CHAPTER XVII.

by Louisa May Alcott

　　ASLEEP AND AWAKE.March winds were howling round the house, the clock was striking two,the library lamp still burned, and Moor sat writing with an anxiousface. Occasionally, he paused to look backward through the leaves of thebook in which he wrote; sometimes he sat with suspended pen, thinkingdeeply; and once or twice he laid it down, to press his hand over eyesmore weary than the mind that compelled them to this late service.Returning to his work after one of these pauses, he was a littlestartled to see Sylvia standing on the threshold of the door. Risinghastily 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 wasasleep. Her eyes were open, fixed and vacant, her face reposeful, herbreathing regular, and every sense apparently wrapt in the profoundestunconsciousness. Fearful of awakening her too suddenly, Moor stoodmotionless, yet full of interest, for this was his first experience ofsomnambulism, and it was a strange, almost an awful sight, to witnessthe blind obedience of the body to the soul that ruled it.For several minutes she remained where she first appeared. Then, as ifthe dream demanded action, she stooped, and seemed to take some objectfrom a chair beside the door, held it an instant, kissed it softly andlaid it down. Slowly and steadily she went across the room, avoiding allobstacles with the unerring instinct that often leads the sleepwalkerthrough dangers that appall his waking eyes, and sat down in the greatchair he had left, leaned her cheek upon its arm, and rested tranquillyfor several minutes. Soon the dream disturbed her, and lifting her head,she bent forward, as if addressing or caressing some one seated at herfeet. Involuntarily her husband smiled; for often when they were alonehe sat there reading or talking to her, while she played with his hair,likening its brown abundance to young Milton's curling locks in thepicture overhead. The smile had hardly risen when it was scared away,for Sylvia suddenly sprung up with both hands out, crying in a voicethat 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, andher face whitened with a look of terror, as her bewildered eyes showedher not Warwick, but her husband. This look, so full of fear, yet sointelligent, startled Moor more than the apparition or the cry had done,for a conviction flashed into his mind that some unsuspected trouble hadbeen burdening Sylvia, and was now finding vent against her will.Anxious to possess himself of the truth, and bent on doing so, he veiledhis purpose for a time, letting his unchanged manner reassure andcompose her."Dear child, don't look so lost and wild. You are quite safe, and haveonly been wandering in your sleep. Why, Mrs. Macbeth, have you murderedsome one, that you go crying out in this uncanny way, frightening me asmuch 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 herwhat had passed. At first, she listened with a divided mind, for sostrongly was she still impressed with the vividness of the dream, shehalf expected Warwick to rise like Banquo, and claim the seat that asingle occupancy seemed to have made his own. An expression of intenserelief replaced that of fear, when she had heard all, and she composedherself with the knowledge that her secret was still hers. For, drearybosom-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 comedown to see what you were doing so late, but must have dropped off andcarried out my design asleep. You see I put on wrapper and slippers as Ialways do, when I take nocturnal rambles awake. How pleasant the firefeels, and how cosy you look here; no wonder you like to stay and enjoyit."She leaned forward warming her hands in unconscious imitation of Adam,on the night which she had been recalling before she slept. Moor watchedher with increasing disquiet; for never had he seen her in a mood likethis. She evaded his question, she averted her eyes, she half hid herface, and with a gesture that of late had grown habitual, seemed to tryto hide her heart. Often had she baffled him, sometimes grieved him, butnever before showed that she feared him. This wounded both his love andpride, and this fixed his resolution, to wring from her an explanationof the changes which had passed over her within those winter months,for they had been many and mysterious. As if she feared silence, Sylviasoon spoke again."Why are you up so late? This is not the first time I have seen yourlamp 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 ifinviting confidence, sueing for affection. The words, the look, smoteSylvia to the heart, and but for the thought, "I have not tried longenough," she would have uttered the confession that leaped to her lips.Once spoken, it would be too late for secret effort or success, and thisman's happiest hopes would vanish in a breath. Knowing that his naturewas almost as sensitively fastidious as a woman's, she also knew thatthe discovery of her love for Adam, innocent as it had been,self-denying as it tried to be, would forever mar the beauty of hiswedded life for Moor. No hour of it would seem sacred, no act, look, orword of hers entirely his own, nor any of the dear delights of homeremain 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 youless than any friend I have. I do not wish to wound you, dear, nor beexacting; but since we were married you have grown more shy