book in which he wrote; sometimes he sat with suspended pen, thinking

deeply; and once or twice he laid it down, to press his hand over eyes

more weary than the mind that compelled them to this late service.

Returning to his work after one of these pauses, he was a little

startled to see Sylvia standing on the threshold of the door. Rising

hastily to ask if she were ill, he stopped half way across the room,

for, with a thrill of apprehension and surprise, he saw that she was

asleep. Her eyes were open, fixed and vacant, her face reposeful, her

breathing regular, and every sense apparently wrapt in the profoundest

unconsciousness. Fearful of awakening her too suddenly, Moor stood

motionless, yet full of interest, for this was his first experience of

somnambulism, and it was a strange, almost an awful sight, to witness

the blind obedience of the body to the soul that ruled it.

For several minutes she remained where she first appeared. Then, as if

the dream demanded action, she stooped, and seemed to take some object

from a chair beside the door, held it an instant, kissed it softly and

laid it down. Slowly and steadily she went across the room, avoiding all

obstacles with the unerring instinct that often leads the sleepwalker

through dangers that appall his waking eyes, and sat down in the great

chair he had left, leaned her cheek upon its arm, and rested tranquilly

for several minutes. Soon the dream disturbed her, and lifting her head,

she bent forward, as if addressing or caressing some one seated at her

feet. Involuntarily her husband smiled; for often when they were alone

he sat there reading or talking to her, while she played with his hair,

likening its brown abundance to young Milton's curling locks in the

picture overhead. The smile had hardly risen when it was scared away,

for Sylvia suddenly sprung up with both hands out, crying in a voice

that rent the silence with its imploring energy--

"No, no, you must not speak! I will not hear you!"

Her own cry woke her. Consciousness and memory returned together, and

her face whitened with a look of terror, as her bewildered eyes showed

her not Warwick, but her husband. This look, so full of fear, yet so

intelligent, startled Moor more than the apparition or the cry had done,

for a conviction flashed into his mind that some unsuspected trouble had

been burdening Sylvia, and was now finding vent against her will.

Anxious to possess himself of the truth, and bent on doing so, he veiled

his purpose for a time, letting his unchanged manner reassure and

compose her.

"Dear child, don't look so lost and wild. You are quite safe, and have

only been wandering in your sleep. Why, Mrs. Macbeth, have you murdered

some one, that you go crying out in this uncanny way, frightening me as

much as I seem to have frightened you?"

"I have murdered sleep. What did I do? what did I say?" she asked,

trembling and shrinking as she dropped into her chair.

Hoping to quiet her, he took his place on the footstool, and told her

what had passed. At first, she listened with a divided mind, for so

strongly was she still impressed with the vividness of the dream, she

half expected Warwick to rise like Banquo, and claim the seat that a

single occupancy seemed to have made his own. An expression of intense

relief replaced that of fear, when she had heard all, and she composed

herself with the knowledge that her secret was still hers. For, dreary

bosom-guest as it was, she had not yet resolved to end her trial.

"What set you walking, Sylvia?"

"I recollect hearing the clock strike one, and thinking I would come

down to see what you were doing so late, but must have dropped off and

carried out my design asleep. You see I put on wrapper and slippers as I

always do, when I take nocturnal rambles awake. How pleasant the fire

feels, and how cosy you look here; no wonder you like to stay and enjoy

it."

She leaned forward warming her hands in unconscious imitation of Adam,

on the night which she had been recalling before she slept. Moor watched

her with increasing disquiet; for never had he seen her in a mood like

this. She evaded his question, she averted her eyes, she half hid her

face, and with a gesture that of late had grown habitual, seemed to try

to hide her heart. Often had she baffled him, sometimes grieved him, but

never before showed that she feared him. This wounded both his love and

pride, and this fixed his resolution, to wring from her an explanation

of the changes which had passed over her within those winter months,

for they had been many and mysterious. As if she feared silence, Sylvia

soon spoke again.

"Why are you up so late? This is not the first time I have seen your

lamp burning when I woke. What are you studying so deeply?"

"My wife."

