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 make the last hours of the day the cheerfullest; then

he won't 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 who approached,

forcing them to rise or fall to their true 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, Prue proceeded to gratify

their curiosity as briefly as 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 be worthy of it and how to wait for it. Give them a

law of 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 haven'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 Warwick whispered to that impetuous heart of his, "Be

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 pick it up, down

swept the long curls over either cheek; 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."