled up before me, and through
its soft glimmer I saw a beautiful, benignant face regarding
me. Then I knew that each and all had seen the same,
and losing fear in love were glad to go. The joyful yearning
woke me as the wave seemed to break at my feet, and
ebbing leave me still alive.”
“And that is all? Only a dream, a foreboding fancy,
Sylvia?”
“When I woke my hair was damp on my forehead, my
breath quite still, my heart so cold I felt as if death had
indeed been near me and left its chill behind. So strong
was the impression of the dream, so perfect was the similitude
between the sensations I had experienced then, and
more than once awake, that I felt that something was seriously
wrong with me.”
“You had been ill then?”
“Not consciously, not suffering any pain, but consumed
with an inward fever that would not burn itself away.
I used to have a touch of it in the evenings, you remember;
but now it burned all day, making me look strong and rosy,
yet leaving me so worn out at night that no sleep seemed
to restore me. A few weak and weary hours, then the fire
was rekindled and the false strength, color, spirits, returned
to deceive myself, and those about me, for another day.”
“Did you tell no one of this, Sylvia?”
“Not at first, because I fancied it a mental ill. I had
thought so much, so deeply, it seemed but natural that I
should be tired. I tried to rest myself by laying all my
cares and sorrows in God's hand, and waiting patiently to
be shown the end. I see it now, but for a time I could
only sit and wait; and while I did so my soul grew strong
but my ill-used body failed. The dream came, and in the
stillness of that night I felt a strange assurance that I
should see my mother soon.”
“Dear, what did you do?”
“I determined to discover if I had deceived myself with
a superstitious fancy, or learned a fateful fact in my own
mysterious way. If it were false, no one would be made
anxious by it; if true, prossessing the first knowledge of it
would enable me to comfort others. I went privately to
town and consulted the famous physician who has grown
gray in the study of disease.”
“Did you go alone, Sylvia?”
“Yes, alone. I am braver than I used to be, and have
learned never to feel quite alone. I found a grave, stern-looking
man; I told him that I wished to know the entire
truth whatever it might be, and that he need not fear to
tell me because I was prepared for it. He asked many
Then I saw how it would be, but urged him to set my mind
at rest. His stern old face grew very pitiful as he took my
hand and answered gently — “My child, go home and prepare
to die.”
“Good God, how cruel! Sylvia, how did you bear it?”
“At first the earth seemed to slip away from under me,
and time to stand still. Then I was myself again, and could
listen steadily to all he said. It was only this, — I had
been born with a strong nature in a feeble frame, had lived
too fast, wasted health ignorantly, and was past help.”
“Could he do nothing for you?”
“Nothing but tell me how to husband my remaining
strength, and make the end easy by the care that would
have kept me longer had I known this sooner.”
“And no one saw your danger; no one warned you of it;
and I was away!”
“Father could not see it, for I looked well and tried to
think I felt so. Mark and Jessie were absorbed in baby
Sylvia, and Prue was gone. You might have seen and
helped me, for you have the intuitions of a woman in many
things, but I could not send for you then because I could
not give you what you asked. Was it wrong to call you
when I did, and try to make the hard fact easier to bear by
telling it myself?”
“Heaven bless you for it, Sylvia. It was truly generous
and kind. I never could have forgiven you had you denied
me the happiness of seeing you again, and you have robbed
the truth of half its bitter pain by telling it yourself.”
A restful expression came into her face, and a sigh of
satisfaction proved how great was the relief of feeling that
for once her heart had prompted her aright. Moor let her
words —
“What am I to you now? Where is my home to be?”
“My friend forever, no more, no less; and your home is
here with us until I leave my father to your care. All this
pain and separation were in vain if we have not learned
that love can neither be forced nor feigned. While I endeavored
to do so, God did not help me, and I went deeper
and deeper into sorrow and wrong doing. When I dropped
all self-delusion and desperate striving, and stood still,
asking to be shown the right, then he put out his hand and
through much tribulation led me to convictions that I dare
not disobey. Our friendship may be a happy one if we
accept and use it as we should. Let it be so, and for the
little while that I remain, let us live honestly before heaven
and take no thought for the world's opinion.”
