CHAPTER XVIII.

by Louisa May Alcott

　　WHAT NEXT?Sylvia laid her head down on her pillow, believing that this night wouldbe the longest, saddest she had ever known. But before she had time tosigh for sleep it wrapt her in its comfortable arms, and held her tillday broke. Sunshine streamed across the room, and early birds piped onthe budding boughs that swayed before the window. But no morning smilesaluted her, no morning flower awaited her, and nothing but a littlenote lay on the unpressed pillow at her side."Sylvia, I have gone away to Faith, because this proud, resentful spiritof mine must be subdued before I meet you. I leave that behind me whichwill speak to you more kindly, calmly than I can now, and show you thatmy effort has been equal to my failure. There is nothing for me to dobut submit; manfully if I must, meekly if I can; and this short exilewill prepare me for the longer one to come. Take counsel with thosenearer and dearer to you than myself, and secure the happiness which Ihave so ignorantly delayed, but cannot wilfully destroy. God be withyou, and through all that is and is to come, remember that you remainbeloved forever in the heart of Geoffrey Moor."Sylvia had known many sad uprisings, but never a sadder one than this,and the hours that followed aged her more than any year had done. Allday she wandered aimlessly to and fro, for the inward conflict would notlet her rest. The house seemed home no longer when its presiding geniuswas gone, and everywhere some token of his former presence touched herwith its mute reproach.She asked no counsel of her family, for well she knew the outburst ofcondemnation, incredulity, and grief that would assail her there. Theycould not help her yet; they would only augment perplexities, weakenconvictions, and distract her mind. When she was sure of herself shewould tell them, endure their indignation and regret, and steadilyexecute the new purpose, whatever it should be.To many it might seem an easy task to break the bond that burdened andassume the tie that blessed. But Sylvia had grown wise inself-knowledge, timorous through self-delusion; therefore the greaterthe freedom given her the more she hesitated to avail herself of it. Thenobler each friend grew as she turned from one to the other, the moreimpossible seemed the decision, for generous spirit and loving heartcontended for the mastery, yet neither won. She knew that Moor had puther from him never to be recalled till some miracle was wrought thatshould make her truly his. This renunciation showed her how much he hadbecome to her, how entirely she had learned to lean upon him, and howgreat a boon such perfect love was in itself. Even the prospect of alife with Warwick brought forebodings with its hope. Reason made herlisten to many doubts which hitherto passion had suppressed. Would shenever tire of his unrest? Could she fill so large a heart and give itpower as well as warmth? Might not the two wills clash, the ardentnatures inflame one another, the stronger intellect exhaust the weaker,and disappointment come again? And as she asked these questions,conscience, the monitor whom no bribe can tempt, no threat silence,invariably answered "Yes."But chief among the cares that beset her was one that grew moreburdensome with thought. By her own will she had put her liberty intoanother's keeping; law confirmed the act, gospel sanctioned the vow, andit could only be redeemed by paying the costly price demanded of thosewho own that they have drawn a blank in the lottery of marriage. Publicopinion is a grim ghost that daunts the bravest, and Sylvia knew thattrials lay before her from which she would shrink and suffer, as only awoman sensitive and proud as she could shrink and suffer. Once applythis remedy and any tongue would have the power to wound, any eye toinsult with pity or contempt, any stranger to criticise or condemn, andshe would have no means of redress, no place of refuge, even in thatstronghold, Adam's heart.All that dreary day she wrestled with these stubborn facts, but couldneither mould nor modify them as she would, and evening found her spent,but not decided. Too excited for sleep, yet too weary for exertion, sheturned bedward, hoping that the darkness and the silence of night wouldbring good counsel, if not rest.Till now she had shunned the library as one shuns the spot where one hassuffered most. But as she passed the open door the gloom that reignedwithin seemed typical of that which had fallen on its absent master, andfollowing the impulse of the moment Sylvia went in to light it with thelittle glimmer of her lamp. Nothing had been touched, for no hand buther own preserved the order of this room, and all household duties hadbeen neglected on that day. The old chair stood where she had left it,and over