CHAPTER XVI.

by Louisa May Alcott

　　IN THE TWILIGHT.If Sylvia needed another trial to make that hard week harder, it sooncame to her in the knowledge that Warwick watched her. She well knewwhy, and vainly endeavored to conceal from him that which she hadsucceeded in concealing entirely from others. But he possessed the keyto her variable moods; he alone knew that now painful forethought, notcaprice dictated many of her seeming whims, and ruled her simplestaction. To others she appeared busy, gay, and full of interest in allabout her; to him, the industry was a preventive of forbidden thoughts;the gayety a daily endeavor to forget; the interest, an anxietyconcerning the looks and words of her companions, because she must guardher own.Sylvia felt something like terror in the presence of this penetratingeye, this daring will, for the vigilance was unflagging and unobtrusive,and with all her efforts she could not read his heart as she felt herown was being read. Adam could act no part, but bent on learning thetruth for the sake of all, he surmounted the dangers of the situation byno artifice, no rash indulgence, but by simply shunning solitaryinterviews with Sylvia as carefully as the courtesy due his hostesswould allow. In walks and drives, and general conversation, he bore hispart, surprising and delighting those who knew him best by the genialchange which seemed to have softened his rugged nature. But the instantthe family group fell apart and Moor's devotion to his cousin leftSylvia alone, Warwick was away into the wood or out upon the sea,lingering there till some meal, some appointed pleasure, or the eveninglamp brought all together. Sylvia understood this, and loved him for iteven while she longed to have it otherwise. But Moor reproached him forhis desertion, doubly felt since the gentler acquirements made himdearer to his friend. Hating all disguises, Warwick found it hard towithhold the fact which was not his own to give, and sparing no blame tohimself, answered Moor's playful complaint with a sad sincerity thatfreed him from all further pleadings."Geoffrey, I have a heavy heart which even you cannot heal. Leave it totime, and let me come and go as of old, enjoying the social hour when Imay, flying to solitude when I must."Much as Sylvia had longed to see these friends, she counted the hours oftheir stay, for the presence of one was a daily disquieting, becausespirits would often flag, conversation fail, and an utter wearinesscreep over her when she could least account for or yield to it. Morethan once during that week she longed to lay her head on Faith's kindbosom and ask help. Deep as was her husband's love it did not possessthe soothing power of a woman's sympathy, and though it cradled her astenderly as if she had been a child, Faith's compassion would have beenlike motherly arms to fold and foster. But friendly as they soon became,frank as was Faith's regard for Sylvia, earnest as was Sylvia'saffection for Faith, she never seemed to reach that deeper place whereshe desired to be. Always when she thought she had found the innermostthat each of us seek for in our friend, she felt that Faith drew back,and a reserve as delicate as inflexible barred her approach with chillygentleness. This seemed so foreign to Faith's nature that Sylviapondered and grieved over it till the belief came to her that thiswoman, so truly excellent and loveworthy, did not desire to receive herconfidence, and sometimes a bitter fear assailed her that Warwick wasnot the only reader of her secret trouble.All things have an end, and the last day came none too soon for onedweller under that hospitable roof. Faith refused all entreaties tostay, and looked somewhat anxiously at Warwick as Moor turned fromherself to him with the same urgency."Adam, you will stay? Promise me another week?""I never promise, Geoffrey."Believing that, as no denial came, his request was granted, Moor gavehis whole attention to Faith, who was to leave them in an hour."Sylvia, while I help our cousin to select and fasten up the books andprints she likes to take with her, will you run down into the garden andfill your prettiest basket with our finest grapes? You will like thatbetter than fumbling with folds and string; and you know one's servantsshould not perform these pleasant services for one's best friends."Glad to be away, Sylvia ran through the long grape walk to its sunniestnook, and standing outside the arch, began to lay the purple clusters inher basket. Only a moment was she there alone; Warwick's shadow,lengthened by the declining sun, soon fell black along the path. He didnot see her, nor seem intent on following her; he walked slowly, hat inhand, so slowly that he was but midway down the leafy lane when Faith'svoice arrested him. She was in haste, as her hurried step and almostbreathless words betrayed; and losing not an instant, she cried beforethey met--"Adam, you will come with me? I cannot leave you here.""Do you doubt me, Faith?""No; but loving women are so weak.""So strong, you mean; men are weakest when they love.""Adam, _will_ you come?""I will follow you; I shall speak with Geoffrey first.""Must you tell him so soon?""I must."Faith's hand had been on Warwick's arm; as he spoke the last words shebent her head upon it for an instant, then without another word turnedand hurried back as rapidly as she had come, while Warwick