CHAPTER X.

by Louisa May Alcott

　　YES.It is easy to say, "I will forget," but perhaps the hardest task givenus is to lock up a natural yearning of the heart, and turn a deaf ear toits plaint, for captive and jailer must inhabit the same small cell.Sylvia was proud, with that pride which is both sensitive andcourageous, which can not only suffer but wring strength from suffering.While she struggled with a grief and shame that aged her with theirpain, she asked no help, made no complaint; but when the forbiddenpassion stretched its arms to her, she thrust it back and turned topleasure for oblivion.Those who knew her best were troubled and surprised by the craving forexcitement which now took possession of her, the avidity with which shegratified it, regardless of time, health, and money. All day she hurriedhere and there, driving, shopping, sight-seeing, or entertaining guestsat home. Night brought no cessation of her dissipation, for when balls,masquerades, and concerts failed, there still remained the theatre. Thissoon became both a refuge and a solace, for believing it to be lessharmful than other excitements, her father indulged her new whim. But,had she known it, this was the most dangerous pastime she could havechosen. Calling for no exertion of her own, it left her free topassively receive a stimulant to her unhappy love in watching its mimicsemblance through all phases of tragic suffering and sorrow, for shewould see no comedies, and Shakespeare's tragedies became her study.This lasted for a time, then the reaction came. A black melancholy fellupon her, and energy deserted soul and body. She found it a weariness toget up in the morning and weariness to lie down at night. She no longercared even to seem cheerful, owned that she was spiritless, hoped sheshould be ill, and did not care if she died to-morrow. When this darkmood seemed about to become chronic she began to mend, for youth iswonderfully recuperative, and the deepest wounds soon heal even againstthe sufferer's will. A quiet apathy replaced the gloom, and she let thetide drift her where it would, hoping nothing, expecting nothing, askingnothing but that she need not suffer any more.She lived fast; all processes with her were rapid; and the secretexperience of that winter taught her many things. She believed it hadonly taught her to forget, for now the outcast love lay very still, andno longer beat despairingly against the door of her heart, demanding tobe taken in from the cold. She fancied that neglect had killed it, andthat its grave was green with many tears. Alas for Sylvia! how could sheknow that it had only sobbed itself to sleep, and would wake beautifuland strong at the first sound of its master's voice.Mark became eventful. In his fitful fashion he had painted a picture ofthe Golden Wedding, from sketches taken at the time. Moor had suggestedand bespoken it, that the young artist might have a motive for finishingit, because, though he excelled in scenes of that description, hethought them beneath him, and tempted by more ambitious designs,neglected his true branch of the art. In April it was finished, and athis father's request Mark reluctantly sent it with his Clytemnestra tothe annual exhibition. One morning at breakfast Mr. Yule suddenlylaughed out behind his paper, and with a face of unmixed satisfactionpassed it to his son, pointing to a long critique upon the Exhibition.Mark prepared himself to receive with becoming modesty the praiseslavished upon his great work, but was stricken with amazement to findClytemnestra disposed of in a single sentence, and the Golden Weddinglauded in a long enthusiastic paragraph."What the deuce does the man mean!" he ejaculated, staring at hisfather."He means that the work which warms the heart is greater than that whichfreezes the blood, I suspect. Moor knew what you could do and has madeyou do it, sure that if you worked for fame unconsciously you shouldachieve it. This is a success that I can appreciate, and I congratulateyou heartily, my son.""Thank you, sir. But upon my word I don't understand it, and if thiswasn't written by the best Art critic in the country I should feelinclined to say the writer was a fool. Why that little thing was a daubcompared to the other."He got no farther in his protest against this unexpected freak offortune, for Sylvia seized the paper and read the paragraph aloud withsuch happy emphasis amid Prue's outcries and his father's applause, thatMark began to feel that he really had done something praiseworthy, andthat the "daub" was not so despicable after all."I'm going to look at it from this new point of sight," was his solecomment as he went away.Three hours afterward he appeared to Sylvia as she sat sewing alone, andstartled her with the mysterious announcement."I've done it!""Done what? Have you burnt poor Clytemnestra?""Hang Clytemnestra! I'll begin at the beginning and prepare you for thegrand finale. I went to the Exhibition, and stared at Father Blake andhis family for an hour. Decided that wasn't bad, though I still admirethe other more. Then people began to come and crowd up, so that Islipped away for I couldn't stand the compliments. Dahlmann, Scott, andall the rest of my tribe were there, and, as true as my name is MarkYule, every man of them ignored the Greek party and congratulated meupon the success of that confounded Golden Wedding.""My dearest boy, I am so proud! so glad! What is the matter? Have youbeen bitten by a tarantula?"She might well ask, for Mark was dancing all over the carpet in a mostextraordinary style, and only stopped long enough to throw a little caseinto Sylvia's lap, asking as a whole faceful of smiles broke loose--"What does that mean?"She opened it, and a suspicious circlet of diamonds appeared, at sightof which she clapped her hands, and cried out--"You're going to ask Jessie to wear it!""I have! I have!" sung Mark, dancing more wildly than ever. Sylviachased him into a corner and held him there, almost as much excited ashe, while she demanded a full explanation, which he gave her, laughinglike a boy, and blushing like a girl."You have no business to ask, but of course I'm dying to tell you. Iwent from that Painter's Purgatory as we call it, to Mr. Hope's, andasked for Miss Jessie. My angel came down; I told her of my success, andshe smiled as never a woman did before; I added that I'd only waited tomake myself more worthy of her, by showing that I had talent, as well aslove and money to offer her, and she began to cry, whereat I took her inmy arms and ascended straight into heaven.""Please be sober, Mark, and tell me all about it. Was she glad? Did shesay she would? And is everything as we would have it?""It is all perfect, divine, and rapturous, to the last degree. Jessiehas liked me ever since she was born, she thinks; adores you and Pruefor sisters; yearns to call my parent father; allowed me to say and dowhatever I liked; and gave me a ravishing kiss just there. Sacred spot;I shall get a mate to it when I put this on her blessed little finger.Try it for me, I want it to be right, and your hands are of a size. Thatfits grandly. When shall I see a joyful sweetheart doing this on his ownbehalf, Sylvia?""Never!"She shook off the ring as if it burned her, watching it roll glitteringaway, with a somewhat tragical expression. Then she calmed herself, andsitting down to her work, enjoyed Mark's raptures for an hour.The distant city bells were ringing nine that night as a man pausedbefore Mr. Yule's house, and attentively scrutinized each window. Manywere alight, but on the drawn curtain of one a woman's shadow came andwent. He watched it a moment, passed up the steps, and noiselessly wentin. The hall was bright and solitary; from above came the sound ofvoices, from a room to the right, the stir of papers and the scratch ofa pen, from one on the left, a steady rustle as of silk, swept slowly toand fro. To the threshold of this door the man stepped and looked in.Sylvia was just turning in her walk, and as she came musing down theroom, Moor saw her well. With some women dress has no relation to statesof mind; with Sylvia it was often an indication of the mental garb shewore. Moor remembered this trait, and saw in both countenance andcostume the change that had befallen her in his long absence. Her facewas neither gay nor melancholy, but serious and coldly quiet, as if someinward twilight reigned. Her dress, a soft, sad grey, with no decorationbut a knot of snowdrops in her bosom. On these pale flowers her eyeswere fixed, and as she walked with folded arms and drooping head, shesang low to herself--'Upon the convent roof, the snows