Leaning on the arm of her chair he looked up wistfully, tenderly, as if

inviting confidence, sueing for affection. The words, the look, smote

Sylvia to the heart, and but for the thought, "I have not tried long

enough," she would have uttered the confession that leaped to her lips.

Once spoken, it would be too late for secret effort or success, and this

man's happiest hopes would vanish in a breath. Knowing that his nature

was almost as sensitively fastidious as a woman's, she also knew that

the discovery of her love for Adam, innocent as it had been,

self-denying as it tried to be, would forever mar the beauty of his

wedded life for Moor. No hour of it would seem sacred, no act, look, or

word of hers entirely his own, nor any of the dear delights of home

remain undarkened by the shadow of his friend. She could not speak yet,

and turning her eyes to the fire, she asked--

"Why study me? Have you no better book?"

"None that I love to read so well or have such need to understand;

because, though nearest and dearest as you are to me, I seem to know you

less than any friend I have. I do not wish to wound you, dear, nor be

exacting; but since we were married you have grown more shy than ever,

and the act which should have drawn us tenderly together seems to have

estranged us. You never talk now of yourself, or ask me to explain the

working of that busy mind of yours; and lately you have sometimes

shunned me, as if solitude were pleasanter than my society. Is it,

Sylvia?"

"Sometimes; I always liked to be alone, you know."

She answered as truly as she could, feeling that his love demanded every

confidence but the one cruel one which would destroy its peace past

help.

"I knew I had a most tenacious heart, but I hoped it was not a selfish

one," he sorrowfully said. "Now I see that it is, and deeply regret that

my hopeful spirit, my impatient love, has brought disappointment to us

both. I should have waited longer, should have been less confident of my

own power to win you, and never let you waste your life in vain

endeavors to be happy when I was not all to you that you expected. I

should not have consented to your wish to spend the winter here so much

alone with me. I should have known that such a quiet home and studious

companion could not have many charms for a young girl like you. Forgive

me, I will do better, and this one-sided life of ours shall be changed;

for while I have been supremely content you have been miserable."

It was impossible to deny it, and with a tearless sob she laid her arm

about his neck, her head on his shoulder, and mutely confessed the truth

of what he said. The trouble deepened in his face, but he spoke out more

cheerfully, believing that he had found the secret sorrow.

"Thank heaven, nothing is past mending, and we will yet be happy. An

entire change shall be made; you shall no longer devote yourself to me,

but I to you. Will you go abroad, and forget this dismal home until its

rest grows inviting, Sylvia?"

"No, Geoffrey, not yet. I will learn to make the home pleasant, I will

work harder, and leave no time for ennui and discontent. I promised to

make your happiness, and I can do it better here than anywhere. Let me

try again."

"No, Sylvia, you work too hard already; you do everything with such

vehemence you wear out your body before your will is weary, and that

brings melancholy. I am very credulous, but when I see that acts belie

words I cease to believe. These months assure me that you are not happy;

have I found the secret thorn that frets you?"

She did not answer, for truth she could not, and falsehood she would

not, give him. He rose, went walking to and fro, searching memory,

heart, and conscience for any other cause, but found none, and saw only

one way out of his bewilderment. He drew a chair before her, sat down,

and looking at her with the masterful expression dominant in his face,

asked briefly--

"Sylvia, have I been tyrannical, unjust, unkind, since you came to me?"

"Oh, Geoffrey, too generous, too just, too tender!"

"Have I claimed any rights but those you gave me, entreated or demanded

any sacrifices knowingly and wilfully?"

"Never."

"Now I do claim my right to know your heart; I do entreat and demand one

thing, your confidence."

Then she felt that the hour had come, and tried to prepare to meet it as

she should by remembering that she had endeavored prayerfully,

desperately, despairingly, to do her duty, and had failed. Warwick was

right, she could not forget him. There was such vitality in the man and

in the sentiment he inspired, that it endowed his memory with a power

more potent than the visible presence of her husband. The knowledge of

his love now undid the work that ignorance had helped patience and

pride to achieve before. The more she struggled to forget, the deeper,

dearer, grew the yearning that must be denied, till months of fruitless

effort convinced her that it was impossible to outlive a passion more

indomitable than will, or penitence, or perseverance. Now she saw the

wisdom of Adam's warning, and felt that he knew both his friend's heart

and her own better than herself. Now she bitterly regretted that she had

not spoken out when he was there to help her, and before the least

deceit had taken the dignity from sorrow. Nevertheless, though she

trembled she resolved; and while Moor spoke on, she made ready to atone

for past silence by a perfect loyalty to truth.