Adam might have owned the glance she bent upon her
husband, so clear, so steadfast was it; but the earnestness
was all her own, and blended with it a new strength
that seemed a late compensation for lost love and waning
life. Remembering the price both had paid for it, Moor
gratefully accepted the costly friendship offered him, and
soon acknowledged both its beauty and its worth.
“One question more; Sylvia, how long?”
It was very hard to answer, but folding the sharp fact
in the gentlest fancy that appeared to her she gave him the
whole truth.
“I shall not see the spring again, but it will be a pleasant
time to lay me underneath the flowers.”
Sylvia had not known how to live, but now she proved
that she did know how to die. So beautifully were the two
made one, the winning girl, the deep-hearted woman, that
purified, and perfected by the hard past, the solemn
present. Those about her felt and owned the unconscious
power, which we call the influence of character, and which
is the noblest that gives sovereignty to man or woman.
So cheerfully did she speak of it, so tranquilly did she
prepare to meet it, that death soon ceased to be an image of
grief or fear to those about her, and became a benignant
friend, who, when the mortal wearies, blesses it with a brief
slecp, that it may wake immortal. She would have no sad,
sick-chamber, no mournful faces, no cessation of the wholesome
household cares and joys, that do so much to make
hearts strong and spirits happy. While strength remained,
she went her round of daily duties, doing each so lovingly,
that the most trivial became a delight, and taking unsuspected
thought for the comfort or the pleasure of those soon
to be left behind, so tenderly, that she could not seem lost to
them, even when she was gone.
Faith came to her, and as her hands became too weak for
anything but patient folding, every care slipped so quietly
into Faith's, that few perceived how fast she was laying
down the things of this world, and making ready to take
up those of the world to come. Her father was her
faithful shadow; bent and white-haired now, but growing
young at heart in spite of sorrow, for his daughter had in
truth become the blessing of his life. Mark and Jessie
brought their offering of love in little Sylvia's shape, and
the innocent consoler did her sweet work by making sunshine
in a shady place. But Moor was all in all to Sylvia,
and their friendship proved an abiding strength, for sorrow
made it very tender, sincerity ennobled it, and the coming
change sanctified it to them both.
April came; and on her birthday, with a grateful heart,
Moor gathered the first snow-drops of the year. All day
they stood beside her couch, as fragile and as pale as she,
and many eyes had filled as loving fancies likened her to
the slender, transparent vase, the very spirit of a shape,
and the white flowers that had blossomed beautifully through
the snow. When the evening lamp was lighted, she took
the little posy in her hand, and lay with her eyes upon it,
listening to the book Moor read, for this hour always soothed
the unrest of the day. Very quiet was the pleasant room,
with no sounds in it but the soft flicker of the fire, the rustle
of Faith's needle, and the subdued music of the voice
that patiently went reading on, long after Sylvia's eyes had
closed, lest she should miss its murmur. For an hour she
seemed to sleep, so motionless, so colorless, that her father,
always sitting at her side, bent down at last to listen at her
lips. The lips smiled, the eyes unclosed, and she looked up
at him, with an expression as tender as tranquil.
“A long sleep and pleasant dreams that wake you smiling?”
he asked.
“Beautiful and happy thoughts, father; let me tell you
some of them. As I lay here, I fell to thinking of my life,
and at first it seemed the sorrowfullest failure I had ever
known. Whom had I made happy? What had I done
worth the doing? Where was the humble satisfaction that
should come hand in hand with death? At first I could
find no answers to my questions, and though my one and
twenty years do not seem long to live, I felt as if it would
have been better for us all if I had died, a new-born baby
in my mother's arms.”
“My child say anything, but that, because it is I who
have made your life a failure.”