stood whereshe left him, motionless as if buried in some absorbing thought.All had passed in a moment, a moment too short, too full of intensesurprise to leave Sylvia time for recollection and betrayal of herpresence. Half hidden and wholly unobserved she had seen the unwontedagitation of Faith's countenance and manner, had heard Warwick's softlyspoken answers to those eager appeals, and with a great pang haddiscovered that some tender confidence existed between these two ofwhich she had never dreamed. Sudden as the discovery was its acceptanceand belief; for, knowing her own weakness, Sylvia found something likerelief in the hope that a new happiness for Warwick had ended alltemptation, and in time perhaps all pain for herself. Impulsive as evershe leaned upon the seeming truth, and making of the fancy a fact,passed into a perfect passion of self-abnegation, thinking, in the briefpause that followed Faith's departure--"This is the change we see in him; this made him watch me, hoping I hadforgotten, as I once said and believed. I should be glad, I will beglad, and let him see that even while I suffer I can rejoice in thatwhich helps us both."Full of her generous purpose, yet half doubtful how to execute it,Sylvia stepped from the recess where she had stood, and slowly passedtoward Warwick, apparently intent on settling her fruity burden as shewent. At the first sound of her light step on the gravel he turned,feeling at once that she must have heard, and eager to learn whatsignificance that short dialogue possessed for her. Only a hasty glancedid she give him as she came, but it showed him flushed cheeks, excitedeyes, and lips a little tremulous as they said--"These are for Faith; will you hold the basket while I cover it withleaves?"He took it, and as the first green covering was deftly laid, he asked,below his breath--"Sylvia, did you hear us?"To his unutterable amazement she looked up clearly, and all her heartwas in her voice, as she answered with a fervency he could not doubt--"Yes; and I was glad to hear, to know that a nobler woman filled theplace I cannot fill. Oh, believe it, Adam; and be sure that theknowledge of your great content will lighten the terrible regret whichyou have seen as nothing else ever could have done."Down fell the basket at their feet, and taking her face between hishands, Warwick bent and searched with a glance that seemed to penetrateto her heart's core. For a moment she struggled to escape, but the graspthat held her was immovable. She tried to oppose a steadfast front andbaffle that perilous inspection, but quick and deep rushed thetraitorous color over cheek and forehead with its mute betrayal. Shetried to turn her eyes away, but those other eyes, dark and dilated withintensity of purpose, fixed her own, and the confronting countenancewore an expression which made its familiar features look awfully largeand grand to her panic-stricken sight. A sense of utter helplessnessfell on her, courage deserted her, pride changed to fear, defiance todespair; as the flush faded, the fugitive glance was arrested and theupturned face became a pale blank, ready to receive the answer thatstrong scrutiny was slowly bringing to the light, as invisiblecharacters start out upon a page when fire passes over them. Neitherspoke, but soon through all opposing barriers the magnetism of anindomitable will drew forth the truth, set free the captive passion pentso long, and wrung from those reluctant lineaments a full confession ofthat power which heaven has gifted with eternal youth.The instant this assurance was his own beyond a doubt, Warwick releasedher, snatched up his hat, and hurrying down the path vanished in thewood. Spent as with an hour's excitement, and bewildered by emotionswhich she could no longer master, Sylvia lingered in the grape walk tillher husband called her. Then hastily refilling her basket, she shook herhair about her face and went to bid Faith good by. Moor was to accompanyher to the city, and they left early, that Faith might pause for adieuxto Mark and Prudence."Where is Adam? Has he gone before, or been inveigled into staying?"Moor spoke to Sylvia, but busied in fastening the basket-lid, she seemednot to hear, and Faith replied for her."He will take a later boat, we need not wait for him."When Faith embraced Sylvia, all the coldness had melted from her manner,and her voice was tender as a mother's as she whispered low in her ear--"Dear child, if ever you need any help that Geoffrey cannot give,remember cousin Faith."For two hours Sylvia sat alone, not idle, for in the first real solitudeshe had enjoyed for seven days she looked deeply into herself, andputting by all disguises owned the truth, and resolved to repair thepast if possible, as Faith had counselled in the case which she had nowmade her own. Like so many of us, Sylvia often saw her errors too lateto avoid committing them, and failing to do the right thing at the rightmoment, kept herself forever in arrears with that creditor who mustinevitably be satisfied. She had been coming to this decision all thatweary week, and these quiet hours left her both resolute and resigned.As she sat there while the early twilight began to gather, her eye oftenturned to Warwick's travelling bag, which Faith, having espied it readyin his chamber, had brought down and laid in the library, as a reminderof her wish. As she looked