CHAPTER VIII.

by Louisa May Alcott

　　NO.Drawn curtains shut out the frosty night, the first fire of the seasonburned upon the hearth, and basking in its glow sat Sylvia, letting herthoughts wander where they would. As books most freely open at pagesoftenest read, the romance of her summer life seldom failed to uncloseat passages where Warwick's name appeared. Pleasant as were many hoursof that time, none seemed so full of beauty as those passed with him,and sweetest of them all the twilight journey hand in hand. It nowreturned to her so freshly that she seemed to hear again the eveningsounds, to feel the warm, fern-scented wind blow over her, to see thestrong hand offered helpfully, and with an impulse past control shestretched her own to that visionary Warwick as the longing of her heartfound vent in an eager"Come!""I am here."A voice replied, a hand pressed hers, and springing up she saw, notAdam, but Moor, standing beside her with a beaming face. Concealing thethrill of joy, the pang of pain he had brought her, she greeted himcordially, and reseating herself, instinctively tried to turn thecurrent of her thoughts."I am glad you came, for I have built castles in the air long enough,and you will give me more substantial entertainment, as you always do."The broken dream had left tokens of its presence in the unwonted warmthof Sylvia's manner; Moor felt it, and for a moment did not answer. Muchof her former shyness had crept over her of late; she sometimes shunnedhim, was less free in conversation, less frank in demonstration, andonce or twice had colored deeply as she caught his eye upon her. Thesebetrayals of Warwick's image in her thoughts seemed to Moor the happyomens he had waited eagerly to see, and each day his hope grew moreassured. He had watched her unseen while she was busied with her mentalpastime, and as he looked his heart had grown unspeakably tender, fornever had her power over him been so fully felt, and never had he solonged to claim her in the name of his exceeding love. A pleasant peacereigned through the house, the girl sat waiting at his side, the momentlooked auspicious, the desire grew irresistible, and he yielded to it."You are thinking of something new and pleasant to tell me, Ihope,--something in keeping with this quiet place and hour," saidSylvia, glancing up at him with the traitorous softness still in hereyes."Yes, and hoping you would like it.""Then I have never heard it before?""Never from me.""Go on, please; I am ready."She folded her hands together on her knee, turned her face attentivelyto his, and unwittingly composed herself to listen to the sweet story sooften told, and yet so hard to tell. Moor meant to woo her very gently,for he believed that love was new to her. He had planned many gracefulillustrations for his tale, and rounded many smoothly-flowing sentencesin which to unfold it. But the emotions are not well bred, and when themoment came nature conquered art. No demonstration seemed beautifulenough to grace the betrayal of his passion, no language eloquent enoughto tell it, no power strong enough to hold in check the impulse thatmastered him. He went to her, knelt down upon the cushion at her feet,and lifting to her a face flushed and fervent with the ardor of a man'sfirst love, said impetuously--"Sylvia, read it here!"There was no need for her to look; act, touch, and tone told the storybetter than the most impassioned speech. The supplication of hisattitude, the eager beating of his heart, the tender pressure of hishand, dispelled her blindness in the drawing of a breath, and showed herwhat she had done. Now neglected warnings, selfish forgetfulness, andthe knowledge of an unconscious but irremediable wrong frightened andbewildered her; she hid her face and shrunk back trembling with remorseand shame. Moor, seeing in her agitation only maiden happiness orhesitancy, accepted and enjoyed a blissful moment while he waited herreply. It was so long in coming that he gently tried to draw her handsaway and look into her face, whispering like one scarcely doubtful ofassent--"You love me, Sylvia?""No."Only half audible was the reluctant answer, yet he heard it, smiled atwhat he fancied a shy falsehood, and said tenderly--"Will you let me love you, dear?""No."Fainter than before was the one word, but it reached and startled him.Hurriedly he asked--"Am I nothing to you but a friend?""No."With a quick gesture he put down her hands and looked at her. Grief,regret, and pity, filled her face with trouble, but no love was there.He saw, yet would not believe the truth, felt that the sweet certaintyof love had gone, yet could not relinquish the fond hope."Sylvia, do you understand me?""I do, I do! but I cannot say what you would have me, and I must tellthe truth, although it breaks my heart. Geoffrey, I do not love you.""Can I not teach you?" he pleaded eagerly."I have no desire to learn."Softly she