CHAPTER XXI.

by Louisa May Alcott

　　OUT OF THE SHADOW.They had been together for an hour, the husband and the wife. The firstexcitement was now over, and Sylvia stood behind him tearless andtranquil, while Moor, looking like a man out of whom the sea haddrenched both strength and spirit, leaned his weary head against her,trying to accept the great loss, enjoy the great gain which had befallenhim. Hitherto all their talk had been of Warwick, and as Moor concludedthe history of the months so tragically ended, for the first time heventured to express wonder at the calmness with which his hearerreceived the sad story."How quietly you listen to words which it wrings my heart to utter. Haveyou wept your tears dry, or do you still cling to hope?""No, I feel that we shall never see him any more; but I have no desireto weep, for tears and lamentations do not belong to him. He died abeautiful, a noble death; the sea is a fitting grave for him, and it ispleasant to think of him asleep there, quiet at last.""I cannot feel so; I find it hard to think of him as dead; he was sofull of life, so fit to live.""And therefore fit to die. Imagine him as I do, enjoying the larger lifehe longed for, and growing to be the strong, sweet soul whoseforeshadowing we saw and loved so here.""Sylvia, I have told you of the beautiful change which befell him inthose last days, and now I see the same in you. Are you, too, about toleave me when I have just recovered you?""I shall stay with you all my life.""Then Adam was less to you than you believed, and I am more?""Nothing is changed. Adam is all he ever was to me, you are all you evercan be; but I--""Then why send for me? Why say you will stay with me all your life?Sylvia, for God's sake, let there be no more delusion or deceit!""Never again! I will tell you; I meant to do it at once, but it is sohard--"She turned her face away, and for a moment neither stirred. Then drawinghis head to its former resting-place she touched it very tenderly,seeing how many white threads shone among the brown; and as her handwent to and fro with an inexpressibly soothing gesture, she said, in atone whose quietude controlled his agitation like a spell--"Long ago, in my great trouble, Faith told me that for every humaneffort or affliction there were two friendly helpers, Time and Death.The first has taught me more gently than I deserved; has made me humble,and given me hope that through my errors I may draw virtue fromrepentance. But while I have been learning the lessons time can teach,that other helper has told me to be ready for its coming. Geoffrey, Isent for you because I knew you would love to see me again before wemust say the long good by.""Oh, Sylvia! not that; anything but that. I cannot bear it now!""Dear heart, be patient; lean on me, and let me help you bear it, for itis inevitable.""It shall not be! There must be some help, some hope. God would not beso pitiless as to take both.""I shall not leave you yet. He does not take me; it is I, who, bywasting life, have lost the right to live.""But is it so? I cannot make it true. You look so beautiful, soblooming, and the future seemed so sure. Sylvia, show it to me, if itmust be."She only turned her face to him, only held up her transparent hand, andlet him read the heavy truth. He did so, for now he saw that the beautyand the bloom were transitory as the glow of leaves that frost makesfairest as they fall, and felt the full significance of the great changewhich had come. He clung to her with a desperate yet despairing hold,and she could only let the first passion of his grief have way, soothingand sustaining, while her heart bled and the draught was very bitter toher lips."Hush, love; be quiet for a little; and when you can bear it better, Iwill tell you how it is with me.""Tell me now; let me hear everything at once. When did you know? How areyou sure? Why keep it from me all this time?""I have only known it for a little while, but I am very sure, and I keptit from you that you might come happily home, for knowledge of it wouldhave lengthened every mile, and made the journey one long anxiety. Icould not know that Adam would go first, and so make my task doublyhard.""Come to me, Sylvia; let me keep you while I may. I will not beviolent; I will listen patiently, and through everything remember you."He did remember her, so thoughtfully, so tenderly, that her little storyflowed on uninterrupted by sigh or sob; and while he held his grief incheck, the balm of submission comforted his sore heart. Sitting by him,sustaining and sustained, she told the history of the last six months,till just before the sending of the letter. She paused there a moment,then hurried on, gradually losing the consciousness of present emotionin the vivid memory of the past."You have no faith in dreams; I have; and to a dream I owe my suddenawakening to the truth. Thank and respect it, for without its warning Imight have remained in ignorance of my state until it was too late tofind and bring you home.""God bless the dream and keep the dreamer!""This was a strange and solemn vision; one to remember and to love forits beautiful interpretation of the prophecy that used to awe and saddenme, but never can again. I dreamed