at it, Sylvia's heart yearned toward it inthe fond, foolish way which women have of endowing the possessions ofthose they love with the attractions of sentient things, and a portionof their owner's character or claim upon themselves. It was likeWarwick, simple and strong, no key, and every mark of the long use whichhad tested its capabilities and proved them durable. A pair of gloveslay beside it on the chair, and though she longed to touch anything ofhis, she resisted the temptation till, pausing near them in one of herjourneys to the window, she saw a rent in the glove that layuppermost,--that appeal was irresistible,--"Poor Adam! there has been noone to care for him so long, and Faith does not yet know how; surely Imay perform so small a service for him if he never knows how tenderly Ido it?"Standing ready to drop her work at a sound, Sylvia snatched a briefsatisfaction which solaced her more than an hour of idle lamentation,and as she kissed the glove with a long, sad kiss, and put it down witheyes that dimly saw where it should be, perhaps there went as much reallove and sorrow into that little act as ever glorified some greaterdeed. Then she went to lie in the "Refuge," as she had named an ancientchair, with her head on its embracing arm. Not weeping, but quietlywatching the flicker of the fire, which filled the room with warmduskiness, making the twilight doubly pleasant, till a sudden blazeleaped up, showing her that her watch was over and Warwick come. She hadnot heard him enter, but there he was close before her, his face glowingwith the frosty air, his eye clear and kind, and in his aspect thatnameless charm which won for him the confidence of whosoever read hiscountenance. Scarce knowing why, Sylvia felt reassured that all waswell, and looked up with more welcome in her heart than she dared betrayin words."Come at last! where have you been so long, Adam?""Round the Island I suspect, for I lost my way, and had no guide butinstinct to lead me home again. I like to say that word, for though itis not home it seems so to me now. May I sit here before I go, and warmmyself at your fire, Sylvia?"Sure of his answer he established himself on the stool at her feet,stretched his hands to the grateful blaze, and went on with some inwardresolution lending its power and depth to his voice."I had a question to settle with myself and went to find my bestcounsellors in the wood. Often when I am harassed by some perplexity ordoubt to which I can find no wise or welcome answer, I walk myself intoa belief that it will come; then it appears. I stoop to break a handsomeflower, to pick up a cone, or watch some little creature happier than I,and there lies my answer, like a good luck penny, ready to my hand.""Faith has gone, but Geoffrey hopes to keep you for another week," saidSylvia, ignoring the unsafe topic."Shall he have his wish?""Faith expects you to follow her.""And you think I ought?""I think you will.""When does the next boat leave?""An hour hence.""I'll wait for it here. Did I wake you coming in?""I was not asleep; only lazy, warm, and quiet.""And deadly tired;--dear soul, how can it be otherwise, leading the lifeyou lead."There was such compassion in his voice, such affection in his eye, suchfostering kindliness in the touch of the hand he laid upon her own, thatSylvia cried within herself,--"Oh, if Geoffrey would only come!" andhoping for that help to save her from herself, she hastily replied--"You are mistaken, Adam,--my life is easier than I deserve,--my husbandmakes me very--""Miserable,--the truth to me, Sylvia."Warwick rose as he spoke, closed the door and came back wearing anexpression which caused her to start up with a gesture of entreaty--"No no, I will not hear you! Adam, you must not speak!"He paused opposite her, leaving a little space between them, which hedid not cross through all that followed, and with that look, inflexibleyet pitiful, he answered steadily--"I _must_ speak and you _will_ hear me. But understand me, Sylvia, Idesire and design no French sentiment nor sin like that we heard of, andwhat I say now I would say if Geoffrey stood between us. I have settledthis point after long thought and the heartiest prayers I ever prayed;and much as I have at stake, I speak more for your sake than my own.Therefore do not entreat nor delay, but listen and let me show you thewrong you are doing yourself, your husband, and your friend.""Does Faith know all the past? does she desire you to do this that herhappiness may be secure?" demanded Sylvia."Faith is no more to me, nor I to Faith, than the friendliest regard canmake us. She suspected that I loved you long ago; she now believes thatyou love me; she pities her cousin tenderly, but will not meddle withthe tangle we have made of our three lives. Forget that folly, and letme speak to you as I should. When we parted I thought that you lovedGeoffrey; so did you. When I came here I was sure of it for a day; buton that second night I saw your face as you stood here alone, and then Iknew what I have since assured myself of. God knows, I think my gaindearly purchased by his loss. I see your double trial; I know thetribulations in store for all of us; yet, as an honest man, I must speakout, because you ought not to delude yourself or Geoffrey another day.""What right have you to come between us and decide my duty, Adam?"Sylvia spoke passionately, roused