spoke, remorseful she looked, but the words wounded like ablow. All the glad assurance died, the passionate glow faded, thecaress, half tender, half timid, fell away, and nothing of the happylover remained in face or figure. He rose slowly as if the heavydisappointment oppressed both soul and body. He fixed on her a glance ofmingled incredulity, reproach, and pain, and said, like one bent onending suspense at once--"Did you not see that I loved you? Can you have been trifling with me?Sylvia, I thought you too simple and sincere for heartless coquetry.""I am! You shall not suspect me of that, though I deserve all otherreproaches. I have been very selfish, very blind. I should haveremembered that in your great kindness you might like me too well foryour own peace. I should have believed Mark, and been less candid in myexpressions of esteem. But I wanted a friend so much; I found all Icould ask in you; I thought my youth, my faults, my follies, would makeit impossible for you to see in me anything but a wayward girl, whofrankly showed her regard, and was proud of yours. It was one of my sadmistakes; I see it now; and now it is too late for anything butpenitence. Forgive me if you can; I've taken all the pleasure, and leftyou all the pain."Sylvia spoke in a paroxysm of remorseful sorrow. Moor listened with asinking heart, and when she dropped her face into her hands again,unable to endure the pale expectancy of his, he turned away, saying withan accent of quiet despair--"Then I have worked and waited all this summer to see my harvest fail atlast. Oh, Sylvia, I so loved, so trusted you."He leaned his arm on the low chimney piece, laid down his head upon itand stood silent, trying to forgive.It is always a hard moment for any woman, when it demands her bravestsincerity to look into a countenance of eager love, and change it to oneof bitter disappointment by the utterance of a monosyllable. To Sylviait was doubly hard, for now her blindness seemed as incredible as cruel;her past frankness unjustifiable; her pleasure selfish; her refusal theblackest ingratitude, and her dream of friendship forever marred. In thebrief pause that fell, every little service he had rendered her, rosefreshly in her memory; every hour of real content and genuine worth thathe had given her, seemed to come back and reproach her; every look,accent, action, of both happy past and sad present seemed to plead forhim. Her conscience cried out against her, her heart overflowed withpenitence and pity. She looked at him, longing to say something, dosomething that should prove her repentance, and assure him of theaffection which she felt. As she looked, two great tears fell glitteringto the hearth, and lay there such eloquent reproaches, that, hadSylvia's heart been hard and cold as the marble where they shone, itwould have melted then. She could not bear it, she went to him, took inboth her own the rejected hand that hung at his side, and feeling thatno act could too tenderly express her sorrow, lifted it to her lips andsoftly kissed it.An instant she was permitted to lay her cheek against it as a penitentchild mutely imploring pardon might have done. Then it broke from herhold, and gathering her to himself, Moor looked up exclaiming withrenewed hope, unaltered longing--"You do care for me, then? You give yourself to me in spite of that hardNo? Ah, Sylvia, you are capricious even in your love."She could not answer, for if that first No had been hard to utter, thiswas impossible. It seemed like turning the knife in the wound, todisappoint the hope that had gathered strength from despair, and shecould only lay her head down on his breast, weeping the saddest tearsshe had ever shed. Still happy in his new delusion, Moor softly strokedthe shining hair, smiling so tenderly, so delightedly, that it was wellfor her she did not see the smile, the words were enough."Dear Sylvia, I have tried so hard to make you love me, how could youhelp it?"The reason sprung to her lips, but maiden pride and shame withheld it.What could she tell except that she had cherished a passion, based onlyon a look. She had deceived herself in her belief that Moor was but afriend, might she not also have deceived herself in believing Warwickwas a lover? She could not own this secret, its betrayal could not alterher reply, nor heal Moor's wound, but the thought of Warwickstrengthened her. It always did, as surely as the influence of hisfriend always soothed her, for one was an embodiment of power, the otherof tenderness."Geoffrey, let me be true to you and to myself," she said, so earnestlythat it gave weight to her broken words. "I cannot be your wife, but Ican be your dear friend forever. Try to believe this,--make my taskeasier by giving up your hope,--and oh, be sure that while I live Icannot do enough to show my sorrow for the great wrong I have done you.""Must it be so? I find it very hard to accept the