"My wife, concealment is not generosity, for the heaviest trouble shared

together could not so take the sweetness from my life, the charm from

home, or make me more miserable than this want of confidence. It is a

double wrong, because you not only mar my peace but destroy your own by

wasting health and happiness in vain endeavors to bear some grief alone.

Your eye seldom meets mine now, your words are measured, your actions

cautious, your innocent gayety all gone. You hide your heart from me,

you hide your face; I seem to have lost the frank girl whom I loved, and

found a melancholy woman, who suffers silently till her honest nature

rebels, and brings her to confession in her sleep. There is no page of

my life which I have not freely shown you; do I do not deserve an equal

candor? Shall I not receive it?"

"Yes."

"Sylvia, what stands between us?"

"Adam Warwick."

Earnest as a prayer, brief as a command had been the question,

instantaneous was the reply, as Sylvia knelt down before him, put back

the veil that should never hide her from him any more, looked up into

her husband's face without one shadow in her own, and steadily told all.

The revelation was too utterly unexpected, too difficult of belief to be

at once accepted or understood. Moor started at the name, then leaned

forward, breathless and intent, as if to seize the words before they

left her lips; words that recalled incidents and acts dark and unmeaning

till the spark of intelligence fired a long train of memories and

enlightened him with terrible rapidity. Blinded by his own devotion, the

knowledge of Adam's love and loss seemed gages of his fidelity; the

thought that he loved Sylvia never had occurred to him, and seemed

incredible even when her own lips told it. She had been right in fearing

the effect this knowledge would have upon him. It stung his pride,

wounded his heart, and forever marred his faith in love and friendship.

As the truth broke over him, cold and bitter as a billow of the sea, she

saw gathering in his face the still white grief and indignation of an

outraged spirit, suffering with all a woman's pain, with all a man's

intensity of passion. His eye grew fiery and stern, the veins rose dark

upon his forehead, the lines about the mouth showed hard and grim, the

whole face altered terribly. As she looked, Sylvia thanked heaven that

Warwick was not there to feel the sudden atonement for an innocent

offence which his friend might have exacted before this natural but

unworthy temptation had passed by.

"Now I have given all my confidence though I may have broken both our

hearts in doing it. I do not hope for pardon yet, but I am sure of pity,

and I leave my fate in your hands. Geoffrey, what shall I do?"

"Wait for me," and putting her away, Moor left the room.

Suffering too much in mind to remember that she had a body, Sylvia

remained where she was, and leaning her head upon her hands tried to

recall what had passed, to nerve herself for what was to come. Her first

sensation was one of unutterable relief. The long struggle was over; the

haunting care was gone; there was nothing now to conceal; she might be

herself again, and her spirit rose with something of its old elasticity

as the heavy burden was removed. A moment she enjoyed this hard-won

freedom, then the memory that the burden was not lost but laid on other

shoulders, filled her with an anguish too sharp to find vent in tears,

too deep to leave any hope of cure except in action. But how act? She

had performed the duty so long, so vainly delayed, and when the first

glow of satisfaction passed, found redoubled anxiety, regret, and pain

before her. Clear and hard the truth stood there, and no power of hers

could recall the words that showed it to her husband, could give them

back the early blindness, or the later vicissitudes of hope and fear. In

the long silence that filled the room she had time to calm her

perturbation and comfort her remorse by the vague but helpful belief

which seldom deserts sanguine spirits, that something, as yet unseen and

unsuspected, would appear to heal the breach, to show what was to be

done, and to make all happy in the end.