that the last day of the world hadcome. I stood on a shadowy house-top in a shadowy city, and all aroundme far as eye could reach thronged myriads of people, till the earthseemed white with human faces. All were mute and motionless, as if fixedin a trance of expectation, for none knew how the end would come. Uttersilence filled the world, and across the sky a vast curtain of theblackest cloud was falling, blotting out face after face and leaving theworld a blank. In that universal gloom and stillness, far above me inthe heavens I saw the pale outlines of a word stretching from horizon tohorizon. Letter after letter came out full and clear, till all acrossthe sky, burning with a ruddy glory stronger than the sun, shone thegreat word Amen. As the last letter reached its bright perfection, along waft of wind broke over me like a universal sigh of hope from humanhearts. For far away on the horizon's edge all saw a line of light thatwidened as they looked, and through that rift, between the dark earthand the darker sky, rolled in a softly flowing sea. Wave after wave cameon, so wide, so cool, so still. None trembled at their approach, noneshrunk from their embrace, but all turned toward that ocean with amighty rush, all faces glowed in its splendor, and million after millionvanished with longing eyes fixed on the arch of light through which theebbing sea would float them when its work was done. I felt no fear, onlythe deepest awe, for I seemed such an infinitesimal atom of thecountless host that I forgot myself. Nearer and nearer came the flood,till its breath blew on my cheeks, and I, too, leaned to meet it,longing to be taken. A great wave rolled up before me, and through itssoft glimmer I saw a beautiful, benignant face regarding me. Then I knewthat each and all had seen the same, and losing fear in love were gladto go. The joyful yearning woke me as the wave seemed to break at myfeet, and ebbing leave me still alive.""And that is all? Only a dream, a foreboding fancy, Sylvia?""When I woke my hair was damp on my forehead, my breath quite still, myheart so cold I felt as if death had indeed been near me and left itschill behind. So strong was the impression of the dream, so perfect wasthe similitude between the sensations I had experienced then, and morethan once awake, that I felt that something was seriously wrong withme.""You had been ill then?""Not consciously, not suffering any pain, but consumed with an inwardfever that would not burn itself away. I used to have a touch of it inthe evenings, you remember; but now it burned all day, making me lookstrong and rosy, yet leaving me so worn out at night that no sleepseemed to restore me. A few weak and weary hours, then the fire wasrekindled and the false strength, color, spirits, returned to deceivemyself, and those about me, for another day.""Did you tell no one of this, Sylvia?""Not at first, because I fancied it a mental ill. I had thought so much,so deeply, it seemed but natural that I should be tired. I tried to restmyself by laying all my cares and sorrows in God's hand, and waitingpatiently to be shown the end. I see it now, but for a time I could onlysit and wait; and while I did so my soul grew strong but my ill-usedbody failed. The dream came, and in the stillness of that night I felt astrange assurance that I should see my mother soon.""Dear, what did you do?""I determined to discover if I had deceived myself with a superstitiousfancy, or learned a fateful fact in my own mysterious way. If it werefalse, no one would be made anxious by it; if true, possessing the firstknowledge of it would enable me to comfort others. I went privately totown and consulted the famous physician who has grown gray in the studyof disease.""Did you go alone, Sylvia?""Yes, alone. I am braver than I used to be, and have learned never tofeel quite alone. I found a grave, stern-looking man; I told him that Iwished to know the entire truth whatever it might be, and that he neednot fear to tell me because I was prepared for it. He asked manyquestions, thought a little, and was very slow to speak. Then I saw howit would be, but urged him to set my mind at rest. His stern old facegrew very pitiful as he took my hand and answered gently--'My child, gohome and prepare to die.'""Good God, how cruel! Sylvia, how did you bear it?""At first the earth seemed to slip away from under me, and time to standstill. Then I was myself again, and could listen steadily to all hesaid. It was only this,--I had been born with a strong nature in afeeble frame, had lived too fast, wasted health ignorantly, and was pasthelp.""Could he do nothing for you?""Nothing but tell me how to husband my remaining strength, and make theend easy by the care that would have kept me longer had I known thissooner.""And no one saw your danger; no one warned you of it; and I was away!""Father could not see it, for I looked well and tried to think I feltso. Mark and Jessie were absorbed in baby Sylvia, and Prue was gone. Youmight have seen and helped me, for you have the intuitions of a woman inmany things, but I could not send for you then because I could not giveyou what you asked. Was it wrong to call you when I did, and try to makethe hard fact easier to bear