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 strong, sweet soul whose

foreshadowing we saw and loved 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 will not be

violent; I will listen patiently, and through 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 the

great word Amen. As the last letter reached its bright 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, possessing 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

questions, thought a little, and was very slow to speak. 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 rest a little, then asked with a look

more pathetic than his 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 she seemed the same beloved Sylvia, yet Sylvia

strengthened, 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 sleep, 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 that deep heart of his and made

it a fitter mate for his 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

stream. Mark seemed pausing to watch the oars silvered 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 cheek,

"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.

FAITH GARTNEY'S GIRLHOOD,

By the Author of "The Gayworthys," "Boys at Chequasset"

_1 vol., 12mo. Elegant fancy cloth. Price $1.75._

This charming story fills a void long felt for something for a young

girl, growing into womanhood, to read.

It depicts that bewitching period in life, lying between FOURTEEN and

TWENTY, with its noble aspirations, and fresh enthusiasms. It is written

by a very accomplished lady, and is "_the best book ever written for

girls_."

A lady of rare culture says,--

"'Faith Gartney's Girlhood,' is a noble, good work, that could only have

been accomplished by an elevated mind united to a chaste, tender heart.

From the first page to the last, the impression is received of a life

which has been lived; the characters are genuine, well drawn, skilfully

presented; they are received at once with kind, friendly greeting, and

followed with interest, till the last page compels a reluctant farewell.

"'The book is written for girls, growing as they grow to womanhood.' The

story has an interest, far beyond that found in modern romances of the

day, conveyed in pure, refined language; suggestive, pleasing thoughts

are unfolded on every page; the reflective and descriptive passages are

natural, simple, and exquisitely finished.

"In these days, when the tendency of society is to educate girls for

heartless, aimless, factitious life, a book like this is to be welcomed

and gratefully received. Wherever it is read, it will be retained as a

thoughtful, suggestive--if silent--friend."

MAINSTONE'S HOUSEKEEPER.

By Miss Eliza Meteyard (Silverpen).

_1 vol., 12mo. Elegant fancy cloth. Price $1.50._

Douglas Jerrold gave this distinguished English authoress this "_nom de

plume_," and her style has the point, brightness, and delicacy which it

suggests.--This is not a cook book as the title might mislead some to

suppose, but a fresh, vigorous, powerful story of English country life,

full of exquisite pictures of rural scenery, with a plot which is

managed with great skill, and a surprise kept constantly ahead so that

from the opening to the close the interest never flags. There is life in

every page and a fresh, delicate, hearty sentiment pervades the book

that exhilarates and charms indescribably.

The heroine--Charlotte the housekeeper--is one of the finest characters

ever drawn, and merits unqualified commendation.

As a whole, for beauty of style and diction, passionate earnestness,

effective contrasts, distinctness of plot, unity, and completeness, this

novel is without a rival. It is a "midnight darling" that Charles Lamb

would have exulted in, and perhaps the best as yet produced from a

woman's pen.

SIMPLICITY AND FASCINATION.

BY ANNE BEALE.

_1 vol., 12mo. Elegant fancy cloth. Price $1.50._

It is not often that such a sound and yet readable English novel is

republished in America.

The due mean between flashiness and dulness is hard to be attained, but

we have it here.

There is neither a prosy page nor a sensational chapter in it.

It is a nice book for a clean hearth and an easy chair.

It is a natural, healthy book, written by a living person, about people

of flesh and blood, who might have been our neighbors, and of events,

which might happen to anybody. This is a great charm in a novel. This

leaves a clean taste in the mouth, and a delicious memory of the feast.

The tone of it is high and true, without being obtrusively good. Such a