　　Lie sparkling to the moon;

　　My breath to heaven like incense goes,

　　May my soul follow soon.

　　Lord, make my spirit pure and clear,

　　As are the frosty skies,

　　Or this first snowdrop of the year,

　　That in my bosom lies.'

　　"Sylvia!"Very gentle was the call, but she started as if it had been a shout,looked an instant while light and color flashed into her face, then ranto him exclaiming joyfully--"Oh, Geoffrey! I am glad! I am glad!"There could be but one answer to such a welcome, and Sylvia received itas she stood there, not weeping now, but smiling with the sincerestsatisfaction, the happiest surprise. Moor shared both emotions, feelingas a man might feel when, parched with thirst, he stretches out hishand for a drop of rain, and receives a brimming cup of water. He dranka deep draught gratefully, then, fearing that it might be as suddenlywithdrawn, asked anxiously--"Sylvia, are we friends or lovers?""Anything, if you will only stay."She looked up as she spoke, and her face betrayed that a conflictbetween desire and doubt was going on within her. Impulse had sent herthere, and now it was so sweet to know herself beloved, she found ithard to go away. Her brother's happiness had touched her heart, rousedthe old craving for affection, and brought a strong desire to fill theaching void her lost love had left with this recovered one. Sylvia hadnot learned to reason yet, she could only feel, because, owing to theunequal development of her divided nature, the heart grew faster thanthe intellect. Instinct was her surest guide, and when she followed itunblinded by a passion, unthwarted by a mood, she prospered. But now shewas so blinded and so thwarted, and now her great temptation came.Ambition, man's idol, had tempted the father; love, woman's god, temptedthe daughter; and, as if the father's atonement was to be wrought outthrough his dearest child the daughter also made the fatal false step ofher life."Then you _have_ learned to love me, Sylvia?""No, the old feeling has not changed except to grow more remorseful,more eager to prove its truth. Once you asked me if I did not wish tolove you; then I did not, now I sincerely do. If you still want me withmy many faults, and will teach me in your gentle way to be all I shouldto you, I will gladly learn, because I never needed love as I do now.Geoffrey, shall I stay or go?""Stay, Sylvia. Ah, thank God for this!"If she had ever hoped that Moor would forget her for his own sake, shenow saw how vain such hope would have been, and was both touched andtroubled by the knowledge of her supremacy which that hour gave her. Shewas as much the calmer as friendship is than love, and was the first tospeak again, still standing there content although her words expressed adoubt."Are you very sure you want me? Are you not tired of the thorn that hasfretted you so long? Remember, I am so young, so ignorant, and unfittedfor a wife. Can I give you real happiness? make home what you would haveit? and never see in your face regret that some wiser, better woman wasnot in my place?""I am sure of myself, and satisfied with you, as you are no wiser, nobetter, nothing but my Sylvia.""It is very sweet to hear you say that with such a look. I do notdeserve it but I will. Is the pain I once gave you gone now, Geoffrey?""Gone forever.""Then I am satisfied, and will begin my life anew by trying to learnwell the lesson my kind master is to teach me."When Moor went that night Sylvia followed him, and as they stoodtogether this happy moment seemed to recall that other sad one, fortaking her hands again he asked, smiling now--"Dear, is it good night or good by?""It is good by and come to-morrow."