Where Moor went or how long he stayed Sylvia never knew, but when at

length he came, her first glance showed her that pride is as much to be

dreaded as passion. No gold is without alloy, and now she saw the shadow

of a nature which had seemed all sunshine. She knew he was very proud,

but never thought to be the cause of its saddest manifestation; one

which showed her that its presence could make the silent sorrow of a

just and gentle man a harder trial to sustain than the hottest anger,

the bitterest reproach. Scarcely paler than when he went, there was no

sign of violent emotion in his countenance. His eye shone keen and dark,

an anxious fold crossed his forehead, and a melancholy gravity replaced

the cheerful serenity his face once wore. Wherein the alteration lay

Sylvia could not tell, but over the whole man some subtle change had

passed. The sudden frost which had blighted the tenderest affection of

his life seemed to have left its chill behind, robbing his manner of its

cordial charm, his voice of its heartsome ring, and giving him the look

of one who sternly said--"I must suffer, but it shall be alone."

Cold and quiet, he stood regarding her with a strange expression, as if

endeavoring to realize the truth, and see in her not his wife but

Warwick's lover. Oppressed by the old fear, now augmented by a

measureless regret, she could only look up at him feeling that her

husband had become her judge. Yet as she looked she was conscious of a

momentary wonder at the seeming transposition of character in the two so

near and dear to her. Strong-hearted Warwick wept like any child, but

accepted his disappointment without complaint and bore it manfully.

Moor, from whom she would sooner have expected such demonstration, grew

stormy first, then stern, as she once believed his friend would have

done. She forgot that Moor's pain was the sharper, his wound the deeper,

for the patient hope cherished so long; the knowledge that he never had

been, never could be loved as he loved; the sense of wrong that could

not but burn even in the meekest heart at such a late discovery, such an

entire loss.

Sylvia spoke first, not audibly, but with a little gesture of

supplication, a glance of sorrowful submission. He answered both, not by

lamentation or reproach, but by just enough of his accustomed tenderness

in touch and tone to make her tears break forth, as he placed her in the

ancient chair so often occupied together, took the one opposite, and

sweeping a clear space on the table between them, looked across it with

the air of a man bent on seeing his way and following it at any cost.

"Now Sylvia, I can listen as I should."

"Oh, Geoffrey, what can I say?"

"Repeat all you have already told me. I only gathered one fact then, now

I want the circumstances, for I find this confession difficult of

belief."

Perhaps no sterner expiation could have been required of her than to sit

there, face to face, eye to eye, and tell again that little history of

thwarted love and fruitless endeavor. Excitement had given her courage

for the first confession, now it was torture to carefully repeat what

had poured freely from her lips before. But she did it, glad to prove

her penitence by any test he might apply. Tears often blinded her,

uncontrollable emotion often arrested her; and more than once she turned

on him a beseeching look, which asked as plainly as words, "Must I go

on?"

Intent on learning all, Moor was unconscious of the trial he imposed,

unaware that the change in himself was the keenest reproach he could

have made, and still with a persistency as gentle as inflexible, he

pursued his purpose to the end. When great drops rolled down her cheeks

he dried them silently; when she paused, he waited till she calmed

herself; and when she spoke he listened with few interruptions but a

question now and then. Occasionally a sudden flush of passionate pain

swept across his face, as some phrase, implying rather than expressing

Warwick's love or Sylvia's longing, escaped the narrator's lips, and

when she described their parting on that very spot, his eye went from

her to the hearth her words seemed to make desolate, with a glance she

never could forget. But when the last question was answered, the last

appeal for pardon brokenly uttered, nothing but the pale pride remained;

and his voice was cold and quiet as his mien.

"Yes, it is this which has baffled and kept me groping in the dark so

long, for I wholly trusted what I wholly loved."

"Alas, it was that very confidence that made my task seem so necessary

and so hard. How often I longed to go to you with my great trouble as I

used to do with lesser ones. But here you would suffer more than I; and

having done the wrong, it was for me to pay the penalty. So like many

another weak yet willing soul, I tried to keep you happy at all costs."

"One frank word before I married you would have spared us this. Could

you not foresee the end and dare to speak it, Sylvia?"

"I see it now, I did not then, else I would have spoken as freely as I

speak to-night. I thought I had outlived my love for Adam; it seemed

kind to spare you a knowledge that would disturb your friendship, so

though I told the truth, I did not tell it all. I thought temptations

came from without; I could withstand such, and I did, even when it wore

Adam's shape. This temptation came so suddenly, seemed so harmless,

generous and just, that I yielded to it unconscious that it was one.