its arm was thrown the velvet coat, half dressing-gown, halfblouse, that Moor liked to wear at this household trysting-place. Sylviabent to fold it smoothly as it hung, and feeling that she must solaceherself with some touch of tenderness, laid her cheek against the softgarment, whispering "Good night." Something glittered on the cushion ofthe chair, and looking nearer she found a steel-clasped book, upon thecover of which lay a dead heliotrope, a little key.It was Moor's Diary, and now she understood that passage of the notewhich had been obscure before. "I leave that behind me which will speakto you more kindly, calmly, than I can now, and show you that my efforthas been equal to my failure." She had often begged to read it,threatened to pick the lock, and felt the strongest curiosity to learnwhat was contained in the long entries that he daily made. Her requestshad always been answered with the promise of entire possession of thebook when the year was out. Now he gave it, though the year was notgone, and many leaves were yet unfilled. He thought she would come tothis room first, would see her morning flower laid ready for her, and,sitting in what they called their Refuge, would draw some comfort forherself, some palliation for his innocent offence, from the record soabruptly ended.She took it, went away to her own room, unlocked the short romance ofhis wedded life, and found her husband's heart laid bare before her.It was a strange and solemn thing to look so deeply into the privateexperience of a fellow-being; to trace the birth and progress ofpurposes and passions, the motives of action, the secret aspirations,the besetting sins that made up the inner life he had been leadingbeside her. Moor wrote with an eloquent sincerity, because he had puthimself into his book, as if feeling the need of some _confidante_ hehad chosen the only one that pardons egotism. Here, too, Sylvia saw herchameleon self, etched with loving care, endowed with all gifts andgraces, studied with unflagging zeal, and made the idol of a life.Often a tuneful spirit seemed to assert itself, and passing from smoothprose to smoother poetry, sonnet, song, or psalm, flowed down the pagein cadences stately, sweet, or solemn, filling the reader with delightat the discovery of a gift so genuine, yet so shyly folded up withinitself, unconscious that its modesty was the surest token of its worth.More than once Sylvia laid her face into the book, and added herinvoluntary comment on some poem or passage made pathetic by thepresent; and more than once paused to wonder, with exceeding wonder, whyshe could not give such genius and affection its reward. Had she neededany confirmation of the fact so hard to teach herself, this opening ofhis innermost would have given it. For while she bitterly grieved overthe death-blow she had dealt his happy hope, it no longer seemed apossibility to change her stubborn heart, or lessen by a fraction thedebt which she sadly felt could only be repaid in friendship's silver,not love's gold.All night she lay there like some pictured Magdalene, purer but aspenitent as Correggio's Mary, with the book, the lamp, the melancholyeyes, the golden hair that painters love. All night she read, gatheringcourage, not consolation, from those pages, for seeing what she was notshowed her what she might become; and when she turned the little keyupon that story without an end, Sylvia the girl was dead, but Sylvia thewoman had begun to live.Lying in the rosy hush of dawn, there came to her a sudden memory--"If ever you need help that Geoffrey cannot give, remember cousinFaith."This was the hour Faith foresaw; Moor had gone to her with his trouble,why not follow, and let this woman, wise, discreet, and gentle, show herwhat should come next?The newly risen sun saw Sylvia away upon her journey to Faith's homeamong the hills. She lived alone, a cheerful, busy, solitary soul,demanding little of others, yet giving freely to whomsoever asked analms of her.Sylvia found the gray cottage nestled in a hollow of the mountain side;a pleasant hermitage, secure and still. Mistress and maid composed thehousehold, but none of the gloom of isolation darkened the sunshine thatpervaded it; peace seemed to sit upon its threshold, content to broodbeneath its eaves, and the atmosphere of home to make it beautiful.When some momentous purpose or event absorbs us we break through fearsand formalities, act out ourselves forgetful of reserve, and use theplainest phrases to express emotions which need no ornament and littleaid from language. Sylvia illustrated this fact, then; for, withouthesitation or embarrassment, she entered Miss Dane's door, called noservant to announce her, but went, as if by instinct, straight to theroom where Faith sat alone, and with the simplest