Part 14 (1/2)
Drawn curtains shut out the frosty night, the first fire of the season burned upon the hearth, and basking in its glow sat Sylvia, letting her thoughts wander where they would. As books most freely open at pages oftenest read, the romance of her summer life seldom failed to unclose at pa.s.sages where Warwick's name appeared. Pleasant as were many hours of that time, none seemed so full of beauty as those pa.s.sed with him, and sweetest of them all the twilight journey hand in hand. It now returned to her so freshly that she seemed to hear again the evening sounds, to feel the warm, fern-scented wind blow over her, to see the strong hand offered helpfully, and with an impulse past control she stretched her own to that visionary Warwick as the longing of her heart found vent in an eager
”Come!”
”I am here.”
A voice replied, a hand pressed hers, and springing up she saw, not Adam, but Moor, standing beside her with a beaming face. Concealing the thrill of joy, the pang of pain he had brought her, she greeted him cordially, and reseating herself, instinctively tried to turn the current of her thoughts.
[Ill.u.s.tration]
”I am glad you came, for I have built castles in the air long enough, and you will give me more substantial entertainment, as you always do.”
The broken dream had left tokens of its presence in the unwonted warmth of Sylvia's manner; Moor felt it, and for a moment did not answer. Much of her former shyness had crept over her of late; she sometimes shunned him, was less free in conversation, less frank in demonstration, and once or twice had colored deeply as she caught his eye upon her. These betrayals of Warwick's image in her thoughts seemed to Moor the happy omens he had waited eagerly to see, and each day his hope grew more a.s.sured. He had watched her unseen while she was busied with her mental pastime, and as he looked his heart had grown unspeakably tender, for never had her power over him been so fully felt, and never had he so longed to claim her in the name of his exceeding love. A pleasant peace reigned through the house, the girl sat waiting at his side, the moment looked auspicious, the desire grew irresistible, and he yielded to it.
”You are thinking of something new and pleasant to tell me, I hope,--something in keeping with this quiet place and hour,” said Sylvia, glancing up at him with the traitorous softness still in her eyes.
”Yes, and hoping you would like it.”
”Then I have never heard it before?”
”Never from me.”
”Go on, please; I am ready.”
She folded her hands together on her knee, turned her face attentively to his, and unwittingly composed herself to listen to the sweet story so often told, and yet so hard to tell. Moor meant to woo her very gently, for he believed that love was new to her. He had planned many graceful ill.u.s.trations for his tale, and rounded many smoothly-flowing sentences in which to unfold it. But the emotions are not well bred, and when the moment came nature conquered art. No demonstration seemed beautiful enough to grace the betrayal of his pa.s.sion, no language eloquent enough to tell it, no power strong enough to hold in check the impulse that mastered him. He went to her, knelt down upon the cus.h.i.+on at her feet, and lifting to her a face flushed and fervent with the ardor of a man's first love, said impetuously--
”Sylvia, read it here!”
There was no need for her to look; act, touch, and tone told the story better than the most impa.s.sioned speech. The supplication of his att.i.tude, the eager beating of his heart, the tender pressure of his hand, dispelled her blindness in the drawing of a breath, and showed her what she had done. Now neglected warnings, selfish forgetfulness, and the knowledge of an unconscious but irremediable wrong frightened and bewildered her; she hid her face and shrunk back trembling with remorse and shame. Moor, seeing in her agitation only maiden happiness or hesitancy, accepted and enjoyed a blissful moment while he waited her reply. It was so long in coming that he gently tried to draw her hands away and look into her face, whispering like one scarcely doubtful of a.s.sent--
”You love me, Sylvia?”
”No.”
Only half audible was the reluctant answer, yet he heard it, smiled at what he fancied a shy falsehood, and said tenderly--
”Will you let me love you, dear?”
”No.”
Fainter than before was the one word, but it reached and startled him.
Hurriedly he asked--
”Am I nothing to you but a friend?”
”No.”
With a quick gesture he put down her hands and looked at her. Grief, regret, and pity, filled her face with trouble, but no love was there.
He saw, yet would not believe the truth, felt that the sweet certainty of love had gone, yet could not relinquish the fond hope.
”Sylvia, do you understand me?”