by telling it myself?""Heaven bless you for it, Sylvia. It was truly generous and kind. Inever could have forgiven you had you denied me the happiness of seeingyou again, and you have robbed the truth of half its bitter pain bytelling it yourself."A restful expression came into her face, and a sigh of satisfactionproved how great was the relief of feeling that for once her heart hadprompted her aright. Moor let her rest a little, then asked with a lookmore pathetic than his words--"What am I to you now? Where is my home to be?""My friend forever, no more, no less; and your home is here with usuntil I leave my father to your care. All this pain and separation werein vain if we have not learned that love can neither be forced norfeigned. While I endeavored to do so, God did not help me, and I wentdeeper and deeper into sorrow and wrong doing. When I dropped allself-delusion and desperate striving, and stood still, asking to beshown the right, then he put out his hand and through much tribulationled me to convictions that I dare not disobey. Our friendship may be ahappy one if we accept and use it as we should. Let it be so, and forthe little while that I remain, let us live honestly before heaven andtake no thought for the world's opinion."Adam might have owned the glance she bent upon her husband, so clear, sosteadfast was it; but the earnestness was all her own, and blended withit a new strength that seemed a late compensation for lost love andwaning life. Remembering the price both had paid for it, Moor gratefullyaccepted the costly friendship offered him, and soon acknowledged bothits beauty and its worth."One question more; Sylvia, how long?"It was very hard to answer, but folding the sharp fact in the gentlestfancy that appeared to her she gave him the whole truth."I shall not see the spring again, but it will be a pleasant time to layme underneath the flowers."Sylvia had not known how to live, but now she proved that she did knowhow to die. So beautifully were the two made one, the winning girl, thedeep-hearted woman, that she seemed the same beloved Sylvia, yet Sylviastrengthened, purified, and perfected by the hard past, the solemnpresent. Those about her felt and owned the unconscious power, which wecall the influence of character, and which is the noblest that givessovereignty to man or woman.So cheerfully did she speak of it, so tranquilly did she prepare to meetit, that death soon ceased to be an image of grief or fear to thoseabout her, and became a benignant friend, who, when the mortal wearies,blesses it with a brief sleep, that it may wake immortal. She would haveno sad sick-chamber, no mournful faces, no cessation of the wholesomehousehold cares and joys, that do so much to make hearts strong andspirits happy. While strength remained, she went her round of dailyduties, doing each so lovingly, that the most trivial became a delight,and taking unsuspected thought for the comfort or the pleasure of thosesoon to be left behind, so tenderly, that she could not seem lost tothem, even when she was gone.Faith came to her, and as her hands became too weak for anything butpatient folding, every care slipped so quietly into Faith's, that fewperceived how fast she was laying down the things of this world, andmaking ready to take up those of the world to come. Her father was herfaithful shadow; bent and white-haired now, but growing young at heartin spite of sorrow, for his daughter had in truth become the blessing ofhis life. Mark and Jessie brought their offering of love in littleSylvia's shape, and the innocent consoler did her sweet work by makingsunshine in a shady place. But Moor was all in all to Sylvia, and theirfriendship proved an abiding strength, for sorrow made it very tender,sincerity ennobled it, and the coming change sanctified it to themboth.April came; and on her birthday, with a grateful heart, Moor gatheredthe first snow-drops of the year. All day they stood beside her couch,as fragile and as pale as she, and many eyes had filled as lovingfancies likened her to the slender, transparent vase, the very spirit ofa shape, and the white flowers that had blossomed beautifully throughthe snow. When the evening lamp was lighted, she took the little posy inher hand, and lay with her eyes upon it, listening to the book Moorread, for this hour always soothed the unrest of the day. Very quiet wasthe pleasant room, with no sounds in it but the soft flicker of thefire, the rustle of Faith's needle, and the subdued music of the voicethat patiently went reading on, long after Sylvia's eyes had closed,lest she should miss its murmur. For an hour she seemed to sleep, somotionless, so colorless, that her father, always sitting at her side,bent down at last to listen at her lips. The lips smiled, the eyesunclosed, and she looked up at him, with an expression as tender astranquil."A long sleep and pleasant dreams that wake you smiling?" he asked."Beautiful and happy thoughts, father; let me tell you some of them. AsI lay here, I fell to thinking of my life, and at first it seemed thesorrowfullest failure I had ever known. Whom had I made happy? What hadI done worth the doing? Where was the humble satisfaction that shouldcome hand in hand with