to resistance by his manner and theturmoil of emotions warring within her."The right of a sane man to save the woman he loves from destroying herown peace forever, and undermining the confidence of the friend dearestto them both. I know this is not the world's way in such matters; but Icare not; because I believe one human creature has a right to speak toanother in times like these as if they two stood alone. I will notcommand, I will appeal to you, and if you are the candid soul I thinkyou, your own words shall prove the truth of what I say. Sylvia, do youlove your husband?""Yes, Adam, dearly.""More than you love me?""I wish I did! I wish I did!""Are you happy with him?""I was till you came; I shall be when you are gone.""Never! It is impossible to go back to the blind tranquillity you onceenjoyed. Now a single duty lies before you; delay is weak, deceit iswicked; utter sincerity alone can help us. Tell Geoffrey all; then,whether you live your life alone, or one day come to me, there is nofalse dealing to repent of, and looking the hard fact in the face robsit of one half its terrors. Will you do this, Sylvia?""No, Adam. Remember what he said that night: 'I love but few, and thosefew are my world,'--I am chief in that world; shall I destroy it, for myselfish pleasure? He waited for me very long, is waiting still; can Ifor a second time disappoint the patient heart that would find iteasier to give up life than the poor possession which I am? No, I oughtnot, dare not do it yet.""If you dare not speak the truth to your friend, you do not deserve him,and the name is a lie. You ask me to remember what he said thatnight,--I ask you to recall the look with which he begged you not to tryhim too hardly. Put it to yourself,--which is the kinder justice, a fullconfession now, or a late one hereafter, when longer subterfuge has madeit harder for you to offer, bitterer for him to receive? I tell you,Sylvia, it were more merciful to murder him outright than to slowly wearaway his faith, his peace, and love by a vain endeavor to perform as aduty what should be your sweetest pleasure, and what will soon become aburden heavier than you can bear.""You do not see as I see; you cannot understand what I am to him, norcan I tell you what he is to me. It is not as if I could dislike ordespise him for any unworthiness of his own; nor as if he were a loveronly. Then I could do much which now is worse than impossible, for Ihave married him, and it is too late.""Oh, Sylvia! why could you not have waited?""Why? because I am what I am, too easily led by circumstances, tooentirely possessed by whatever hope, belief, or fear rules me for thehour. Give me a steadfast nature like your own and I will be as strong.I know I am weak, but I am not wilfully wicked; and when I ask you to besilent, it is because I want to save him from the pain of doubt, and tryto teach myself to love him as I should. I must have time, but I canbear much and endeavor more persistently than you believe. If I forgotyou once, can I not again? and should I not? I am all in all to him,while you, so strong, so self-reliant, can do without my love as youhave done till now, and will soon outlive your sorrow for the loss ofthat which might have made us happy had I been more patient.""Yes, I shall outlive it, else I should have little faith in myself. ButI shall not forget; and if you would remain forever what you now are tome, you will so act that nothing may mar this memory, if it is to be nomore. I doubt your power to forget an affection which has survived somany changes and withstood assaults such as Geoffrey must unconsciouslyhave made upon it. But I have no right to condemn your beliefs, to orderyour actions, or force you to accept my code of morals if you are notready for it. You must decide, but do not again deceive yourself, andthrough whatever comes hold fast to that which is better worthpreserving than husband, happiness, or friend."His words fell cold on Sylvia's ear, for with the inconsistency of awoman's heart she thought he gave her up too readily, yet honored himmore truly for sacrificing both himself and her to the principle thatruled his life and made him what he was. His seeming resignationsteadied her, for now he waited her decision, while before he was onlybent on executing the purpose wherein he believed salvation lay. Shegirded up her strength, collected her thoughts, and tried to show himwhat she believed to be her duty."Let me tell you how it is with me, Adam, and be patient if I am notwise and brave like you, but far too young, too ignorant to bear suchtroubles well. I am not leaning on my own judgment now, but on Faith's,and though you do not love her as I hoped, you feel she is one to trust.She said the wife, in that fictitious case which was so real to us, thewife should leave no effort unmade, no self-denial unexacted, till shehad fairly proved that she could not be what she had promised. Then, andthen only, had she a right to undo the tie that had bound her. I must dothis before I think of your love or my own, for on my marriage morning Imade a vow within myself that Geoffrey's happiness should be the firstduty of my life. I shall keep that vow as sacredly as I will those Imade before the world, until I find that it is utterly beyond my power,then I will break all together.""You have tried that once, and failed.""No, I have