Part 17 (2/2)
'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 ran to him exclaiming joyfully--
”Oh, Geoffrey! I am glad! I am glad!”
There could be but one answer to such a welcome, and Sylvia received it as she stood there, not weeping now, but smiling with the sincerest satisfaction, the happiest surprise. Moor shared both emotions, feeling as a man might feel when, parched with thirst, he stretches out his hand for a drop of rain, and receives a br.i.m.m.i.n.g cup of water. He drank a deep draught gratefully, then, fearing that it might be as suddenly withdrawn, asked anxiously--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 conflict between desire and doubt was going on within her. Impulse had sent her there, and now it was so sweet to know herself beloved, she found it hard to go away. Her brother's happiness had touched her heart, roused the old craving for affection, and brought a strong desire to fill the aching void her lost love had left with this recovered one. Sylvia had not learned to reason yet, she could only feel, because, owing to the unequal development of her divided nature, the heart grew faster than the intellect. Instinct was her surest guide, and when she followed it unblinded by a pa.s.sion, unthwarted by a mood, she prospered. But now she was so blinded and so thwarted, and now her great temptation came.
Ambition, man's idol, had tempted the father; love, woman's G.o.d, tempted the daughter; and, as if the father's atonement was to be wrought out through his dearest child the daughter also made the fatal false step of her 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 to love you; then I did not, now I sincerely do. If you still want me with my many faults, and will teach me in your gentle way to be all I should to you, I will gladly learn, because I never needed love as I do now.
Geoffrey, shall I stay or go?”
”Stay, Sylvia. Ah, thank G.o.d for this!”
If she had ever hoped that Moor would forget her for his own sake, she now saw how vain such hope would have been, and was both touched and troubled by the knowledge of her supremacy which that hour gave her. She was as much the calmer as friends.h.i.+p is than love, and was the first to speak again, still standing there content although her words expressed a doubt.
”Are you very sure you want me? Are you not tired of the thorn that has fretted you so long? Remember, I am so young, so ignorant, and unfitted for a wife. Can I give you real happiness? make home what you would have it? and never see in your face regret that some wiser, better woman was not in my place?”
”I am sure of myself, and satisfied with you, as you are no wiser, no better, nothing but my Sylvia.”
”It is very sweet to hear you say that with such a look. I do not deserve 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 learn well the lesson my kind master is to teach me.”
When Moor went that night Sylvia followed him, and as they stood together this happy moment seemed to recall that other sad one, for taking her hands again he asked, smiling now--
”Dear, is it good night or good by?”
”It is good by and come to-morrow.”
CHAPTER XI.
WOOING.
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