greeting asked--"Is Geoffrey here?""He was an hour ago, and will be an hour hence. I sent him out to rest,for he cannot sleep. I am glad you came to him; he has not learned to dowithout you yet."With no bustle of surprise or sympathy Faith put away her work, tookoff the hat and cloak, drew her guest beside her on the couch before theone deep window looking down the valley, and gently chafing the chillyhands in warm ones, said nothing more till Sylvia spoke."He has told you all the wrong I have done him?""Yes, and found a little comfort here. Do you need consolation also?""Can you ask? But I need something more, and no one can give it to me sowell as you. I want to be set right, to hear things called by their truenames, to be taken out of myself and made to see why I am always doingwrong while trying to do well.""Your father, sister, or brother are fitter for that task than I. Haveyou tried them?""No, and I will not. They love me, but they could not help me; for theywould beg me to conceal if I cannot forget, to endure if I cannotconquer, and abide by my mistake at all costs. That is not the help Iwant. I desire to know the one just thing to be done, and to be madebrave enough to do it, though friends lament, gossips clamor, and theheavens fall. I am in earnest now. Rate me sharply, drag out myweaknesses, shame my follies, show no mercy to my selfish hopes; andwhen I can no longer hide from myself put me in the way I should go, andI will follow it though my feet bleed at every step."She was in earnest now, terribly so, but still Faith drew back, thoughher compassionate face belied her hesitating words."Go to Adam; who wiser or more just than he?""I cannot. He, as well as Geoffrey, loves me too well to decide for me.You stand between them, wise as the one, gentle as the other, and you donot care for me enough to let affection hoodwink reason. Faith, youbade me come; do not cast me off, for if you shut your heart against meI know not where to go."Despairing she spoke, disconsolate she looked, and Faith's reluctancevanished. The maternal aspect returned, her voice resumed its warmth,her eye its benignity, and Sylvia was reassured before a word wasspoken."I do not cast you off, nor shut my heart against you. I only hesitatedto assume such responsibility, and shrunk from the task because ofcompassion, not coldness. Sit here, and tell me all your trouble,Sylvia?""That is so kind! It seems quite natural to turn to you as if I had aclaim upon you. Let me have, and if you can, love me a little, because Ihave no mother, and need one very much.""My child, you shall not need one any more.""I feel that, and am comforted already. Faith, if you were me, and stoodwhere I stand, beloved by two men, either of whom any woman might beproud to call husband, putting self away, to which should you cleave?""To neither."Sylvia paled and trembled, as if the oracle she had invoked was anunanswerable voice pronouncing the inevitable. She watched Faith'scountenance a moment, groping for her meaning, failed to find it, andwhispered below her breath--"Can I know why?""Because your husband is, your lover _should_ be your friend and nothingmore. You have been hardly taught the lesson many have to learn, thatfriendship cannot fill love's place, yet should be kept inviolate, andserved as an austerer mistress who can make life very beautiful to suchas feel her worth and deserve her delights. Adam taught me this, forthough Geoffrey took you from him, he still held fast his friend,letting no disappointment sour, no envy alienate, no resentment destroythe perfect friendship years of mutual fidelity have built up betweenthem.""Yes!" cried Sylvia, "how I have honored Adam for that steadfastness,and how I have despised myself, because I could not be as wise andfaithful in the earlier, safer sentiment I felt for Geoffrey.""Be wise and faithful now; cease to be the wife, but remain the friend;freely give all you can with honesty, not one jot more.""Never did man possess a truer friend than I will be to him--if he willlet me. But, Faith, if I may be that to Geoffrey, may I not be somethingnearer and dearer to Adam? Would not you dare to hope it, were you me?""No, Sylvia, never.""Why not?""If you were blind, a cripple, or cursed with some incurable infirmityof body, would not you hesitate to bind yourself and your affliction toanother?""You know I should not only hesitate, but utterly refuse.""I do know it, therefore I venture to show you why, according to mybelief, you should not marry Adam. I cannot tell you as I ought, butonly try to show you where to seek the explanation of my seeming harshadvice. There are diseases more subtle and dangerous than any that vexour flesh; diseases that should be as carefully cured if curable, asinexorably prevented from spreading