Surely I deceived myself as cruelly as I did you, and God knows I have

tried to atone for it when time taught me my fatal error."

"Poor child, it was too soon for you to play the perilous game of

hearts. I should have known it, and left you to the safe and simple joys

of girlhood. Forgive me that I have kept you a prisoner so long; take

off the fetter I put on, and go, Sylvia."

"No, do not put me from you yet; do not think that I can hurt you so,

and then be glad to leave you suffering alone. Look like your kind self

if you can; talk to me as you used to; let me show you my heart and you

will see how large a place you fill in it. Let me begin again, for now

the secret is told there is no fear to keep out love; and I can give my

whole strength to learning the lesson you have tried so patiently to

teach."

"You cannot, Sylvia. We are as much divorced as if judge and jury had

decided the righteous but hard separation for us. You can never be a

wife to me with an unconquerable affection in your heart; I can never be

your husband while the shadow of a fear remains. I will have all or

nothing."

"Adam foretold this. He knew you best, and I should have followed the

brave counsel he gave me long ago. Oh, if he were only here to help us

now!"

The desire broke from Sylvia's lips involuntarily as she turned for

strength to the strong soul that loved her. But it was like wind to

smouldering fire; a pang of jealousy wrung Moor's heart, and he spoke

out with a flash of the eye that startled Sylvia more than the rapid

change of voice and manner.

"Hush! Say anything of yourself or me, and I can bear it, but spare me

the sound of Adam's name to-night. A man's nature is not forgiving like

a woman's, and the best of us harbor impulses you know nothing of. If I

am to lose wife, friend, and home, for God's sake leave me my

self-respect."

All the coldness and pride passed from Moor's face as the climax of his

sorrow came; with an impetuous gesture he threw his arms across the

table, and laid down his head in a paroxysm of tearless suffering such

as men only know.

How Sylvia longed to speak! But what consolation could the tenderest

words supply? She searched for some alleviating suggestion, some happier

hope; none came. Her eye turned imploringly to the pictured Fates above

her as if imploring them to aid her. But they looked back at her

inexorably dumb, and instinctively her thought passed beyond them to the

Ruler of all fates, asking the help which never is refused. No words

embodied her appeal, no sound expressed it, only a voiceless cry from

the depths of a contrite spirit, owning its weakness, making known its

want. She prayed for submission, but her deeper need was seen, and when

she asked for patience to endure, Heaven sent her power to act, and out

of this sharp trial brought her a better strength and clearer knowledge

of herself than years of smoother experience could have bestowed. A

sense of security, of stability, came to her as that entire reliance

assured her by its all-sustaining power that she had found what she most

needed to make life clear to her and duty sweet. With her face in her

hands, she sat, forgetful that she was not alone, as in that brief but

precious moment she felt the exceeding comfort of a childlike faith in

the one Friend who, when we are deserted by all, even by ourselves, puts

forth His hand and gathers us tenderly to Himself.

Her husband's voice recalled her, and looking up she showed him such an

earnest, patient countenance, it touched him like an unconscious rebuke.

The first tears she had seen rose to his eyes, and all the old

tenderness came back into his voice, softening the dismissal which had

been more coldly begun.

"Dear, silence and rest are best for both of us to-night. We cannot

treat this trouble as we should till we are calmer; then we will take

counsel how soonest to end what never should have been begun. Forgive

me, pray for me, and in sleep forget me for a little while."

He held the door for her, but as she passed Sylvia lifted her face for

the good night caress without which she had never left him since she

became his wife. She did not speak, but her eye humbly besought this

token of forgiveness; nor was it denied. Moor laid his hand upon her

lips, saying, "these are Adam's now," and kissed her on the forehead.

Such a little thing: but it overcame Sylvia with the sorrowful certainty

of the loss which had befallen both, and she crept away, feeling herself

an exile from the heart and home whose happy mistress she could never be

again.

Moor watched the little figure going upward, and weeping softly as it

went, as if he echoed the sad "never any more," which those tears

expressed, and when it vanished with a backward look, shut himself in

alone with his great sorrow.