than ever,and the act which should have drawn us tenderly together seems to haveestranged us. You never talk now of yourself, or ask me to explain theworking of that busy mind of yours; and lately you have sometimesshunned 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 everyconfidence but the one cruel one which would destroy its peace pasthelp."I knew I had a most tenacious heart, but I hoped it was not a selfishone," he sorrowfully said. "Now I see that it is, and deeply regret thatmy hopeful spirit, my impatient love, has brought disappointment to usboth. I should have waited longer, should have been less confident of myown power to win you, and never let you waste your life in vainendeavors to be happy when I was not all to you that you expected. Ishould not have consented to your wish to spend the winter here so muchalone with me. I should have known that such a quiet home and studiouscompanion could not have many charms for a young girl like you. Forgiveme, 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 armabout his neck, her head on his shoulder, and mutely confessed the truthof what he said. The trouble deepened in his face, but he spoke out morecheerfully, believing that he had found the secret sorrow."Thank heaven, nothing is past mending, and we will yet be happy. Anentire 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 itsrest grows inviting, Sylvia?""No, Geoffrey, not yet. I will learn to make the home pleasant, I willwork harder, and leave no time for ennui and discontent. I promised tomake your happiness, and I can do it better here than anywhere. Let metry again.""No, Sylvia, you work too hard already; you do everything with suchvehemence you wear out your body before your will is weary, and thatbrings melancholy. I am very credulous, but when I see that acts beliewords 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 wouldnot, give him. He rose, went walking to and fro, searching memory,heart, and conscience for any other cause, but found none, and saw onlyone 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 demandedany sacrifices knowingly and wilfully?""Never.""Now I do claim my right to know your heart; I do entreat and demand onething, your confidence."Then she felt that the hour had come, and tried to prepare to meet it asshe should by remembering that she had endeavored prayerfully,desperately, despairingly, to do her duty, and had failed. Warwick wasright, she could not forget him. There was such vitality in the man andin the sentiment he inspired, that it endowed his memory with a powermore potent than the visible presence of her husband. The knowledge ofhis love now undid the work that ignorance had helped patience andpride to achieve before. The more she struggled to forget, the deeper,dearer, grew the yearning that must be denied, till months of fruitlesseffort convinced her that it was impossible to outlive a passion moreindomitable than will, or penitence, or perseverance. Now she saw thewisdom of Adam's warning, and felt that he knew both his friend's heartand her own better than herself. Now she bitterly regretted that she hadnot spoken out when he was there to help her, and before the leastdeceit had taken the dignity from sorrow. Nevertheless, though shetrembled she resolved; and while Moor spoke on, she made ready to atonefor past silence by a perfect loyalty to truth."My wife, concealment is not generosity, for the heaviest trouble sharedtogether could not so take the sweetness from my life, the charm fromhome, or make me more miserable than this want of confidence. It is adouble wrong, because you not only mar my peace but destroy your own bywasting health and happiness in vain endeavors to bear some grief alone.Your eye seldom meets mine now, your words are measured, your actionscautious, 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, andfound a melancholy woman, who suffers silently till her honest naturerebels, and brings her to confession in her sleep. There is no page ofmy life which I have not freely shown you; do I do not deserve an equalcandor? 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 backthe veil that should never hide her from him any more, looked up intoher husband's face without one shadow in her own, and steadily told all.The revelation was too utterly unexpected, too difficult of belief to beat once accepted or understood. Moor started at the name, then leanedforward, breathless and intent, as if to seize the words before theyleft her lips; words that recalled incidents and acts dark and unmeaningtill the spark of intelligence fired a long train of memories andenlightened him with terrible rapidity. Blinded by his own devotion, theknowledge of Adam's love and loss seemed gages of his fidelity; thethought that he loved Sylvia never had occurred to him, and seemedincredible even when her own lips told it. She had been right in fearingthe 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, shesaw gathering in his face the still white grief and indignation of anoutraged spirit, suffering with all a woman's pain, with all a man'sintensity of passion. His eye grew fiery and stern, the veins rose darkupon his forehead, the lines about the mouth showed hard and grim, thewhole face altered terribly. As she looked, Sylvia thanked heaven thatWarwick was not there to feel the