as any malady we dread. A paralyzedwill, a morbid mind, a mad temper, a tainted heart, a blind soul, areafflictions to be as much regarded as bodily infirmities. Nay, more,inasmuch as souls are of greater value than perishable flesh. Where thisis religiously taught, believed, and practised, marriage becomes intruth a sacrament blessed of God; children thank parents for the gift oflife; parents see in children living satisfactions and rewards, notreproaches or retributions doubly heavy to be borne, for the knowledgethat where two sinned, many must inevitably suffer.""You try to tell me gently, Faith, but I see that you consider me one ofthe innocent unfortunates, who have no right to marry till they behealed, perhaps never. I have dimly felt this during the past year, nowI know it, and thank God that I have no child to reproach me hereafter,for bequeathing it the mental ills I have not yet outlived.""Dear Sylvia, you are an exceptional case in all respects, because anextreme one. The ancient theology of two contending spirits in one body,is strangely exemplified in you, for each rules by turns, and each helpsor hinders as moods and circumstances lead. Even in the great event of awoman's life, you were thwarted by conflicting powers; impulse andignorance, passion and pride, hope and despair. Now you stand at theparting of the ways, looking wistfully along the pleasant one where Adamseems to beckon, while I point down the rugged one where I have walked,and though my heart aches as I do it, counsel you as I would a daughterof my own.""I thank you, I will follow you, but my life looks very barren if I mustrelinquish my desire.""Not as barren as if you possessed your desire, and found in it anothermisery and mistake. Could you have loved Geoffrey, it might have beensafe and well with you; loving Adam, it is neither. Let me show you why.He is an exception like yourself; perhaps that explains your attractionfor each other. In him the head rules, in Geoffrey the heart. The onecriticises, the other loves mankind. Geoffrey is proud and private inall that lies nearest him, clings to persons, and is faithful as awoman. Adam has only the pride of an intellect which tests all things,and abides by its own insight. He clings to principles; persons are butanimated facts or ideas; he seizes, searches, uses them, and when theyhave no more for him, drops them like the husk, whose kernel he hassecured; passing on to find and study other samples without regret, butwith unabated zeal. For life to him is perpetual progress, and he obeysthe law of his nature as steadily as sun or sea. Is not this so?""All true; what more, Faith?""Few women, if wise, would dare to marry this man, noble and love-worthyas he is, till time has tamed and experience developed him. Even thenthe risk is great, for he demands and unconsciously absorbs into himselfthe personality of others, making large returns, but of a kind whichonly those as strong, sagacious, and steadfast as himself can receiveand adapt to their individual uses, without being overcome andpossessed. That none of us should be, except by the Spirit stronger thanman, purer than woman. You feel, though you do not understand thispower. You know that his presence excites, yet wearies you; that, whileyou love, you fear him, and even when you long to be all in all to him,you doubt your ability to make his happiness. Am I not right?""I must say, yes.""Then, it is scarcely necessary for me to tell you that I think thisunequal marriage would be but a brief one for you; bright at itsbeginning, dark at its end. With him you would exhaust yourself inpassionate endeavors to follow where he led. He would not know this, youwould not confess it, but too late you might both learn that you weretoo young, too ardent, too frail in all but the might of love, to be hiswife. It is like a woodbird mating with an eagle, straining its littlewings to scale the sky with him, blinding itself with gazing at the sun,striving to fill and warm the wild eyrie which becomes its home, andperishing in the stern solitude the other loves. Yet, too fond andfaithful to regret the safer nest among the grass, the gentler mate itmight have had, the summer life and winter flitting to the south forwhich it was designed.""Faith, you frighten me; you seem to see and show me all the dimforebodings I have hidden away within myself, because I could notunderstand or dared not face them. How have you learned so much? How canyou read me so well? and who told you these things of us all?""I had an unhappy girlhood in a discordant home; early cares and lossesmade me old in youth, and taught me to observe how others bore theirburdens. Since then solitude has led me to study and reflect upon thequestion toward which my thoughts inevitably turned. Concerning