truth and give up thehope that has made my happiness so long. Let me keep it, Sylvia; let mewait and work again. I have a firm belief that you _will_ love me yet,because I cleave to you with heart and soul, long for you continually,and think you the one woman of the world.""Ah, if it were only possible!" she sighed."Let me make it so! In truth, I think I should not labor long. You areso young, dear, you have not learned to know your own heart yet. It wasnot pity nor penitence alone that brought you here to comfort me. Wasit, Sylvia?""Yes. Had it been love, could I stand as I am now and not show it?"She looked up at him, showed him that though her cheeks were wet therewas no rosy dawn of passion there; though her eyes were as full ofaffection as of grief, there was no shy avoidance of his own, nodropping of the lids, lest they should tell too much; and though his armencircled her, she did not cling to him as loving women cling when theylean on the strength which, touched by love, can both cherish andsustain. That look convinced him better than a flood of words. A longsigh broke from his lips, and, turning from her the eyes that had sowistfully searched and found not, they went wandering drearily hitherand thither as if seeking the hope whose loss made life seem desolate.Sylvia saw it, groaned within herself, but still held fast to the hardtruth, and tried to make it kinder."Geoffrey, I once heard you say to Mark, 'Friendship is the best collegecharacter can graduate from. Believe in it, seek for it, and when itcomes keep it as sacredly as love.' All my life I have wanted a friend,have looked for one, and when he came I welcomed him. May I not keephim, and preserve the friendship dear and sacred still, although Icannot offer love?"Softly, seriously, she spoke, but the words sounded cold to him;friendship seemed so poor now, love so rich, he could not leave theblessed sunshine which transfigured the whole earth and sit down in thelittle circle of a kindly fire without keen regret."I should say yes, I will try to do it if nothing easier remains to me.Sylvia, for five years I have longed and waited for a home. Duty forbadeit then, because poor Marion had only me to make her sad life happy, andmy mother left her to my charge. Now the duty is ended, the old housevery empty, my heart very hungry for affection. You are all in all tome, and I find it so difficult to relinquish my dream that I must beimportunate. I have spoken too soon, you have had no time to think, tolook into yourself and question your own heart. Go, now, recall what Ihave said, remember that I will wait for you patiently, and when Ileave, an hour hence, come down and give me my last answer."Sylvia was about to speak, but the sound of an approaching step broughtover her the shyness she had not felt before, and without a word shedarted from the room. Then romance also fled, for Prue came bustling in,and Moor was called to talk of influenzas, while his thoughts were fullof love.Alone in her chamber Sylvia searched herself. She pictured the life thatwould be hers with Moor. The old house so full of something better thanits opulence, an atmosphere of genial tranquillity which made ithome-like to whoever crossed its threshold. Herself the daily companionand dear wife of the master who diffused such sunshine there; whoseserenity soothed her restlessness; whose affection would be as enduringas his patience; whose character she so truly honored. She felt that nowoman need ask a happier home, a truer or more tender lover. But whenshe looked into herself she found the cordial, unimpassioned sentimenthe first inspired still unchanged, and her heart answered--"This is friendship."She thought of Warwick, and the other home that might be hers. Fancypainted in glowing colors the stirring life, the novelty, excitement,and ever new delight such wanderings would have for her. The joy ofbeing always with him; the proud consciousness that she was nearest anddearest to such a man; the certainty that she might share the knowledgeof his past, might enjoy his present, help to shape his future. Therewas no time to look into her heart, for up sprung its warm blood to hercheek, its hope to her eye, its longing to her lips, its answer glad andready--"Ah, this is love!"The clock struck ten, and after lingering a little Sylvia went down.Slowly, because her errand was a hard one; thoughtfully, because sheknew not where nor how she could best deliver it. No need to look forhim or linger for his coming; he was already there. Alone in the hall,absently smoothing a little silken shawl she often wore, and waitingwith a melancholy patience that smote her to the heart. He went to meether, took both her hands in his, and looked into her face so tenderly,so wistfully!--"Sylvia, is it good night or good by?"Her eyes filled, her hands trembled, her color paled, but she answeredsteadily--"Forgive me; it is good by."