sudden atonement for an innocentoffence which his friend might have exacted before this natural butunworthy temptation had passed by."Now I have given all my confidence though I may have broken both ourhearts 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, Sylviaremained where she was, and leaning her head upon her hands tried torecall what had passed, to nerve herself for what was to come. Her firstsensation was one of unutterable relief. The long struggle was over; thehaunting care was gone; there was nothing now to conceal; she might beherself again, and her spirit rose with something of its old elasticityas the heavy burden was removed. A moment she enjoyed this hard-wonfreedom, then the memory that the burden was not lost but laid on othershoulders, 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? Shehad performed the duty so long, so vainly delayed, and when the firstglow of satisfaction passed, found redoubled anxiety, regret, and painbefore her. Clear and hard the truth stood there, and no power of herscould recall the words that showed it to her husband, could give themback the early blindness, or the later vicissitudes of hope and fear. Inthe long silence that filled the room she had time to calm herperturbation and comfort her remorse by the vague but helpful beliefwhich seldom deserts sanguine spirits, that something, as yet unseen andunsuspected, would appear to heal the breach, to show what was to bedone, and to make all happy in the end.Where Moor went or how long he stayed Sylvia never knew, but when atlength he came, her first glance showed her that pride is as much to bedreaded as passion. No gold is without alloy, and now she saw the shadowof a nature which had seemed all sunshine. She knew he was very proud,but never thought to be the cause of its saddest manifestation; onewhich showed her that its presence could make the silent sorrow of ajust and gentle man a harder trial to sustain than the hottest anger,the bitterest reproach. Scarcely paler than when he went, there was nosign of violent emotion in his countenance. His eye shone keen and dark,an anxious fold crossed his forehead, and a melancholy gravity replacedthe cheerful serenity his face once wore. Wherein the alteration laySylvia could not tell, but over the whole man some subtle change hadpassed. The sudden frost which had blighted the tenderest affection ofhis life seemed to have left its chill behind, robbing his manner of itscordial charm, his voice of its heartsome ring, and giving him the lookof one who sternly said--"I must suffer, but it shall be alone."Cold and quiet, he stood regarding her with a strange expression, as ifendeavoring to realize the truth, and see in her not his wife butWarwick's lover. Oppressed by the old fear, now augmented by ameasureless regret, she could only look up at him feeling that herhusband had become her judge. Yet as she looked she was conscious of amomentary wonder at the seeming transposition of character in the two sonear and dear to her. Strong-hearted Warwick wept like any child, butaccepted his disappointment without complaint and bore it manfully.Moor, from whom she would sooner have expected such demonstration, grewstormy first, then stern, as she once believed his friend would havedone. 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 hadbeen, never could be loved as he loved; the sense of wrong that couldnot but burn even in the meekest heart at such a late discovery, such anentire loss.Sylvia spoke first, not audibly, but with a little gesture ofsupplication, a glance of sorrowful submission. He answered both, not bylamentation or reproach, but by just enough of his accustomed tendernessin touch and tone to make her tears break forth, as he placed her in theancient chair so often occupied together, took the one opposite, andsweeping a clear space on the table between them, looked across it withthe 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, nowI want the circumstances, for I find this confession difficult ofbelief."Perhaps no sterner expiation could have been required of her than to sitthere, face to face, eye to eye, and tell again that little history ofthwarted love and fruitless endeavor. Excitement had given her couragefor the first confession, now it was torture to carefully repeat whathad poured freely from her lips before. But she did it, glad to proveher penitence by any test he might apply. Tears often blinded her,uncontrollable emotion often arrested her; and more than once she turnedon him a beseeching look, which asked as plainly as words, "Must I goon?"Intent on learning all, Moor was unconscious of the trial he imposed,unaware that the change in himself was the keenest reproach he couldhave made, and still with a persistency as gentle as inflexible, hepursued his purpose to the end. When great drops rolled down her cheekshe dried them silently; when she paused, he waited till she calmedherself; and when she spoke he listened with few interruptions but aquestion now and then. Occasionally a sudden flush of passionate painswept across his face, as some phrase, implying rather than expressingWarwick's love or Sylvia's longing, escaped the narrator's lips, andwhen she described their parting on that very spot, his eye went fromher to the hearth her words seemed to make desolate, with a glance shenever