yourselfand your past Geoffrey told me much but Adam more.""Have you seen him? Has he been here? When, Faith, when?"Light and color flashed back into Sylvia's face, and the glad eagernessof her voice was a pleasant sound to hear after the despairing accentsgone before. Faith sighed, but answered fully, carefully, while thecompassion of her look deepened as she spoke."I saw him but a week ago, vehement and vigorous as ever. He has comehither often during the winter, has watched you unseen, and brought menews of you which made Geoffrey's disclosure scarcely a surprise. Hesaid you bade him hear of you through me, that he preferred to come, notwrite, for letters were often false interpreters, but face to face onegets the real thought of one's friend by look, as well as word, and theresult is satisfactory.""That is Adam! But what more did he say? How did you advise him? I knowhe asked counsel of you, as we all have done.""He did, and I gave it as frankly as to you and Geoffrey. He made meunderstand you, judge you leniently, see in you the virtues you havecherished despite drawbacks such as few have to struggle with. Yourfather made Adam his confessor during the happy month when you firstknew him. I need not tell you how he received and preserved such atrust. He betrayed no confidence, but in speaking of you I saw that hisknowledge of the father taught him to understand the daughter. It waswell and beautifully done, and did we need anything to endear him to usthis trait of character would do it, for it is a rare endowment, thepower of overcoming all obstacles of pride, age, and the sad reserveself-condemnation brings us, and making confession a grateful healing.""I know it; we tell our sorrows to such as Geoffrey, our sins to such asAdam. But, Faith, when you spoke of me, did you say to him what you havebeen saying to me about my unfitness to be his wife because ofinequality, and my unhappy inheritance?""Could I do otherwise when he fixed that commanding eye of his upon measking, 'Is my love as wise as it is warm?' He is one of those whoforce the hardest truths from us by the simple fact that they can bearit, and would do the same for us. He needed it then, for though instinctwas right,--hence his anxious question,--his heart, never so entirelyroused as now, made it difficult for him to judge of your relations toone another, and there my woman's insight helped him.""What did he do when you told him? I see that you will yet hesitate totell me. I think you have been preparing me to hear it. Speak out.Though my cheeks whiten and my hands tremble I can bear it, for youshall be the law by which I will abide.""You shall be a law to yourself, my brave Sylvia. Put your hands in mineand hold fast to the friend who loves and honors you for this. I willtell you what Adam did and said. He sat in deep thought many minutes;but with him to see is to do, and soon he turned to me with thecourageous expression which in him signifies that the fight is fought,the victory won. 'It is necessary to be just, it is not necessary to behappy. I shall never marry Sylvia, even if I may,'--and with thatparaphrase of words, whose meaning seemed to fit his need, he went away.I think he will not come again either to me--or you."How still the room grew as Faith's reluctant lips uttered the lastwords! Sylvia sat motionless looking out into the sunny valley, witheyes that saw nothing but the image of that beloved friend leaving herperhaps forever. Well she knew that with this man to see _was_ to do,and with a woeful sense of desolation falling cold upon her heart, shefelt that there was nothing more to hope for but a brave submission likehis own. Yet in that pause there came a feeling of relief after thefirst despair. The power of choice was no longer left her, and the helpshe needed was bestowed by one who could decide against himself,inspired by a sentiment which curbed a strong man's love of power, andmade it subject to a just man's love of right. Great examples never losetheir virtue; what Pompey was to Warwick that Warwick became to Sylvia,and in the moment of supremest sorrow she felt the fire of a nobleemulation kindling within her from the spark he left behind."Faith, what comes next?""This," and she was gathered close while Faith confessed how hard hertask had been by letting tears fall fast upon the head which seemed tohave found its proper resting-place, as if despite her courage and herwisdom the woman's heart was half broken with its pity. Better than anywords was the motherly embrace, the silent shower, the blessed balm ofsympathy which soothed the wounds it could not heal. Leaning againsteach other the two hearts talked together in the silence, feeling thebeauty of the tie kind Nature weaves between the hearts that should beknit. Faith