“Wait a little father, and you will see that it is a beautiful
success. I have given happiness, have done something
worth the doing; now I see a compensation for all seeming
loss, and heartily thank God that I did not die till I had
learned the true purpose of all lives. He knows that I say
these things humbly, that I claim no virtue for myself, and
have been a blind instrument in His hand, to illustrate
truths that will endure when I am forgotten. I have helped
Mark and Jessie, for, remembering me, they will feel
how blest they are in truly loving one another. They will
keep little Sylvia from making mistakes like mine, and the
household joys and sorrows we have known together, will
teach Mark to make his talent a delight to many, by letting
art interpret nature.”
Her brother standing behind her stooped and kissed her,
saying through his tears —
“I shall remember, dear.”
“I have helped Geoffrey, I believe. He lived too much
in the affections, till through me he learned that none may
live for love alone. Genius will be born of grief, and
he will put his sorrow into song to touch and teach other
hearts more gently than his own has been, so growing a
nobler and a richer man for the great cross of his life.”
Calm, with the calmness of a grief too deep for tears, and
strong in a devout belief, Moor gave his testimony as she
paused.
“I shall endeavor, and now I am as grateful for the pain
as for the joy, because together they will show me how to
live, and when I have learned that I shall be ready to come
to you.”
“I think I have served Adam. He needed gentleness
as Geoffrey needed strength, and I, unworthy as I am, woke
great soul. To us it seems as if he had left his work unfinished,
but God knew best, and when he was needed for a
better work he went to find it. Yet I am sure that he was
worthier of eternal life for having known the discipline of
love.”
There was no voice to answer now, but Sylvia felt that
she would receive it very soon and was content.
“Have you no lesson for your father? The old man
needs it most.”
She laid her thin hand tenderly on his, that if her words
should bring reproach, she might seem to share it with him.
“Yes, father, this. That if the chief desire of the heart
is for the right, it is possible for any human being, through
all trials, temptations, and mistakes, to bring good out of
evil, hope from despair, success from defeat, and come at
last to know an hour as beautiful and blest as this.”
Who could doubt that she had learned the lesson, when
from the ruins of the perishable body the imperishable soul
rose steadfast and serene, proving that after the long bewilderment
of life and love it had attained the eternal
peace.
The room grew very still, and while those about her pondered
her words with natural tears, Sylvia lay looking up
at a lovely picture that seemed leaning down to offer her
again the happiest memory of her youth. It was a painting
of the moonlight voyage down the river. Mark had given it
that day, and now when the longer, sadder voyage was
nearly over, she regarded it with a tender pleasure. The
moon shone full on Warwick, looking out straight and
strong before him with the vigilant expression native to his
face; a fit helmsman to guide the boat along that rapid
by the light, and their reflections wavy with the current.
Moor, seen in shadow, leaned upon his hand, as if watching
Sylvia, a quiet figure, full of grace and color, couched
under the green arch. On either hand the summer woods
made vernal gloom, behind the cliffs rose sharply up against
the blue, and all before wound a shining road, along which
the boat seemed floating like a bird on slender wings between
two skies.
So long she lay forgetful of herself and all about her,
that Moor saw she needed rest, for the breath fluttered on
her lips, the flowers had fallen one by one, and her face
wore the weary yet happy look of some patient child waiting
for its lullaby.
“Dear, you have talked enough; let me take you up
now, lest the pleasant day be spoiled by a sleepless night.”
“I am ready, yet I love to stay among you all, for in my
sleep I seem to drift so far away I never quite come back.
Good night, good night; I shall see you in the morning.”
With a smile, a kiss for all, they saw her fold her arms
about her husband's neck, and lay down her head as if she
never cared to lift it up again. The little journey was
both a pleasure and pain to them, for each night the way
seemed longer to Sylvia, and though the burden lightened
the bearer grew more heavy-hearted. It was a silent passage
now, for neither spoke, except when one asked tenderly,
“Are you easy, love?” and the other answered, with a
breath that chilled his check, “Quite happy, quite content.”
So, cradled on the heart that loved her best, Sylvia was
gently carried to the end of her short pilgrimage, and
when her husband laid her down the morning had already
dawned.
| CHAPTER XXI.
OUT OF THE SHADOW. Moods | |