never tried it as I shall now. At first, I did not know thetruth, then I was afraid to believe, and struggled blindly to forget.Now I see clearly, I confess it, I resolve to conquer it, and I will notyield until I have done my best. You say you must respect me. Could youdo so if I no longer respected myself? I should not, if I forgot allGeoffrey had borne and done for me, and could not bear and do this thingfor him. I must make the effort, and make it silently; for he is veryproud with all his gentleness, and would reject the seeming sacrificethough he would make one doubly hard for love of me. If I am to staywith him, it spares him the bitterest pain he could suffer; if I am togo, it gives him a few more months of happiness, and I may so preparehim that the parting will be less hard. How others would act I cannottell, I only know that this seems right to me; and I must fight my fightalone, even if I die in doing it."She was so earnest, yet so humble; so weak in all but the desire to dowell; so young to be tormented with such fateful issues, and withal sosteadfast in the grateful yet remorseful tenderness she bore herhusband, that though sorely disappointed and not one whit convinced,Warwick could only submit to this woman-hearted child, and love herwith redoubled love, both for what she was and what she aspired to be."Sylvia, what would you have me do?""You must go away, and for a long time, Adam; because when you are nearme my will is swayed by yours, and what you desire I long to give you.Go quite away, and through Faith you may learn whether I succeed orfail. It is hard to say this, yet you know it is a truer hospitality inme to send you from my door than to detain and offer you temptation foryour daily bread."How strangely Ottila came back to him, and all the scenes he had passedthrough with her!--a perilous contrast just then. Yet, despite his pridein the loving little creature who put him from her that she might beworthy of him, one irrepressible lament swelled his heart and passed hislips--"Ah, Sylvia! I thought that parting on the mountain was the hardest Icould ever know, but this is harder; for now I have but to say come tome, and you would come."But the bitter moment had its drop of honey, whose sweetness nourishedhim when all else failed. Sylvia answered with a perfect confidence inthat integrity which even her own longing could not bribe--"Yes, Adam, but you will not say it, because feeling as I feel, you knowI must not come to you."He did know it, and confessed his submission by folding fast the armshalf opened for her, and standing dumb with the words trembling on hislips. It was the bravest action of a life full of real valor, for thesacrifice was not made with more than human fortitude. The man's heartclamored for its right, patience was weary, hope despaired, and allnatural instincts mutinied against the command that bound them. But nograin of virtue ever falls wasted to the ground; it drops back upon itsgiver a regathered strength, and cannot fail of its reward in somekindred soul's approval, imitation, or delight. It was so then, asSylvia went to him; for though she did not touch nor smile upon him, hefelt her nearness; and the parting assured him that its power bound themcloser than the happiest union. In her face there shone a look halffervent, half devout, and her voice had no falter in it now."You show me what I should be. All my life I have desired strength ofheart and stability of soul; may I not hope to earn for myself a littleof the integrity I love in you? If courage, self-denial, and self-help,make you what you are, can I have a more effectual guide? You say youshall outlive this passion; why should not I imitate your brave example,and find the consolations you shall find? Oh, Adam, let me try.""You shall.""Then go; go now, while I can say it as I should.""The good Lord bless and help you, Sylvia."She gave him both her hands, but though he only pressed them silently,that pressure nearly destroyed the victory she had won, for the stronggrasp snapped the slender guard-ring Moor had given her a week ago. Sheheard it drop with a golden tinkle on the hearth, saw the dark oval,with its doubly significant character, roll into the ashes, and feltWarwick's hold tighten as if he echoed the emphatic word uttered whenthe ineffectual gift was first bestowed. Superstition flowed in Sylvia'sblood, and was as unconquerable as the imagination which supplied itsfood. This omen startled her. It seemed a forewarning that endeavorwould be vain, that submission was wisdom, and that the husband's charmhad lost its virtue when the stronger power claimed her. The desire toresist began to waver as the old passionate longing sprang up moreeloquent than ever; she felt the rush of a coming impulse, knew that itwould sweep her into Warwick's arms, there to forget her duty, toforfeit his respect. With the last effort of a sorely tried spirit shetore her hands away, fled up to the room which had never needed lock orkey till now, and stifling the sound of those departing steps among thecushions of the little couch where she had wept away childish woes anddreamed girlish dreams, she struggled with the great sorrow of her tooearly womanhood, uttering with broken voice that petition oftenestquoted from the one prayer which expresses all our needs--"Lead me not into temptation, but deliver me from evil."