often turned her lips to Sylvia's forehead, brushed back herhair with a lingering touch, and drew her nearer as if it was verypleasant to see and feel the little creature in her arms. Sylvia laythere, tearless and tranquil; thinking thoughts for which she had nowords, and trying to prepare herself for the life to come, a life thatnow looked very desolate. Her eye still rested on the valley where theriver flowed, the elms waved their budding boughs in the bland air, andthe meadows wore their earliest tinge of green. But she was notconscious of these things till the sight of a solitary figure comingslowly up the hill recalled her to the present and the duties it stillheld for her."Here is Geoffrey! How wearily he walks,--how changed and old helooks,--oh, why was I born to be a curse to all who love me!""Hush, Sylvia, say anything but that, because it casts reproach uponyour father. Your life is but just begun; make it a blessing, not acurse, as all of us have power to do; and remember that for everyaffliction there are two helpers, who can heal or end the heaviest weknow--Time and Death. The first we may invoke and wait for; the last Godalone can send when it is better not to live.""I will try to be patient. Will you meet and tell Geoffrey what haspassed? I have no strength left but for passive endurance."Faith went; Sylvia heard the murmur of earnest conversation; then stepscame rapidly along the hall, and Moor was in the room. She roseinvoluntarily, but for a moment neither spoke, for never had they met asnow. Each regarded the other as if a year had rolled between them sincethey parted, and each saw in the other the changes that one day hadwrought. Neither the fire of resentment nor the frost of pride nowrendered Moor's face stormy or stern. Anxious and worn it was, withnewly graven lines upon the forehead and melancholy curves about themouth, but the peace of a conquered spirit touched it with a paleserenity, and some perennial hope shone in the glance he bent upon hiswife. For the first time in her life Sylvia was truly beautiful,--notphysically, for never had she looked more weak and wan, but spiritually,as the inward change made itself manifest in an indescribable expressionof meekness and of strength. With suffering came submission, withrepentance came regeneration, and the power of the woman yet to be,touched with beauty the pathos of the woman now passing through thefire."Faith has told you what has passed between us, and you know that myloss is a double one," she said. "Let me add that I deserve it, that Iclearly see my mistakes, will amend such as I can, bear the consequencesof such as are past help, try to profit by all, and make no new ones. Icannot be your wife, I ought not to be Adam's; but I may be myself, maylive my life alone, and being friends with both wrong neither. This ismy decision; in it I believe, by it I will abide, and if it be a justone God will not let me fail.""I submit, Sylvia; I can still hope and wait."So humbly he said it, so heartily he meant it, she felt that his lovewas as indomitable as Warwick's will, and the wish that it were rightand possible to accept and reward it woke with all its old intensity. Itwas not possible; and though her heart grew heavier within her, Sylviaanswered steadily--"No, Geoffrey, do not hope, do not wait; forgive me and forget me. Goabroad as you proposed; travel far and stay long away. Change your life,and learn to see in me only the friend I once was and still desire tobe.""I will go, will stay till you recall me, but while you live your lifealone I shall still hope and wait."This invincible fidelity, so patient, so persistent, impressed thelistener like a prophecy, disturbed her conviction, arrested the wordsupon her lips and softened them."It is not for one so unstable as myself to say, 'I shall never change.'I do not say it, though I heartily believe it, but will leave all totime. Surely I may do this; may let separation gently, graduallyconvince you or alter me; and as the one return which I can make for allyou have given me, let this tie between us remain unbroken for a littlelonger. Take this poor consolation with you; it is the best that I canoffer now. Mine is the knowledge that however I may thwart your life inthis world, there is a beautiful eternity in which you will forget meand be happy."She gave him comfort, but he robbed her of her own as he drew her tohim, answering with a glance brighter than any smile--"Love is immortal, dear, and even in the 'beautiful eternity' I shallstill hope and wait."