death? At first I could find no answers to myquestions, and though my one and twenty years do not seem long to live,I felt as if it would have been better for us all if I had died, anew-born baby in my mother's arms.""My child, say anything but that, because it is I who have made yourlife a failure.""Wait a little father, and you will see that it is a beautiful success.I _have_ given happiness, _have_ done something worth the doing; now Isee a compensation for all seeming loss, and heartily thank God that Idid not die till I had learned the true purpose of all lives. He knowsthat I say these things humbly, that I claim no virtue for myself, andhave been a blind instrument in His hand, to illustrate truths that willendure when I am forgotten. I have helped Mark and Jessie, for,remembering me, they will feel how blest they are in truly loving oneanother. They will keep little Sylvia from making mistakes like mine,and the household joys and sorrows we have known together, will teachMark to make his talent a delight to many, by letting art interpretnature."Her brother standing behind her stooped and kissed her, saying throughhis tears--"I shall remember, dear.""I have helped Geoffrey, I believe. He lived too much in the affections,till through me he learned that none may live for love alone. Geniuswill be born of grief, and he will put his sorrow into song to touch andteach other hearts more gently than his own has been, so growing anobler and a richer man for the great cross of his life."Calm, with the calmness of a grief too deep for tears, and strong in adevout belief, Moor gave his testimony as she paused."I shall endeavor, and now I am as grateful for the pain as for the joy,because together they will show me how to live, and when I have learnedthat I shall be ready to come to you.""I think I have served Adam. He needed gentleness as Geoffrey neededstrength, and I, unworthy as I am, woke that deep heart of his and madeit a fitter mate for his great soul. To us it seems as if he had lefthis work unfinished, but God knew best, and when he was needed for abetter work he went to find it. Yet I am sure that he was worthier ofeternal life for having known the discipline of love."There was no voice to answer now, but Sylvia felt that she would receiveit very soon and was content."Have you no lesson for your father? The old man needs it most."She laid her thin hand tenderly on his, that if her words should bringreproach, she might seem to share it with him."Yes, father, this. That if the chief desire of the heart is for theright, it is possible for any human being, through all trials,temptations, and mistakes, to bring good out of evil, hope from despair,success from defeat, and come at last to know an hour as beautiful andblest as this."Who could doubt that _she_ had learned the lesson, when from the ruinsof the perishable body the imperishable soul rose steadfast and serene,proving that after the long bewilderment of life and love it hadattained the eternal peace.The room grew very still, and while those about her pondered her wordswith natural tears, Sylvia lay looking up at a lovely picture thatseemed leaning down to offer her again the happiest memory of her youth.It was a painting of the moonlight voyage down the river. Mark had givenit that day, and now when the longer, sadder voyage was nearly over, sheregarded it with a tender pleasure. The moon shone full on Warwick,looking out straight and strong before him with the vigilant expressionnative to his face; a fit helmsman to guide the boat along that rapidstream. Mark seemed pausing to watch the oars silvered by the light, andtheir reflections wavy with the current. Moor, seen in shadow, leanedupon his hand, as if watching Sylvia, a quiet figure, full of grace andcolor, couched under the green arch. On either hand the summer woodsmade vernal gloom, behind the cliffs rose sharply up against the blue,and all before wound a shining road, along which the boat seemedfloating like a bird on slender wings between two skies.So long she lay forgetful of herself and all about her, that Moor sawshe needed rest, for the breath fluttered on her lips, the flowers hadfallen one by one, and her face wore the weary yet happy look of somepatient child waiting for its lullaby."Dear, you have talked enough; let me take you up now, lest thepleasant day be spoiled by a sleepless night.""I am ready, yet I love to stay among you all, for in my sleep I seem todrift so far away I never quite come back. Good night, good night; Ishall see you in the morning."With a smile, a kiss for all, they saw her fold her arms about herhusband's neck, and lay down her head as if she never cared to lift itup again. The little journey was both a pleasure and pain to them, foreach night the way seemed longer to Sylvia, and though the burdenlightened the bearer grew more heavy-hearted. It was a silent passagenow, for neither spoke, except when one asked tenderly, "Are you easy,love?" and the other answered, with a breath that chilled his cheek,"Quite happy, quite content."So, cradled on the heart that loved her best, Sylvia was gently carriedto the end of her short pilgrimage, and when her husband laid her downthe morning had already dawned.