could forget. But when the last question was answered, the lastappeal 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 solong, for I wholly trusted what I wholly loved.""Alas, it was that very confidence that made my task seem so necessaryand so hard. How often I longed to go to you with my great trouble as Iused to do with lesser ones. But here you would suffer more than I; andhaving done the wrong, it was for me to pay the penalty. So like manyanother 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. Couldyou 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 Ispeak to-night. I thought I had outlived my love for Adam; it seemedkind to spare you a knowledge that would disturb your friendship, sothough I told the truth, I did not tell it all. I thought temptationscame from without; I could withstand such, and I did, even when it woreAdam'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 havetried to atone for it when time taught me my fatal error.""Poor child, it was too soon for you to play the perilous game ofhearts. I should have known it, and left you to the safe and simple joysof girlhood. Forgive me that I have kept you a prisoner so long; takeoff 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 selfif you can; talk to me as you used to; let me show you my heart and youwill see how large a place you fill in it. Let me begin again, for nowthe secret is told there is no fear to keep out love; and I can give mywhole strength to learning the lesson you have tried so patiently toteach.""You cannot, Sylvia. We are as much divorced as if judge and jury haddecided the righteous but hard separation for us. You can never be awife to me with an unconquerable affection in your heart; I can never beyour husband while the shadow of a fear remains. I will have all ornothing.""Adam foretold this. He knew you best, and I should have followed thebrave counsel he gave me long ago. Oh, if he were only here to help usnow!"The desire broke from Sylvia's lips involuntarily as she turned forstrength to the strong soul that loved her. But it was like wind tosmouldering fire; a pang of jealousy wrung Moor's heart, and he spokeout with a flash of the eye that startled Sylvia more than the rapidchange of voice and manner."Hush! Say anything of yourself or me, and I can bear it, but spare methe sound of Adam's name to-night. A man's nature is not forgiving likea woman's, and the best of us harbor impulses you know nothing of. If Iam to lose wife, friend, and home, for God's sake leave me myself-respect."All the coldness and pride passed from Moor's face as the climax of hissorrow came; with an impetuous gesture he threw his arms across thetable, and laid down his head in a paroxysm of tearless suffering suchas men only know.How Sylvia longed to speak! But what consolation could the tenderestwords supply? She searched for some alleviating suggestion, some happierhope; none came. Her eye turned imploringly to the pictured Fates aboveher as if imploring them to aid her. But they looked back at herinexorably dumb, and instinctively her thought passed beyond them to theRuler of all fates, asking the help which never is refused. No wordsembodied her appeal, no sound expressed it, only a voiceless cry fromthe depths of a contrite spirit, owning its weakness, making known itswant. She prayed for submission, but her deeper need was seen, and whenshe asked for patience to endure, Heaven sent her power to act, and outof this sharp trial brought her a better strength and clearer knowledgeof herself than years of smoother experience could have bestowed. Asense of security, of stability, came to her as that entire relianceassured her by its all-sustaining power that she had found what she mostneeded to make life clear to her and duty sweet. With her face in herhands, she sat, forgetful that she was not alone, as in that brief butprecious moment she felt the exceeding comfort of a childlike faith inthe one Friend who, when we are deserted by all, even by ourselves, putsforth His hand and gathers us tenderly to Himself.Her husband's voice recalled her, and looking up she showed him such anearnest, patient countenance, it touched him like an unconscious rebuke.The first tears she had seen rose to his eyes, and all the oldtenderness came back into his voice, softening the dismissal which hadbeen more coldly begun."Dear, silence and rest are best for both of us to-night. We cannottreat this trouble as we should till we are calmer; then we will takecounsel how soonest to end what never should have been begun. Forgiveme, 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 forthe good night caress without which she had never left him since shebecame his wife. She did not speak, but her eye humbly besought thistoken of forgiveness; nor was it denied. Moor laid his hand upon herlips, saying, "these are Adam's now," and kissed her on the forehead.Such a little thing: but it overcame Sylvia with the sorrowful certaintyof the loss which had befallen both, and she crept away, feeling herselfan exile from the heart and home whose happy mistress she could never beagain.Moor watched the little figure going upward, and weeping softly as itwent, as if he echoed the sad "never any more," which those tearsexpressed, and when it vanished with a backward look, shut himself inalone with his great sorrow.