* * * * *How soon it was all over! the return to separate homes, the disclosures,and the storms; the preparations for the solitary voyage, the lastcharges and farewells.Mark would not, and Prue could not, go to see the traveller off; theformer being too angry to lend his countenance to what he termed abarbarous banishment, the latter, being half blind with crying, stayedto nurse Jessie, whose soft heart was nearly broken at what seemed toher the most direful affliction under heaven.But Sylvia and her father followed Moor till his foot left the soil, andstill lingered on the wharf to watch the steamer out of port. Anuncongenial place in which to part; carriages rolled up and down, aclamor of voices filled the air, the little steamtug snorted withimpatience, and the waves flowed seaward with the ebbing of the tide.But father and daughter saw only one object, heard only one sound,Moor's face as it looked down upon them from the deck, Moor's voice ashe sent cheery messages to those left behind. Mr. Yule was endeavoringto reply as cheerily, and Sylvia was gazing with eyes that saw verydimly through their tears, when both were aware of an instantaneouschange in the countenance they watched. Something beyond themselvesseemed to arrest Moor's eye; a moment he stood intent and motionless,then flushed to the forehead with the dark glow Sylvia remembered well,waved his hand to them and vanished down the cabin stairs."Papa, what did he see?"There was no need of any answer; Adam Warwick came striding through thecrowd, saw them, paused with both hands out, and a questioning glance asif uncertain of his greeting. With one impulse the hands were taken;Sylvia could not speak, her father could, and did approvingly--"Welcome, Warwick; you are come to say good by to Geoffrey?""Rather to you, sir; he needs none, I go with him.""With him!" echoed both hearers."Ay, that I will. Did you think I would let him go away alone feelingbereaved of wife, and home, and friend?""We should have known you better. But, Warwick, he will shun you; he hidhimself just now as you approached; he has tried to forgive, but hecannot so soon forget.""All the more need of my helping him to do both. He cannot shun me longwith no hiding-place to fly to but the sea, and I will so gentlyconstrain him by the old-time love we bore each other, that he mustrelent and take me back into his heart again.""Oh, Adam! go with him, stay with him, and bring him safely back to mewhen time has helped us all.""I shall do it, God willing."Unmindful of all else Warwick bent and took her to him as he gave thepromise, seemed to put his whole heart into a single kiss and left hertrembling with the stress of his farewell. She saw him cleave his waythrough the throng, leap the space left by the gangway just withdrawn,and vanish in search of that lost friend. Then she turned her face toher father's shoulder, conscious of nothing but the fact that Warwickhad come and gone.A cannon boomed, the crowd cheered, the last cable was flung off, andthe steamer glided from her moorings with the surge of water and thewaft of wind like some sea-monster eager to be out upon the ocean freeagain."Look up, Sylvia; she will soon pass from sight.""Are they there?""No.""Then I do not care to see. Look for me, father, and tell me when theycome.""They will not come, dear; both have said good by, and we have seen thelast of them for many a long day.""They will come! Adam will bring Geoffrey to show me they are friendsagain. I know it; you shall see it. Lift me to that block and watch thedeck with me that we may see them the instant they appear."Up she sprung, eyes clear now, nerves steady, faith strong. Leaningforward so utterly forgetful of herself, she would have fallen into thegreen water tumbling there below, had not her father held her fast. Howslowly the minutes seemed to pass, how rapidly the steamer seemed toglide away, how heavily the sense of loss weighed on her heart as waveafter wave rolled between her and her heart's desire."Come down, Sylvia, it is giving yourself useless pain to watch andwait. Come home, my child, and let us comfort one another."She did not hear him, for as he spoke the steamer swung slowly round tolaunch itself into the open bay, and with a cry that drew many eyes uponthe young figure with its face of pale expectancy, Sylvia saw her hopefulfilled."I knew they would come! See, father, see! Geoffrey is smiling as hewaves his handkerchief, and Adam's hand is on his shoulder. Answer them!oh, answer them! I can only look."The old man did answer them enthusiastically, and Sylvia stretched herarms across the widening space as if to bring them back again. Side byside the friends stood now; Moor's eye upon his wife, while from hishand the little flag of peace streamed in the wind. But Warwick's glancewas turned upon his friend, and Warwick's hand already seemed to claimthe charge he had accepted.Standing thus they passed from sight, never to come sailing hometogether as the woman on the shore was praying God to let her see themcome.